_What We Want_ "Anon?" "Yes, my love?" I reply, rather dashingly. She laughs. A musical sound, full of mirth. She sees right through my bullshit; we seldom bother with pet names for each other. A pause. Then: "Where do you see us in five years?" Another pause, my turn. Measuring my words carefully. "You know what? I've never really thought that far ahead. To be honest, I'm kind of surprised - pleasantly so - that you still keep me around after all this time." I smile wryly. She smiles back, waiting. I continue. "But if you mean, do I see us - married, maybe? A house, with a white picket fence; a dog, maybe a cat; and - one-point-two kids? Is that the statistical average these days?" She laughs, softly this time. Coaxingly. I'm committed now. "Well, if that's what you mean, then I guess - whatever you envision for yourself in five years, I see myself doing the same." She cocks her head, smiles impishly at me. "That's a very long-winded way of not answering the question." Another wry smile; I reserve my best of them for her. "So, 'I want what you want' - that isn't good enough?" Her expression fades. Serious now. "It's not all about me, you know that. It's what you want for yourself too." I nod, slowly; walk to the foot of the bed where she sits, observing me. I sit down on the floor, take her hand in mine. "True. But it doesn't cost me anything to do what makes you happy. It's not a transaction, like give and take." Her brow furrows; she's formulating a rebuttal. I suppress a smile. I adore her most when she's passionate about something. "Relationships take work. Compromise. Isn't that - the definition of give and take?" she counters. She's right, of course. Usually is, on matters of the heart. I close my eyes. Recite something I read long ago that stuck somehow: _"My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite."_ I open my eyes, look up. She gazes intently at me, her expression unfathomable. "Shakespeare?" she asks quietly. "Juliet, to Romeo. It didn't end well for them - but at the time, nothing else mattered." A rueful smile in spite of herself, fleeting. Pensive, she chooses not to reply. "With you, I found a happiness that I knew existed - for some lucky few - but never expected for myself. You could never owe me anything after that." She closes her eyes then, overcome with emotion. Opens them again, eyes shining; her smile returning. That smile. Her lower lip trembles slightly. God she's beautiful. "You know, each and every day - without fail, without exaggeration - I look at you and think: with all the mistakes I've made, all the regrets I have - what did I do _right_ to deserve having you in my life, to be by your side?" She's weeping now, silent rivulets of tears down her face. But still she smiles, tremulously. My chest tightens as I speak once more. "And yet, here I am. Here we are." I kiss her hand then. Silence. "So when I say, 'I want what you want' - it's the truth. I do love you, after all." Something catches in my throat. I'm glad I've run out of things to say. Her hand rises to my cheek. She stares at me a long moment, thoughtfully. Gathering herself. When she finally speaks, her voice quavers, but is full of resolve. A decision made. "I want - I want to be married to you." My turn to be speechless. "...Really? ...Seriously?" She laughs, shakily, with relief this time. "Yes, you fool. Now come here." She pulls me up onto the bed, my face to hers. Another laugh, full of promise.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning for round two, welcome! This is the perfect time for you to join in on the fun, as we re-launch Serial Saturday to better suit all of our readers and writers out there. We’ve heard your feedback, and our hope is to make this feature useful to writers of all genres, backgrounds, and skill levels. To our returning Serial Saturday participants, we hope you’ve had a wonderful break and are ready to dive back in. As we’ve made a few changes, please remember to read the entire post before submitting! *** #This week's theme is Discovery! Whether your characters are making interesting and unexpected discoveries in their world or discovering something within themselves, I'm excited to see where each story goes. Will the developments be welcome? Will their newest findings put a strain on their environment and the people around them? The interpretation is completely up to you. / *** #Theme Schedule: We recognize that writing a serial can take some bit of planning. Each week we will be releasing the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. January 31- Emergence February 7- Secrets *** #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 7pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. *** #The Rules: * All top-level comments must be a story. Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * Your story must be written for this post. Pre-written content will not be allowed. * Your story should be 500-850 words. Use to check your word count. * While the name has changed to “Serial Sunday”, the deadline is still 7pm the following Saturday. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). You must use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. If not, our bot won’t recognize your serial installments. * Submissions are limited to one serial submission from each author per week. * Each author must leave a comment on at least 2 other stories during the course of the week. That comment should 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. * While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely family friendly" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! *** #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 we will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the . 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, reddit, or through modmail and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfires to make nominations. * 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.


