Henry Carson was the best of the best. Everybody knew it. When the private dick was on your case, you would be caught and wind up in a cell or a body bag. The legends honestly turned his stomach a little bit. Truth was he had failed to apprehend plenty of crooks in his time. But people are only too happy to remember the successes and write off the failures if you've got the mantle of a hero. The shimmering light reflected off your crown blinds people to your failures. And its beam is one hell of a bar to live up to. Eventually, the drive to attain that level of legendary perfection leads men down dark paths. It was no different for Henry Carson. No different at all. It was mid-October in a dive bar on the edge of town. The brick building was mostly boarded up, but the ground level was one of the seedier joints a person could find themselves. The hole in the wall was called The Viper's Pit, and while it usually boasted a raucous crowd of ruffians, it was strangely calm that night. The bartender, Mr. Morgan, was an elderly fellow who had run it into the ground over the last ten years. He had to sell his house to keep the place afloat, and so he lived in a single room just above the pub. It was a rough life that gave the old cuss a bad attitude and very little patience for unwarranted social interaction. The codger slung drinks and occasionally gave bitter life advice to the younger patrons. Henry was not young enough to merit the fruits of his wisdom, nor wealthy enough to deserve transactional kindness. The detective slunk into the pit, trenchcoat soaking wet from the deluge outside. Taking a seat at the bar, he slapped a dollar onto the counter and demanded a shot of whiskey. “Rough night?” Mr. Morgan asked, with all the gentle delicacy of sandpaper. “Getting rougher,” Henry barked back. “A double. The buck should cover it.” The bartender reached for one of the bottles on his back wall, but Henry tapped him delicately on the shoulder. “I wonder if you would humor me and use this one right here,” Henry explained, tapping his finger on a thin brown bottle on the other side of the bar from him. Mr. Morgan sighed. “Customer's always right.” He poured the brown liquor and watched as Henry swallowed it in one stoic gulp. It barely crossed his eyes, which were bloodshot and cradled in deep dark bags. Something was unnerving about the flatfoot. His reputation preceded him and he didn't go anywhere without a purpose. The man was always on the hunt. “Anything else I can get you?” Mr. Morgan tapped the counter impatiently. “I'm meeting three men here tonight,” Henry began, his voice cracked and rough. “One of them is a murderer. You're going to help me figure out who it is.” The bartender took a moment to process what Henry had just said. Not another soul was in the house tonight, and the splintered wooden tables sat unoccupied. The lights were dim, the flickering neon was the only sound as even the jukebox no longer worked in this place. And apparently, it was now going to play host to this man's private courtroom. “What the hell gives you the right?” Mr. Morgan protested. “You think I want some hoodlum in here wrecking up my pub?” “You'll be compensated. I needed an out-of-the-way location, and this worked well enough,” Henry explained. “All you have to do is serve them all a drink.” “I don't understand-” “You do your job and I'll do mine. There's $500 in it for you if I catch my man, so just play your part,” Henry ordered. Before Mr. Morgan could say anything else, the door creaked open, giving a brief glimpse of the torrential downpour outside. The man entering was some sort of construction worker, dressed in navy overalls, and holding his hard hat under his left arm. The rain had soaked his thin layer of dark brown hair, which was nearly the same shade as the dirt that covered his face. “Andrew Kelstrom?” Henry inquired, wheeling around on his stool to greet the newcomer. “Yeah,” Andrew replied curtly. His words were coated in a thick New Englander accent. “You must be that dick that everybody talks about.” “People have a lot of names for me,” Henry shrugged. “Have a drink on me. Try the whiskey.” Mr. Morgan, despite wanting nothing to do with this shady ordeal, poured a double shot courtesy of Henry's liberal coinage. Four quarters hit the countertop, and Mr. Morgan poured diligently. As Andrew swallowed his courtesy drink, the door opened once more. The second guest was a fish out of water. The jacket of his suit alone must have been worth a month's rent. The tan ensemble was highlighted with a gaudy yellow tie. Mr. Morgan would have guessed car salesman at first glance, but as soon as he opened his mouth it became apparent the boy had not a whit of a charisma. “Uh... excuse me, I think, er,” the young man stumbled over his words, running his hand through his blonde hair. “Is this the place to meet a Mr. Henry Carson?” “Right on time, James Bartley,” Henry replied, gesturing towards an empty seat next to Andrew. “Though I gather from your line of work punctuality is a chief virtue.” “Um, yes, I s-suppose so,” James stuttered. “I, um, hope I c-can help.” “This kid even old enough to drink?” Andrew scoffed. “Barely,” Henry said while sliding a few more quarters in the direction of Mr. Morgan. “Double-shot of whiskey, on me.” “Oh, I uh, I'm not much of a d-drinker,” James stammered, raising his hand as though he were in school. “You are tonight,” Henry said with unyielding finality. “You need some hair on that chest anyway.” The youth had no will to fight any further. He gave a tentative sip and pulled a face, turning towards Henry for any sign of acquiescence. There was none, and with effort, James finished the drink. “Kids a little green in the gills,” Mr. Morgan said. “You need some water, son?” “He can't have any. Not yet,” Henry interrupted. “Oh, be reasonable now. What's the harm in giving the boy a little chaser?” Mr. Morgan argued. “It will all make sense in a moment. Now, Mr. Morgan, I need you to drink a double of your own,” Henry ordered. “Excuse me? I don't drink on the job, pal,” Mr. Morgan bristled slightly and he defiantly placed the stopper back in the bottle. “I don't think you understand what is happening here,” Henry said, his bloodshot eyes piercing through Mr. Morgan's soul. “I told you I was meeting three men here. Can you count?” Once again, Mr. Morgan was dumbstruck. After a second he took Henry's meaning. “Oh, I'm the third suspect in this little freakshow of yours?” Mr. Morgan grunted. “I'm calling the real cops, buddy.” Mr. Morgan slowly moved over to the hanging rotary phone on his back wall. Before he was able to lift the receiver, a shot rang out, and a bullet shattered the base. The rotary fell to pieces and Mr. Morgan stumbled back against the wall, knocking a few glasses off the shelves behind him. In Henry's hand was a smoking .38 revolver, but the man himself showed no emotion whatsoever. This was the same reality he had been living in all night. But now it was revealed to the three of them in extravagant fashion. “Now, Mr. Morgan. Your shot, please,” Henry ordered, every syllable cold and deliberate. Mr. Morgan turned to the shelf to grab a nearby bottle, his hands shaking uncontrollably. The bartender was too old for all this excitement. Too old, his heart too frail. “Use the same bottle as these two,” Henry explained. “There's a method to my madness, and still $500 in it for you if things go well. Minus the cost of repairing that phone, mind you.” Mr. Morgan nearly dropped the bottle in his haste to comply. Andrew and James, for their part, had moved against the back wall in a vain effort to put as much distance between them and the raving lunatic as possible. “Hey, mac,” Andrew began. “Look I got a family at home, don't do nothing stupid now, you hear?” James was hyperventilating and quite unable to form a complete sentence. “Only one of you is going to die tonight. As I told our kind host, Mr. Morgan, I'm looking for a murderer, and I have narrowed the search to one of you three,” Henry explained. “Mr. Morgan, that shot, please.” Mr. Morgan had been fumbling with the stopper, but finally managed to pry it out of the bottle. He poured himself a double and downed it without further fuss. “There we are. And I've had my shot before you two arrived. Isn't that right Mr. Morgan?” Henry asked. The bartender's hands were white-knuckled, and the alcohol sat hard on his stomach. It looked like he wanted to vomit, but was afraid of doing anything to agitate the detective further. “I said, isn't that right, Mr. Morgan?” Henry demanded. “Yes, that's right sir,” Mr. Morgan spat out. “Double of whiskey, just like all of us.” “Thank you,” Henry nodded. “So as you can see we are all in the same boat.” Henry reached into an inner pocket of his trenchcoat and produced a small photograph of a young woman. She wasn't much older than James and were the image in color her striking blonde hair would have been more apparent. “Sarah Wilkins. Pretty young thing. Just turned twenty last August. Pity that we found her body halfway up the canal,” Henry explained, waving the photograph around. “Now our medical examiner ruled the cause of death as drowning. That's modern medicine for you. But I've been operating under a different theory.” Henry reached into the same pocket, this time revealing a few crumpled papers of an official-looking nature. “I've taken a few statements from her friends and family. And it turns out she wasn't much of an angel. Hung out with some bad people. Doesn't mean she deserved to die for it though,” Henry continued. He then pointed an accusatory finger at each of the men in sequence. “James, you should recognize this girl well. Considering you used to date her before she dumped your ass back at the start of the Fall Semester. Young man can take rejection real hard, especially if it's his first.” “Now wait just a minute!” James protested. Henry lifted a hand to silence him and then turned it towards the next suspect. “Then again, Andrew, I think you also recognize her as well. You're best friends with her father after all. I wonder if James knows about how intimately you got to know her following their breakup.” “You don't know what you're talking about,” Andrew growled. “Don't listen to him, kid, he's a crackpot.” James' fists were clenched in anguish, but he was far too timid to do anything about it. He would certainly not stand up to a man twice his age and size, and far less so anybody with a gun. Henry just let the two of them stew for a moment, while he continued his argumentation. “And you, Mr. Morgan. Well, you should know her too, considering she came in here every night to drink. Of course, you knew she was underage, but you've been pretty hard up on cash and weren't about to turn away a paying customer. In fact, you've seen her in here with both of these men and never said a peep about it to anybody.” “You gonna take my liquor license then?” Mr. Morgan grunted. “I didn't kill anybody, now are you planning on making an arrest or are we continuing this stupid game of yours?” “Did I not tell you that you would be instrumental in helping me determine the identity of the killer?” Henry asked pointedly. “You see it all comes down to the whiskey.” Henry reached into his coat pocket a final time to produce a different report from a medical examiner, or rather a copy of one that had been neatly folded into