"Stop crying already," Aunty May said. "Sometimes it just happens." "I hate it when you say that!" She ran out the door. "Bree! Come back this instant!" “You’re not my real mom!” she yelled. Before Aunty May could come up with a stick, Bree was already down the path, and into the dark forest. It wasn’t till a while later that she began to slow down. She stopped at an old oak tree and sat under it. She ran her hands over the soil, and came across an acorn, which she picked up and rubbed between her fingers, soothed by its glossy smooth coat. She sat there for a while, and found herself nodding off. Nadezhda was alive, and floated down onto Bree’s lap, and she could feel the kitten’s fur under her fingers. But when she awoke, her fingers were empty. She grabbed a fistful of dirt and flung it at a squirrel above her, missing by far, and the dirt fell back down into her eyes and her hair. She blinked and rubbed her eyes hastily, spitting out specks of dirt. She looked up again. The squirrel stared at her. “What are you looking at,” she said. “Go home to your family. I know you’ve got one.” Aunty May and Uncle Son and the kids treated her well enough, but she still felt like an outsider, and not just because of her wavy copper hair, which she kept as short as a boy’s. Nadezhda had been hers. Truly hers. She’d fed and watered and bathed the flea-ridden thing until its fur was clean and white again, and it had been fine till yesterday. Despite her best efforts to nurse it back to health it had died. Aunty and Uncle would shrug their shoulders, not getting why she was crying over an animal, and the kids, content and dull, would ignore her and fight each other. Bree could remember very little of her father and mother. A moonlit flash. Blue eyes as clear as the sky. A taller, rugged form with autumn-colored hair. She had a feeling that was why autumn was her favorite season. The rusty reds and deep oranges calmed her, and she could feel the warmth of the sun in the brilliance of the falling leaves. But it was a gentle warmth, not the aggressively hot and bright kind of the summer. This warmth reminded her of her parents. Aunty said they had died of some illness way back. She wouldn’t say anything more, and when pestered said that she hadn’t known them that well, and that Bree better go on and live a good life and make them proud, and start by washing the basin of the dirty dishes, or there’d be a good whooping for her waiting in the present life. Bree turned for home, but went a roundabout route, till she reached the old bridge by the abandoned mill. They said that no one lived there, but she saw now an old woman, round-faced with skin that was tinged green, and barely taller than her, toddling past her to the frayed wooden bridge that still arched from forest to mill and who-knew-where-else. “Hey there girlie? Would you come and help me cross the bridge?” she said, turning and smiling at Bree, with a toothy grin. She walked over and took the woman's hand. It was clammy and slimy, and smelled of fish and seaweed. Bree made a face, but stood firmly for support as the woman slowly toddled with her across the bridge. The old woman’s walk made her think of Baby Shrimp, just beginning to hoist himself up using the low stools so he could be on all two's. It made her smile a little. The older children treated her friendly but they knew what she was. Baby Shrimp didn’t know. To him, her touch was just as much warmth and comfort as the breast of Aunty May. "Thank you," the woman said. Bree blinked and looked around. They were across the bridge. "You're welcome," she said, as the woman let go of her arm. The woman looked around, feeling in the pockets of her mossy brown coat. "Well, there's nothing I can give you." “Oh, there's no need," the girl said, turning to leave. “Wait!” The old woman stopped digging in her pockets. "I have just the thing," she said, and fished out a piece of what looked like a black gooey lump. The girl stared at the strange black lump. It drew her in, and made her want to hold it. It was pulsing, like the veins on her wrist, but how could that be? She stared at the black void that sucked all color around it into itself. “Just black licorice,” the old woman winked and took a bite. "See? Not poisonous." “Go on," she said. "Take it." Normally Bree would have been more cautious, but her grief and resulting absentmindedness let her reach forward and stuff the licorice into her mouth. She chewed it. It was sweet with herbal notes. As she chewed it she felt a void ballooning up inside her, a void where once had been a friend in her arms. She felt like throwing up. She was going to throw up. Her eyes watered and poured. She wanted to stop but she couldn't. It was like a waterfall was pouring from her very soul. Was it raining? Was that rain on her skin and her forehead? The water rushed around her, soaked through her dress and hair and pushed her down. The woman’s clammy, slimy hand tightened around her arm, leading her down into the torrent of rain. She felt far from her body. A rainbow flashed across her eyes, and the rain cleared. She was underwater. When she swam in the lake with her uncle and dived for shells and edible clams, she could see very little. The lake was then opaque and particle-filled as sand roiled around her moving body. But now, she saw the underwater world as clear as if the water were air. The water stretched around her vast, and the whole world glowed, the sun above, a molten egg sending its rays down into the core of the earth, illuminating the seaweed columns that towered above her like mighty giants, and the sandy bed way down below. Every boulder and stone was sharp and in focus. Tendrils of algae coiled around little clams and sea snails clustered on the tops of the boulders. Hadn't it been late evening when she reached the bridge? Yet it seemed now as bright as the middle of a summer day. The giant strands of seaweed, stretching from the waterbed to the very top of the water hundreds of feet above her, swayed around her like graceful dancers, and in front of her, holding her by the wrist, was a woman, mostly. Bree could see long dark hair like strands of seaweed floating from the woman’s head, but whoever was holding her now was propelling them downward by means of a tail slightly longer than an adult human’s legs, glittering with scales, and ending in a long blue fish’s fan that was as thin and delicate as gauzy silk ribbons. The glittering tail undulated up and down as it drew them down toward the mouth of an underwater cave. Bree felt her lungs felt lacking, and the awareness was terrible and startled her to action. She pulled at the hand, trying to loosen its grip. But the woman was strong, and pulled her down, until Bree’s vision darkened, and her thoughts became murky, then gray. The next thing she knew she found herself bursting out of a small pool. She gasped for air, grateful for the air that rushed into her lungs. As she crawled forward further onto the dark, water-stained rocks, she could see beautiful stained glass lamps, lighting the walls of the cave with brilliant flashes of red, blue, purple and green. The cave itself was as large and vast as a cathedral, the ceiling submerged in complete darkness. On the bottom of the cave stood a stone table on one side, and various other instruments and shelves of things. She lifted her head to look at the woman, who was clearing some space on the stone table. "Who are you?" Bree sputtered. "Where's the old woman?" "Not here," the woman said in a voice musical and bubbling, and stroked her long shiny green hair satisfyingly. Her skin was tinged green, and she had very round cheeks. A faint smell of fish and seaweed lingered in the air. It was the old woman. But leaner and taller. And beautiful, in an unearthly way. Her tail was now a pair of long, slender human legs, ending with two thin, flat feet. A translucent webbing stretched between her elongated toes. “What’s your name?” the woman asked her. “B-Bree,” the girl sputtered. "I’m Mrs. Vodyanova,” the woman said, taking some seaweed and chopping it with a big butcher’s knife. “But you can call me Vodya.” "Are you a mermaid?” Mrs. Vodyanova turned and scowled, her face puffing up like a puffer fish, her odd, eerie beauty suddenly transforming into a flash of anger. "Don't call me that! It's not our fault the mermaids flaunt themselves at every sailor that passes, the saucy…never mind. No, I'm an amphibian." "What's a plebeian?" Bree asked. "An *amphibian* is someone who can live both on land and in water," Mrs. Vodyanova said, deflating, her face returning to normal. "Like a frog…you know a frog?” Bree said, "I know what a frog is." “Well, I’m not exactly a frog. I’m a special type of amphibian, a vodyanitsa.” Bree stared at her. “I bridge two worlds,” the woman said. “On one side land, the other, water.” "So…why did you take me here?" Bree asked. Now that the initial rush was over, and she sat here breathing properly and talking to this vodya-whatever, she felt tired again. This was a weird dream indeed, but she just wanted to go to sleep. She wanted to roll over in bed, pull the covers over her head and never come out. "You cried your heart out," Mrs. Vodyanova said. She took from the inside of her black vest a small red gem, glowing with a feeble fire. "What?" Bree said, and her hand jumped to her chest, "My heart?" "It was a little dirty," said Mrs. Vodyanova, "so the licorice helped you cry it out. Now that I’ve got your heart here, I can clean it. " Upon hearing that, Bree’s heart would have fallen out of her chest, if she still had one. Mrs. Vodyanitsa put the gem on the table and rummaged through some shelves on the side of the cave. She grabbed some glass vials of strange things unknown to Bree's eyes and started throwing them in a cauldron. “Well, make the fire, girl,” she said. Bree complied, starting to take some logs from the ground and stuffing them into the fire pit under the cauldron. “Then can I have my heart back?” she asked, afraid of the answer. “Just a second,” the woman said, throwing a snail's shell and a small human toe into the cauldron. She stirred it. She took the ruby and waved it in the smoke drifting up from the cauldron, and then dropped it into a small glass cup. Slowly, the ruby dissolved into a glowing red liquid. "Drink it," she said. "I flavored it with cherries and a spider’s eye." Bree tilted her head back and gulped the drink entirely till it was gone. She looked at the woman. "What now?" She said, "I don't feel anything." Mrs. Vodyanova took her face, and looked into Bree’s blue eyes with her own yellow eyes, the pupils vertical and alien. “You were born of fire and water. You were born to bridge worlds. Come to me, when