The feel of a bottle crashing against my hull, brought me alive. Fruity liquid dripped down my wood slats, different than the salty waves that cradled me. Along my deck feet rushed to and fro, ropes sliding over masts and spars. Wind filled the sails, the pressure pushing against me. I slid through the water, shouts rising through the air. Cheers and laughter chasing me out to sea. Years passed, full of sun and storms. I sang with the winds in my rigging, the waves keeping time. There were good captains that kept me clean from barnacles and in good repair. For them, I ran true and weathered all storms. The bad captains took me into danger and cared not when cannon fire tore holes in my belly and let the water rush in. But even for them, I was a good steed. For even with them, I was free. Not shorebound like the docks and houses my brethren constructed. I could travel to far shores, where the fish would fly along my sides. Or where ice cracked and groaned, almost trapping me with its haunting song. I flew from the ice, to the warmth of the southern seas and back again. I was the ship Aeterna and I sailed the sea. But now I am scared. My last captain has not returned. No one has been aboard padding around my decks in a long time. The tides whisper about ships. Ships that have been taken out and sunk. Ships that have been left in the dock to rot. Ships that were taken away from the sea, cut up and put to a new purpose. The wind murmurs about new ships. Ships of metal and steam. Ships that do not depend on the wind. Ships that can carry more, haul more, are more reliable. I am afraid. There are footsteps above. An old man, and young boy by the feel of them. Perhaps the old man sailed on me once. It is hard to remember. They are talking, the man sounds sad. I could never understand my sailors. The words flash by too fast. But there are people here and I am less afraid. Maybe the young boy will grow to be a captain. My captain. It has been some time since the old man and young boy have walked on my deck. There is a new sound now. Water sloshes in my hold, but that is not it. My ropes have long since rotted away, so the noise cannot be them. It is a grating noise, loud and abrasive. Perhaps it is one of the new ships. I hope it enjoys the freedom of the sea. It is odd, though. One of my masts feels lighter than usual. Pain. I am no longer a ship. My pieces have been given away, turned to some new purpose. I have lost track of where or what I am. All that I know is that it is dark in here. There is no sun now. No salt waves, or wind to sing with me. The air is recycled, controlled. People are few and far between; I only know they are there when they speak. Memories of the sea are fading, now, memories I never knew I needed to preserve. I am no longer free. Now, I am encased in metal. Metal surrounds all but one surface. There is a deep hum, a vibration that sets into every crack and fibre of my being. Another sentience. The metal is trying to speak to me. I do not want to listen. Those new ships that replaced me so long ago were metal. But I am lonely. So lonely. Perhaps I can listen. It tells a strange story. Of moons and planets. Of travel among the stars. It tells me that we are travelling through space. And then it asks a question. Will I become part of it? Part of the humming metal? Sadness still shudders through my wood. A longing for the freedom of the sea. I do not know that I would like to be part of metal that hums so happily. But... I accept. Did you know that the stars sing? It is a different song than I am used to. A quiet song. A song that has been sung for eternity and will be sung for longer still. This metal I am in sails between the stars. I sail through the stars, strange currents pulling at my metal hull. We are a ship again. We are the Aeterna. We are free! **Recording of a conversation between the Captain of the Starship Aeterna and a crewmember.** **Crewmember: Captain, I've been wondering. Why did you have the control board fitted for a wood cover instead of metal?** **Captain: Long ago, this piece of wood was a sailing ship. She wasn't the fastest, nor did she go down in history for her battle prowess. The Aeterna was a fat merchant sailer. But generations ago, long enough that we don't even remember his name, a relative of mine sailed on her. He made his grandson promise to save the ship.** **Crewmember: But sailing ships haven't existed for thousands of years, sir!** **Captain: I'm getting there son, hold onto your water. The boy couldn't save the ship from destruction, but he saved a piece. And through the generations, we have passed that piece of ship from father to son, mother to daughter. All intent on keeping the promise that old man made.** **That he would make sure the Aeterna sailed free again.


Maggie was weird, but she was my best friend. She lived in my childhood home, but she wasn’t my sister. She wasn’t a cousin, or a family friend, or anything like that. She had lived there as long as the house had stood, maybe longer. She never talked about the time before that. As long as I knew her, Maggie never changed much. Her age was fluid, but not in the way that everyone’s is. She was a bit older than me when giving me advice, and a bit younger when getting on my nerves. Her long black hair hung loosely in the space around her head, as if she was always underwater. I never heard her footsteps or watched her walk anywhere. She was simply where she needed to be at all times. When she was cold, her teeth chattered in a way that made my hairs stand on end. She was always cold. The more I learned about the world, the more I noticed things that reminded me of Maggie and helped me make sense of her. Have you ever petted a lizard or a snake? Rub it from head to tail, and it’s incredibly smooth. Go the other way - against the grain of the scales - and it’s rough, bumpy, and just feels wrong. That’s what Maggie’s voice sounded like. Like going against the grain. Like a voice played in reverse. Maggie didn’t have a right hand. Not like an amputee, or someone with a birth defect. If you looked at her shoulder and traced the length of her arm with your eyes, you’d see that it gets smaller and smaller, but never really goes away. If I looked where her right hand should be, I’d feel sick to my stomach. I remember taking calculus in high school, learning about asymptotes that approach zero but never really reach it. That’s what her arm was like. Infinite, but practically nonexistent. Always approaching nothingness. I know what you’re thinking: I had an imaginary friend. Occam’s Razor, right? The simplest explanation is usually the correct one. Usually. Maggie was made entirely of impossibilities, and of course no one else ever saw her. On the rare occasions that a friend from school would come over to play, Maggie stayed hidden. My parents would get uneasy when I’d talk about her. “You’re creeping us out,” they would say. “Please, just stop.” I learned not to talk about her to anyone else. How did I know that Maggie was real? To put it simply: I had to. Maggie was my only true friend. She was my anchor to this world and almost all of my childhood memories. If she wasn’t real, then “real” was meaningless to me. When my parents would fight, I would crawl under my bed with a flashlight. I found myself under my bed often. Maggie was always there. I would absentmindedly peel paint chips off the baseboard and ramble on about the difficulties of my cozy, middle-class upbringing while Maggie would draw. Her drawings weren’t good, at least not in the traditional sense, but they made me feel something. Isn’t that what art is all about? When she was finished with a drawing, Maggie would present it to me with a shy but prideful smile across her face. I would lift the loose floorboard under my bed and stuff it underneath. I amassed quite a collection throughout the years. On really bad days, I would look through them and smile. Pictures of me and Maggie playing in the basement, hiding under the bed, eating popcorn on the couch. I wasn’t much of an artist, but one day I decided to make a drawing for Maggie. I spent what felt like hours on it. It was my masterpiece. When I handed it to her, she took one look and frowned. “What is this?” she asked without making a sound. “Me and you, on the Great Wall of China.” I had often dreamt about traveling the world with Maggie. She ripped the drawing into pieces and scattered it across the floor. “You know I can’t leave this house.” A lump filled my throat. I didn’t know if I was embarrassed for myself or sad for Maggie. For some reason, only one thought came to mind. “What happens when they tear this house down?” She looked afraid. “What makes you think they’ll tear it down?” I shrugged. “Doesn’t everything get torn down one day?” “Then I’ll squeeze down the bathtub drain. Didn’t you say there’s a reservoir nearby? I’ll swim to it.” “You can swim?” I asked. “If I have to.” The next day, Maggie handed me a drawing. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Your picture was nice. I shouldn’t have ripped it up.” The focal piece of the drawing was a red sedan. A man sat in the driver’s seat, his door open. He had auburn hair and a mole on his left cheek. It was me, as a grown-up. Outside of the car was Maggie, her hair scattered and flowing - even in the drawing. We were waving to each other. I gestured to the blue background that surrounded the car in all directions. “Are we in Heaven?” I asked. “We could be.” From that day forward, I couldn’t take a bath without thinking of Maggie being sucked into the drain. I often had dreams that I was following her. They may have been nightmares. I was never really sure. One day, when I was in high school, Maggie appeared in the corner of my bedroom. “What are you doing?” she asked, staring at the cardboard boxes scattered about. “We’re moving,” I said, looking at anything but her. “I’m sorry.” “No,” she said. “You have to stay.” “It’s not up to me. Dad is getting transferred. I’m still a kid. Technically, I mean.” “Will you visit?” she asked. “It’s… far.” I replied. “How far?” “Like, ‘across the country’ far.” “Well what am I supposed to do?” I didn’t know what to say. I pushed my bed to the side and lifted the loose floorboard. As I reached for the stack of drawings, Maggie’s hand grabbed me by the wrist. She was ten feet closer now, without taking a single step. “If you’re leaving, the drawings stay.” she said. It wasn’t a request, but a command. “Why?” “If you take them, you have nothing to come back for.” I begrudgingly agreed and left the stash buried beneath my bedroom floor. I finished packing as Maggie cried. We never said another word to each other. I’m older now, as people often are when compared to the past. I have a fiancée, Emma, who is the most loving and supportive person I’ve ever met. I’ve spoken to her about Maggie a few times, but like everyone else, she doesn’t like that. “You should really think about seeing a therapist,” she said once. “You talk about her like she’s real.” That made me angry. I never had a problem with the idea of therapy - hell, it would probably do me a lot of good - but I didn’t like the implication. Emma