a square. Along with it was a small vial of clear liquid. He unfolded the report and began to elaborate. “I'm not going to try and pronounce the name of the actual drug, I failed Latin in high school, but in a word, she was poisoned. The drug is interesting, it's basically harmless by itself, but when combined with ethanol it's pretty potent stuff. Which immediately led me to assume she was poisoned by a drink,” Henry pointed to the bottle once more. “Wait, you mean-” Mr. Morgan put a hand to his lips, and felt a knot tighten in his stomach. “I didn't get there all at once mind you,” Henry continued. “First I had to track down what bar she frequented – your little establishment – and then I had to deduce her favorite drink. After a rather long series of interrogations I found that she drank whiskey sour like her old man and that she was seen here with – depending upon the informant – either a young college boy or a man old enough to be her father.” James was now taking deep gasping breathes and buckled over in his chair in pain. Andrew was stoic but gave a concerned glance to the kid. Mr. Morgan reached over the bar to try and comfort the boy. “You have to stop this now,” he said, firmly. “The kid's nerves are gonna kill him before your gun does.” “Oh, that's not nerves,” Henry explained. “That's the poison. You see, earlier tonight when you turned your back on me, I slipped a bit of the stuff in the bottle. And that's what this little game is all about. You see that vial contains the antidote, and I'll gladly administer it to us all once I get a confession from one of you. Either the murderer goes to jail, or we all die here together.” “You're crazy,” Andrew spat, standing up to his full height. “Give me that vial or I'll take it from you!” “You forgot who has the gun in this situation,” Henry reminded tactfully. “P-please,” James sputtered. “I don't w-wanna-” “What if you're mistaken and ain't none of us done anything wrong? We all gonna die because you decided to play a game with our lives?” Andrew shouted. “Death or prison, the choice is obvious and the killer will make it,” Henry insisted, raising his revolver. “Think about it. Even the most deranged madman has a survival instinct and this killer is no lunatic. He was thoughtful, decisive and he planned out every stage of the murder of this innocent young woman. Poison that could be mixed into her favorite drink, and one so subtle that it was almost missed by the medical examiner. Or rather was until I pressed the point and made him look again. The killer planned everything to a tee, they have no deathwish.” “I'm sick of listening to you blabber!” Andrew shouted, making a lunge for the pistol. A reflexive shot rang out from Henry's gun, but the bullet ricocheted off the back wall missing all of them. Andrew's meaty fist made contact with Henry's right cheek as the two grappled over the firearm. Three more shots shattered the glasses on the countertop, but the last bullet in the revolver went through Andrew's shoulder, knocking him to the floor. Henry lay near motionless for his battering, face covered in blood and head swimming from the assault. James was on the floor, crying and close to vomiting from the ordeal. As for Mr. Morgan, he stood behind the bar, casually turning the vial around in his hand. “What are you doing?” Henry asked weakly, attempting to get to his feet. “This is the antidote, you said?” Mr. Morgan asked. He casually removed the stopper and knocked it back like a shot. “No!” Andrew bellowed, before coughing out a bit of blood. “Why?” Henry asked, running a hand along his face to mop away sweat. “Why did you do it?” “There wasn't really a reason, I guess,” Mr. Morgan said, flatly. “I don't plan these things, as you claimed. I just find something that I want, and I take it. I never dreamed you would hand me an opportunity like this to watch two of the people she cared about die as well.” “No reason? There's always a reason. It always makes sense somehow,” Henry grunted. “Call it hunter's instinct if you want to attribute some reason to it. I'm not young enough to kill in my preferred methods, but slipping a little poison to an unsuspecting bit of prey and watching them writhe in agony before the life finally fades out of their eyes,” Mr. Morgan let out a dreamy sigh. “There's nothing in the whole world like it. And now I'll get to watch you die as well.” Henry slowly stood to his feet and began to chuckle darkly. “You're right. I was wrong. I didn't understand a damn thing about you.” “You were very close to solving it if it's any consolation,” Mr. Morgan smirked. “Want a last drink? There's still a bit of whiskey left in the bottle. It might speed things up a little. Save you some of the agony?” James lay motionless on the floor, but he was still breathing. Andrew could not move and was nursing his gunshot wound while trying to drag himself towards the door. “I don't think that will really help any,” Henry exhaled, sitting down on the stool just across from Mr. Morgan. “No, I suppose not,” Mr. Morgan nodded. “Oh not for the reason you think,” Henry explained. “You see, I made a promise that only one person was going to die tonight, and I keep my promises. You're right that I was making some bad guesses. In fact, my initial plan was a crapshoot. My Plan A's always needed a little bit of work. But my contingencies are rock-solid.” “What the devil are you talking about?” Mr. Morgan asked with an amused smile. “Getting us all to drink put us all in the same boat and it was my hope that little mind game would coerce a confession out of somebody. If that didn't work, I could count on the madman doing anything to keep themselves 'alive'. So you see the whiskey served two purposes,” Henry explained. James slowly began to stir. Andrew had made it to his feet and stumbled out the door towards the street, immediately screaming for aid. The three men who had entered Mr. Morgan's bar were very inconveniently alive. “The poison wasn't in the whiskey, you fool. It was in that vial.


Her name was Aubergine, but she didn’t deserve it. Currently, she was ferociously stomping home down the crime ridden evening streets in a pink dress and combat boots, and everyone who saw her gave her at least ten feet of distance that had nothing to do with the pandemic. She slammed her door and evaluated her life. What she had: $972 in savings, a job that supported her, and a car that had three matching doors and worked most of the time. Things bringing her down: obnoxious, stupid men who thought she was obligated to sleep with them just because they bought her a banana smoothie with oats and extra stevia, friends who were running on a toxic hamster wheel, family who only called to ask for money, an apartment that had been burgled three times in the last year, and a cat that hated her. She found it a cruel irony that she would never be able to find a husband in this huge metropolis because her friends only knew men interested in one night stands. She was fed up, and getting the hell out of this place. She was bringing the cat, though. The next day she woke up at dawn, as was her custom, because that was the time at which her cat drew blood to inform her she was hungry for breakfast. She fed the cat. Then, she started earnestly applying for any job she could imagine all over the US that she was remotely qualified for that would support her. The location only had to have a lower crime index than this city she loathed. She applied for jobs in every spare moment, regretting telling her friends, as they extensively tried to talk her out of it. Her boss was similarly unenthused, but she told him she likely would be unable to find employment elsewhere, and he agreed with that…until he started getting calls around the hundred application mark. In the end, she applied to almost three hundred jobs, interviewed on the phone ten times, and got four job offers. The best of them was seasonal, but paid extremely well. She left all those naysayers behind and went to work at a salmon canning facility in Alaska, having been offered 30k for four month’s hard work. She reasoned that four months was plenty of time to find a permanent job. The lodgings she secured were humbler than any she’d ever known, but she was fond of her little off the grid cabin despite the commute. Her roommate, another cannery employee named Juniper, was a woman seven years older who spent most of her off hours playing pool in the air conditioning of the restaurant near work. There was absolutely nothing around the cabin except mountains and thick, deep forest, the road just a gravel track scratched into the wilderness. She worked twelve hour shifts six days a week. On the seventh, she attempted to run errands, in culture shock that was extended because of her work schedule. A big tree fell across the road one night, and she and her roommate were completely stuck. They had no cell service, no chainsaw, and it was too large for them to move. Neither of them had ever even used a chainsaw - her roommate had been a bank teller in Iowa. They were going to have to wait until one of the few people who lived up the road happened upon it, in hopes that one of them could do something. They reluctantly became friends over the course of the next few excruciating days, as they worried about their jobs and how long their groceries would hold out. “You didn’t show up for three days,” they were informed when the tree finally stacked itself in segments on the side of the road, “You are fired, and have already been replaced. It doesn’t matter why you couldn’t get here. If you can’t reliably come to work, we don’t want you.” Aubergine and Juniper found themselves unemployed, living in a $600 a month off the grid cabin in a coniferous rain forest, forty minutes from a town the size of a postage stamp. Aubergine wondered about her life choices. Juniper started a vegetable garden and only applied at the bank. Aubergine never heard back from any of the dozen jobs she put in applications for, but Juniper got hired within a week at a great wage. “I can get you a job at my work, just apply.” When both of them were pulling good wages at the bank and their lease came up, they pooled their resources and got a pleasant house in town. Aubergine started to date a man who treated her with respect, although he wanted her to go hunting with him next season, and she was trying to find out if that was mandatory in order to become an Alaskan. Aubergine’s cat, Pluto, began to escape, and they never did figure out that she was squeezing out the clothes dryer vent beside the hose. Pluto had quick reflexes from her experiences as a feral kitten, which helped her on exciting adventures that shocked her, such as the time she encountered a bear in the woods. She was a particularly intelligent cat, and had wild theories about why the world had changed so much. In time, she found the docks, where workers cut up the day’s fish and tossed scraps of salmon and halibut to the cats that gathered there. She went every day after that, and meowed at the front door late afternoons well fed and glossy with health from fish oil, a mystery Aubergine never solved. The cat spent her winters lazily dozing, stretched out, in front of the wood burning stove, basking in the warmth. In her life Pluto had gone from a miserable existence on cold city streets to this, and she was happier than anyone else.