it begins.” “What?” Bree said. “What begins?” “Don’t worry,” Mrs. Vodyanova said, waving. “All will become clear in time. In the meantime, be a good girl! Be kind and follow your heart!” Water rushed up from the pool into the cave, and Bree was swept up into the current. "See you soon, darling!" Mrs. Vodyanova’s voice echoed and became faint. Bree slipped out of consciousness for the second time that day. She woke up next to the bridge, the setting sun painting brazen orange and red strokes above the water. Near her feet a brownish-green frog about the size of her big toe hopped into the water. **The Nightmare** Over the next few weeks she had a lot to do. It was harvesting season so she and her cousins were hard at work in the fields with Uncle Son, reaping and collecting the wheat before the winter chill could overtake them. She almost forgot about Nadezhda sometimes. Or rather, Nadezhda became a murky dream, rather than a living pain in her consciousness. There was once when she saw a stray calico in the chicken coop and fell into a trance as her other cousins shooed it away, but for the most part she felt an odd thing happening, called a smile. She had always been a serious child, and once Aunty May had called her cold. Now she smiled, just a little, when she played with Baby Shrimp, now progressing from toddling to running little steps and tripping over himself. She smiled when the dogs came to slobber their affection all over her. And she smiled, ever so slightly, when she was sleeping, and had a dream about her parents. Aunt May saw the change and rewarded her in the middle of August with a slab of apple cake and ushered her to go into the forest and play. “I worry about her sometimes,” she said quietly to her husband, as they watched the child sitting on the porch, eating the apple cake, lost in thought. “She’s not of our stock. And both of them being who they were! What if she ends up–” “It’s too late for her, we would have known by now,” Uncle Son said, looking around furtively. “Hush woman, we mustn’t grow careless. The woods were watching then, they could be watching now.” May bit her lip and said nothing. “With time she’ll be like anyone else here,” Son consoled her. “I hope so,” May said. “For her sake.” "This year looks to be good," Son said, changing the subject. It was a peaceful October day, when the winds were asleep and the sun was just right, and the brown droopy-lipped dogs with equally droopy brows basked in their spot on the front of the porch. May smiled and pressed his hand that was on her shoulder, and they watched their children grow. So the weeks, then months, then years passed, and by the time Bree was tall and grown, entering the first blooms of womanhood, she had forgotten about the vodyanitsa in the lake under the old bridge. Or so it seemed. Something happened that made her remember again. It was on Hallows’ Eve, sometime after her sixteenth birthday. She was lying on the hammock under the apple trees, now stripped of their last apples and with their last leaves falling, and reading a book. It was the only book on the residence of the Nguyen family, and she was the only one who could read it. She’d been taught by a grateful circus family a year back. They’d been passing through, and Uncle Son had let them stay in the barn for one dreadfully stormy night. They’d ended up staying for another week, and then a month, and had proved to be welcome help on the fields during the day and amazing entertainment during the night. The father, broad-chested and brown in skin and hair, had been an expert juggler of knives, and a firebreather. Meanwhile the two girls played music on tambourines and fiddles, and then later the father took over the music, and the girls took a rope in each hand, a rope that ended in a metallic ball of some kind, and lit the ball on fire. They started dancing, and everyone became quiet, for the rhythmic way they looped the fire across the sky and around their bodies was nothing short of entrancing. For days afterwards all the children had found themselves preoccupied with learning how to swing the balls of fire, including Bree, who mastered a few basic turns with the practice balls, made of a softer woody material, by the time the circus family had left. But that was not all they taught her. Bree was quite taken with the man of the circus, and it was for something else than fire-dancing. He also proved to be a great reader, with a deep and sonorous voice, filling both the heroes’ and villains’ voices with just the correct note, and he read every night to the children from a dusty tome that was gorgeously decorated with illustrations of the tales he told. Afterwards Bree had taken to following him covertly around the place, until he’d turned and asked what she wanted, and she’d shyly asked him to teach her how to read the stories. And so he had, in between work times. Beyond that, he taught her about the stars, and how to find heroes in the sky, and lions, and he told her many things from his life that had passed, with his daughters on his shoulders excitedly interjecting about pirates they’d once bribed and taken passage with, and other things she could barely imagine. She liked the daughters too. They were bright and sprightly, slightly younger than her, and taught her a multitude of card games that challenged her and left her hungry for more. They were also brilliant practitioners of fire-dancing, which indeed helped fuel Bree’s admiration. When they all were about to leave, father and daughters alike, Bree found herself immensely sad. The father, by now familiarly called upon by everyone as Ali, called her to him and said, “I want you to have this.” It was the storybook. She stared at it. “Really?” “Yes,” he said. “We have read this book through and through. Now it is for you to enjoy. And someday maybe you can give it to someone else to enjoy.” “Thank you,” she stammered. He smiled. “You’re welcome, Curious One.” Curious One. He’d said it like that, like it was a name. Whenever she opened the book and read, she’d think of him and his daughters and hope she’d have adventures like them too. She’d live a life worth writing about. A year had passed between then and now. She read much faster now, and the words flowed more easily like they hadn’t when she was just beginning to learn. Right now she was reading about a boy trapped in a cave of wonders while looking for an ancient lamp for the evil wizard. The autumn sky was ripening to a warm pumpkin orange with a touch of gray at its periphery, and the evening was cool and gentle with its soft whispering wind in her ear, and the book slowly slipped from her hand and fell quietly onto the ground below. “Mara,” she heard. “Mara.” “Go away…I’m sleeping,” she said, batting at the annoying voice, and letting her hand rest over her eyes. “Mara.” The voice was right above her, loud and resonant, and she opened her eyes. She saw a sky of stars deep and dark, and the moon hanging above her, impossibly bright and white. The moon uncoiled into the silver shape of a dragon, which flew down and came towards Bree. The dragon’s mane was ink-black and glossy as it leaned over Bree, its eyes blue as a stream, looking lovingly down at Bree. The dragon kissed her on the forehead, and behind it was the sun now in the shape of another dragon, as fiery red as autumn copper leaves. The two dragons encircled Bree and lifted her higher into the sky. She felt inexplicably loved and safe as she lay cradled between these celestial giants. Then something else happened. Men crumbled up from the ground. Faceless men stretched out their bony fingers, and Bree felt herself being pulled away and down by human fingers, rough fingers that grasped around her throat and– She woke up choking and gasping, her heart thudding in her chest.


Oliver's soul must be broken — he's sure of it. No matter what he does, he laments, or what life may give him, he can't seem to be happy. He is laying in his bedroom, awake, and still in school uniform. He didn't turn on the light when he got home, so the only forms of illumination in his room now are the thin bars of light cast through the small gaps in his window blinds. Oliver groans loudly and thinks about the extensive amounts of homework he has to do that night. Oh, It's also his turn to cook dinner, and he has to remember to do the grocery shopping tomorrow, and he'll have to clean all the dishes that have piled up, and the list goes on. It was the same last night, and the night before; just an endless line of things he needs to do. The whole thing overwhelms him — he's tried taking breaks to ease the pressure; listening to music or drawing (hell, he's even tried stargazing), but they've never worked. He always gets filled with guilt over not doing what he's supposed to do, or filled with dread over what he still has left to do, and he ends up not enjoying it. On a more fundamental level, he worries that these hobbies he used to enjoy may not bring him joy, at all, anymore. He's worried he'll never be happy. Oliver wills himself to get up and begins to pull his notebooks out of his bag. Fast-forward fifteen days. Oliver sits at the desk in his room and writes the last word of his last assessment of the semester. He drops his pen onto the paper with a clack, and leans back into his chair, breathing a sigh of satisfaction. It's over, he thinks. He has nothing left to do — nothing to be anxious about. There are still a couple days left of school, and still more housework, sure, but nothing too difficult. Nothing to stress about. Oliver stands up and peaks through his blinds. It's late, and the sun has already set. He rushes out of his house into the fresh air of his backyard, and he looks up. Above him sprawl the colourful stars of the night sky, iridescent upon the firmament. The band of the Milky Way arches above him, and Oliver can't help but smile. He lays down on the grass of a small knoll in the yard, hands on his belly, and gazes up at the sky for a while. He finds that he is at last somewhere where he is happy. But then a twinge of doubt hits Oliver, and he loses his smile. In two weeks, it will be back to school and back to that endless line of things to do, and he will be as miserable as before. That cycle of work and break will repeat forever. He knows it. Even if he found himself free of it, he would grow bored and unsatisfied still. Oliver is hit with a faint, melancholic sadness that even if there are between times where he can be happy, they will only ever be temporary. Temporary and transient. Oliver muses back to when he believed his "soul must be broken", and laughs at his past, melodramatic self. Oliver feels sad still, but he smiles again. Even if just for now, he smiles.