Lyrica stopped for a moment to take in her surroundings before continuing to follow the guides. She was only there for a quick look at her living quarters for the upcoming competition, then she would go home to tie up loose ends. Sleek silver walls covered in vines is all she could see. There were no bright direct lights or fixtures, just a soft glow that lit their path as they continued walking. It was unusual and slightly unsettling but she tried to kept her mind carefully blank, knowing if she started doubting she would back out. And she needed the fame this project would bring. Finally her guides stopped in front of a metal door, blank as the walls surrounding it, though free of greenery. With a touch from the guide, the door swung open. She nodded her thanks then stepped inside. The door promptly shut behind her. She whirled around, a slight needle of fear forming but relaxed again once she saw there was a handle on the inside. This room was only a slight contrast to the hallways. Warm, cream walls rose up around her, while scalloped white lamps emitted a brighter but still soft light. There were no pictures or windows or other furniture however, just 3 beds covered in white pillows and sheets placed around the edges. She was surprised to see 2 women already there, lounging on a bed each, talking quietly. As she approached they stopped and turned their attention to her. "I'm just here for a quick look." Lyrica said smoothly to their questioning eyes. "I still need to pack and bring my things." The women nodded, then promptly turned back to their conversation. Though she was close, Lyrica could not hear what they were saying. They seemed content to ignore her so Lyrica turned, making her way to the other bed,where she carefully sat. Doubts once again started forming. This lock in challenge had come out of the blue. She had seen no advertisements or announcements that she could remember, her manager had simply come to her one day and told her she was chosen. Getting her career off the ground had been difficult to say the least. She had yet to play a single show or been offered the chance to record. This was it as far as Lyrica was concerned. If she didn't get any interest after this she'd need to move back home, to her grandmothers imposing Victorian era home and marry the old man who had been courting her for only weeks, yet had taken liberties and.... She shuddered and pushed the thoughts away, locking them deep. She would make it. She had no choice. Lyrica barely remembered standing and opening the door to leave but soon she was standing outside, blinking in the bright sun. How had she found her way out without the guides? She dwelt on the confusion for only a second, then shrugged it off. "That's what happens when you think too much!" She murmured aloud, then began striding away not looking back. Part 2 "This is your last chance." The ominous words hung in the air between the two men, seated and looking at each other intently from across a broad silver table. The one who spoke stared at the other man, unmoving, as though waiting on the answer to an unspoken question. The other sighed and ran his hand over a large 4 way jagged seam on his head. "But of course. I have control this time. There will be no accidents JJ." A small half smile briefly appeared, then faded. "I know the warning signs now. We have containment procedures. We will get the information we need." The other man still stared ahead, saying nothing. Finally after several minutes he stood, his eyes tracing the seam on the other mans head. "You know what will happen if you can't. No matter who you once were there will be only one option." He stood and turned, pressing on the silver wall behind him with two fingers. A door swung open but the man hesitated a minute more before stepping through. It closed quietly behind him. "No mistakes." The seamed man whispered to himself, before pressing on the opposite wall and exiting the room. Part 3 A slightly spicy smell wafted up to Lyrica as she filled her bike basket with her purchases. The store she stood in front of had just what she needed, though she'd had to ask for entrance to the back. Satay was mostly forbidden, though if you knew where to look it was easy to find. She had covered her shady purchase with several jars of pickled peppers, her grandmothers favorite. It was the only way to hide the smell and would perhaps earn her at least a lukewarm welcome back if the lockdown challenge didn't go as planned. She was due to check in in 1 hours but couldn't shake a feeling of unease, as though she was missing something. She still couldn't completely remember her exit earlier from the room to standing outside the facility. As though she had blinked and appeared. "Maybe it's the satay...no!" Lyrica shook her head then hopped on her bike, taking off quickly on the rough gravel of the parking lot. She'd never had any side effects before and it helped her write her songs. Being stuck in a room for a week was the perfect opportunity to put pen to paper and think of something new. As she pedaled her thoughts drifted again. She'd never seen a building like it before. Come to think of it, she couldn't recall ever even seeing it. The location was a place she'd passed a few dozen times, so if it had been there before there was no way to miss it. Then again she was usually focused on her destination, career, or pushing away other unpleasant thoughts. A misplaced building was the least of her concerns. Deciding the risk was worth the reward, she turned her mind towards home, hoping the peppers filling her basket wouldn't betray her lack of confidence to her grandmother. This was her last chance and she had to believe this would be the start of something wonderful. Part 4 When Lyrica arrived, she once again followed the guides, struggling to keep her mind blank. To occupy herself as she walked, she studied the floor, noting it was made of the same silver material as the walls, sprinkled through with green circles instead of vines. It wasn't enough however and she became aware of a feeling