The cabin was surrounded by a vast woodland, beautiful and bright green in the summertime, filled with childhood memories of happiness and joy. It was winter now, and with grandma's death, the grandchildren gathered one more time at their childhood temple. The emerald green turned white, grey, and dead. Their trudging in the thick snow echoed in the still forest, robbed of vibrating leaves and animals. Everything was silent on the icy, misty morning they arrived at old grandma's house. Three cars gathered at the open area on the front, and three sets of cold feet trailed up to the entrance. They met, they hugged and looked around, sighing in the chilly air. "I don't think we've ever been here in winter..." The middle sister smiled, longing in her brown eyes. "It feels so weird without grandma." The older brother responded, and both siblings nodded slowly. There was an odd feeling in them. The ominous presence of the frosted forest looming over them. They pushed the sensation aside, though, telling themselves that everything felt different because they were different. They were adults now, their parents weren't there, their young loves are long forgotten, and grandma was dead. Unlocking the door, the house received them with a putrid scent, pulsing into their nostrils. "Oh... What's that smell?" The girl brought a gloved hand to her face. "A dead animal, maybe?" The youngest commented, shrugging as he stepped in first, but as soon as he was inside, another wave of thick, warm air wafted over him. "Uhg, what's that stench?" It didn't smell like roadkill. It was... Something he couldn't recognize. Looking back, the front door was closed, his brother and sister nowhere to be found. "Guys?" He chuckled nervously, thinking the other two decided to prank him. "C'mon guys, come in." The young man attempted to walk back to the door, but he couldn't move. He glanced around the empty cabin, his eyes shifting from a window to the next one. It was pitch black outside, and it was almost as if the darkness crawled inside, taking over the place. The man whimpered, his muscles tense, cold sweat running down his back. "Max..? Sadie?" A fear that he'd never experienced before climbed from his paralyzed legs to his chest. Tendrils of desperate panic clutching at his heart while warm tears carved his cheeks. He heard the wooden floor creaking under a heavy weight that drew closer behind him. "Guys?!" He cried out. "Please, open the fucking door!" The youngest brother wasn't sure if his shouting would be heard from outside. He wasn't sure if he was awake. Maybe he hadn't even woken up yet and was still at home, in bed next to his boyfriend. He hoped so, crying in his spot as a shadow grew behind and around him. The creaking sound becoming louder, and then it wasn't just that. He heard gurgling, a low, wet rumble that extended to his ears, making him shiver. Feeling engulfed in darkness and hot and sickly wetness, he couldn't stop screaming for help. And, in the blink of an eye, Max and Sadie opened the door. Bright light filled every corner of the house, and he was left alone, safe now with the others. "Finally!" Max exclaimed. "The wind closed it, and it got stuck. Can you believe that?" The older sibling asked him, examining the door and its frame before pushing it closed. "Are you okay, Brian?" The sister asked him, noticing his pale face and red eyes. "Yeah..." He could move again. "I'm alright. Just... Missing grandma, I guess...


A crowd of thousands had appeared in what seemed like minutes. At 18:19, all traffic was flowing normally, predictably, outward from the city center as people returned from their daily duties and labors. At 18:23, traffic regulation systems detected disturbance flows back into the city center, in front of the Imperial Civic Building, the city hall, and at major media outlets. From the air, Imperial drones observed the sudden change, like ants picking up pheromones to attack and entering a frenzy. The streets seemed to vibrate with heat. By 18:54, major traffic arteries were clogged, there were organized flows of demonstrations in public spaces, and slogans were being chanted so that their voices could be heard. "Freedom!" was the chorus to every chant, though the rest of the lyrics changed from place to place. "Take down the machine!" "Give us back our privacy!" "Sexuality is our right!" Signals intelligence reported a surge in social media recruitment to come to the center of the city. This demonstration did not have a permit. A female voice cut in through a loudspeaker system all over town. "This gathering is not authorized. Imperial Civil Guard units will be dispatched. You are ordered to disperse." Sirens sounded, social media was shut down. The insects attacked. The city was on fire by 19:00. But the Empire was ready for this. This was not a coincidence in timing. Over the past week a new system had become operational: CyCLOPS. Cybernetic, Control, Law-enforcement, and Online Policing Software. The culmination of over a decade of work, the world could now be policed through a single automated server. And after its successful first run on all smuggling networks, it opened to larger criminal acts. This morning, all pornography was removed from the internet, and anyone who attempted to upload any found their personal device locked. The local Civil Guard units had been reinforced to enable rapid response to any perceived threats. Today, however, no Civil Guard Sentinels lines were in the streets. Something was wrong. Three Agents of the Emperor's Royal Body Guard were dispatched to visit Colonel Anthony Salvatores, who was not responding to orders from the Office of the Emperor. When the agents arrived, in their royal uniforms with swords on their hips and glinting armor, they were greeted by four Civil Guard soldiers in tactical power armor at the gate. "Let us through." The officer of the group commanded, "We're here to speak with Colonel Salvatores." "I'll bet you are," a soldier replied wryly. "Let us through," the agent commanded again. "Hang on now, I can't just let people up to see the boss. Haven't you seen what's going on outside? It's a mess out there." "Sergeant, you will notify the Colonel we are here to see him, and escort us to him. Immediately." "I'll have to check on that." He went silent, communicating by his suit's internal radio. This kind of insubordination was rarely seen. An agent made a note. "Where are your name tapes? What are your names?" She asked. They only looked at her, matching gazes behind masks. "How about that, amigos? Colonel says you can go ahead and come up. Let me take you to him." The three agents walked through a completely crowded headquarters of armed Sentinels of the Civil Guard- yet none of them were out patrolling. This was an insurrection of abstention. They could see the tone in the way the Sentinels looked at the agents. Glares, smirks, and irreverent gestures. A week ago their mere presence would have commanded silence. Why, now that CyCLOPS was operational did they suddenly think they could get away with this? The Colonel's office on the top floor was cluttered with decorations and various achievements. Plaques of his success, trophies of every stage of his life, and large, luxurious furniture. He thought highly of himself. "Sir, the three 'royals' are here to see you." "Welcome." He grinned. He was just about to light a fairly large cigar. "Celebrating something, Colonel?" "Something like that. Come in, have a seat." "Want me to stick around, sir?" asked the large, metal man. "Thank you, sergeant, but I've got this." The door closed. "Why have your sentinels not deployed?" "I don't know about you guys, but it looks pretty crazy out there to me. Somebody might get hurt. Didn't seem worth it." "Worth it!? Who are you to decide whether the Emperor's orders are 'worth it'!?" "See, that's what you guys in the Crimson Garrison don't get. I gotta look out for my own here. And I do. My soldiers will go to the ends of the earth for me, because they know I won't abuse that. There's trust. And that trust... well lets just say you broke yours." "The Imperial Union looks after all," the second agent barked through her gritted teeth, and her mask. "The order and security of everyone is in danger if you do not deploy your garrison." "What has the Emperor done to violate anyone's trust? We've only guaranteed protection more than ever before. Statistical analysis of contributing factors has suggested the superior course of action," the lead agent articulated clearly. "Yeah, I'm not so sure about that. Porn? You really think the juice is worth the squeeze on that one? There's no point to it." "There are numerous convergent negative influences in the pornographic industry, not least of which is the connection to human trafficking, slavery, and-" The Colonel raised his hands with his palms outward. "I didn't invite you up here to argue about it. They're out there, burning down your civic center. They're the ones you have to convince." The three masked figures looked at him in unison, like dogs snarling. Without a word, two agents flanked the Colonel on either side, hands resting on their sword hilts. Royal Guards were infamous for their unilateral actions with their very functional sabers. "Easy, fellas. I see those swords of yours, but I've got a dozen heavy suits out there that could tear you limb from limb. These little scare tactics of yours aren't going to do you any good here." To emphasize the fact, he sat down in his seat, put his feet up on his desk, and lit his cigar to smoke it. "Point is, gentlemen. And lady who-ever-you-are. I see the writing on the wall. This is the final straw for these people. One in a long line of mismanaged decisions. The cameras, the drones, the relentless surveillance. The restrictions on music, clothing, internet content, and whatever else you've been up to... uncounted things, right? They're tired of it, frankly my sentinels are tired of it and I'm tired of it. We've got to live in this world, too. I'm supposed to raise children in this? I might as well throw my own family in prison forever. Who would want that? And you call it for our own good? No one's buying it any more. Most never bought it from day one." "These decisions are based on a statistical model created by the best minds and the Emperor himself. This is the best way for humanity to survive the crisis." "'The Crisis!' Not the Crisis! This perpetual crux of human issues you fucks use to excuse everything you do. This conglomeration of imaginary issues- how does a resource shortage excuse this? What does porn have to do with crime rates, or pollution? You have any idea how dumb you sound? You can use as many multi-syllabic words as you can, doesn't change anything. The writing on the wall is still there. This is the last overreach of a dying empire. And you can count me out of it." He puffed on his cigar, content with himself. The head agent leaned forward, pressed the speaker button of his office phone and began dialing. "You can call anyone you want, I don't feel the need to talk to them! I don't give a shit anymore, guys! It's done! You fucked it up! Good job." The phone rang twice, and then a panicked woman answered. "Tony! Tony is that you?" A bolt hit him in the gut, and he jumped forward. He dropped his cigar straight on the floor. "Rosa!?" "Tony, oh my god, are you still at work? What's happening? These agents from the Royal Guard came and got me and the girls. I don't know where Benjamin is. They said they found him but I haven't seen him!" "What do you mean came and got you!? Where are you?" "I don't know! They came and said things were getting dangerous and that they needed to take us somewhere safe. I don't know where we-" the agent gently and deliberately picked up the receiver and set it down again, cutting off the phone call. "Colonel Salvatores, as she so simply put it, things are, indeed, getting dangerous. And I don't know that we can guarantee that it will be safe for her release... any time soon. But thankfully, as you so perfectly put it, your sentinels would march to the ends of the earth for you. You have the power to make it safe again. You have a reinforced garrison, more than enough. You have power suits, tear gas, helicopters, and if you need them- guns." Each of his words were slow, careful, like he was tasting them as he said them. The Colonel looked different. His eyes seemed dark, his pupils wide. He gripped the arm rests of his chair with white knuckles, and sat hunched over looking at the desk phone. "How... how did you get to them already?" "The statistical models work, Colonel. CyCLOPS works. You'd know that if you were paying attention. You've been a weak link on our scopes for a while now. Nothing can be done to avoid your inevitable execution for your insubordination here today. But you can get out there and do your job. And it'll be safe for your family to be... released. Am I clear?" The Colonel tried to look him in the eyes, but there were none there. Just the cold, mirrored reflection of the eye pieces of the agent's ballistic mask. "Crystal." At 20:04, a line of several hundred Sentinels in full gear marched out to meet the crowds. Lights, sirens, and the blaring of orders over the loud speaker could be heard through the night. The crowd put up a fight, but ultimately, it was not to be. The tear gas was so thick some people died of suffocation. An armed resistance formed after raiding several gun stores, but was put down even more quickly by heavily armored sentinels. Tools and equipment no one ever had time to see left rioters blind, and easy to pick off of the crowd by individual sentinels. Over 5,000 were arrested, with many more identified by facial recognition for later pick-up. The agents left the Colonel's office with only a "Deus Vult," their capes swishing on the way out. Colonel Salvatores wept. The Orders of the Emperor are not easily ignored, no matter who you are.