All of my team said when we heard the announcement that our team was going to get the final bit of funding for our prototype hyperspace ship. The day I had always dreamed about was so close. The problem was my team and I had already built the ship but we just needed fuel which we couldn't have afforded with our budget that NASA had given us which luckily after our fourteenth appeal to NASA for a bigger budget they reluctantly approved. After a small party with my team the question came up, who would co-pilot the ship. I was the main builder of the ship and also took astronaut lessons, so I would be the main pilot. None of the team had experience of piloting a ship so after looking through countless candidates only one person took my eye Oliva Airhart, a P.H.D at Harvard University for Engineering and she has three years of professional experience in a jet aircraft there's no one better for the job of a co pilot then her. A few days after accepting Airharts candidate letter, my team and I finally met with Airhart. We throw welcoming party for Airhart so that we can get to know her better. After the party I went and found Airhart off to the side and I asked “why did you apply to be my co pilot we made it clear that this isn't the safest project, and with your talent you could be on a” Airhart cut me off “what's the point of working on some boring jet craft when what you guys are doing is so much more than what I could do working with anyone else” standing there with a stupid smile on my face Airhart stood there confused “what's with the grin on your face?” after what she said I turned away to hide my smile. I said “Glad to be working with someone who shares my views” I left shortly after saying that. Some time after a few weeks getting Airhart up to speed with the whole project and how to pilot the hyperspace drive we were ready to go. About to launch and my heart is pounding, my fingers are numb and to be honest I can't feel my face. The first time humanity is ever going to hyperspace. The computer starts counting down, One minutes remaining…Forty seconds remaining…Thirty seconds remaining…Tw- Airhart cuts in on the radio “Somethings wrong, turn it off!” in a panicked tone. I looked at the computer blinking red. Somehow there was a hole in the center of the spaceship quicking trying to not freak out. I go to turn the rocket off then as if a whip snapped the noise away, nothing , no noise besides the ringing in my ear. I had made it into hyperspace…alone. Looking at the computer frozen all I could see was the message displayed by the computer. Damage to the lower half of the ship second pilot M.I.A. It all happened way too fast for me to think. Luckily the computer was already trying to get me out of here. It tried to get a report of anything and everything. What it read out to me was the following “unable to use radio, fuel was at 1/10 still draining, Estimated time for rescue UNKNOWN, main pilots brain waves unstable.” Once I heard that report read back to me after what seemed like days I snapped. I opened my drawer behind my chair and got out my grandfather's old pistol and pressed it to my skull. I chuckled to myself. My grandfather said that this is the luckiest gun he ever had and how it got him out of everything. Chuckling to myself for the irony of me using it now.I slowly loaded the mag of the gun I thought wouldn’t help me but brought it because I loved the stories that gun told. Accepting my fate I closed my eyes and right when I’m about to pull the trigger I hear Airharts voice “Coward I wish I would have lived and you take surviving for granted” I looked around ready to see my friend but what I wasn't expecting was to see a face covered like I was trying remembering a face in a dream. Then all of a sudden all of my team started to appear faces covered in that same fog. I couldn't describe, slowly one after the other they one repeated “Airhart wanted to live more” The computer was screaming at me “UNUSUAL BRAIN ACTIVITY CALM DOWN”. I screamed at the top of my lungs to these ghosts “WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO”. Snapping, I pulled the trigger, the pistol clicked, And the spirits disappeared. Unfortunately after an hour of silence they came back. My pistol won't fire because the bullets my grandfather gave me were fake, that damn old man. Now I have the same nightmare about the death of Airhart in my head. I record one last message with that pistol in my hand praying it helps me too “Even though this ship has no signal and almost out of power I hope this message reaches out to someone, anyone I AM LIVE COME HELP ME” with that I tell the computer to loop that message and keep sending it out. With that recorded and looped i’ll spend the rest of my days pulling the trigger of my gun and listening to the illusions teammates call me a coward till death or someone saves me.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: **Sentence: “The truth was stranger than fiction.”** **Bonus Constraint (worth 5 extra pts.):** - All or part of the story takes place in the . This week’s challenge is to use the above sentence in your story, in some way. You may add onto it, or change the tense if necessary (i.e. “was” to is”), but the original sentence should stay intact. **Stories without the above sentence will be disqualified** from rankings. The bonus constraint and use of the image are 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 To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST**, I hold a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. You can complete the following things for points. - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points, unless otherwise stated (not required) - ***Actionable* Feedback:** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Submitting nominations:** 5 points (total) *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 5 detailed crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.*   *** #Rankings - **First:** - Submitted by u/rainbow\-\-penguin - **Second:** - Submitted by u/katherine_c - **Third:** - Submitted by u/katpoker666 - **Bay’s Spotlight:** - Submitted by u/FyeNite - **Crit Star** - u/FyeNite *Crit Stars: Don’t forget in order to receive your credits, 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 to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires and other fun events! - Join in our weekly writing chat on . We discuss a new topic every week! New here? Come introduce yourself! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


The rain fell softly from the grey English sky. The sun struggled to be seen through the dark clouds, only managing to shine enough light to cast a soft shadow on the cemetery grounds. Father McCreary stood in front of an open grave. Above the grave there was a wooden casket held aloft by a platform connected to a steel belt. The rain fell on her head, but, being an English woman, she found this to be just a mild inconvenience. Only one person had attended the service, an elderly gentleman who was the brother of the deceased. Father McCreary had had her share of lonely funerals, but this was by far the loneliest. Nevertheless, as parish priest, it was her duty to honour all who died amongst her flock. “Ben was a good man,” she began (a trite but effective introduction), “He has lived in this town his entire life, receiving his schooling in the local primary and high school, before briefly attending university in London. But of course, the pull of this town was great and he soon found his way back. “It was in this town that he worked as a mailman, eventually rising to the rank of post master. It was also here that he met his wife, Lynette, and although they did not have any children, theirs was a long and loving marriage, which ended upon Lynette’s death two years ago. “Ben lived a simple life and he was well loved in this town. Nothing made him happier than to attend the local horse races and to go to the pub on a quiet Sunday afternoon. He has lived a long life, a happy and fruitful life, and before he died he said that the only thing that made him sad was that he had outlived all of his friends. “He did not want for anything, but he did have one wish. He wished to be buried with a family heirloom, the Kohinoor diamond, which belonged to an ancestor from long ago.” Father McCreary hesitated for a moment. She looked up from her notes and looked at Ben’s brother. “There is no one here but you, me and God,” she said. Ben’s brother nodded solemnly. “Benjamin Harold Williams, was born Benjamin Windsor,” Father McCreary said, “Of course, as has been tradition for several generations, he took the name Williams, after the first Norman ruler of England. “The diamond belonged to Queen Victoria, but was in fact bought from the colonies. It has been passed down through the generations, its value immeasurable. “Benjamin was not a member of the Church of England. To him, religion was not of vital importance, but he chose to be baptised a Catholic and now he will be buried a Catholic. “The realm, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, no longer exists. Benjamin has died the last king of England.” Father McCreary walked over to a briefcase. She opened it and pulled out a flag. “In days long gone the coffin would have been draped in the Union Jack. But today it will be draped in the flag of England, St. George’s Cross.” She unfurled the flag and placed it across the top of the casket. She then pushed a button and the casket was slowly lowered into the ground. Father McCreary watched as the coffin slowly disappeared. Rain fell on top of the flag. She picked up some dirt and threw it on top of the casket. “Long live the King.” She then brushed the dirt off her hands, and walked away.  Note - I wrote this for obvious reasons but it is just a story. No political motives. I'm sorry if I got any facts mixed up, I mean no offence. Also, should've called this speculative fiction.