can be weirdly jealous of my childhood friend. One night, we had a bit too much wine and she asked me if I was in love with her because she reminded me of Maggie. I told her that they were nothing alike. She took that as a compliment. A recent business trip took me back to my home state and I was cautiously delighted. The airport was less than an hour from the house I grew up in, and I decided that the first thing I would do was pay Maggie a visit. “I’m sorry, sir,” the representative from the rental car agency at the airport told me. “We don’t have any SUVs at the moment.” He led me to a red Hyundai Elantra and I laughed, thinking back to Maggie’s drawing. “Would you prefer I find you something else?” “No,” I said, still grinning. “This is perfect.” The nighttime drive back to my hometown was uneventful, but brimming with nostalgia. A quiet country highway weaved through the forest where my father would take me camping, past my favorite barbecue restaurant and across the reservoir where we often spent our summer afternoons. My heart sank as I entered my neighborhood. House after house had been demolished, their lots occupied by piles of dirt and skeletons of soon-to-be McMansions. I breathed a sigh of relief when I arrived at my former residence to see the house still standing. Caution tape surrounded the property. A backhoe was parked in the driveway. I didn’t have much time left. I was surprised to find the door unlocked, but when I entered I saw that there was nothing left worth securing. The rooms were empty - even the carpets had been ripped up. I immediately called out to Maggie to no response. I started in the basement, where we would often sit and I would tell her about what it was like to go to school - to go anywhere but here. I saw nothing but concrete walls, devoid of the posters that used to hang there and advertise my favorite bands and video games. I made my way back to the ground floor, searching the kitchen, the den, the laundry room - looking for any sign that I hadn’t been crazy or overly imaginative as a child. I ascended the staircase and peeked into my parents’ old room. There was a fist-shaped hole in the wall that still hadn’t been repaired. Finally, I made my way to my old bedroom. It was empty, as they all were. No need to move a bed to find what I was looking for. The loose floorboard was raised ever so slightly. You wouldn’t even notice it if you weren’t looking for it. I lifted it and saw dozens - maybe hundreds - of crude drawings. It was real. It always was. Tears streamed down my face as I rifled through the pages. Me and Maggie, looking out my bedroom window into the forest behind our house. Me and Maggie, playing checkers on the living room floor. After a few minutes of reminiscence, I stuffed the papers in my briefcase and hastily made my way back to the rental car. The last thing my fiancée needed to hear was that I had been arrested for trespassing while searching for my “imaginary” friend. I got in the car and sped out of the neighborhood, making my way to my hotel in the neighboring county. As I was crossing the reservoir once again, I saw a figure ahead of me on the bridge. Long, black hair, dispersed gently throughout the air around her. She was too close for me to stop. I awoke in a strange room, blinded by a white light overhead. A raven-haired figure stood above me, calling out to me in a familiar voice. “Baby, are you awake?” The voice was smooth. Head to tail. A normal human being. I was disoriented and disappointed all at once. “Nurse!” Emma called. “Can we get a nurse? He’s awake!” She stroked my hair. “Oh my God, baby. I thought I lost you.” A nurse rushed in and immediately began asking me questions. She asked me my name and who the current president was. Did she not know that herself? “What happened?” I finally asked. “You were driving on the bridge that crosses Lockley Reservoir and… you crashed. Your car went in the water.” Emma said. She was clearly still amazed that I was conscious. “My briefcase,” I asked. All I could care about was the proof. The proof that Maggie was real - that I wasn’t crazy. “Do you have my briefcase?” “Don’t worry about that, baby,” she answered. “We can replace your things. I’m just glad you’re okay.” I closed my eyes in anguish. All of those drawings, gone. Nothing was left but the same unreliable memories I’d kept with me for years. A police officer whom I hadn’t noticed before stood up from a chair and approached me in my hospital bed. He didn’t look as relieved as Emma did. “Sir,” he began. “We need to know the name of the woman who was with you.” I didn’t understand. “I’m here on a business trip,” I said. “I wasn’t with anyone. I was just visiting-” “Baby,” Emma said, a look of mistrust on her face. “The man who found you… he said that you weren’t alone. He said that a woman pulled you to the shore. A woman with one arm.” My chest tightened. “Where is she?” was all I could think to say. “Well, that’s the thing,” the policeman interjected once more, scratching his head. “He said that she left as soon as you were safe. He said… he said she went back into the water.


So, it went something like this. I was staying with my parents for a few months, and I needed to make some fast money to move out at the end of summer. The nearest place I could think of that I could get hired on with no experience for good money was the warehouse, so that’s where I went. The shifts were long, and the work sucked, but it made me feel useful. It felt like I was doing something worth doing. On my first day, they paired me up with a guy to train me. You know, ‘put the boxes onto the belt. Don’t let one hit you in the head.’ That type of shit. He was younger than most of the other guys there (and I say guys because women were pretty few and far between), but he was still about ten years older than me. We hit it off right away; I was pretty reserved, wary of being in an unfamiliar environment surrounded by a bunch of strangers, but he pried, and I told him whatever he wanted to know so I wouldn’t come off as a cold bitch. I’ll call him Sam. Sam and I got to be pretty good friends. Actually, I got to be friends with a lot of people there just because I got along with Sam so well. I told him up front that I had a boyfriend living down south, and that I was going to move in with him at the end of summer. It kind of turned into a running joke where he’d tell me to break up with my boyfriend and stay on at work. I’d always tell him no, that I liked my boyfriend just fine. He asked me a couple of times if the teasing bothered me. I always told him no, that no amount of pestering could change my mind. I wasn’t super thrilled about it, though; I missed my boyfriend pretty bad. I have a thick skin and an even thicker head, though, so I just let it go so I wouldn’t make things awkward. By then, I was telling my boyfriend a little bit about what was happening. We talked over the phone once a week, at least. “Do you remember me telling you about Sam from work?” “The guy that trained you? Yeah, sure.” “I think that he likes me.” “Has he been bothering you?” “Mostly joking around, I guess, but it’s getting a little out of hand.” “Are you okay? Has he said anything…?” “Nothing to take to HR, if that’s what you mean.” “Well, a swift kick in the nuts would probably do the job if he gets too personal.” “Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind.” “Hey. You know you can always talk to me, right?” “Yeah, I know.” As more time passed, I started hanging out with Sam outside of work. It started with parties, then graduated to just the two of us pissing the time away. The longer it went on, I started to realize that Sam wasn’t really joking about my boyfriend, and that he wasn’t really trying to be my friend. I think I was in denial about it because it stings a bit when you realize that someone only likes you because they’re trying to get in your pants. He even tried to kiss me a couple times, and I told him I couldn’t keep hanging out if he was going to pull that shit. He always promised he’d behave, but then the same shit again the next week. I tried to not let on, but it was stressing me out pretty bad. I’ll skip some of the middle bits here, because if I told you everything, you’d be here all day. I don’t let myself remember a lot of it, anyway. Some of it I just want to keep to myself, and I can’t really figure out why. I will tell you that I never cheated, that I never even wanted to. Just thinking about it still makes me feel sick. At some point, Sam started acting all weird. He skipped a few days of work here and there, he’d get kind of snappish at people, and eventually he started avoiding me. I was a little bit bummed, but I was also sort of relieved, you know? Like, I was bummed that I was right and that he got bored when I wouldn’t put out, but I was also relieved that the awkwardness might be over. No such luck. He was gone from work one weekend for a wedding, and when he got back on Sunday, he called me up. He said he wasn’t doing so great, and would I please come over to talk? I had work really early the next day, but I thought I could lend a quick ear if he was going through a rough patch. We ended up talking most of the night. He told me a lot of things that I won’t repeat, but he also told me that he was pretty down in his feels because he really liked me. Like, he loved me, he said. We kept going back and forth, like, “would you ever date me?” and, “I don’t know, I can’t even think like that right now. I’m with someone.” and, “yeah, but what if you weren’t?” and, “I don’t know, it’s all hypothetical.” I drove the short distance home around 3:30 in the morning, crossing my fingers and hoping that my dad wasn’t already up for early morning fishing. I ended up calling in the next day, I was so exhausted. After that, things were the same, but they weren’t. I mean, I still saw him the same, but he seemed to be… expecting something. One night, though, he asked me to come over to drink and watch some movies. I said sure, I could go for a drink. I went over, and we had some vodka/soda/juice mix that tasted like shit and watched some movie that I don’t even remember. At some point, he stopped the movie and said, “The sun is setting. We should go out and watch it on the porch.” I didn’t really want to, but I went on along with him anyway. That’s when he really started talking. “I know I seem like I’m doing alright, but really, I’m not.” “What do you mean?” “I mean, we’re always joking around, but whenever I ask you to stay and you say no… it actually kind of hurts.” I knew that. He’d said it already. “Stop joking about it, then.” “That’s the thing.” He looked down at his shoes. “I’m not joking.” I looked past him to the side of his neighbor’s house, through the window and past the curtains. I was hoping someone would be staring back so I’d have something else to talk about without obviously trying to change the subject. I was hoping desperately for something to break the tension. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” “I want to know why you won’t even give me a chance.” “You damn well know why, I’ve said it about a hundred times.” “I don’t buy it.” “What the hell does that mean?” “It means that I think that we should be together. Not like I just want it really bad, but like… I think that we’re *meant* to be together.” I scoffed. “What, like soulmates?” “That’s one word for it, yeah.” I sucked on my teeth and looked down into my drink. I wasn’t sure if I was wishing I’d mixed it stronger or wishing I’d never had it at all. “I don’t believe in soulmates.” “What?” “I think it’s a load of shit. I think that there are billions of people on this planet, and that any single person has thousands of other people that would make perfectly good matches for them. Maybe some more than others, and maybe one person most of all, but that doesn’t make them ‘soulmates.’ Nobody is *meant* to be with anybody else.” “Look, I’ve told you about my parents. They’re perfect for each other. And when they met, my mom was already engaged. If she had never broken off her engagement, I wouldn’t even be here.” “That’s nice and all, but it doesn’t mean they’re soulmates.” “But they are, though.” “Look,” I stared straight into his eyes. The things that had been simmering in the back of my head for months had finally gathered themselves into an actual thought. I just had to get them out of my mouth in the same order. “I could never break up with someone to be with somebody else. Not anybody. Once you start jumping from one to the next, what’s stopping you from doing it again? What if it never stops? Once you start throwing people out, they start to become disposable, and you’ll never be satisfied with anyone because you’ll always be looking for the next, better thing. I could never do that to somebody. I could never do that to *myself*.” “You’d only have to do it once.” I let out a huff that might have originally been a laugh. “The grass will always be greener somewhere else.” “It won’t.” “Oh, no?” “Nah.” “Why’s that?” “Because I’m the greenest grass.” I did laugh, then. I think I was trying to convince myself that I wasn’t getting frustrated. “That’s an awfully bold statement.” “It’s true.” “Why, because we’re soulmates?” “*Yes*.” I leaned back in my chair, watching my hands trace patterns onto my glass. “So, you believe in soulmates because of your parents, right?” “Yeah. I mean, don’t you feel like your parents are meant to be together?” “No.” He didn’t say anything. “I’m not even sure that my parents love each other.” “Well, then maybe that’s why.” “Why do you think your experience makes you right but mine is irrelevant?” He pauses again. “I just do.” “That’s not a real answer.” “It’s just true, alright?” “No. I’m not taking that ‘because I said so’ shit. You believe in soulmates, I don’t. So we’re stuck.” “But we aren’t, though.” “How do you figure?” He knew I was getting fed up, and he smiled wide. “Because I’m right.” I threw my head forward into one of my palms, my elbow resting on my knee, and swiped my hand down my face. “Why, because you’re the man and you’re older, so what you say goes?” “If you say so.” “Ugh!” “Look, it’s not something I can explain, it’s just something that I know. That’s all.” “Well, then it’s not something that I have to take your word for.” His smile turned a little sadder, and he looked up into the sky. It was pretty dark by then, and if we weren’t smack in the middle of the city, we’d probably be looking at stars. As it was, I was glad that the light pollution made the sky so dim and ugly. It matched how I felt on the inside. “No, I don’t think it’s something I can explain to you. I’d just have to show you.” “I don’t intend to let that happen.” “Then I guess you’ll never know.” “I guess not.” We just sat there listening to the cicadas for a while, until he said, “I didn’t want it to be this way, but you’ll figure it out eventually.” “What the fuck does *that* mean?” “It means that I’m going wait for you.” He was dead serious, but he was still smiling as if he was playing with me, as if it was all a joke. I wondered if he noticed the dread that I’m sure was written on my face to match the newer, deeper pit in my stomach. “I don’t see any point in dating other girls when I know they aren’t the ones for me.” “What if I never break up with him? What if you’re waiting forever?” “Nah, that won’t happen.” “Why. Not.” “Because he’s not right for you.” “You haven’t even met him.” “Look, it’s fine. See your thing through, and I’ll be waiting here when it falls apart.” “You don’t have do that.” “I know. But I will.” “I don’t want you to do that.” “Well, it’s not for you. It’s what I have to do.” “You don’t have to do shit.” “It’s what I want to do, then.” I didn’t say much after that. My thoughts were spinning too fast for me to grasp on to a single thing to say. The mosquitoes chased us back inside and I stayed to finish the movie so it wouldn’t be awkward. I left for home after that, even though I usually have a pretty strict policy about alcohol and driving. I had pretty much sobered up by then, anyways. He insisted that I give him a hug before I left, and I did, but he found something unsatisfactory with the first five or so, so he kept insisting. By the end, I felt so awkward I ended up walking out, leaving him pouting in the kitchen. It wasn’t the same after that, really. August was crawling closer, and he started to realize that I really wasn’t going to budge. I asked him if he would still try to be friends once I moved, and he changed his mind about four times for different reasons. First, he told me that I was using him for his company, that he didn’t think I’d have any use for him after I moved. He told me that my friendship was pretty useless to him anyway. I cried when he said that. Then he said that it was all good, that I could text him or whatever, but he wouldn’t ever remember to text me first. Then, the thought of talking to me was too painful. Two days before I was done at the warehouse, he claimed to have changed overnight, that he was totally over me and I could do what I pleased. I was pretty fucking pissed at him for that. By the time I actually left, he’d changed his mind so many times that I wished he’d just decide that I was a selfish bitch and let me be. He settled on tentative friends, though. I think he was trying to find the right thing to say to make me stay. He used to tell me that I was a master manipulator. He said that I got on too well with everybody, that I was a social chameleon, and that I was bound to break a few hearts in the process. He told some people at work, too. What he didn’t tell them is that he thought the same about himself, that he thought he would never find a real connection because he knew how to play any person like a fiddle. That’s why he thought that we were soulmates; supposedly, we were both too aware of mind games to fall for them. He used to tell me that I was really smart, that he loved talking to me because he never knew what I was going say, that I’d just say what I was thinking and he couldn’t ever follow my thinking. He used to tell me that I talked about sexism too much, that he was annoyed how aware of it he had become. I told him, “you’re welcome.” He used to say I was hot, but that if I still had my natural hair, I’d be a *real* knockout. Sam died about three months after I moved down south. Something about some equipment in the warehouse, but they kept it pretty under wraps. I suppose I felt a little bit guilty, but mostly I think I felt relieved. I sort of take it as proof that he was wrong, that it’s our choices that decide our fates and not the other way around. I know it actually doesn’t prove shit, but I think it anyways. I didn’t tell my boyfriend about all of this. I mean, I told him some, but I didn’t want him to worry about me. I think that deep down I was scared that he might always wonder if I cheated on him. I might never tell him everything. I might never tell anyone. So, I guess Sam’s love story will die with me, the remaining half of the perfect pair. I’ll never get to tell him that he was wrong, that he was fucked up for what he said, for what he did to me. Letting him go hasn’t really been the hardest part, though. The hardest part has been learning how to live with his ghost, how to carry it all on my own.


A mother's watch never ends. Sabrina sighed as she picked up after her child. Toys lay scattered over his room, socks kicked aside, and empty cups adorned his table. Such a sweet young child, undisciplined, but sweet. Such is to be expected of one so young, mused Sabrina. After all, he was only a sweet tender boy of four. Barely coherent in his daily random babbling, but growing up to be just like his lovely father. Her thoughts turned to the other boy in the house. A grown man, a fine man by all means, but boys will be boys. His habit of leaving clothes right beside the laundry basket, his perpetual insistance on keeping his computer on because he *might* use it later, and a habit which his son learnt from him, of leaving empty plates on tables. So infuriating. So, similar to one another. "Am I the only grown up in this house?", grouched Sabrina. The room was dark by now, dimly lighted by the moonlight. She had been cleaning for the greater part of the day, yet her house never seemed to get any neater. Her gaze turned towards her son, and a smile crept across her face. A gentle hand brushed his hair aside as Sabrina kissed his forehead. It was to be a long day for him tomorrow, and he needs all the rest he can get. Sabrina lightly moved towards the master bedroom and opened the door quietly. Her husband already in a peaceful slumber in the middle of the bed, hugging her pillow. She embraced him in a similar fashion and laid her head upon his chest, listening to his heartbeat as she too, fell asleep. It was to be a long day tomorrow. A glimmer of sunlight shone upon her face, waking Sabrina up. She was resting alone on the bed now, her husband gone. Rare was the occasion when he woke earlier than her. Sabrina reached her hands outright and puffed out her chest as she yawned. She wandered through the house looking for her family, but it seems like they had already left without her. She knew where they would be though. Gathering herself, she stepped out of her house. Her pace quickly led her to where her family was. A flower shop at the corner of the street, and the Carnations it sold there were her favourites. She had reached just in time to see her husband and son walked out of the shop with a large bouquet of her favourite flora. Yellow and pink with a dash of white. It warmed her heart to know that the two most important men in her life remembered her favourite. She amused herself by hiding from sight, following them towards their next destination. "What a surprise it'll be for them when they see me there!", she quipped, as her lithe steps allowed her to keep up with them. Their destination was not far off. The flowershop was strategically placed for this reason. A slight hike up an incline, a meander off to the side, and across a great oak, lies a tomb. Sabrina walked up behind behind her family and held them tightly in a warm embrace. Her hands brushing their tears aside, as she kissed their heads. She will watch over them as long as she can. For a mother's watch never ends.