The first time she saw him was in his live stream. He was cute, funny, and a bit melancholy, like a prince from a classic fairy tale. She couldn't help but do the same again, her favorite thing: she used her skills to keep the camera in his computer on twenty-four hours a day without him noticing so she could see everything he was doing at all times. She saw him once again turn off his live feed, remove his makeup, and bare his frightening acne-filled skin, messy, shapeless hair, and dull eyes. There was nothing cute about it. But she kept sitting in front of the computer screen staring at him moment by moment, watching him take off his clothes, expose his body, change into pajamas that couldn't cover his bottom, get under the covers, and then stare at his phone and lose sleep. The light from the phone shone on his expressionless face in the darkness, making him look ugly and creepy. He flipped through the contents of his phone, tossing and turning. It was as if he was obsessed, because even though he looked extremely sleepy and kept rubbing his eyes hard from time to time, he still refused to put down his phone until the sunlight from the next day outside the window gradually entered his room, and then he finally gave in and closed those eyes. Still sitting motionless in front of the computer, she watched his sleeping face disappear behind the blankets from time to time, and then reappear half an hour later. She saw his eyeballs fluttering behind his eyelids. He was beginning to dream, she knew. She began to speculate about what was in that troubled dreams. What she looked forward to most was his weekly live broadcasts, the only time he would respond to the camera. She always arrived at his live stream on time, but never said a word to him, never revealed the secret beneath his heavy makeup. She liked to watch his cute face smiling at the screen, talking, upset every now and then. He never had more than ten people in his live room, and she was never absent. There were times when she was almost the only one left in his live room and he would continue his conversation, smiling. This would sometimes make her feel terrified. Anyway, she watched him finish his broadcast, remove his makeup, go under the covers in the dark, and then stay awake all night staring at the phone until the next morning. The same thing over and over every day. Her computer screen is always on 24 hours a day, and it's him and his messiest room on the screen. She is too different from him. Her room is organized and she doesn't allow any surface in her room to get dusty. If there is anything in common between them, it is that they stay in their rooms almost twenty-four hours a day every single day, eating, exercising, sleeping. He had no reason to go out, or dreaded going out. She was there just to see him, and therefore no longer had the intention of going out either. Yet that's not all there is to the story. She saw that he would always lose his voice every now and then in the darkness of the night after doing everything listlessly every day. At first she felt curious, she didn't quite understand why he would cry. It was only after watching many of his live shows that she gradually understood the source of his melancholy, his pain and his endless sense of deep loneliness. Gradually, she understood his past. Her curiosity about his helpless crying gradually turned into empathetic heartache from the beginning. She heard his cries in the darkness of the night emanating from the unsearchable face. She felt her heart tearing at times. She listened to every word he poured out into the night; listened to his deepest desire to be heard, to be understood, and to be seen; listened to his depressing memories, his helpless complaints, his rage, his despair. In his chest, which was repeatedly and strongly heaving with emotion, she saw her own heart. Finally, she fell deeply, for him. She wished she could give him everything he longed for, while doubting that she could do so. Doubt, she thought, where in her life had she ever doubted herself before? She felt afraid. She even felt more and more strongly the deep guilt for prying into his life without his consent for the very first time in her whole life. But what choice did she have not to do so? She knew he wouldn't love her, ever. If he knew the truth about everything she did, he would probably resent her, fear her, run away from her, and disappear from her world forever and ever. And now she longed more and more deeply than ever to see him and feel him every moment, so it became more and more difficult to take her eyes off her computer screen, and every time she peered at him, it always brought her stronger and stronger remorse, pain, guilt and insecurity. Finally, one day, the very first time in her whole life, she turned off the computer screen. Never once before had she turned off the computer screen she had used to spy on countless people. She thought doing so would cause her to fall into some dark abyss and meet her death, but now, she actually never wanted to turn it back on ever again. Gradually, for the first time, her oft-darkened room slowly became clear to her eyes. The dark, immaculate furniture gradually took shape. She stood up and drew back the curtains that had never ever been drawn once. She still missed him immensely, missed his smile, words and melancholy, deeply heartbroken for his tears and torment. While he didn't even know she existed at all. Did he not know? From the first day she peeked into his life, from the first time she listened to his agnony, he could feel, in the darkness, between all his emotions and the inmost passions of his soul and some vague, obsessive presence in the dark, there's a link that he had longed for. He was healed. For the first time in a long time, he and she walked out of the room together.


Okay so this is my short story about mental health. It’s my first one and I don’t think it’s bad, so please let me know what you think!! It means a lot to me and I thought I’d share. He was walking by the target store when he felt a breeze of fresh air. He smiled; he felt good as he felt the element on his face and as he listened to one of his favorite songs through the airpod in his ear. He was feeling the happiest he had been in a while, and he felt proud of what he had accomplished for himself. He drove home with his parents, and got ready for bed, considering the target run had been late at night. He took a shower, brushed his teeth, and made sure to put some medication on any pesky pimples that might be apparent on his face. He made his way to his room, and, when he was finally in bed, he prayed and closed his eyes, letting the black soundness of sleep take him away and bring him back some couple of hours later. When he woke up, he was lying on his back. He squinted his eyes and yawned, as one usually does when they wake up, and he stretched his legs. He quickly noticed that something was not necessarily normal in regards to his awakening. Everything was fine, but he could not shake the feeling. When he sat up, still in his bed, he looked around, and he was a bit startled. After looking towards his desk area, he noticed that he could not see the desk properly. He could see it properly, it’s shape and all, but it’s almost as if the bright white desk had begun fading into a greyish color. He was confused, obviously, so he wiped his eyes to no avail: the desk still appeared grey, now even moreso. He got off of his bed, and made his way through the rest of the house. Everything else seemed fine; he could see the colors of every object in the house correctly, just as he had seen them so many other times. He decided not to say anything. To him, it was probably just the lighting that was in his room when he had awakened. He went by his day like the occurrence never occurred. When he got home from school, he made his way to his room to change into more comfortable clothes. When he opened the door, he was even more confused than he had been that same morning. It seemed that the newfound greyness of his desk had spread somehow to the objects that were directly on top of his desk. He was scared to go near it, so he avoided the area. He took his laptop out of his backpack and he did his homework on the kitchen table. Still, he decided not to say anything because it seemed insignificant. He finished his homework very late, and after doing his usual routine, it was time for him to go back into his room. Again, he opened the door, and again, more of his room had fallen victim to this greyness. Now, the closet door closest to his desk had taken on the color. He rubbed his eyes again, plopped into bed, and went to sleep. He forgot to pray this night, not something necessarily out of the ordinary for him since sometimes he went to bed really tired. 7:30 am. He awoke, and looked straight up at his ceiling. He was scared to turn his sight elsewhere in the room. In the same eye-view, he noticed a grey border, apparently bordering the rest of his white ceiling. Shit. He thought. Lowering his chin to see what was going on, he noticed what he thought was happening. The color had spread, now encompassing the whole front wall and the first quarter of the ceiling. He decided he would tell his mom about this later that day, possibly after school. On the drive to school, something weird happened. As he went to open the door to get out of the car, it was grey. What? He grabbed it, pulled it, and he walked out of the car. He was scared now. Why is this happening to me? It’s okay, don’t think too much of it. No, my vision is turning grey, of course I should think much of it. Is this even color blindness? There’s no way. It’s objects that I’m seeing grey, a slow progression. He paid attention in school and he knew this was not an ordinary case of colorblindness. It’ll go away soon. He sat down and went to grab his pen out of his backpack. He put his backpack on his lap. What the hell. My backpack too now? Damn it. He tried to push the situation out of his head and tried to focus on the tasks at hand. But in reality, how could he do that, when it was such a peculiar, sudden, and strange thing? As he went along his day, he noticed more and more of his world turning grey. The situation was weighing on him so much, and by the time he got in his mom’s car, half of his world was grey already, and he was too tired and down to say anything. He felt scared. He thought maybe it was permanent, that there’d be no treatments. He thought they’d think he was lying, among other things and prejudices the human mind can produce. He said nothing. He got home, did his homework, and got ready for bed. He was already in bed when he realized he hadn’t even checked how much of his room was grey at that point. He sat up. All of it. The only thing left was the upper half of his bed that he lay on. Great. He stared at his ceiling, producing a tear. Two nights ago, he was happy at target with his parents, and feeling proud of himself. In two days, he had been given a completely different world. He lamented that loss. He sobbed silently, wishing he could jump into a time machine, and go back two days, and not remember the progression of his last 38 hours. He could not do that. He cried, and cried, and cried, and he fell asleep. Strangely enough, the tears still fell from his eyes as he slept. The grey made its way up his bed. It eventually got to the mattress, swallowing it up. It took the blankets he was using to cover himself with. Then it took him. The greyness took him. His color changed, light brown to grey. As he changed colors, the tears stopped flowing from his eyes, and he took a long, last deep breath. The greyness took him.