About two years ago, things started going south between my wife and me. It started with one little argument that turned into a big problem, which only grew into resentment. All the writing was there, on the wall, in plain English, and no matter how hard we tried to ignore it, it kept getting bigger and bolder and more colorful. We only made that last-ditch attempt to avoid the embarrassment of divorce, but counseling only made us resent each other more. Safe space, my ass. I couldn’t say one word without triggering her, even though I would let her speak every bit of BS about me, most of which was petty and some of it straight up lies. I don’t know why she would make up stories for a counselor, but she did, and it only made the counseling meaningless, a complete waste of time and money. I tried calling her out on a couple occasions, but the counselor would stop me every time, “safe space,” BS. But if I was saying something and she cut me off, the counselor would just let her go on some tangential rant. We went for all of a half-dozen sessions before I refused to continue, claiming it was all one-sided, which made her even more angry. Not that she wanted to keep going in an attempt to save our marriage, but because it was cathartic for her. Her, able to bitch and moan about how awful I was, meanwhile, I’m sitting there getting literally abused and being forced to take it. Nope. I gave her an ultimatum: give me a divorce immediately and swiftly, or I would drag her through the mud for abusing me. Those sessions were all recorded, so I had plenty of evidence to prove I was being verbally and emotionally abused. Which way do you think it went? After a year of battles, we had a final trial set. My lawyer was not cheap and I was getting to the point of desperation financially. My parents had “loaned” me a chunk of their retirement, and I quote, “only to be paid back if you’re ever able to.” I had also begged a couple friends for some money, the most embarrassing part of the whole thing. Fortunately, I had friends who were on my side, understanding how bad things were for me and how nasty she had become. The final trial was almost a joke, as her lawyer was akin to the one guy from My Cousin Vinny, you know, the one who stuttered a lot. He tried pulling stunts to delay the trial, called for a mistrial within the first five minutes, and even had the judge questioning his bar certification more than once. It was an open and shut case once my lawyer played the clips from our counseling sessions. The judge called the counselor to the stand herself and she went down a whole path of questions against the counselor, questioning her certifications. It was great. I won, was awarded access to all of our money, which was frozen for months, and my now-ex-wife was handed an order of protection, disallowing her to be within 100 yards of me, which sent me into a laughing fit as the bailiffs dragged her out of the courtroom. Now we get to more recently. I was walking from my office downtown to a little Greek café for lunch a few weeks ago when this guy bumped into me. Guy – “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.” Me – “Maybe try using those things below your eyebrows.” Guy – “I really am sorry. I’ve been really anxious lately and wasn’t paying attention. I’ll watch out more, I promise.” Me – “Hey, sometimes things happen. No biggie.” Guy – “No, really, I apologize.” The guy stuck out his hand, like he wanted to shake hands with me, so I did so and walked away, going into the café. I got my food at the counter and grabbed a seat at the little bar top in the front window. As I was eating, I saw that same guy peeking out from behind a bush, seemingly watching me. I don’t think he had a clue that I could easily see him hiding there, but it was so obvious. I finished my food and cleaned up my little space at the bar top. I walked out and went straight to the bush, nearly scaring the guy half to death. He jumped up and yelped. Me – “Whatcha doin down there?” Guy – “Oh, I dropped a cufflink down here. It’s from my grandfather, and I would be devastated to lose it.” He was wearing a polo shirt, so it was obvious he was lying. Me – “Oh, that sucks. Let me help you find it.” Guy – “No, no. You don’t need to do that. I already inconvenienced you enough today.” The guy blushed and crouched back down, acting as if he were searching the dirt for something. Me – “Well, you’ve been looking for more than thirty minutes. I don’t think you’re going to find it if you haven’t by now.” Guy – “What? Oh, you’re still here?” He acted like he wasn’t peeking back at my feet every few seconds to see which direction I went, if I did walk away. Me – “So, are you going to tell me why you’re watching me?” Guy – “Because…wait, I’m not watching you. Why would I do that?” Me (laughing) – “You’re not good at this.” Guy – “Sorry. I mean, sorry?” I laughed again and started walking back to my office. As I turned the corner to go around to the lobby door, I stopped and looked back the way I came from to see the same guy standing there, seemingly frozen, about fifty yards back. Now, there were other people walking the same sidewalk, but he just stood there, blocking foot traffic, apparently hoping I wouldn’t see him. I went around the corner and stood there, a few feet in, waiting to see if the guy would pop around. It was only thirty seconds or so before he did indeed pop around the corner. Me – “Boo!” Guy – “Whoa, what the?” Me – “Gotcha. You really do suck at this, whatever you’re trying to do.” Guy – “I don’t know what you mean. I’m just going to my office.” Me – “That happens to be the same path I go every day and I’ve never seen you before?” Guy – “I’m new around here.” Me – “Okay, sure. Well, be more careful.” I told a few of my colleagues about my interactions with that guy and they all thought it was funny but strange. So, I kept an eye out for him, not that I had to watch hard. He was so clumsy and stupid, never hiding well, always doing something to fumble it. I saw him every day for two weeks straight, even on the weekends while running errands and doing stuff around the house. I went out for drinks with a couple friends on Saturday night and that guy came in, sitting at the opposite end of the bar, like I wouldn’t notice him. I just waved at him, which caused him to become frantic and he tried to hide behind a pillar at the end of the bar. I was laughing so hard at how bad he was at stalking me, I even had my friends laughing at him after telling them about all the antics. So, we walked over to him and as the three of us stood there surrounding him on his stool, we probed him. Me – “How’s it going, guy who works by me and keeps following me?” Guy – “I’m just new in the area and I thought if I followed you around, I would find some cool places to hang out.” Me – “Oh, like my back yard?” Guy – “I…uh…no, but…” Friend 1 – “Watcha drinking there?” He picks up the guy’s glass and sniffs it. “Iced tea in a rocks glass…interesting choice for someone trying to be ‘cool’.” Guy – “I don’t drink.” Friend 2 – “Huh, why come into a bar then? Why not the diner next door, or the juice bar across the street?” Guy – “I…” Me – “Look, I don’t know who you are or why you’re stalking me, poorly, I might add, but you need to stop.” Guy – “Yes, sir. Sorry.” He got up and left a few dollar bills on the bar before walking out. We laughed for several minutes about that whole situation, considering none of us were particularly threating looking, let alone the fighting types, so to deal with the guy the way we did seemed so funny to us. It wasn’t until I was walking home that the whole thing changed. I was about a block from my house when the guy popped out from an alley with a gun in his hand, which was shaking like a leaf. Guy – “You’re going to walk with me to your house and you’re going to take me in with you, please.” Me – “Or what, you’re going to shoot the tree next to me?” He looked down at his hand to see the gun pointed nearly sideways and corrected it. Guy – “Sorry, but I’m not messing around this time.” I acted like he wasn’t even there walking around him and going the rest of the way home. As I stepped into the front door, throwing it shut behind me, he stopped the door with his foot. I turned and almost knocked him over, sending him back a few steps with his gun toting arm flailing around. Guy – “Man, you almost made me trip and who knows what would have happened. Please be more careful.” Me (laughing) – “You are the weirdest stalker…I’ve never even read about anyone being as bad at this as you or seen any movies or shows. How did you get into this?” Guy – “Your wi….sorry, uh...” Me – “Seriously? How did she find you? Facebook marketplace? Wish?” Guy – “Never mind that, just let me in.” Me – “Nah, I don’t feel like doing this tonight. Can we try again another time?” Guy – “Well, I suppose…wait, no. I’m supposed to be in charge here!” Me (again laughing) – “Wish Assassin. That’s your new nickname.” Guy – “Please, stop. I’m just trying to do my job. I’m sorry I suck at it. I’m pretty new.” Me – “You seem like a nice, decent person. Why on Earth are you letting that ugly-ass shrew get you into this mess?” Guy – “I need the money and she promised me $3000 if I did this......whoops.” Me – “THAT’S IT?!” Guy – “I really need the money.” Me – “If I give you half of that right now, will you go away and leave me alone?” Guy – “Well, I suppose that could work. What am I supposed to tell her?” Me – “Tell her exactly this: the conditions weren’t right and as a professional, you couldn’t risk it.” Guy – “Wow, you’d be good at this.” Me – “No, you’re just REALLY bad at it. You should quit now, before you do something stupid and end up in prison, or dead. It’s not worth it. She’s not worth it, trust me.” Guy – “Please don’t put me down. I’m having a really hard time right now.” Me (laughing) – “Man, you’re pathetic. Wait right here, do not try to come in. I’ll be back with $1500 for you to leave me alone.” I went to my safe and pulled out $1450 from the envelope of money, which had several thousand in it, and walked back to the front door. Me – “Here’s $1450. It’s all I can bare to give you now.” Guy – “Oh wow, that’s the most cash I’ve ever seen! Thanks!” He didn’t blink twice about me stiffing him by $50. Me – “So, we’re done, right?” Guy – “Yeah, this is great!” Me (shaking my head) – “Seriously, pathetic.” Guy – “See you later!” As he turned and walked away from my house, I said, “I hope not, but if you do, I’ll see you first. That’s for sure.” I laughed heartily as I slammed the door and locked it. I couldn’t believe my horrible ex-wife hired some discount ass-assin to kill me, someone who had no balls and couldn’t even defend himself when he had a gun in his hand. I mean, I could believe that if she did hire someone, they would be that bad, but I didn’t think she would stoop to that level. Needless to say, today while leaving for lunch, I saw him standing behind a bush outside my office. I immediately walked in front of him and said hi, which threw him into a panic. Guy – “No, you weren’t supposed to see me!” Me (laughing) – “I told you I would see you first. Truly terrible at this.” So he’s still stalking me, and I don’t know if he’s going to try to pull it off again, but I have a feeling he will, at least once he needs more money. But he’s so bad at it, we’ll probably play this game for months before I turn him in. I just want to have some fun and really piss of my ex. The longer this goes on, the more annoyed she’ll be…I know her. She’ll get to the point where she’ll start threatening and abusing this poor guy, if she hasn’t already. Me – “See you tomorrow.” Guy – “Yep…I mean, no, you won’t.