###A Few Notes from Bay I’m noticing some patterns week to week that need to be addressed. - Late submissions are **not acceptable**. Repeated late entries will result in your **serial entries being removed**. If something comes up and you can’t make the deadline for some reason, please DM me. - Authors are **required** to post at least **2 feedback comments** on the thread **every** week they submit, by the deadline. Feedback should include something the author has done well, and something that could be improved. If for some reason your entry is late, you are still expected to meet this requirement. - If you cannot meet the **weekly time and feedback expectations**, you may be asked to move your serial to the subreddit. Give back what you get! *** #Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join. Each week you are required to provide feedback for at least 2 other writers on the thread. Please be sure to read the entire post for a full list of rules.   *** #This week's theme is Danger! This week we’re going to explore the theme of ‘Danger’. Danger comes in all shapes and sizes, literal and metaphorical, emotional and physical. Different people react to fear in different ways. What does danger look like to them? Is it a person, a thing, a feeling? How will the upcoming struggles affect the world, its inhabitants, and their relationships with one another? Will they be able to survive the hazards threatening to consume them? How will everything be different if they are unable to defeat or rise above it? These are just a few things to get you started. This week, please keep in mind the subreddit rules, and treat the topic of mental health with respect. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. **Please remember to follow all sub and post rules.** You can always modmail us if you’re unsure. |   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I post the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. You can even vote on the upcoming themes on the Nomination form! - August 7 - Danger (this week) - August 14 - Enemies - August 21 - Faith   *** **Recent Themes:** | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 12pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Come back later in the week and leave a feedback comment on at least 2 other stories on the thread.   *** #The Rules: - **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme.** You can interpret the theme any way you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and sub rules. Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. - **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalog. *Do not include anything in the brackets you don’t want in your title.* If you don’t use the correct titling format, your serial will be automatically removed by the bot. (Please note: In order for the bot to recognize your serial, you **must** use the exact same name each week. Titles can not be edited in after the fact. Should you make a mistake or forget, you will need to repost.) - **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt or post is not allowed. - **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. Stories outside the wordcount will be disqualified, so don’t forget to check! **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.** - **Stories must be posted by Saturday 12pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will be disqualified and will not be eligible for rankings or Campfire readings. - **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. - **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread each week (that’s on two different stories).** The feedback must be **actionable** and should include at least one *detail* about what the author has done well. You have until Saturday night at 11:59pm EST to post your feedback. Those who go above and beyond (more than 5 actionable, in-depth crits) will be rewarded with “Crit Credits” that can be used on our sister sub, r/WPCritique. - **Missing your feedback requirement two or more consecutive weeks will disqualify you from rankings and Campfire readings the following week.** If it becomes a habit, you may be asked to move your serial to the sub instead. - **Serials must abide by subreddit content rules.** This includes, but is not limited to, explicit suicide or suicide-note stories, pedophilia, rape, bestiality, necrophilia, incest, explicit sex, and graphic depictions of abuse or torture. You can view a . If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask!   *** #Reminders: - **If you are continuing an in-progress serial (one that you began off of Serial Sunday), please include links to the prior installments on Reddit.** Our bot will not be able to log these. - **On Saturdays, I host a Serial Campfire in our .** Join us to read your story aloud and hear other stories. We provide feedback for all those present. **We now start at 1pm EST.** You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join! - **Nominations for your favorite stories can be submitted .** The form is open on Saturdays from 12pm to 11:59pm EST. You do not have to participate to make nominations! - **Authors who complete their Serial Sunday serials with at least 12 installments, can host a SerialWorm in our Discord’s Voice Lounge, where you read aloud your finished and edited serials.** This is to celebrate your wonderful accomplishment and provide some extra motivation to cross that finish line. Authors are eligible for this only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). Visit us on the Discord for more information. - **There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server!** Be sure to grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news, including new posts and Campfires!   *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap), this does not count toward the required 2. **Nominating Other Stories:** - Submitting nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total) *Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above. Your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points. (“I liked it, great chapter” style comments will not earn you points or credit.)* ***So what is actionable feedback?*** Actionable feedback should be constructive, something that the author can use to improve. A critique not only outlines the issue or weakness, but uses specific examples and explanations to describe why it may be doing, or not doing, what it should. You can or these previous crits from Serial Sunday: | |   *** #Rankings - **First place:** - by u/rainbow\-\-penguin   - **Second place:** - by u/Zetakh   - **Third place:** - by u/katherine_c   - **Honorable Mention:** - - by u/Hades_Sedai   - **Crit Star:** u/FyeNite - **Crit Star:** u/rainbow\-\-penguin *Crit Creds are awarded to users who go above and beyond with critiques (on the thread) and can be used on r/WPCritique. Don’t forget in order to receive them, you also must have made at least one post on WPC or have linked your reddit account to the sub on our .*   *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


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


There was something gloomy about them – the way those ice cubes sat on the bottom of the whiskey glass as they melted and diluted whatever was left of the Glen Moray. Coasting along the rim as the glass swayed in a circular motion, they seemed doomed to some stationary post – damned to resignation, or acceptance, of their eventual dissolution. In a way, it was a fitting depiction of the end of the good times. A decade of enjoyment, debauchery, and youthful carelessness came to its close – to be banished by one of deceit, inhumanity, and despair. In one fell swoop, the orchestras were hushed, the gilded gates closed, and the laughter exiled to some wistful longing. Not a word was to be spoken of them. Not an utterance of this time of extraordinary excess and comfort. For those who clung on to whatever stardust evaded the hands of time, it seemed almost a fairy tale. A refuge from the trepidation and angst of the decade before. A Shangri-la to drown out the beating drums and woeful cries. The men, who had just as quickly traded in their uniforms for evening suits. The women who had mourned, grieved, but found love anew. The children who had grown up knowing nothing but the splendor of those ten golden years. In their joyous rhapsody, how could they have known that this was all but a momentary reprieve? How could I have heard? How could I have seen? Muffled by the brass bands and veiled by the dying lights of smoke-filled rooms lay a world ripe for the misery that was yet to befall us. The bellowing of the desolate, the false promises of the charlatan, the naïveté of the hero, and the ignorance of the spectator. I turned away. We all turned away. And slowly, we lost everything. The abundance we enjoyed, the peace we took for granted, the belief that we would be free to relish in the pleasures of our fleeting youth. As I look back to the glass, filled now with nothing more than a dash of some pale bronze mixture, I cannot help but wonder what more could have been. Beyond those moments in the sun, we could never figure out what would come next – were these times meant to be for always? Or would there be something greater, still? More. Surely, more. In our best coats and gowns we flocked to some imaginary church – a congregation of the lost and indifferent, suspended from reality by some unearthly ecstasy. And there we worshipped those sacred hosts we ourselves placed on the high altar; every earthly desire that we, in our greed, ravenously devoured. As we consumed relentlessly without pause, we lost something of ourselves. As if the world, once seemingly reborn of an age of strife, instead capitulated to man’s most lamentable sins. Are you there, God? Yahweh? Allah? Lord of light and creation? Truth everlasting? Devil. Shaytan. Prince of darkness. Destroyer of worlds. Heralder of doom. Deliver us.