The door slammed open against the hearth to admit the princess. She was angry enough that the snow seemed to steam off her swaddled head. "The frogs have got to stop," she said by way of introduction, peeling back the layers of dull cloth she had used to conceal her identity. They did nothing to hide her regal bearing. The crone leaned back in her seat, eyes closing. "I can't imagine I know what you are talking about." "Don't give me that, witch. You and I both know that curses in the kingdom are up 600% this quarter, and almost exclusively frog transformations." "Sounds like quite a bother. But I'm not sure what your problem has to do with me." Princess Melba dropped the pile of drapery and rags on the table before whirling to fix the withered woman with an exasperated stare. In the cramped space of the cottage, she felt as if she were towering over the woman. "Do you know just how many frogs I have kissed this week?" she began. When there was no answer, she responded, each syllable punctuated with a sharp stomp of her foot. "Sixteen." The woman in the chair raised an eyebrow but kept her eyes closed. Melba rolled hers. "And do you know what? Each one said the witch told them the same. 'Only a princess's kiss can break the spell.'" "That does sound rather unpleasant, I'm sure," said the woman, turning her head as if to resume her interrupted nap. "Come now, we both know you are loving this. Can you please stop with the frogs?" The witch's eyes snapped open, the look of polite disinterest replaced with a humble smile. "Well, I'm sure whoever it is has your best interests at heart." "Best interests? I've got the court physicians putting together poultices at all hours to prevent me catching some disease. Plus, half of the frog men refuse to leave the castle. They are convinced we must be destined for one another since my kiss broke the curse!" "How can you be so sure one of them isn't your true love?" The woman rose from her seat and shuffled toward the fire, pulling a kettle from the hook. She began to make her way back to the table. Melba snorted and shook her head. "There are no true loves for me there," she said. "Regardless, most of them are preparing to duel to the death, so I'm sure that problem will take care of itself soon. Then I'll only have one dense, obsessed, and murderous suitor to contend with." The aggrieved regent crossed her arms and turned away from the offered cup of tea. The old woman shrugged and took a sip herself, moving toward a stack of cakes on the end of the table. "Why the frogs?" asked the princess, dropping her arms and her anger long enough to make a convincing plea. The woman stopped her walking and huffed. "Well, I can't believe you would be so ungrateful. What godmother would not try to help her charge find true love? They keep you locked into that castle all the time in 'advisor's meetings' and 'council sessions.' I thought you would be pleased to have the eligible bachelors come to you. Besides, aren't they handsome?" The woman paused, a puzzled look on her face. Most of the men had looked objectively better as frogs, Melba thought to herself. "Godmother, I--" Her mind reeled with dozens of sane, logical rebuttals. "I can handle my own love life," she said, convinced it was both the best argument and wholly untrue. Her godmother lifted one of the thin, yellow cakes to her lips and bit down, chewing sardonically. "Well, you're twenty-two and the last of your siblings to be married. I think we'd all agree you could use some help." Crumbs tumbled out of her mouth as she spoke, dropping to her chest before scattering on the floor. "Exactly, there are plenty of heirs already. I am in no hurry." "Well, you aren't, but some of us aren't getting any younger. What kind of fairy godmother would I be if I didn't make sure you were well established before my tragic departure?" Melba bit back the words. The precise kind of godmother granted to the youngest in a stable of princes and princesses. The bottom of the barrel had looked passable at first. "Your current legacy is of creating a plague of frogs while also decimating the eligible stock of middle and upper-class men." Her godmother kept her back turned, now puttering away at something on the counter. She hummed an out-of-key lullaby and shoved aside knickknacks and assorted clutter. "Good thing there is a princess to solve these problems. Simply kiss the frogs and pick a prince!" "I don't even like men!" Melba finally exclaimed, letting go of one final secret. The crone stopped her humming and her moving, appearing for one elongated moment to weigh this new information. Melba began gathering her things. Everyone had told her this was a hopeless request. She accepted her defeat and resigned herself to a life of kissing the never-ending tide of frogs. Once all the cogs finally turned in place, the godmother began shuffling about the kitchen again, nodding in a self-satisfied way. It was, after all, a simple solution. "Very well. I'll turn the women into frogs then if that's what you'd like." The door thundered on its hinges as Melba stormed out, not bothering to redon her disguise.


Hey everyone , I am not native English speaker so please dont judge hard on grammar. P.S it is unedited People tend to go to the supermarket after 5 pm to shop after work. It is also the time when many damned, jobless alcoholics, drug addicts, homeless, poor and crippled people can be seen lurking around public areas, such as shops, begging for some money. Some of them are going to use this cash to enjoy another synthetic nirvana provided by another dose of heroine, others are going to drown themselves in a bottle of cheap liquor. But for some it is the only source of their survival. So it is for this crippled man who lost both of his legs many years ago. He can be seen coming around 5 pm next to the shop, taking out this already yellow plastic cup and standing on what is left of his knees while keeping his balance on cheap, already repaired many times, wooden crutches. Nobody knows his name. In fact, nobody ever asked. All they know is that he comes here every day and begs for money while silently looking into the void. And everything people ever have heard from him was silent ,,Thank you” after they dropped few coins into his cup. Most of them simply pass through him and never ever notice this man. Although, some people always pour into his cup few spare coins. He never looks into their eyes. At least it is good for this crippled man that it is May. During the winter it’s very tough for him. When snow is falling there is no distinction between him and a snowman. Although, no matter the weather, he still keeps coming. Rain in autumn, snow in winter. It does not matter. There was a vendor who had her own coffee and tea cart next to the shop that was giving him tea to warm himself up during low temperature. But due to disputes with the supermarket that has their own coffee machine she lost her spot near the shop. So, nobody provided tea for this man this winter. That time he coughed very hard and people were afraid that they may catch tuberculosis from him. But as the May came and sun started to shine more often, temperature was over 15 degrees Celsius, he regained what is left of his health and people were more likely to give him some money because he wasn’t frightening them anymore. He always liked May. The smell of spring, the blossom of flowers were one of the very few things that made him happy. As he was standing near the shop doing his regular activity he noticed a group of kids around 12-13 years old kicking a football ball while going to the shop. Most likely they are going to buy some soda and chips he thought of himself. Those kids always do. He remember his youth. Kicking the ball as good as you can to impress a that dark haired girl with grey eyes, laughing with friends, running from the neighbour’s dog after stealing apples. Those memories started to fade away long time ago. There was merely what is left of them. But they still managed to help him not kill himself every day he came to the place home. This home was a social housing provided to him. It was only 10 square meters bedroom. Bathroom, kitchen, laundering room and other necessary things he had to share with whores, drug addicts and different anti social people. Poor families were not housed with them due to possible bad impact on children. He tried to find a woman himself but he never succeeded. Most likely due his bad sense of humor. As he didn’t liked his place he spent most of his spare time lurking around and begging for money as his pension couldn’t cover his basic expenses for medicine. Yet the only joy in his apartment was a vinyl. He enjoyed classic rock music. Very often while he was begging he sang his favorite lyrics in his head. ,,*There’s feeling I get when I look to the west, and my spirit is crying for leaving, in my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees, and the voices of those who stand looking, that’s you”.* He remembered his youth and that girl. Yet he never smiled. He was just still looking into the void while hearing coins dropping and saying both mandatory and sincere ,,Thank you”. That Monday after he collected nearly a half of his cup he struggled to the shop to buy some bread, tea and cheapest vodka. Most people are going to judge him for buying booze but it was something that could help him loosen that tension from being a cripple. He knew that it wont help, but at least it was something that allowed him to forget in what miserable situation he lives in. He came home, put on a vinyl and stared to drink. Not that he felt himself a rockstar, but at least he was jamming. ,, *Why she had to go? I don’t know, she wouldn’t say, I said something wrong, now I long for yesterday”.* As he finished his bottle he passed out quite early. Not that he had to wake up early he tried to maintain regular schedule to keep himself sane. Tuesday wasn’t his favorite day. There wasn’t many people that went shopping on Tuesdays, which meant, that his ability to collect enough money for a day was very much limited. And yet he still came around 4 pm this time and patiently waited. Some people were passing by. Others came and gave him some money but didn’t forget to mention don’t drink (most likely they have smelled amber from yesterday). All he said in response was silent ,,Thank you”. It was already 7 o’clock and his cup wasn’t even half full. He was already hungry but hadn’t enough money to buy food. He was staring in front of him and was hating every moment he stood there. He hated himself, people that passed by and those who gave him money while not forgetting to say something about that he should not drink. It was already getting dark. He wasnt expecting much anymore. Just staring into the void. Thinking something. You couldnt guess whether his thoughts were happy or sad. But you could understand that he wasnt happy. And then this family passed by with this young girl. As they were passing by they stopped in front of him, gave something into a hand of this yound, innocent angel and while smiling encouraged her to do something. She started walking towards this crippled man. He didint lift his eyes up until he noticed very small feet when she was already next to him. As she was pouring coins, cup felt very heavy. He looked into his eyes and you could say that there was both joy and tears gathering. Shy girl ran away from this man. After she left his eyes were focued on a spot where she stood. But he wasnt looking there. It was a long time since he smiled. After few hours he went to the shop to buy some bread, jam and tea. This evening will be different he thought of himself. Week after this family went to the shop again with their daughter. They promised that they will allow her to give this poor man some money again. As they came they noticed that he wasnt there. A girl asked her father *Maybe he changed his spot?“. ,,Yes, most likely“* her father answered looking at his daughter with eyes full of tears but still smiling.