Wooden blocks and trains lay scattered across the living room rug. Danny Flores’ six-year-old granddaughter, Sophie, was obviously bored. She had abandoned the toys Danny had hoped would keep her entertained and was whimpering to her parents that she wanted to go home. “There’s nothing to do here,” cried Sophie. “How about we go for a walk?” suggested Danny. “I saw some pretty wildflowers growing on the ridge at the end of the road.” “Maybe we should be going home,” said Danny’s son. “Sophie likes her regular routine after dinner. Anything different can make her cranky.” Danny looked around for something that might interest a six-year-old. The walls of his house were meant to look rustic, like a log cabin. They were decorated with old saws and mining tools, but he knew those only scared Sophie. “Hold on a minute. I’ve got something to show you that I think Sophie will like,” said Danny, jumping to his feet and scurrying toward his bedroom. He came back carrying a heavy lockbox the size of a toaster oven. “I bet I know what’s in there,” said Danny’s son with an eyeroll. “Tell me you’re not going to get Sophie obsessed with the whole silver and gold thing.” Danny set the box on the living room’s coffee table and turned a dial to unlock it. “You know that gold and silver are the only things that hold their value,” Danny said to his son as he opened the box’s lid. “If the worst happens, a number on a bank statement won’t buy you anything. Same thing with your paper money.” “I know, I know,” said Danny’s son as if he was already bored with the conversation. “But I’m not here to give you a lecture,” said Danny. “I want to show Sophie some beautiful things she might like to hold.” Danny fished through the box and pulled out three large silver coins. He set them on the coffee table, one at a time. “These are one-ounce rounds. Sophie, come and look.” Sophie walked to the short table and stared down at the three coins. “You can pick them up if you want,” said Danny. Sophie examined each coin, turning them over in her hands to admire the designs on the front and back. She stacked the coins on top of each other and listened to the sound they made as she clanked them together. “What do you see on them?” asked Danny. “There’s a lady, like the Statue of Liberty. And there’s an eagle on the other side. And this one has a koala. And this one has a skier.” “That’s right,” said Danny. “The one with the koala came all the way from Australia. And the skier is to celebrate the winter Olympics.” Sophie continued to run her fingers over the coins as Danny described how silver was mined and how money used to be made from silver. “Which one of those coins do you like the best?” he asked his granddaughter. Sophie thought hard about it before saying, “The one with the koala.” “Would you like to keep it?” “Can I really?” “Sure,” said Danny, thrilled by the excitement in Sophie’s eyes. “You can’t give her that, Dad,” said Danny’s son. “It’s worth too much. How much does an ounce of silver cost these days? Twenty-five dollars?” “It’s okay. I want her to have it. Look how excited she it,” Danny said with a chuckle. “Now she’ll want to come over to her grandpa’s house more often. Won’t you Sophie?” Sophie nodded her head as she stood up, clutching the koala coin close to her chest. “How about you come over next week and I’ll have more coins to show you?” “Can we Dad? Can we Mom?” Sophie asked, turning from one parent to the other. “We’ll see,” said Sophie’s dad. “I better dig up some things she’ll like,” said Danny with an eager grin. “Now Sophie, don’t let your parents try to tell you that the roads are bad and you can’t visit next Sunday. It’s the middle of the summer and the roads are in great shape.” In the middle of the next week, Danny drove his pickup truck into downtown Bozeman to visit his favorite precious metals supplier. Liberty Coin was a small shop with bars over the windows and three long glass display cases. A thick metal door guarded most of the inventory, which was not on display to the general public and only revealed upon request. “Hey Pete,” Danny called to the store’s owner. “You looking to buy or sell?” Pete called back. “Buy. Something kind of special. I showed my granddaughter some silver rounds and she liked them so much, I give her one. So now I’m looking for more silver. Coins with interesting designs.” “You gonna keep giving them away?” “I was kind of planning on just showing them to her. Maybe I’ll give her one more.” “I’ve got some neat ones with tigers on them. Or how about a ?” Pete pulled out a few silver coins from one of his display cases. Danny picked them up carefully by their edges. “Yeah, these are perfect. Give me a Silver Dollar and a tiger. And now that I’m thinking about it, I’ve got a chance to teach my little Sophie some important lessons. Like how much more gold is worth and how bigger is not always better. Maybe she’ll listen better than her dad.” “What do you have in mind for these lessons?” asked Pete. “I’ve always wanted to get one of those quarter-ounce gold coins. I could use it to show Sophie that even if it’s way smaller, it’s still worth 20 times what an ounce of silver is worth.” “Pretty good lesson if you ask me,” said Pete. “I’ve got one of those quarter-ouncers right here.” As Danny held the small coin in his hand, he felt the same gold fever he always did when handling the glowing metal. He left the shop with over $500 worth of new gold and silver in his pockets. Sophie and her parents were back at Danny’s house on Sunday. Sophie asked to sit next to Danny during dinner. “Can you show me more silver?” asked Sophie sweetly, as she passed a plate of cornbread to her grandfather. “As soon as we’re done eating,” Danny answered excitedly. “You’re going to love what I found for you.” Sophie’s big brown eyes grew even bigger to show she could hardly wait. She and Danny moved to the living room coffee table while everyone else was still eating dessert. Danny carefully presented the Morgan Silver Dollar and the tiger coin. “What do you think of those?” asked Danny. “Oh, they’re pretty,” cried Sophie, picking up the silver circles and watching the light reflect from their surface. “That one used to be used as a dollar,” said Danny. “But now it’s worth a lot more. You see the lady on the front side? That’s Lady Liberty.” Sophie continued to play with the coins as Danny happily explained how a dollar used to be worth a dollar because of the amount of silver in it and how silver was mixed with copper to make the coin harder. “You know, a silver dollar is pretty big, but bigger isn’t always better. Now I’m going to show you something made out of gold.” Danny pulled the quarter-ounce gold coin from his pocket and laid it next to a one-ounce silver round. The gold circle looked small in comparison. “That’s real gold,” said Danny. “Wow! It’s pretty too,” cried Sophie. “If you look close, you can see Lady Liberty on the gold, but this time she’s standing. And on the back are a nest of eagles.” Sophie studied the gold carefully and said, “Yeah, I see them.” By this time, Danny’s son had moved over to the coffee table to listen to his father’s lesson. “Now gold costs more than silver. A lot more,” continued Danny. “So let’s see if you can figure out which one is most valuable. If I was to let you choose to take one of these coins, which one would you choose?” Sophie batted her big eyes at her grandfather and then studied the coins for almost a minute. Then she pointed to the Silver Dollar. “This one.” Danny laughed and said to his son, “I don’t think she understood my lesson.” “Were you actually going to give her what she picked?” his son asked him. Danny chuckled and said, “Well I guess it can’t hurt to give her the Silver Dollar.” He picked it up and handed it to Sophie. “Here you go.” “Oh, thank you, Grandpa,” said Sophie, rushing to drape her arms over him in a long hug. “Well, that’s the biggest hug you’ve ever given me,” gushed Danny. “I thought you’d gotten too old to give your grandpa hugs.” “No, not me,” replied Sophie. “Are you going to show me more about coins when I see you next week?” “If you want,” said Danny with another chuckle. “But you have to promise me you’ll read about gold and silver before then. Maybe your dad will help you.” Sophie promised she would learn all about gold and silver, but after the next week’s dinner, she did not have any answers when Danny quizzed her about values and weights of coins. He showed her gold and silver pieces anyway and let Sophie keep the silver coin she preferred. Sophie continued to loudly pester her parents about seeing her “Silver Grandpa” and family dinners became more regular than they had been in the past. Sometimes dinner was at Danny’s house and sometimes he had to pack up his precious metals and drive to his son’s place closer to town. He kept trying to get through to Sophie that gold was more valuable than silver. To drive the point home, he cleaned and polished his quarter-ounce gold coin until it glowed from across the room. Then he roughed up a silver coin, leaving it looking grimy. “Take a look at these,” he said to Sophie. “Look how shiny the little one is compared to the big one. Wouldn’t you rather have the gold?” Sophie took a close and thoughtful look. “No. I like the silver one.” Danny laughed and said, “If you weren’t so cute, you’d drive me crazy.” “So can I have the silver one?” Sophie asked sweetly. “Sure. Go ahead.” The Montana summer ended, the trees lost all their leaves, and the first snow fell. The slick and muddy roads did not bother Danny, especially when Sophie called to make sure he was coming to dinner. Liberty Coin continued to supply him with interesting silver rounds, and Danny continued turning them over to Sophie. “You ever known anyone who liked the look of silver more than gold?” Danny asked Pete, his coin supplier. “Can’t think of anybody,” said Pete. “Gold is special. Most people can’t tell the difference between silver and aluminum.” “That’s what I thought, but my little granddaughter is crazy about silver. She likes the look of it more than gold.” “You taught her your lesson about how gold is worth more?” “Lots of times, but she doesn’t seem to understand.” “Why don’t you buy a whole stack of silver coins and put them next to a little gold one. Tell her they’re worth the same. Then she’ll understand.” “Good idea. Give me your best deal on a stack of silver.” When Danny drove to his son’s house that Sunday, he put the tall stack of 25 coins in front of Sophie and then showed her the little piece of gold. “This gold coin costs as much as all of this silver,” he said to her. “So if you had to choose only one of the silver coins or the gold one, which one would you take?” Sophie reached over, and one by one, pulled each silver coin from the stack. She inspected the front and the back. Then she pointed to one decorated with the image of a horse. “I’ll take that one.” “But the gold one could buy you twenty-five of the silver ones.” “I like the horse,” said Sophie stubbornly. Danny smiled and shook his head. “I must not be a very good teacher. I don’t think I’m getting through to you.” “So can I have the horse?” “Sure, take the horse.” As much as Danny loved Sophie and the way she snuggled up to him, he began to worry there was something wrong in her head. What if she could not understand numbers? What was she going to be like as a teenager or a young adult? If she did not understand money or value, she would spend more than she had. People would take advantage of her. One weekend in December, he decided he would make one final attempt to reach her. “Are we going to play gold and silver?” Sophie asked him. “One last time,” replied Danny. On the table in front of him, he placed his gold coin next to a larger silver one. Danny made sure his son was watching and listening. “Now Sophie, since we started looking at coins, I’ve given you 23 ounces of silver. But I’m afraid you haven’t learned anything about what they’re worth.” Sophie stared back at him with eager, innocent eyes. “I’m going to let you choose one last time, okay?” “Okay.” “You understand that Grandpa’s been trying to teach you a lesson?” “Yes.” “And he’s been telling you that gold is more valuable than silver?” “Yes.” “Then why do you keep picking the silver?” Sophie’s face grew serious. “I don’t know if I should say.” Danny chuckled. “You can tell me. Don’t be afraid. Whatever it is, I’ll understand.” Sophie acted like it hurt to get the words out as she said, “If I picked the gold one, I knew you’d stop playing. You’d stop giving me the silver.” Danny leaned back in his chair as he realized what had been going on. He looked sheepishly at his son and then laughed at himself. “You know, I was actually worried people were going to take advantage of her. Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.” Danny shook his head and laughed again. “You’re a shrewd one, Miss Sophie.” “If this is really the last time to play, I pick the gold one,” said Sophie. Danny pushed both the gold and silver coins toward her. “Add them to your collection. You’ve turned your Silver Grandpa into your Poor Grandpa.