It’s been a few weeks since I told the world about my experience in the school. I’ve done many things since then. I grew up, obviously, and I’ve become a horse rancher. Despite my looks, I managed to find a romantic partner too. She was beautiful in every way, and god was she smart… Anyway, it was a normal night 2 nights ago. Me and my wife sat on the porch watching our kids play, it was 8 at night but, since we were on our land and in the middle of nowhere, we weren’t disturbing anyone. We told them they had 10 minutes before they had to take a shower, and 9 minutes later they said they wanted to take a family picture because the stars looked pretty and they thought it would be a good background. I knew this wasn’t true, they weren’t slick, they knew their mom was a photo perfectionist and they would be out for another 10 minutes at the least. But after the first photo, her eyes went wide, she yelled at us to get inside, I thought she just realized what they were doing but she seemed very distressed for something as small as that. The kids went to brush their teeth and she grabbed me by the shoulder before I could follow them. “There’s something out there” “There’s a lot of things out there.” “No, something large, and most likely dangerous.” “I doubt that. The property is fenced in, you know.” Then she showed me the photo she took… And she was right, there was something behind us, all you could see was the glare of its eyes from the camera flash. I told her it was probably a bear but we both knew I didn’t think that, it was too big, and the glare of the eyes were *red*. I propped up a chair against the door, I didn’t think it would do too much against something as large as the thing in the picture. We managed to get the kids to sleep before they realized something was wrong, then we went down to the kitchen and looked at the picture again. Then *we heard it.* I grabbed our shotgun, although I had never shot at something in self defense before, had my wife be ready to open and close the door real quick, and calmed my nerves. I told her to open the door, she opened and I shot 5 times. She closed it after I stopped and immediately put the chair back. I knew I had hit it at least once or twice. I looked out the window, thinking it would be lying there, dying. But it was gone, and then I made the mistake of turning the exterior flood lights on. 8 of them, whatever they were, right outside my house. I looked for about 4 seconds before turning the lights off and slamming the curtains shut. These things weren’t animals that I had ever seen, but they closely resembled wolves, but even larger. They had dark gray fur with a black mane and snow white paws, cute. They were at least 10 feet long, but then there was the head, oh god, the head. They seemed like they were smiling almost, the corners of their mouth reaching back to their ears, teeth and bare jaws showing the entire way. I made a mistake. I alerted them, they were all going to attack now. I sprinted to the garage to get boards, to cover the windows and doors. I covered the downstairs first, and then the upstairs. I thought that if I could barricade them out, we could wait till help arrived. I called 911 once I had finished boarding up all the windows and doors, but there wasn’t any service. The water also cut, so we couldn’t wait it out forever now. Things were quiet for a good while, and then the crying started. Not the kids, but the creatures. It wasn’t crying like a dog, but like a human, it got louder and louder, eventually turning to a wail. By the time it stopped getting louder, it was a sound that wasn’t describable in one word. It sent chills down my spine and made my blood curdle, the kids were awake now. They had been for a while, ever since I shot that gun. And they were terrified, everyone was. The howling stopped, but silence didn’t come either. Scratching, the entire house was filled with the sound of scratching at the windows and doors. All of us went silent to try to find where they were scratching at so we could move away. But it seemed equally loud everywhere we went. So we just took shelter in the middle of the second floor. I had an idea, maybe, just maybe if we were fast enough we could run to the truck and peel out of there. I whispered the idea to my wife, she didn’t like it but agreed it was our best chance. It was 11PM by now, we didn’t know how fast they were, but we agreed that it was better than sitting here and waiting to die. I peeked out the curtain near the front door despite my best judgment. There was a small crack in between the boards I put up, but it was large enough to see there were no creatures on the porch. We ran right behind the kids, the kids had gotten in the truck. I had gotten in the driver’s seat. But by the time my wife was running around the front *it was too late*… The creatures were here, she got swept up by one of them right after she screamed at me to drive away with the kids. I knew I couldn’t do anything, I put the pedal to the metal and shot down the small driveway that led to the highway. They were howling again, but it started as that impossibly loud wailing that we had heard before, and it was getting louder. I looked in the rearview to see the monsters right behind me. I didn’t get to see their eyes at the house, but the eyes were the worst, they were dark mahogany eyes, with bright white pupils, I could never forget them. It’s almost as if they burned into your soul when you see them. I was almost to the main road, I had been driving for what felt like years away from these things. Then the howling stopped and something else began. A calling, for help. *“Jeremy! Help! PLEASE, Jeremy!”* An extremely scratchy voice and inhumanly loud. It almost sounded like my wife, but just a little off. *It* had eaten my wife though. And then I realized the horrible truth, *it was using my wife’s voice*. I got to the main road, and beelined to the city. I didn’t stop speeding until I saw another vehicle and the sound had completely stopped. Once we were in the city, I drove to my Mom’s house, and tried to tell her what happened. The kids were too shocked to even cry about their mother’s death. I couldn’t form a full sentence without having to take a breath because of the hyperventilation I had been experiencing. The next morning, the kids had slept very little, at least they had slept. I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the horrible calls of the monster, using my wife’s voice to lure me back to the evil thing. The burning eyes, the never ending smile that they always held, it was all fresh in my mind. My mom called the cops, and they investigated the property. *Nothing was found*. I don’t mean evidence of the creatures, or my wife getting ripped apart. But anything at all. According to their reports, the road was overgrown with brush and other plant life. When they finally got to where the house should’ve been, they found a pile of rotting wood and nothing else. No tire marks, no pawprints, no anything. It was like the property had been launched 100 years in the future and no one went there in that time. If anyone remembers attending a party or something of the lines at 71098 Lakes Drive, please. Tell me. No one seems to remember being at that house except for me and my kids, even my mom says I never lived in the country and have always lived with her. No one will listen, no matter what I say to them. I wrote this record just in case I don’t get to verbally retell this story. Why wouldn’t I be able to verbally tell the story again? You ask. *Because I can hear them again.


#Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills and areas in which we excel, as well as places we’d like to improve. So I’d like to present a brand new weekly feature. This will be a weekly thread to discuss all things writing! And… to get to know your fellow writers a bit! Each week I will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion. Feel free to chime into the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, etc. You do not have to answer all the questions, but try to stay on-topic! *** #This Week’s Roundtable Discussion This week, let’s take a look back at some of our earlier writing. - How do you feel when you look back at your earlier work? - Would you say it has improved since this time last year? How? - What actions do you take to improve your writing? - What motivates you to continue to improve? *New to r/ShortStories or joining in the Discussion for the first time? Introduce yourself in the comments! What do you like to write? *You don't have to answer all the questions to join in the chat! #Reminders - **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** - **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussion in any form will not be tolerated. - **Please try to stay on-topic.** If you have suggestions for future questions and topics, you can add them to the stickied comment or send them to me via DM or modmail! *** ###Subreddit News and Happenings - Come practice your micro skills on or experiment with long-form writing on - You can also post serials directly to the sub! Check out for more information.