There’s my star pupil! How’s everything princess?” A booming voice echoed as the elevator doors slid open. The resounding reverberation of the greeting increases in volume as it bounces off the marble walls and flooring of the compound. The small girl in a pink down jacket cups her ears as she steps out from the elevator into the pearl foyer, “Why do you always have to be so loud Mr. Mahoney?” An older man materializes in front of her looking visibly embarrassed “Ahh I'm so sorry Zuri, an old man like me forgets that little girls like you have sensitive ears” the man jested. “HEY who are you calling little, I may be 6 but I’ll still whoop your wrinkly old butt in practice” Zuri interjects defensively. “Well you'll have to prove that, are you sure you’re ready to take on the mighty Richter?” The man asked, pounding his chest. “I WAS BORN READY” said Zuri. “You were born yesterday,” Richter laughingly riposted. The sound of a cackling Zuri bounced off the walls and both parties howled with laughter for a short while before the man trailed off into silence, seemingly distracted by something. “What's a matter Mr. Mahoney?” “Oh… Nothing dear… let's hurry to your training now” Richter responded, grabbing the young girl's hand before both vanishing into an ethereal haze. The two then materialized, still hand and hand in the same position they departed but arrived somewhere entirely different. They stood at the center of a gargantuan amphitheater surrounded by ocean, rubble and vine coated the dilapidated stone benches that once housed an audience. The cawing of seagulls roosting in a nearby nest filled the open air. Zuri shivered as the chill of a sea breeze pushed up through the cracks of a collapsed wall and permeated her jacket. “BRRRR you can go ANYWHERE Mr. Mahoney, why do you always pick this busted old dump?” She asked quizzically. “HEY! I’ve trained countless disciples at this very spot, this is where your mother discovered her powers you know?” “ Plus it's quiet here, now let's see if you’ve been working on your form as much as you claim” Richter added before materializing a neon purple sphere of energy in his palm. “CATCH!” He then hurled the supercharged orb at the girl at point blank range. The orb connected with the ground and the spot where Zuri was once standing now reduced to a smoldering crater. Richter began to charge another orb in his palm but was interrupted by a femine voice above him, “COME ON Mr. Mahoney, I know you’re a dinosaur but that was embarrassingly slow, give me your A game!” Zuri appeared in the air directly above him with her fist cocked back. The small girl unleashed a sharp right jab towards the direction of her sparring partner. For a moment nothing happened and the air was still, but a split second later that once stagnant air was replaced by a torrent of hailstorm winds which became engulfed in flames setting the ground below her on fire. Just as quickly as Zuri, Richter fazed out of the way of the blast and joined the girl in freefall. “YOU PACK A BIG PUNCH FOR A SMALL GIRL… THE FLAMES ARE A NEW ADDITION AS WELL!” The two titans continued to fight it out at supersonic speed for hours. The sound of explosions could be heard for miles. The sun set and fatigue set in, Zuri stumbled and the vetran used the opening to finish this long drawn out battle. Richter broke the girl's footing and judo threw her to the ground. His fists charged with cosmic lightning came in at mach speed towards the girl's face. But before the finishing blow could connect his arm was stopped by an unseen force. Zuri’s eyes began glowing dark green and her skin began to glow red hot. Richter seemed shocked but before he could react his arm was blown out of its socket with a sickening pop and he was thrown 50 feet landing on the other side of the colosseum. Zuri began to hover up off the ground, eyes still glowing and skin still burning a deep red. “I submit” “I SUBMIT!” “ZURI!” Screamed Richter, slapping the ground with his intact arm. The demonic glow faded from the girl's features and her feet finally returned to the ground. After a long pause a quiet “D-Does that mean I win the match?” escaped the small girl's mouth. Still shaken the man responded, “Yes… Yes dear it does.” “Can we go again then, that was WAY fun?” Zuri asked excitedly. “Wh...What?... No… Zuri do you know how long we were sparing?” Richter asked as he put his shoulder back in its socket. “uuuuuuuuummm?” The girl thought for a moment before letting out a surprised gasp as she noticed that the warm morning sunlight had been replaced by a pale moonlight. “I GOTTA GET HOME!” Zuri exclaimed, “Mom and Dad are probably worried”. “Yes, let's not worry them too much” The old man added before grabbing Zuri and materializing them both on the patio in front of a three story mansion. “Run on home now” “Okay, Bye Mr. Mahoney I'll see you for training tomorrow right?” The girl asked as she ran up to her front door. The man did not reply. Richter sat alone in his study writing something in his notebook as he listened to the news broadcasting from his TV. “Today marks the 15th anniversary of the Collapse, an event forever recalled in infamy as ‘the day superabled turned their back on the people they swore to protect”. Today the president held a ceremony for all those lost in the devastating terror attack-” The screen quickly went black followed by the sound of shattering glass as Richter threw his whisky glass across the room. “AHHHHH BULLSHIT!” He screamed, his private study now enveloped in darkness as the light from the TV went out. The old man sat alone in the darkness, his dejection emptied themselves into a glenclairn glass as he poured himself another shot of whiskey. The sound of his self-loathing was interrupted by incessant tapping at his windowsill. Richter turned his head to see a crow pecking at the glass pane. “Rough day today Rick?” A deep foreboding voice reached out from behind him followed by the sick heavy stench of mildew and decay. “She's getting stronger,” Richter responded without turning around. “That’s a good thing right?” the voice asked, the weight of the room seemingly getting heavier with each syllable. “She picked up Pyrokinetics and… something else” Richter added, seemingly becoming more distraught the more he spoke. “Well, that's what you do right...You help the abled draw out their powers?.... I mean…That's what we're paying you for right?” The voice asked slowly, its words creeping into the old man's head, infesting his skull and violating his eardrums. Richter shook his head violently as if to clear the fog forming in his mind. “NO!” Richter screamed “NOT IF THE POWERS ARE NOT HER OWN!” “SHE DOESN'T KNOW WHAT SHE HAS SHE'S NOT EVEN AWARE OF IT, SHE'S GOING TO LOSE CONTROL EDGAR WERE DONE I’M DONE I’M NOT GOING TO LET THIS FACADE GO ON ANY LONGER!” The old man continued. A murder of crows formed in front of Richter creating the silhouette of a man as well as two piercing green eyes. “WE ARE DONE WHEN I SAY WE ARE DONE! DO YOU UNDERSTAND!!” the shadowy figure screamed at an almost impossible volume. “No, Edgar, you don’t understand. That THING you brought back is not your daughter. Zuri died 15 years ago, as did so many other people that day. You were not the only person to lose a family member.” Richter’s voice settled and he adopted a gentler tone. “I’m your friend… you know that. I’m not like the humans on the news, I know Zuri was not responsible for the Collapse like everyone says. But you need to come to terms with reality and let her g-” Richter’s speech was cut short as he began gasping for air. “NOOO!” The shadow interjected “YOU NEED TO COME TO TERMS WITH THE FACT THAT REALITY CAN BE WHATEVER I WANT IT TO BE I AM A GOD AMONG MEN AND IF YOU CAN NOT UNDERSTAND THAT THEN YOU'LL DIE LIKE A HUMAN!!” The old man then collapsed to the floor knocking over the last of his Whiskey and the shadow reverted back into a muder of crows which broke through the window and escaped into the night sky. Richter Mahoney lay lifeless on the floor of his study once again accompanied by silence and darkness.