#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 Do you share your writing with family and friends? On places like reddit and other platforms it’s easy to hide behind anonymity and a lot of writer’s can be reluctant to share their writing with people they personally know. There might be some niggle in the back of your mind keeping you from sharing it. Will they be supportive? Will they hate it? Will they make any personal connections with it? - So, if you share your writing with people you know, how has the reception been? Was it positive or negative? - If you **don’t** share your writing, why is that? *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.


Nobody ever listens to me. Which is weird, considering I work in a call centre, spending my days on the phone, doing nothing else than talking to people. My new friends listen. And they care. They never leave me. They go wherever I go. I saw them for the first time on a chilly autumn morning, smoking my breakfast cigarette, sitting on the windowsill of my apartment. They were dancing under the lantern light. They moved in circles around the lamp hanging on a wire across the street. They circled the light, disappeared shortly in the darkness that surrounded it, swung back hastily, as if they were trying to soak in its warmth. Like a coven of small witches flying on broomsticks around the moon. What would happen to them if they stayed away from the lamp light for too long? Probably, they would freeze to death, fall on the concrete ground underneath and rot away. I felt sympathy for those little creatures. One morning, I decided to turn on the lights in my apartment and open the windows. I think they understood my intention. One after another, they swarmed away from the lantern out in the cold and into my warm apartment. Their deep, sonorous buzzing filled my room, and soon, my ceiling was dotted with those insects. They looked like wasps, they were black though, shimmering in a metallic glance, and bigger. I had never seen this kind around here before. They flew around my head and observed me through their big, red eyes, hanged in the air in front of my face, as if they were trying to greet this big hairy creature that let them in so willingly. I left one single window open and went to work. When I got home, they were usually gone. From then on, and every morning that followed, I opened my windows wide open and let the black wasps in. They knew me after a few days. Sometimes, they tapped with bulky heads against the windowpanes when they knew the hour had come when I normally was waking up. And so, every morning, I opened the windows, and they swarmed in. Then, I started talking to them. Nothing spectacular. Asked them how their day was while I smoked my cigarette. Their answer was the deep buzzing all around my head and ears. I felt as if they understood… or listened, at least. And answered in the only way they could. Winter was on its way. The mornings got colder. A light blanket of frost was visible on the car roofs in my street. My wasps chose to stay inside my apartment for the whole day. I left them fruits and old meats on the table, and when I came home, the food was gone, but they were there, waiting for me. I asked them how their day had been and told them about mine. They listened to my stories and jokes, their buzzing made me fall asleep. It became hard to leave without them in the mornings. I missed them during my shifts. Their buzzing echoed in my ears, I just wanted to be near them, listening to them and them listening to me. So, I started to put them under my shirt before I left the house. I felt their countless legs scuttling over my stomach and my back, their chitin armoured bodies pressed against mine when I moved. I kept them warm, and they accompanied me. People gave me strange looks. They thought I was the one buzzing. But it was them, my wasps. One evening, standing in front of my bathroom mirror, I discovered dried blood on my back. I stepped closer to the mirror, turning my head as far as I could to see the reflection of my back. My wasps had begun to dig little holes with their mandibles. The holes were all over my back. Sometimes, I saw a familiar bulky head with the antennae and the big red eyes peeping out of one of them. From time to time, when I lie awake in my bed, I look at her pictures on my phone. Even after all those months, I miss her. Though I know, I only miss the illusion of her. She never listened nor cared. I should delete the pictures, probably, but I can’t make myself do it. I check her social media regularly. She blocked me everywhere. Those pictures, the only thing left of her. Nothing new to see, no new wrinkle to discover in her smile, no words spoken out of her mouth that I did not hear already, nothing left to wait for in anticipation. I need to eat much more now. Drink a lot. To make up for the blood I lose. The wasps are comfortable in those holes. It itches terribly on some days, but they are beginning to heal. The edges build fine crusts of dried blood and dead, yellow tissue. The wasps crawl in and out. Countless holes, countless homes, all over my back. They feel safe in there, and I bring them with me wherever I go. They listen to me. Every evening, I lie on my stomach and talk to them about God and the world and what bothers me and what not, their heads all turned to mine, the antennae pointing in my direction, peering out of their holes. They are content, I feel it. I am their nest now. I am happy.


“You met anybody worthwhile lately?” Claire’s friend asked her. “You’re out there on all the apps, aren’t you?” “I wouldn’t exactly say ‘out there.’ More like hanging back, but potentially curious,” said Claire. “Okay, so anyone you’re potentially curious about?” “I don’t know. It seems like something weird is going on in cyberspace,” said Claire with a shrug. “It doesn’t matter if I’m on Bumble or Tinder or Match. All the guys they show me are fixated on red meat. They make a point to say they love steak or eating a whole side of ribs.” “Your profile says you’re vegetarian, right?” asked Claire’s friend. “Yeah, I even say it’s important to me. But all I get is this lineup of Neanderthals who want to cook up a kill.” “Maybe you should pick one you like and give him a try. You never know. A lot of guys don’t think about what they’re eating. If you educate them, they might be willing to make a change for the right girl.” “Yeah, I guess,” replied Claire skeptically. “Kinda seems like getting off on the wrong foot though.” “You’re not committing to marry anyone. You’re just meeting up and seeing where it goes.” “Okay, you’re right. And, like you said, there’s always the chance he’ll change.” Claire and her friend scrolled through one of her accounts until they agreed on someone worth investigating. Claire sent him a message. Meanwhile, the guy she picked, Winston, was on the other side of town talking to one of his friends. They were complaining about their lack of success with dating apps. “I don’t know what it is, but it seems like all my potential girls are these militant vegans or vegetarians,” said Winston. “You didn’t check a wrong box or something?” asked Winston’s friend. “No, not possible. I even talk in my profile about my favorite barbecue. Something’s messed up.” Winston’s friend made a dismissive gesture. “So why are you so worried about what they eat?” “Think about the first time we meet and have dinner or something. She’ll be looking at me thinking, ‘How can he eat something with parents,’ and I’ll be looking at her thinking, ‘You have no idea what you’re missing, rabbit.’” Winston’s friend answered with a long, “Nah.” “For a lot of girls, being a vegan is just a phase. They see some actor doing it and they want to do it too. All it takes is for someone to come along and snap them out of it, and just like that, they’re back to eating bacon.” “Yeah, I guess I could be the one to snap them back,” said Winston. “What do you have to lose? Pick one you think you can convert.” Winston picked up his phone and saw the message from Claire. “Here’s someone who just messaged me,” he said, holding up his phone so his friend could get a look at Claire’s picture. Winston’s friend nodded his approval and said, “I could definitely see her eating a steak. Go for it.” Winston chuckled and composed what was supposed to be a charming reply message. After some back and forth on their phones, Claire and Winston decided to meet in a park next to one of Austin’s many lakes. The plan was to walk around the lake for a bit and then decide on where to go for dinner. Built into the plan was an easy escape hatch for both of them. If they felt like things were not going well, one of them could simply say they were not hungry or that they had made some unexpected evening plans with other friends. On the evening of their meetup, Claire wore a cute summer dress with matching shoes. She put a lot of thought into picking the shoes. She wanted them to be comfortable enough for plenty of walking but formal enough so it did not look like she viewed the meetup like a trip to the gym. Winston debated within himself whether or not he should wear shorts. Eventually he put on some slacks and a shirt. It was an outfit he would describe as business casual, as he tried to walk the line between looking too eager and too standoffish. It was a warm, late summer evening. Gold reflections sparkled from the lake where Claire and Winston were supposed to meet. They immediately recognized each other at a fountain in the nearby park. “You look really nice,” Winston said to Claire. “So do you,” she replied. Both were sincere with their compliments. They naturally gravitated toward the lake and chatted easily as they strolled. Winston asked about Claire’s job and found out they both worked in human resources for tech companies. Claire asked about hobbies and free time. “I’m not sure it qualifies as a hobby, but I’m very slowly renovating my house,” said Winston. “Well, renovating may be too strong of a word. It’s more like a bunch of do-it-yourself projects strung together.” “Ha, me too,” said Claire. “I’m doing bathroom tile right now.” “Ah tile,” replied Winston with a sympathetic laugh. “The smaller they are, the harder to keep them straight.” “Totally. I wish I would have started with bigger squares. But I don’t want you to think that I’m laying tile day and night. I’m a lot happier binge watching some show.” Winston chuckled and said, “Hey, same here. Seen anything good lately?” They compared their viewing histories and found they had remarkably similar tastes. When Winston recommended a few things she had not seen, Claire fully intended to investigate them. After a mile of walking, Winston and Claire were already making self-deprecating jokes. The walls typically in place when meeting a potential romantic partner had already cracked and fallen. In the back of their minds, both were thinking that the computer algorithm which had matched them up, had to be on to something. It was almost spooky. Winston was eager to move to the next phase in their plan. “So I’m still up for dinner if you are,” he said to Claire. “Definitely,” she replied. She already felt like she could speak pretty openly with Winston. “We just need to pick a place. So your profile talked a lot about barbecue. Are you one of those guys who has to have a big piece of meat for every meal?” Winston laughed and did not take Claire’s question as an attack. “I don’t think I *have to* eat lots of meat. But if I think about it, yeah, I guess most of my meals have some kind of meat in them. What about you? I know you’re a vegetarian but does that mean you can’t stand the sight of a chicken bone?” Claire laughed in return. “I’m not sure that’s a very practical way to live.” “And you’re not leading anti-cow rallies?” asked Winston with a grin. “I’m pro-cow, just not for dinner.” “I’ve heard of some vegetarians where their rules depended on the day of the week. Like they would only eat meat on the weekends. Or they would only eat chicken on days that had an R in them.” Claire took Winston’s gentle teasing in stride. “No, I’m in it for seven days of the week.” “And you’re sure it’s not a quick fad? Have you been into it for longer than a month?” “Three years, so far,” said Claire. “But it’s not like we can’t choose a restaurant that we both will like. These days, almost everyone has some vegetarian options.” “That’s true,” replied Winston with a grin. “I know a steakhouse you’re going to absolutely love.” Claire replied with a sarcastic, “Ha, ha.” Then she had an unexpected idea. It was something she only brought up because she felt so oddly comfortable with Winston. “This is going to sound crazy, but have you heard about those at ?” “Yeah, I think so,” said Winston. “Fast food is not my idea of a great meal, but I’ve been really curious to try those burgers. They’re supposed