The day before your birthday, you find out you have to fight a gorilla and you have to win. This is certainly news to you, but your parents say they’ve been talking about this for months, don’t you remember, and while you don’t, you just nod and say oh yeah I do because you’re afraid you’ll get in trouble if they find out you weren’t listening to them. Then you ask why you have to fight a gorilla, and your parents look surprised and say don’t you know? Everyone has to fight a gorilla when they get to be your age. They did it, your older brothers and sisters did it, your neighbors did it, even the nice old lady who works in the candy shop did it. You’re not sure if you believe them, but you ask your older brothers and sisters, you ask your neighbors, and you ask the nice old lady in the candy shop and they all tell you, yes, when they turned the same age you’re about to turn, they too had to fight a gorilla and win. You’re shocked, but think maybe they’re all playing some sort of prank. So then you ask some of the older kids at school and they say yeah they fought a gorilla on their birthday and look at you kind of weird for even asking. At recess you ask your teacher whether she ever fought a gorilla when she was a kid, and she says of course, everyone does. She points to a scar on the side of her face and says that was where her gorilla bit her, when she was about your age. You go to the library and ask the librarian, someone who always smelled like the old sweaters in your basement, and he grins and says it looks like someone’s got a birthday coming up soon. You’re showed a book that explains how people have been fighting gorillas on their birthdays for generations, supposedly starting with some guy named Sir Francis Nanergrab, though the book says there’s a lot of doubt he was really the first. It showed a picture of this Sir Francis Nanergrab, and he was missing an eye, an arm, and his entire lower jaw. You slam the book shut and run out the library without even putting it away. You cry for a while, both because you’re scared you have to fight a gorilla, and you feel stupid for apparently being the only one who didn’t know you had to fight a gorilla. At dinner you ask your parents again why you have to fight the gorilla, and they tell you again that it’s because that’s what everyone does when they’re around your age. You say, no, no, that’s not what I mean, and then ask why is it the thing that everyone does, and they tell you it’s just how things are, so then you say why do kids have to do it anyway, it seems stupid, and then your parents get really mad at you and say that if they had to do it when they were young, you have to do it now. One of your big brothers says he doesn’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of it, and to quit being such a baby about the whole thing, and your parents actually agree with him, even though they say he should be nicer about it. You can’t sleep that night. As you lay awake, staring at the ceiling, all you can think about is how big and scary gorillas are and how you never ever want to have to fight one but everyone is going to make you tomorrow. Eventually, you see the sun rising through your window and realize you got no rest at all. Your parents come in a little while later and say it’s time to get up. When you come to the kitchen, the table is piled high with all your favorite breakfast foods. You’re not hungry. Your stomach hurts from being so nervous. But then your parents get mad at you again, saying they worked really hard to make this meal special for you, and you’re really hurting their feelings by not eating it. You take a few nibbles here and there. Your parents say you should eat more, you’ll need your energy for later, but that makes you even less hungry and you tell them sorry but you can’t eat anymore. One of your parents asks if this is still about the gorilla, as if they expected you’d forget about it overnight, and when you nod they say you must stop being so silly about this and that this is a big day for you. Instead of going to school, your parents take you across town and at first you think you’re going to the grocery store, but then they turn and you realize you’re going to that big boring building next to the grocery store, the one you always saw but never really thought about when you’d drive by it. You refuse to leave the car at first, grabbing onto whatever you can to stay where you are, but your parents are too strong and they drag you outside, then drag you across the parking lot, then drag you through the door, then drag you down the hall to meet someone they call Mr. Talbot, who they say is the town Gorilla Master. Mr. Talbot doesn’t look like the kind of guy who’d force kids to fight a gorilla. He has kind, gentle eyes and a warm smile. He kneels down and holds your hand in his, which you find to be warm, dry, and a little rough. He says he knows exactly how you feel, how he was nervous too when he was your age, but was just fine, and when he gently squeezes your hand you notice he’s missing three fingers. You yell and scream, saying please, no, please, no, over and over again, louder and louder. Mr. Talbot shakes his head and smiles, says there’s always one every year, then with surprising strength drags you into a dark room in the back. It’s a little bigger than your garage and smells like a petting zoo. You look up to the man and beg him to please let you go, that he doesn’t really want to do this, but he just puts a whistle to his lips and blows a shrill piercing cry. At the other end of the room you see a pair of blinking eyes shimmer in the dark. They get closer until, out from the shadows, steps the gorilla. It’s huge. It opens its mouth wide and lets loose with a mighty roar as it beats its chest with fists as big as your head. Mr. Talbot shouts “FIGHT!” and the gorilla charges. The next few hours are not your best. You never, ever try to fight the gorilla. Instead you just run and dive and duck and dodge and do everything in your power to avoid it. Mr. Talbot yells at you from the sidelines, saying to be tough, to face your fear, telling you that all the kids at school will make fun of you if you don’t fight, but you’re still running. The gorilla keeps chasing you in circles around the room and your heart is pounding against your chest and your breath is coming out like fire and your legs are feeling like jelly but still you try to get away, you are not going to let this gorilla catch you even if you have to run forever. But you can’t run forever. You get tired. You get slower. And the gorilla is getting closer. Right when it’s about to catch you, Mr. Talbot blows the whistle again and the gorilla stops, then returns to the shadows, leaving you gasping and wheezing on the floor. Your parents come in and cross their arms and say they are VERY disappointed with you. Every single kid when they get to be your age fights the gorilla and wins, why can’t you? Between deep breaths you say there was no way you’d ever beat a monster like that, especially when you don’t have any weapons at all, but your parents say they both fought gorillas even bigger than that when they were your age and they had no problem. Mr. Talbot said the gorilla he fought when he was your age was ten feet tall and he was still able to kill it in just a few minutes. Why can’t you? Everyone else can, after all. Your parents say maybe they’d understand if you were, like, dying of cancer or were born without arms or legs, but you’re a healthy normal kid, so why can’t you just kill that gorilla like a healthy, normal kid would? You don’t know the answer. All you know is that you can’t. You wonder what’s wrong with you, if it’s really supposed to be so simple. You can tell your parents, in their heads, are wondering the same thing. Still, it’s over. For today at least. In the car ride back, they say they have never, ever seen someone act so immature. You’ll never get anywhere in life, they say, if you can’t kill one little gorilla in hand to hand combat. It’s very important to your development. So that is why, they say as you pull into the garage, you will be returning to Mr. Talbot tomorrow, and the next day after that, and the next day after that, on and on and on, until you’ve slain that gorilla like a proper young person should. And until you do, they say, no more video games.


Ever since I was a kid I have hated the dark. Though I think my real problem was with shadows. Hanging clothes and floor lamps disguised as dark figures haunt the corners of my room. So I would turn on the light, rationalise my thoughts and fall back asleep. Because that’s all they were; senseless, paranoid thoughts created by memories of horror movies and scary stories. But four days ago I saw something real. Someone under my piano, hiding in the dark of my room. I was so close to sleep I could feel my mind fogging up, until something shifted in the corner of my eye. It didn’t move the way things usually move in the dark, like when you turn your head and think you see someone rushing past the doorway. A figure crawled out from under the shelter of the piano. Head tilted with glazed over eyes. The figure was dark and about as tall as a five year old child. It was the shade of black that swallows every ounce of light with the waxy, uneven surface of a half-melted candle. I reached for the light switch instinctively. I prayed that whatever was standing 4 metres away from me wouldn’t try to kill me in the time it took for my eyes to adjust. Nothing had changed. Nothing had moved. I fell back asleep three hours later when anxiety finally exhausted my mind. In the morning I wrote the whole thing off as a sleep induced hallucination, but I didn’t exactly believe it. I sleepwalked through the following 24 hours until the night came again. My mind was restless, tears pricked my eyes from staring at the empty space below the piano. It was 1:30, my unblinking eyes began to close and it returned. I was paralysed, watching it repeat the movements from the night before. Except this time, when it stood it was a foot taller. I paid frozen, panicked attention to its thin frame, it’s boney hands. Black liquid slowly dripped from its fingertips and onto the carpet. Again, when the light turned on, it disappeared and I stayed awake with the light on. The next morning I stared in the mirror at my bloodshot eyes and cried. I needed this feeling to leave. I needed sleep. Throughout the day I felt eyes everywhere, the sight of shadows sent me into a panic. But it was in my head. It had to be. I am not the kind of person to wear tin foil hats and hunt for ghosts, so I refused to believe that this was anything more than a monster under the bed. I got home and sleep began to call me but as I walked into the bedroom my heart dropped. There was something on the floor. Two clusters of black dots blemished the carpet, each collection less than a metre apart. The stains looked like ink the same inky black that dripped from my tormentors hands. I did not sleep. Not for a second. I laid on the couch wrapped in blankets with a knife held under my pillow, flinching at the slightest noise or flicker. The morning felt like night. All sense of time was disrupted, I could feel my sanity slipping from my grasp. I got up from my couch, the knife clutched tightly in my hands. I walked to the room and the knife fell to the floor. I could feel blood pooling around me. The blood was seeping from my butchered foot and into the cracks of the floorboards. But my gaze was fixated on the walls. At the black dripping letters written across the plaster. “Why are you hiding?” The white hot pain spreading up my legs was numbed by the rampant thoughts in my mind. I crawled from the carpet to the floorboards of my living room. Travelling in and out of consciousness. I grabbed my phone from the table and saw a second message on the screen. “I can see you.” I couldn’t take it. I collapsed on the floor after dialling the emergency service number. A trail of blood tracking my movements. I woke up a day later in a hospital room. I told them what happened, I told them about the figure in the dark and asked them about the writing in the walls. They chalked it up to pain meds and delusions but I know what I saw. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to sleep.


Ina is a small town in Ilinois. The place was first settled around 1840. But the main settlement was a bit farther from Ina, about 3 miles away to the northeast. That was called Spring Garden at the time. After the railway was built in 1905, more people came to this area, and the centre was moved towards Ina. The town became a stop on the Chicago and Eastern Illinois Railroad, which connected with the major rail lines of the Midwestern United States. Nonetheless, as in almost all towns, this one also has a dark history. Dark memories, which people do not really like talking about. This story, however, could not fade away: there were rumours in the beginning and rumours turned into facts. And facts reached the press; they turned into the news which reached the whole world. As his boss and colleagues described him, Russel Keith Dardeen was a very reliable, honest and helpful person. He worked at the Rend Lake Water Conservancy District. But one day in November 1987, when he did not turn up without checking in, his employer called the police and his parents who did not see him either. When the police arrived at his parents’ home, Don Dardeen, his father gave the police access to Keith's trailer. When the police entered the trailer on the 18th of November, they faced a horrible scene: Elaine Dardeen, her son Peter, and her newborn daughter were brutally beaten up with a baseball bat given to the son by his father for his birthday. Elaine's body was duck taped, and the two children were put in bed. The room seemed to be cleaned up, which indicated that whoever did this terrible murder, was not in a hurry. ‘Is it possible that the husband murdered his family?’ – the detectives and people asked. However, this presumption soon dissipated as they found Keith’s body in a field. He was shot three times, apart from his body was removed. Interestingly, his car was somewhere else: it was found at the police station in a nearby town, Benton. The interior of the car was bloody, which implied that the scene of his murder had been that place. When the news broke out, people got terrified, and they all started to protect themselves by watching their properties, wearing shotguns and looking behind their back. They were also afraid of strangers. As I was walking down the streets after work, they were open and empty. Families did not allow their kids to go out. People preferred getting around by car, instead of walking. As for the investigation, about 100 people were interrogated, but none of them turned out to be a suspect. The motive and the reason for the murder were also unclear. In the meantime, Keith’s mother did not give up: she was pushing the place to continue the investigation and asked for the help of the public as well. However, the murder was so brutal that the media was reluctant to detail it. You might ask if there are any improvements in this case. The year 2000 was a turning point. A serial killer, Tommy Lyn Sells was apprehended and claimed to kill the family among other people. According to Tommy Lyn Sells, he met Keith at a truck stop, and he invited him for dinner at his home then offered him sex, including his wife. This claim, however, is not reliable because Sells was an untrustful person and his story was not convincing. He was executed in 2014, and the question of whether he committed it or not is gone with him. He admitted committing more than 70 murders, and this could be one that he was responsible for. But we do not know for sure. The thing is that uncertain answers are as uncomfortable as unanswered questions. To not know is to suffer. To know can be a burden. The answers you seek may be the very thing that you wish to avoid.