As Colin contemplated his life, his sanity, and the nature of reality; the psychiatrist on duty exited the door. He was overheard muttering to himself by a sanguine rhododendron standing proudly in the corner of the corridor, near the blue door with the numbers 203 written in bold white letters. “Just two more years, Richard and you can retire and spend every day relaxing at the cabin with no crazy people around you at all… Just two more years”. Most people would say that a person talking about being transported to another dimension where aliens seemed to be what could only be described as an intergalactic fishing trip was pretty damn crazy, cuckoo even; but Colin was far from insane. He was in fact very lucky to be alive and no crazier than the lot of us. He was however, locked up in a psychiatric facility where he would spend at least seventy-two hours before the state had to release him. It had been a hell of a day. The day started off near perfect. The sun was shining, the alarm clock had respected his late-night binge drinking activities and surprisingly the hangover was not as bad as he thought it would be. He definitely needed some fatty fast food in his system, but other than the delicious thought of a double cheeseburger with fries and a chocolate shake rumbling through his mind; he was in near perfect form. He quickly put on some comfortable clothes, not even bothering to check himself in the mirror. He was on the prowl for sustenance and appearances did not matter. He could always shower later. He went out of the apartment, almost giddy as his mouth was watering over anticipating the sweet perfume of perfectly cut potatoes immersed in boiling oil. As he stood on the sidewalk, he made the fatal mistake of going for McDonalds. Not due to the fact that the particular restaurant in question had severe issues with the hygienic routines or anything, but because the McDonalds joint nearest to him, for today only, was part of a relaxing afternoon to some strange beings from a galaxy far away from our own. The place looked almost identical to the real one, but if Colin had not been hungover (He was not in the fine form he thought he was), he would perhaps have taken off his sunglasses as he walked up to the cashier and if he had done just that he would probably have observed that the people around him were behaving as if their humanity had been turned down by ten to twenty percent. For those among us who are quite sober, the weird conversation between a group of ladies in their late twenties seemed to be written by a computer trying it’s very best to pass off as human and it would hopefully set something off deep within our brain. You know, the part which deals with pure survival; giving us the creeps and gets us fuck off somewhere else. Amongst the other things that one could notice were that some of the patrons ate their burgers sideways, while one man sat with his mouth full of fries, staring distantly towards the entrance. Also, there was no smell in the entire place, even though burgers were sizzling, and fries were being bathed in hot oil. Colin didn’t think too much about the lack of smell in the restaurant. He was far to busy trying to decide what to get and how much of it he could chow down before slipping into blissful post meal coma. After ordering twice the amount he had planned for, he didn’t have to wait long and as he sat down, he thought to himself that he was blessed to be living in a country where fast food was not only allowed but could be found anywhere. Biting down on the burger, his taste buds cried out in surprise and agony as there was nothing to taste at all. *What the fu-?* He wasn’t able to complete the though before suddenly feeling as if he was at the dentist’s office being given a local anaesthetic. The pain was sharp and a moment later he could feel a tug before he was transported through space and time, his mind not keeping up with what was happening whilst his heart kept a steady but up-tempo beat. Falling out of the wormhole he was met with a sight that was so surreal, his mind imploded. Here were two alien creatures, covered with viridian skin, spikes and multiple eyes darting back and forth: only two of them actually looking at Colin. The air was so thick that he could not breathe and as he was unhooked by one of the creatures’ tentacles he started squirming like a maggot in heat. They had both an orifice resembling a mouth but even though it kept moving he heard absolutely nothing. He heard nothing because these creatures spoke in a frequency range much higher than the human ear can perceive. If a dog had somehow managed to get into that particular McDonalds restaurant, ordered a cheeseburger and got transported into space he could easily hear the conversation going on, even though understanding any of it was as likely as Colin understanding it having ears as finely tuned as a dog. “Oh my, this is the biggest one yet! They come in a lot of sizes and shapes, huh?” He did not know it, but Colin should have been glad he could not perceive the sounds that were being made. The language of these creatures sounded like a crow being blended in reverse mixed in with some chalk being slowly dragged against a blackboard. The other creature, let’s call him Bob, looked intently towards his fellow alien. “Yes, these carbon-based entities vary in size depending on geographic location, age, diet and genetic markers. At least, that’s what my dad told me when I was a kid. He studied a lot of alien life, but none taste as well as these biped ones. It’s kind of strange really, because other bipeds usually do nothing for me, but these are fantastic. Their skin sizzle nicely when you apply some heat to it, which gives off the loveliest aroma and when caught wild they are usually more nutritious than the farmed ones.” Steve nodded, looking back at Colin with all of his eyes. As panic fully took its dark hold of him, Colin started screaming until his vocal cords were raw and bloody. The creatures seemed to scrutinize him thoroughly and as he was put on something that could only be a weight, he saw something that made his skin crawl. At least twenty other people were lying in a glass box writhing in agony, some of them dead with vacant eyes staring into nothingness. *Why are they doing this? Do they enjoy hurting us or are they just conducting experiments? If they were scientists they’d probably just make contact with us, right? I mean, we’re a highly intelligent species with an array of impressive technologies available. I can look at porn while being underneath water for fuck’s sake! You don’t have to do this! We got Wi-fi, radar, sonar, all kinds of communication shit. Please just let me go. Please.* Colin was dumbfounded by his ability to actually construct coherent thoughts. The experience of suffocating was absolutely dreadful and even though he did not want to die, the thought of suffering through this any longer made him want nothing more than silent unconscious existence. “By the way, do you think that they can feel pain? I mean it’s opening it’s mouth and moving around a lot but is that because it’s experiencing agony right now?” Steve’s question made Bob smirk. “No, they don’t. Clearly they have a nervous system, but they are a primitive species which reacts to certain stimuli and they mostly rely on instinct from our observations. They are more evolved than other animal life on the planet, but not by much. I mean they kill each other all the time which would not make any sense if they truly experienced pain. I know that you and others can feel it so I would never think about hurting any of us. Hell, their brains only stand for 20% of the total energy consumption. That’s nothing!” He let out a bellowing laugh. Steve relaxed a little, his tentacles moving slower. “Well, that’s good to hear. I wouldn’t want them to suffer, you know. I mean, yes, of course I’d still eat them, but I’d kill them quickly like you did with the first one.” He paused for a second, reliving the moment. “Oh man, I did not like the sight of all the blood. Not at all.” The thought made him queasy again. “Yeah it’s better to let them lie down until they stop moving. No mess, no pain, no problem.” As Bob moved Colin closer to his body as to get a better look at the fattest catch yet of the day, he grimaced. “Do you smell that? It smells just as horrible as that first one we got.” Steve moved in closer before mimicking Bob’s facial expression. “I’ll taste him quickly to confirm. If he has alcohol still in his body then just throw him back out. Even if the first one died really quickly, at least this one can go back poisoning his body if it so wishes to do so.” Bob looked at him with disgust. As he felt himself slipping into the void, the world becoming darker by the second, a tongue-like protrusion suddenly swiped across his body. His mind instantly reacted, awakened a bit by the sheer absurdity. *Wait… Did that thing just lick me?* He no longer thought they were scientists, but hey, maybe alien scientists test everything with their “tongue”. A few seconds later he could see that the creature which had tasted him was flailing more than before, the mouth moving rapidly, and he was pretty sure he could see liquid coming out of some of the eyes. *Was it crying??* “Oh, he tastes like shit. Throw him back out, this is horrifying. We got more than enough for dinner, let’s get out of here before I lose my appetite.” Colin was as close to dying as he would ever be until the day he turned ninety-two and forty-four days, so he did not really understand what was happening as he was thrown through space for the second time that day. He woke up in an alley by the restaurant and his throat felt as if it was torn to pieces. For a second, he thought that he had dreamt it all, that he had ingested way more alcohol than he remembered before passing out in the alley. He had experienced wild dreams like that after drinking a lot before, so it wasn’t that farfetched, but as he coughed, drops of blood was sprayed against his fist. He quickly felt around his mouth with his tongue, his eyes widening when he located the wound where the hook had caught him. As everything rushed back into his mind, he began screaming. This time, someone heard him.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! Please be sure to read the entire post before submitting! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join.   ***   #This week's theme is Growth! Continuing our overarching theme of ‘morality’ for the month of May, this week we’ll be taking a look at ‘growth’. As we make mistakes throughout our lives, we learn and grow. How have your characters grown since we first met them? How have their internal and external struggles affected them? What kind of obstacles have they overcome? Has it brought them closer to the things they desire? How has the world around them changed because of these things? Has it better prepared them for the things to come in their future? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. /   ***   #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I will be releasing the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * May 16 - Growth (this week) * May 23 - Purity * May 30 - Redemption   ***   #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   ***   #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story.** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on other stories (2 different stories) to quality for rankings every week.** The comment **must** include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   ***   #Reminders: * **Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments**, if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday/Sunday posts or to your own subreddit or profile. But an in-progress serial is not required to start. You may jump in at any time. * **Saturdays I will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge**. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **You can nominate your favorite stories each week**. Send me a message on discord or reddit and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. Making nominations awards both parties points (see breakdown at the bottom of this post). * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news! *** #Last Week’s Rankings - - u/stickfist - - u/ATIWTK - - u/Leebeewilly - - u/ColeZalias - - u/LuvAPup - - u/Sonic_Guy97 - - u/EdsMusings   ***   #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. This week, I’ve added a *brand new category* for points. Here’s the breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 6 points - Second place - 5 points - Third place - 4 points - Fourth place - 3 points - Fifth place - 2 points - Sixth place - 1 point **Feedback:** In order to be eligible for feedback points, you have to complete your 2 required feedback comments. - Written feedback (on the thread) - 1 point each, up to 3 points (5 crits total on the thread) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 1 point each, up to 3 points. * *Note: Completing the max for both is equivalent to a first place vote. Keep in mind that you may not use the same feedback to receive both written and verbal feedback points. Your feedback should be actionable and list at least one thing the author has done well.* **Nominations:** Making nominations for your favorite stories will now earn you extra points! - 3 points for sending your favorite stories to me, via DM, by 12 pm Sunday, est. You may send a max of **six** nominations. (The 3 points are the total.)     ***   ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday. Check out to learn more! - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts.