to taste like beef but be totally plant based. I’d love to hear the opinion of a meat expert.” Winston shrugged his shoulders. “I guess I’m up for it. But remember this is your idea. I wanted to go somewhere really expensive.” They both laughed about the idea as they walked back to their cars. Claire kept thinking that she could prove to Winston he did not need real meat in every meal. At the same time, Winston was thinking that he was quite sure he could tell the difference between a cow burger and a plant burger. But he was also hoping it tasted just enough like the real thing that it would trigger Claire’s food memory. It might be enough to knock her off the wagon, or get her back on the wagon, whichever way he wanted to use the analogy. The pair drove separately to the nearest Burger King. “I knew I should have worn shorts,” said Winston as he held the door open for Claire. “You have to at least let me pay since you got to choose the place.” “We’ll probably be talking about this for a long time,” joked Claire. She used her phone to snap a picture of the store’s interior, just in case it proved to be a milestone location. “We’ll take two Impossible Burgers,” said Winston, when they reached the counter. “You wanna make that a meal?” asked the Burger King employee. “Sure, we’re sparing no expense tonight,” said Winston. “Bring out your best fries and drinks.” When they had their trays of food, Winston and Claire found an open corner table and sat down across from each other. As they unwrapped their Impossible Burgers, Winston said, “Okay, here’s to your grand experiment.” Claire was the first to bite into her burger. The patty was not like the usual veggie burger patties she was used to. It looked like actual ground beef instead of a combination of soybeans and vegetables. It also had the chewy texture of real hamburger. And the taste instantly took her back three years to a backyard grill. She pictured her family. Her dad was flipping sizzling hamburger circles. She could smell the smoke rising from juicy meat. Claire casually said to Winston, “Pretty good. What do you think?” Winston was several bites into his burger. It did not taste 100% like the real thing, but it was surprisingly close. He nodded his head approvingly and dipped his fries in catchup. “I don’t really get the point when you’ve got meat right there next to it,” said Winston, “but I admit it’s pretty decent.” “If you were blindfolded, could you tell the difference between that and the real thing?” asked Claire. “Yes, if it was before drinking any beer,” replied a chuckling Winston. “After a few beers, probably not.” Claire and Winston happily finished their burgers and then their fries. They sat at their table discussing their little food experiment and then the conversation turned back to TV shows and funny office politics in their respective human resources departments. They each returned to the soda fountain for drink refills. There was mutual agreement that the first meeting had gone very well, although both were surprised they had ended up in a Burger King. Before they said goodbye, they agreed they would definitely have to get together again. They left the details sketchy. It would probably be the next weekend and involve a nicer restaurant. And they would only need one car. Messages would be exchanged to set it all up. Claire returned home excited about Winston. As it got later and she was preparing to sleep, she was thinking less about Winston and more about the Impossible Burger. She was not usually a person to have food cravings, but the taste kept returning. She stayed awake thinking about it and even contemplated getting dressed and finding a late-night Burger King drive-thru. The next day, Claire was back at Burger King for lunch. She ordered another Impossible Burger and kept asking herself whether it truly tasted like a real hamburger. She was alone but she looked around the restaurant to make sure no one she knew was watching. She had already started the experiment, what was the harm in taking it a tiny bit further? She snuck up to the counter and ordered a regular hamburger. Claire nibbled the hamburger at first. The taste was similar to the Impossible Burger but there was something wonderfully satisfying about the meat. She could not understand the craving. It came from a place deep inside. She finished the real burger. As for Winston, the day after their date, he was still thinking a lot about Claire. He was also thinking about his Impossible Burger. Before eating it for dinner, he had a very light breakfast and lunch. He realized he had not had any kind of meat for 24 hours. He felt surprisingly energetic and somehow lighter. Was he feeling excitement over meeting Claire or was it related to what he had eaten? Since he had started Claire’s little experiment, he figured he might as well keep it up a little longer. He, too, returned to a Burger King for another Impossible Burger for lunch. He enjoyed it the second time and his energized feeling continued. He decided to try a few more changes to his diet. After all, there were now lots of ways to add some variety without sacrificing taste. By two weeks after the Impossible Burger meetup, Claire had rediscovered more than hamburger. She had eaten a delicious chicken sandwich, dry-rubbed barbecue, and bacon on a sandwich. At the same time, Winston had tried different kinds of veggie patties. As Claire had said, most restaurants offered vegetarian friendly items and he found himself ordering from that selection. He was sure that he felt lighter, healthier, and more alert. The much anticipated second date never materialized. First Claire was busy and then something unexpected came up and Winston had to cancel. The real truth, however, was that they felt a little hypocritical and were afraid of hearing, “I told you so,” from the other person. They had both changed their profiles on the dating apps. Claire’s profile now read that she was “rediscovering steak.” Winston listed himself as being “fueled by plant-based protein.


The old man across the table looked ancient. Not ancient in the way most old people are. His eyes were old. Forever. The only wrinkles he contained were confined to the corners of his eyes. It was as if his body never aged, but his eyes had existed before the beginning of time. Of course, if he’s to be believed, then that very well might be the case. “Immortal”, he said. “As old as the earth itself and probably wiser”. Making eye contact is always difficult, but looking in this man’s eyes was like staring into a bottomless well. It felt soul-sucking. Empty and infinite. Yet, I knew there would be something at the bottom. Something foul and gruesome while also life-giving. Wells were like that. You think of a well and you think deep disgusting pit with bones at the bottom. But wells gave water. They gave life. They provided when other sources didn’t. In that way, wells were both life and death. Just like this man. “Being immortal isn’t what you think it is. No one thinks about the passing of days. Imagine your longest, most boring day. Imagine the days you’ve lived. Can you count them all? I lost track many decades ago. I aged with technology, with advancements and with knowledge. Before there was anything, I was there. After there is nothing, I imagine I will still be there”. He leaned back in his chair. His back groaned as loud as the wooden supports. “I’ve witnessed it all. Even the small things. I’ve witnessed the creation of great monuments. I’ve witnessed the crying of a mother that has lost her child. I witnessed the first murder. I’ve witnessed the creation of greater weapons, and as a byproduct I’ve witnessed the creation of greater murders. I witnessed nukes, bombs, guns and war. Soldiers shot, crying in the dirt as they slowly realize they will not be making it out alive”. There’s pain in his voice, but not a sharp pain. Not a pain of fresh feelings. It’s a resigned pain. There’s no tears, hardly emotion. His eyes are as empty as when we first spoke. I visited this man every Sunday, my one day off. “No one thinks about how you lose everyone. How you watch people age and die and birth again. The cycle of man, of animal, of nature. How can you grow attached to something you know will end soon?” Weeks go by and I continue speaking to the man. He never seems to age a day. “People ask what I am. Who I am. My answer is always the same. I am. I am existence, I am pain, I am desperation. That feeling you get when you lose your best friend, your dear mother, your loved one. That anxiety of impending doom, when all is too well. I am what hides in the dark corners, where you see a shape shifting about.” The restaurant we met at weekly got sold 7 years after meeting the man. 10 years after that, it shut down. “With every wrong, there is a right. With every dark, there is light. This seems cliché, but clichés stick around for a reason. They work. They’re proven. Duality is a strong factor in our lives. I am existence, I am hope, I am grace. I am the first flower of spring. I am the newborn cry, shocked by the first breath in a world of chaos. I am that feeling of calm on a rainy day.” I married, I had kids, my kids had kids. He’s seen them all, but never more than once. “In this way, I am eternal. In all these ways, I have always been and always will be. This doesn’t make me a god; I am no more than any average man. The only difference is I’ve existed far longer. I’ve seen the world and what it has to offer. There’s no good or bad, fair or unfair. There is no light or dark, no duality. As I’ve lived, I’ve realized there is no Yin and Yang. Only existence. Only experiences.” My wife has passed. He didn’t attend the funeral. We never spoke about it, but he was fully aware of everything that happened in my life. I lied in my bed, growing ever sicker. He started visiting my room every Sunday, sitting beside me. “I have no answers, only questions. But as I’ve lived, I’ve come to terms with never receiving any answers. Answers are not a part of our existence. This world offers only questions, like an unresolved mystery. A cold case murder. D.B. Cooper, the Zodiac Killer, all mysterious. Their identities, sure, but also what compelled them to act in the ways they did. Human beings killing other human beings. Man against man, woman against woman. Finding differences to rationalize their prejudice. “ “Is life futile? Does our presence on this earth even matter? Nobody leaves a lasting impact, at least not one that matters once everyone has long gone. When the earth is nothing but a speck of dust in the cosmos, will what you have done matter? Because of this question, why worry? Why hate, why loathe, why grow distaste knowing that ultimately it doesn’t matter. Humans create their own reason, their own purpose. I’ve created my own purpose, though I’m not sure what that might be anymore.” “We make and lose friends, lovers, family. We watch them grow and fade. After they’re gone, do they truly matter? Our scope is limited. The random person on the other side of the world never comes into our existence. You shall never know the life of a stranger. Does that bother you? Does that not keep you up at night, to know you cannot physically experience everything, everyone, all at once?” “But on the other side of the coin, even if we do not truly matter, this is our experience. We care. To care is to love and to hate. I love the people around me, and I hate what they do. I love you, and I hate to see you leave. There’s something odd, something terrifying, about watching someone you love leave. We may think we’ll see them again, we may hope there’s another side, but are you certain? All that’s guaranteed is that everyone will leave.” “I have no answers, and it’s the most unsatisfying feeling that could possibly be felt. Only wondering. Endless searching has given us psychology and an understanding but that’s not an answer. It has only generated more questions. Why do we dream? What’s the voice in our head? Why do some people have more than one?” I pass away, lying next to him. I could’ve sworn he held my hand in my final moments. I cannot say whether there is another side, but I can say that this man will never see it. That unresolved feeling will be with him forever. He never cried, never shed a tear. He moved on, used to the fact that people left. But he did grow attached. It’s impossible not to. How do you know someone so deeply and not care for them? Then again, how do you not care for someone knowing they are like you? This man gave me many questions, and very few answers. He had none. I wish I could have given him some comfort. Maybe I did. He wanders into a large coffee chain which had replaced the family-owned restaurant that was there before. He will never find answers. But at least he had a moment of hope with me. That is the greatest gift I will have ever given.