For what it’s worth, Mr. Hawaii already saw the Lugar hanging through my hoodie from the window. No fooling him. The police were on their way even before the convenience store door *ding-donged* my arrival. Hey, it was my first time, for whatever that’s worth, shoot me. The closed-circuit television captured me in black and white glory. Hood up. Hands in pockets. Total nonchalance, like back before I was allowed to listen to Slayer and Mom would lead me through the great glass gates of Targets and Home Depots. For what it’s worth, she did all the talking then. “Got one of those slushie machines?” My voice didn’t even crack. That was the first trick. Confidence. Mr. Hawaii’s fists pressed into the counter as he eyed me. So much hair. It tickled his knuckles and crawled up his arms into the half-buttoned vacation shirt, like back when Mom almost got tackled by the mall security woman with gorilla arms. After that, we had to drive the entire length of her collection of Joan Jett CDs before stopping again. If it’s worth anything, that’s when I first learned what cunt meant. Waiting on Mr. Hawaii’s response, my kneecaps wobbled in my jeans, the scabbed one catching denim. It was too late to turn around and abandon the plan now. Fortunately, he broke and raised his plump finger at the corner of the store. “Over there.” Don’t turn your back, Mom would say. But, for what it’s worth, this wasn’t Herman’s Hardware Supply where the aisles stretched into the ceiling. This was Konnor’s Kwick Mart where convex security mirrors were nailed to the wall. Mr. Hawaii watched me watch him from the glass. “What’re these worth?” My hand patted my empty back pocket like it was looking for a wallet. That was the second trick. Mislead. “One ninety-nine. Large.” His head ballooned in the mirror as I reached for one of the plastic cups. Cherry-red slush *glug-glugled* from the machine, like back last winter when Mom fell face-forward into the motel parking lot. Her blood melted the asphalt snow into dirty clumps of brown tar. For what it’s worth, the hanging flap of forehead didn’t even make me vomit, even when she told me to press it to her skull so she could super glue it shut. I let the slushie machine shudder to a stop. The thick flavored syrup didn’t even climb up to the brim. It was the least I could do, if that’s worth anything. Mr. Hawaii hadn’t moved. “Hey, if I worked here, I’d never stop drinking these.” My smile was big enough to show teeth. That was the third trick. Befriend. For what it’s worth, that got Mr. Hawaii to raise an eyebrow. The gun slapped against the bottom of my stomach as I walked past the great wall of chips. Flammin’ Hot BBQ. Sour Cream and Onion. Nacho Cheese. Charbroiled Bacon Burger. Each bag, a three-course meal, like back when Mom was too sick to get out of bed, and I got to eat from a motel vending machine for a week. For what it’s worth, it spit out two snacks for the price of one if you held down the “A” and “B” buttons at the same time. After that, it was back to pre-packaged salads and granola bars. Mr. Hawaii unfurled his fists to tap the counter, looking feverishly out the window. This should have tipped me off, but for whatever it’s worth, it didn’t. I was too busy flipping through the bags of chips like they were porno mags. “Hey, what’s your favorite flavor?” I asked. His shoulders sagged. Again, the eyebrow raised. For what it’s worth, he even stopped drumming his fingers against the counter. The corner of a single dark blue bag poked out from the back of the shelf. Hey, Cool Ranch, that’s one I’ve always wanted to try. Pulling it free, all the chips in front fell to the floor. Salt and Vinegar. New York Style Pizza. They scattered at my feet. My scabbed kneecap stung as I knelt down on it. “Shit, sorry. I got it.” For what it’s worth, most of the bags fit in the crook of my arm, but as I stood back up my head knocked a glass jar of queso to the floor. The congealed cheese splattered over my shoes sending the broken lid rolling down the aisle. If it’s worth anything, the gun didn’t go off. Mom would be rolling in her grave. Mr. Hawaii *tick-ticked* his tongue. “Alright,” he said, the edge in his voice was gone. “What do you think you’re doing?” Did I do it now? Mom never let me watch this part, like back when we stopped at the gas station surrounded by palm trees and desert. The first time I heard a gunshot, for what it’s worth. She almost caught me trying to shove an ice cream sandwich down my pants when she came up behind me. “Car,” she said. That was the signal. My jeans strangled the frozen treat against my thigh as I shuffled outside and around the corner to where we parked. Mom started shouting at the attendant. Her voice made it all the way into the car, muffled by concrete walls and tempered glass. I leaned forward to adjust the passenger’s seat. And boom! The Fat Boy popped open like a blown out diaper. “Eh?” Mr. Hawaii asked. The gun stayed deep in my hoodie, if that’s worth anything. “Look, just bring whatever you want up. Okay?” His shaky mannerisms evolved into confidence. I snatched the blue bag of chips and stumbled to the counter. The condensation from the slushie trickled down the sides of the cup, pooling against my thumb and finger. Mr. Hawaii reached into his back pocket, looking down his gold-tinted aviators at me. Did I do it now? He slapped his thick wallet on the counter, too big to stay folded shut, and fingered out a slick black card. The register *beep-beeped* as he entered prices. A single large slushie, one ninety-nine. One bag of family sized potato chips, two forty-five. For what it’s worth, he answered my question. “Cool Ranch.” He took his slick black card and swiped it through the machine. “That’s my favorite too.” A package of Newport menthols ruffled in his breast pocket as he crammed the card back into his wallet, like this morning when Mom died. Her half-smoked cigarette had rolled beneath the crack of the bathroom door while I watched Good Morning America on the box TV. She’d fallen asleep on the toilet before, but wasting a cigarette? She never wasted anything. I knocked first, for what it’s worth. Each round louder than the last. By the time Robin Roberts sent everyone to a commercial break, I was jimmying the lock open. Too still to be asleep, her body lay cradled in the small gap between the tub and the toilet. The cord from the motel’s courtesy hair dryer wrapped tight around her bicep. I didn’t know CPR, but for what it’s worth, I pulled her free and mimicked what Dr. Greene did in reruns of ER. Glass from a broken syringe sliced into my knee as I straddled over her and hammered her chest with the heel of my hand. “You hear me, kid?” Mr. Hawaii ripped the printed receipt from its box. “Said, there’s a homeless shelter two-blocks up.” He pointed his plump finger in the same direction as the slushie machine. “Let me give ya the address.” If it’s worth anything, my knees stopped wobbling. Mr. Hawaii scribbled something down on the back of the receipt in black marker. The dark ink bled through and smelled like bad gasoline. “Tell ‘em Steve sent ya.”I shoved the receipt and the chips into my hoodie with the Lugar. Did I do it now? I didn’t, if that’s worth anything. I mumbled thanks and left. Didn’t even make eye contact. Walked right out into the parking lot and kept going. Mom would have been so disappointed. Taking a large gulp of slushie, a chunk of cherry flavored ice melted down my throat. The cold trail left behind crawled up the back of my jaw and into my temples. My eyes slammed shut to try and override the inevitable brain freeze, like back when Mom laughed at me for biting straight into an ice cream cone. The jolt of pain from the frosted vanilla bean made me drop the treat with a *splat*. And if it’s worth anything, Mom never bought me sweets. I cried harder than Mom laughed. Dots of ice cream stippled the bottom of my overalls and Buzz-Lightyear sneakers. Mom knelt over my broken cone and held her own sprinkled covered one up to me. She didn’t even hesitate, for what it’s worth. “This time don’t eat it all at once. Okay?” she chuckled. “It’s not going anywhere.” “You. Stop.” a voice commanded. A shadow, too skinny to be Mr. Hawaii’s, appeared beside mine. “Turn around. Hands where I can see ‘em.” For what it’s worth, I didn’t let go of the slushie as I turned. Held it up in the air like a holy grail, condensation dripping to the ground. The voice belonged to a woman in brown starch. Neat and ironed. A cop uniform. She didn’t have gorilla arms, if that’s worth anything, but one of them was raised at the elbow. Hand on holster. “Got a call ‘bout a possible robbery,” Ms. Starch said. “You causin’ trouble?” Her uniform was tucked in tight. Not a single wrinkle. My knees shook. “No. No. He paid,” I said, reaching into my hoodie. The receipt would be proof of that. But for what it’s worth, I didn’t know the outline of the Lugar was visible. The slushie splattered on the cement sidewalk first. My body followed, legs crumpling beneath the weight of my torso. Someone yelled “shit.” It may have been me. I slammed into the sidewalk like a broken toilet seat. Loose gravel embedded into my face and shoulder. A warm pain drooled from my hip, spilling out onto the concrete and into the pool of slush. The Cool Ranch chips were decimated, for what it’s worth. Popped and crunched beneath my gut. No chance of saving them.