Emptiness; it has always been mysterious, yet so soothing to me. I’ve always had the dream to be in a world, where there are no people, just empty streets, no cars, and only…me, with the nature. I knew from the start of my life this would never came true, nevertheless I hoped for it, that it came true. One day. One day…  I have always been an honest and modest person my whole life, I always wished people the best and sincerely hoped they could achieve their dreams. For me, that was…an empty world, in which there’s nothing, except silence. Just the absolute silence a person needs sometimes to heal it’s wounds and start a new, refreshing life.  As I am walking over a landscape, with grass that comes as high as my ankles, I understand the meaning of life. And the reason why we are born and the reason why we love each other and, and and…the wind takes me by the hand, back to my home. Where I am waiting for that one thing, that one thing to arrive after I had gathered all my stuff together.  Whilst I stand outside, I am examining my surroundings, when a single thought crosses my mind; wow, life is wonderful. It’s such a shame it’ll be over soon. Because this life, the fact that a human is capable of creating a world, out of absolutely nothing, is astonishing. While the clouds are converging, and the fresh air is entering my nose, in and out, I have the purest feeling ever of being alive. At that moment, that indescribable moment of life, just hit me so hard, that I cried, and cried, and cried from happiness.  Being the last person on Earth isn’t as bad as it seems. You get to know Earth as it was, millions of years ago, when it was only inhabited by animals, dinosaurs and the nature. That moment makes you realise how precious life is and how lucky you are to be able to live.  After spending a couple of hours in the fresh air, I decided to go home again. They told me I had to survive 3 days in the wilderness without anyone else. I agreed with it, and since it’s been 60 hours ago they told me it, I am enjoying the last 12 hours, still here, on mother Earth herself. Healing my wounds with the fresh air and admiring nature, I checked my phone, for any new messages. *\[1 new message\]: Hey there, we will be there in a couple of hours, but we have some delay, so stay where you are. We are coming to pick you up.* It only had 3 hours left, so delay didn’t really matter I thought.  I admired nature one last time, without all the animals and just mother Earth, before returning where I lived. ‘2 minutes’, I said to myself, and checked my phone for the last message, ‘and they should be here.’ *\[1 new message\]: Hey, we had some delay, but unfortunately we are too late. Because Earth is going to give up, we need to return. We are really sorry. But we wish you the best in the afterlife.* ‘What the…?!’ I screamed, ‘this can’t be true!’. As I saw the ground under my feet tearing apart I started praying and I said to myself: ‘I’ve made some great memories, and I loved to live in an empty world, but now I wish I wasn’t the last person to take the flight to Mars…’ And before I knew, Earth and it’s whole existence, was gone, within a finger snap.


He wasn’t that close of a friend to anyone, but most of the guys liked him. He was an immigrant, probably illegal but you can never tell these days with all of ‘em coming in. He never introduced himself to us. I had tried to get him to talk but he'd always slip away. We had to corner him in the locker room to get his name. I mean, what the hell was he hiding it for? We’re a small company, not a head more than we need and that usually means about 40 guys in the yard and a quarter of that in the office. Anyway, with enough pushing we got it: Jorge Peña. The yard I mentioned is about 100 acres of gravel with pole-built warehouses and semi-trailers scattered around. The office is a repurposed fast food joint; one floor, poorly arranged into cubicles, with an oversized red shingle roof. A big sign sits in front of it saying “Dillard Lumber.” The company sells construction-grade wood to the housing industry. We were a big deal until the suburbs stopped expanding. Each morning I drive my rustbucket of a car to work, get out, then climb into another rust bucket, a faded yellow bug of an electric forklift. It's my job to unplug the thing and skitter about the yard for ten hours a day hauling pallets of wood between the various warehouses and from the warehouses to the idling trucks that ship to site. I’ve been doing it for over a decade now and only once was I given a raise. I mean, what the hell does a guy have to do to make a living wage? ‘Guess George Dillard has to afford his McMansion somehow. Anyway, it turned out that Jorge was a forklift driver too and a damned good one. That’s fine by the way. I’m always rushed to load and he was a great help. In about a week he was doing better than me. I don’t think he was trying to show anybody up, but intents aren’t results. Maybe the man just naturally moved like a jackrabbit on coke. Eventually I started worrying about my job. You know, nobody there is union and the word itself is banned in the office by unspoken treaty. I went to him and said, “Hey, take it easy man. You’re makin’ us all look bad.” Then I laughed and slapped him on the back so he didn’t think I was disrespecting him. We’re all working for a paycheck, taking orders from George Dillard. I mean, George Dillard's an alright guy; the typical son of a man who built a nothing hardware store into a giant enterprise. I never met his dad, but I’ve heard stories and he sounded like a man who could move mountains. Or thought he could anyway. He died of a massive stroke two years before I started. George isn’t far from the age his father died at and you can see it in his face. Fear, that is. You see, he doesn’t have an heir, spouse, or even a business partner. When George goes, so does Dillard Lumber. Maybe that's why he began fraternizing with a certain worker so much. I don’t know who noticed it first, but it certainly wasn’t Jorge. George Dillard hung over Jorge like an umbrella. Jorge would load two trucks in the time it took me to load one. There’s George Dillard. Jorge would fix a jam in his forklift with some grease he kept in a little jar in his pocket. There’s George Dillard. Jorge would shit in record time and be back out in the yard. There’s George Dillard. It all started rubbing on the other guys. Okay, fine, it got to me too. One morning, right before work, me and three other forklift drivers corner Jorge at his locker. We ask him all kinds of crazy questions. One guy asked him if he was some kind of spy for the boss. Another guy asked if he was a spy for the unions. I asked him if he thought he was better than us. Jorge started sweating bad, and it was barely above freezing. I opened his locker, took the hardhat out, and put it on his head. “Don’t suck up to George Dillard,” I said, “he’d wring the last drop of blood from your body before he'd give a bonus.” I thought that’d fix things, but stupid me, it didn’t. Jorge still worked pretty hard, but stayed weary of outperforming everybody. He really did try to avoid George Dillard’s eye. Thing is, the yard’s only so big and George is the owner. You can’t tell him to buzz off; you can’t hide without a good excuse; you can’t work and stay vigilant all at once. Everything hit the fan when clouds rolled in from the west and a batch of water-sensitive lumber was left outside. Jorge noticed first and didn’t think to, or didn’t bother to, tell the rest of us. He moved the wood into the nearest warehouse just before the rain began. Apparently, George Dillard saw it all. Jorge disappeared without a trace a few days later and we didn’t see him for the next six years. We’re all used to guys starting and getting cold feet once they see the kind of work load we carry. But Jorge wasn’t like that. I actually think it pained him to downshift his work ethic. No, whatever happened, it wasn’t entirely his choice. Every once in a while we’d hear George say something like “he’s top of the class,” or “best investment I’ve ever made.” The other guys said Jorge was going to the university a few towns over, learning finance, management, and how to keep people under you struggling for survival. I didn’t want to believe it. Hell, I was his most outspoken defender in the locker room. My position didn’t make clocking in at dawn and clocking out at dusk any easier. But then someone saw Jorge’s pickup truck at George’s house. He was all dressed up like some Wall Street banker; slicked back hair, expensive watch, and everything. Then we all saw him in person. He walked out of the Dillard Lumber office straight-backed and arrogant, arm in arm with none other than George Dillard. A meeting was called and the whole staff gathered into the yard's largest warehouse. A makeshift podium was made with a pallet and a few stacked toolboxes. George got up there and beamed with pride like a child that's just figured out how to use the potty. I remember his words plain as day. "Gentlemen, and women, if you haven't noticed I've grown old and fat. Now, the word 'retirement' is new to my vocabulary. A few years ago it would've meant leaving a bunch of people, that I consider family, to fend for themselves. Not anymore." He pulled Jorge over and put him in a fake headlock. "I've found a man as capable as me. Hell, I've found a man as capable as my father. Of course, he'll need training. But under my tutelage, he'll make a fine boss. Let's have a round of applause for Mr. Peña!" I didn't hear much after that. Jorge got up there and read off the most scripted speech I've ever heard. I mean, hell, everyone saw the thing folded in his pocket. We'd lost a friend and gained a boss. That's when me and the guys swore to never concern ourselves with a new hire. What we didn't know was that there wouldn't be any new hires. Jorge apprenticed under George for six months, then the latter packed up and moved to the Gulf Coast. Employees dropped like flies after that. Jorge, or should I say Mr. Peña, first slimmed the office staff down to five. He made half the yard workers seasonal before letting them go the next year. Now it's just him, his secretary, and a dozen outside. What keeps me hanging on? I don't know if you've looked around but jobs are scarce. People tell me I should get a trade degree at the community college. Not one of them was reaching in their wallet to pay for it. I'll stay on until Peña fires me. That won't happen by the way. I've looked him in the eye a hundred times and all I see is shame staring back. You can dress a working man in a suit but his mind and muscles remember. I'm not going anywhere.