The stage lights illuminated the empty pulpit in the chancel of Hartstown First Methodist. The chapel was small, cramped even when only seating about 60 people on a given Sunday, though Matthew Semple might have killed for a house that full. He had been the resident priest for the last five years, but tonight he sat as the lone parishioner of the church, his knees crammed against the backing of the first row of pews. He imagined the service as it would play out on Sunday. The hymns, the sermon, the announcements about who’s grandson had made the varsity football team and when the quilting club would be meeting the following Thursday. Just the thought of it made him feel drowsy. As he stood from the pew, Matthew’s eye was drawn to the stained-glass mural, faded by a thin layer of dust and the dark night outside. Rain on the window pooled around the ridged edges of christ’s eyes and a flash of lightning revealed a spider who had made its home in the high corner of the window just above Christ’s corona. He probably should have gone downstairs to the supply closet to grab the duster, but he waved it off, feeling too tired to do much of anything. Matthew side stepped from between the pews, the roaring sound of the storm swelled and the door to the foyer groaned open. Squeaky flat-footed steps crossed the tiles towards the doors to the chapel and the door swung open. A man stood in the darkness at the back of the chapel like a shadow within a shadow. He wore black from head to toe, the hood of his sweater hung over his face and rainwater formed pools on the carpet surrounding his black engineer’s boots. A gym bag slung across the man’s chest. In Matthew’s mind, impending violence played on a loop, a gun, a knife maybe, pulled from the gym bag, the squelch of wet footsteps across carpet, then blood and darkness, and then nothing at all. Matthew’s voice clung to the back of his throat *caught in a spider’s web*, he thought to himself. “Ca-can I help you?” They almost weren’t even words but stuttering little breaths. The figure flung back his hood and the atmosphere of the room dipped back to sustainable levels. A small grin broke across Matthew’s face. “Alex? Alex Lawson?” “Hello, Mr.Semple.” Alex spoke in a deep soft monotone that buzzed throughout the chapel. “I need to speak with you.” Four years ago, just as Matthew had become accustomed to the flock which he led, the Lawsons had arrived. There was Dean, Alex’s father, a blue-collar man who Matthew had found to be mostly inconvenienced to be brought to church. Sarah was a staple in the community, and it had been a tragic blow to the congregation when she’d left town only two years after she’d first arrived. Then, there was Alex, a slender, brunette child, maybe a little hyperactive and spoiled but no more so than any other child in the congregation. Hartstown, being the small place that it is, made an event of every newcomer, and on the first day that the family had come to Matthew’s church it had been all that anyone in the congregation could talk about. The talking only got worse when Mr. Lawson made fewer appearances at the Sunday service and more appearances at the town’s other rumor mill, The Fifth Circle Lounge. After Sarah left, Alex stopped coming to church too and the town moved on to the next hot topic of the month. Whenever a story came up now that involved something that Sarah had pioneered, like the quilting club, the occasional “that poor woman” or “I just can’t understand how she could leave that boy with him” would be spoken and promptly glossed over. The Alex that stood before him now was an entirely different creature, teetering on the edge of adulthood, his shoulders were wide and tapered fashionably into his slender but muscular form. Perhaps it was just the clothing or the situation, but Alex had a dark disposition that Matthew thought probably did well with the ladies. His hair was cropped short on the sides and the rain slicked his bang into a curl that wrapped around his eye like a scar. His face was boyish and seemed unfitting to the rest of his body. “Of course.” Matthew said, his grin growing wider. “Would you like some tea?” The tea kettle whistled in the kitchenette of the rec room, just as Alex was stepping out of the bathroom, donning clothes from the charity pile. Matthew made a note that they would need to be washed one last time before he drove the donations to the goodwill on Thursday. Matthew passed Alex a mug and they raised in a wordless toast before drinking. “Thanks,” Alex said, setting down the ceramic mug and locking his eyes on the vinyl of the kitchenette’s countertop. “My mother always said that you were very kind to her.” Matthew and Alex sat in silence for a few minutes, outside the rain fell with no signs of letting up. Alex nursed little sips of the tea and fumbled with an extra sugar in the raw packet in his hand. Matthew leaned back in his chair, the plastic backing tightened and made a little squeak against his heft. “Is that so?” “Yes,” Alex said. “It seemed like you too got to know each other pretty well when…” The words fell off the face of the earth, Alex pinched the sugar into one end of the packet and twisted the empty side into a spiral shape until it seemed like the packet might burst. “I’ve always made it a point to speak with each member of my congregation.” “Did she tell you about my dad?” Alex asked, he stole a glance at Matthew’s face as he spoke. “No, but I knew. I just wish that I could have helped her more.” Matthew took a sip from his coffee. Alex sat up straight, unfurling the sugar packet and setting it on the table. “Do you know where she is?” Matthew leaned forward exhaling deeply, He leaned in close and looked deep into Alex until Alex met his gaze. Alex’s eyes widened, he looked down at the floor and pulled the gym bag on to the table. He opened one of the side pockets and removed several slips of paper. “I started getting these letters a few weeks ago. She wants me to live with her, she told me to talk to you.” Alex passed over the letters to Matthew, who flipped through them each, not reading each line carefully, but rather absorbing the messages the way one does when they first see a striking painting. Matthew set the pages down, exhaling as if he were returning to his body after some deep meditation. Alex’s eyes burned like swords of fire. Matthew could feel his intensity even though he’d yet to look back. “I can take you to her.” Matthew said. “But you may not like what you see.” … Alex had fallen asleep as they drove down the 11. It was dark, tall oaks whirred past them only as shadowy figures their tips illuminated by the moon. On the radio Linda Ronstadt sang softly about the Blue Bayou. *It could have gone worse.* Matthew thought to himself, sneaking looks at Alex’s sleeping form in between watching the road. The way it had been with Sarah, Alex’s mother, that was worse. The blood, oh god! Matthew thought that it would be like cleaning a cup of spilled milk, nothing to cry over, but the task had been so much more than that. Then there were the letters, it had been so hard for her to write them knowing what Matthew would do to her and to Alex. Matthew had been worried when the boy first showed up, it was a risk after all, having him come to the church, but everything seemed to have worked perfectly. The letters were all accounted for, he could torch them in the cabin’s fireplace when they arrived. The cover of night had helped immensely as well as the sprinkle of Benadryl in the tea. Yes, it was much better than how things had gone with Sarah, Alex’s mother. Matthew had almost felt bad enough to let her go by the end of it, almost. He didn’t even want her. That was the thing he realized in the aftermath of the event. She’d just been too eager to please, too eager to get away from that drunken idiot she called a husband, when Matthew had seen the bruised skin under her blouse, he knew he’d done the right thing. He’d saved her, and then he realized that Alex needed saving too. Matthew’s eyes felt heavy, but he was too excited to sleep. He looked over at Alex, his face was lit by the blue lights of the truck’s radio. He looked, Matthew thought, like a cadaver or maybe a ghost. Matthew pulled one hand off the steering wheel and reached for Alex’s face. He was close, so close he could feel the heat of Alex’s breath as it rushed out of his nose. Matthew put his hand back on the steering wheel and drove on.