###A Few Notes from Bay I’m noticing some patterns week to week that need to be addressed. - Late submissions are **not acceptable**. Repeated late entries will result in your **serial entries being removed**. If something comes up and you can’t make the deadline for some reason, please DM me. - Authors are **required** to post at least **2 feedback comments** on the thread **every** week they submit, by the deadline. Feedback should include something the author has done well, and something that could be improved. If for some reason your entry is late, you are still expected to meet this requirement. - If you cannot meet the **weekly time and feedback expectations**, you may be asked to move your serial to the subreddit. Give back what you get! #Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join. Each week you are required to provide feedback for at least 2 other writers on the thread. Please be sure to read the entire post for a full list of rules.   *** #This week's theme is Enemies! This week we’re going to explore the theme of Enemies. Rivals can come in all shapes and forms, from those that oppose us, to our very own family. Who are your characters' enemies? Where did this feud begin? Was it born out of fear or something else? How does this rivalry affect their lives, their world, their choices? What happens when the two collide? These are just a few things to get you started. This week, please keep in mind the subreddit rules, and treat the topic of mental health with respect. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. **Please remember to follow all sub and post rules.** You can always modmail us if you’re unsure. |   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I post the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. You can even vote on the upcoming themes on the Nomination form! - August 14 - Enemies (this week) - August 21 - Faith - August 28 - Guilt   *** **Recent Themes:** | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 12pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Come back later in the week and leave a feedback comment on at least 2 other stories on the thread.   *** #The Rules: - **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme.** You can interpret the theme any way you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and sub rules. Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. - **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalog. *Do not include anything in the brackets you don’t want in your title.* If you don’t use the correct titling format, your serial will be automatically removed by the bot. (Please note: In order for the bot to recognize your serial, you **must** use the exact same name each week. Titles can not be edited in after the fact. Should you make a mistake or forget, you will need to repost.) - **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt or post is not allowed. - **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. Stories outside the wordcount will be disqualified, so don’t forget to check! **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.** - **Stories must be posted by Saturday 12pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will be disqualified and will not be eligible for rankings or Campfire readings. - **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. - **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread each week (that’s on two different stories).** The feedback must be **actionable** and should include at least one *detail* about what the author has done well. You have until Saturday night at 11:59pm EST to post your feedback. Those who go above and beyond (more than 5 actionable, in-depth crits) will be rewarded with “Crit Credits” that can be used on our sister sub, r/WPCritique. - **Missing your feedback requirement two or more consecutive weeks will disqualify you from rankings and Campfire readings the following week.** If it becomes a habit, you may be asked to move your serial to the sub instead. - **Serials must abide by subreddit content rules.** This includes, but is not limited to, explicit suicide or suicide-note stories, pedophilia, rape, bestiality, necrophilia, incest, explicit sex, and graphic depictions of abuse or torture. You can view a . If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask!   *** #Reminders: - **If you are continuing an in-progress serial (one that you began off of Serial Sunday), please include links to the prior installments on Reddit.** Our bot will not be able to log these. - **On Saturdays, I host a Serial Campfire in our .** Join us to read your story aloud and hear other stories. We provide feedback for all those present. **We now start at 1pm EST.** You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join! - **Nominations for your favorite stories can be submitted .** The form is open on Saturdays from 12pm to 11:59pm EST. You do not have to participate to make nominations! - **Authors who complete their Serial Sunday serials with at least 12 installments, can host a SerialWorm in our Discord’s Voice Lounge, where you read aloud your finished and edited serials.** This is to celebrate your wonderful accomplishment and provide some extra motivation to cross that finish line. Authors are eligible for this only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). Visit us on the Discord for more information. - **There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server!** Be sure to grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news, including new posts and Campfires!   *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap), this does not count toward the required 2. **Nominating Other Stories:** - Submitting nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total) *Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above. Your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points. (“I liked it, great chapter” style comments will not earn you points or credit.)* ***So what is actionable feedback?*** Actionable feedback should be constructive, something that the author can use to improve. A critique not only outlines the issue or weakness, but uses specific examples and explanations to describe why it may be doing, or not doing, what it should. You can or these previous crits from Serial Sunday: | |   *** #Rankings - **First place:** - by u/rainbow\-\-penguin   - **Second place:** - by u/katherine_c   - **Third place:** - by u/Zetakh   - **Honorable Mention:** - - by u/Ragnulfr   - **Crit Star:** u/FyeNite - **Crit Star:** u/rainbow\-\-penguin *Crit Creds are awarded to users who go above and beyond with critiques (on the thread) and can be used on r/WPCritique. Don’t forget in order to receive them, you also must have made at least one post on WPC or have linked your reddit account to the sub on our .*   *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


It was worth it. I repeat the mantra over and over in my head as I ascend from the cave. My breath comes in gasps. My fingernails are dirty and caked in blood. My muscles shake, my head pounds with exhaustion, and my ankle throbs. Across my back I carry a weight that drags me down like an anchor, threatening to trap me in this cave forever. It was worth it. My brother and I were on an archaeological excavation in the Yucatán when we discovered an unknown temple. As we ecstatically began to explore its depths, we found a painting of an idol. An idol with glowing blue eyes and a black, sinewy form. So eerie, and yet so intriguing and beautiful it defied comprehension. We became obsessed with finding it. At first we believed it would be at the site, but it quickly became evident that this wasn’t the case. After days spent scouring the ruins we abandoned our prestigious dig, including the new temple, and made for the city. It was worth it. We scoured the market. We talked to gurus, shamans, con men, and señoras selling fruit on the ground. We begged every person we talked to for any rumor, myth, or legend they knew about the idol. We spent every penny we had until we were beggars, dependent on the charity of those around us for food and shelter. It was worth it. Finally, we got our break deep within the recesses of a souvenir shop. The owner led us past rows of cheap clothing and knick knacks to her private office, where she pulled a book from a dusty shelf. The book showed the way to an island shrouded in pink clouds, an island with a cave protecting an idol with bright blue eyes and a dark body. The shop owner insisted we abandon our search. She spoke of the corruptive powers of the idol, and the potential harm its bearer could bring on themselves and others. We didn’t listen. When it became clear we intended to take the book, the shop owner tried to grab it and run. She fell and broke her leg in the ensuing struggle. It was worth it. It took another month of menial labor to save the money for supplies for our expedition. We barely ate, surviving mainly on trampled, moldy scraps from the market. We sheltered in alleys at night, fending off so many rats, fleas, and stray dogs that we barely slept. It was worth it. Finally we set off at a feverish pace toward our island. We walked, we rode in the backs of trucks, we stole bicycles, and we finally forced a frightened man at gunpoint to take us to the island in his boat. We jumped overboard as soon as it was within sight and swam the rest of the way. It was worth it. The cave was predictably treacherous. We fell enough times that soon we were bleeding on every limb. I sprained my ankle so badly I almost passed out, and my brother snapped both of the bones in his left forearm. But we continued on, stumbling through tunnel after tunnel. It was worth it. The idol rested in the center of a cavernous room, settled on a stone altar. Surrounding it was a lake of magma, the heat so intense it singed our faces. There was no voice, no writing, nothing to indicate our next step. But we knew anyway. The idol demanded a life in return for its possession. Something snapped inside my brother. For the first time in our quest, fear and doubt filled his expression. He grabbed my arm, face pleading, “No! It isn’t worth it!” I gazed at him for a long moment. My playmate, my lifelong companion, my best friend. And then in one motion I shoved him into the magma. He only screamed for a moment before he was enveloped. It was worth it. The magma vanished in an instant, and I found myself before the idol. It was small enough to fit into the palm of my hand, small enough to fit in my satchel. But power tingled through it, and through me. I took it and returned the way we’d come. I finally collapse outside the cave. My life, my career, and my beloved brother are gone. I am marooned on an island with no hope of escape. I take the idol from my satchel and lock my gaze with its blue eyes. They begin to glow more fiercely, and the power thrumming through it grows. I feel a presence shift from the idol to reside in me, whispering to me of kingdoms, power, glory, bloodshed. I stagger to my feet, a being remade. It was worth it.