of being watched. Eyes turning upwards, she looked around for cameras but could find none. The guides backs were turned to her as they walked ahead, almost gliding. It suddenly occured to her that she'd never seen their faces. They were always turned away from her. She shook her head again, muttering to herself. The challenge hadn't even started yet and she was losing it. So what if she didn't know what they looked like? That's not why she was here. They soon came to the same wall as earlier and with another light touch from one of the guides, the wall sprang open. Lyrica squared her shoulders and walked past the guides into the room, turning to thank them but the door closed before she could even face them. She noticed the handle had been removed this time. Sighing, she made her way to the only open bed. There was nowhere to put her bag so she stood for a moment, looking around again. The two women from earlier were there, sitting straight up in their beds and looking at eachother, though not speaking. As she watched, they slowly slid down and seemed to fall asleep instantly. Suddenly, she felt drowsy too. The worry from earlier must've drained her. It's not like she had anything to do. A nap would be pleasant... The bag she was carrying slipped from her hand and she was asleep before her head hit the pillow. JJ watched as the last woman fell asleep. It was time. He beckoned to the seamed man who stepped beside him, turning his gaze on the unknowing women. "Are you in? Can you see?" JJ tried to keep his voice even. The slightest bit of emotion could mean disaster at this stage. He could not afford what would follow if the seamed man detected it. "Yes. The ones this time are particularly creative." A small smile filled his face then vanished. JJ suppressed a shudder at the smile. "I will seal the door and leave you to it then. Do not dissapoint us." He stepped away, intent on leaving when the seamed man spoke again. "Get some rest." The slightly cheerful tone made JJ shiver. He quickly walked through the door and closed it behind him. This had to work or it all meant nothing. The seamed man continued staring at the women, then began tracing his fingers down the lines of his head. Suddenly the women were writhing as though in pain though no sounds left their mouths and they continued sleeping. The seamed man began humming an old nursery rhyme to himself, a smile filling his face. "Merrily merrily life is but a dream. " Part 5 Lyrica awoke suddenly. Her dreams had been full of her home, the old man who had been courting her and the last disastrous visit before her manager had called her about the lockdown challenge, as usual. This time though therr had been a man with a seamed head she'd never seen before who terrified her. Her head and body throbbed painfully as though she'd been in a fight, just as it did everytime she woke up in this place. She had no idea how many days had passed. The lockdown was only for a week but it felt like a month already. Her roommates were never awake when she was. It was lonely but a small relief. If they were awake she'd be tempted to ask them if they too felt as though they were being watched, even in their dreams. If the seamed man had appeared to them as well. If every waking moment felt exhausting. She stood and stretched before reaching for her bag. It was the perfect opportunity to take some satay and write. Lately though it felt as if all her creativity had been slowly dissappearing, replaced with a blank void she couldn't seem to shake She popped a large wad in her mouth and let it dissolve on her tongue. The only way the dreams would fade and she would feel awake was with this. Feeling her fingers start to tingle and her mind race she settled down to try to write when a loud thud startled her. It sounded like it came from outside the door. But no one else was supposed to be here except the guides. Another loud thud had her scrambling from the bed. She looked over and noticed the other 2 women were awake now and looking at the door too. "Do you know what that is? Is it maybe time to go?" Lyrica asked the women. They didn't respond, only looked at her, then back at the door. Another thud, louder this time seemed to shake the whole room. Fear began filling her as a small dent began to appear on the handleless door. The guides always opened it with a touch of their fingers, so who would breaking in? A metallic scraping started accompanying the thudding and the dent grew bigger. Full of terror, Lyrica began yelling at the door, "Whose there?! Is this some kind of trick for thrills? I didn't agree to this!" She turned to the other women again, and was shocked to see they hadn't moved. She realized something was terribly wrong. They were acting as though they couldn't see or hear anything. Their eyes were open but glazed, their chest rising and falling at a slow, steady pace as if they were still asleep. Because they were asleep she realized. As soon as the thought formed the door burst open, revealing sleek metal figures with seamed faces. She instantly knew they were the guides and tried to scramble away but there was nowhere to go. A metallic hand wrapped around her wrist and vines appeared from nowhere, snaking up her arm. Despite her terror she began to feel drowsy. "You were supposed to be sleeping this whole time" The whispered words made her jerk her head up to stare at the seamed face of the guide who'd whispered it. "This would all have been much more pleasant without your satay." The last sentence sounded almost sorrowful. The last thing she saw before sleep took her were the faces of the 2 women still in bed. They were smiling. Final Part JJ ran, knowing he was out of time. He'd been foolish, thinking that he could trust the seamed man. That some remnant of his old friend and partner had remained after the change. His thirst for knowledge had led him to allow unspeakable things. He'd watched as the newest girl was taken away and knew that his friend had lost control. He skidded to a halt outside a piece of wall thickly covered in vines, staring in horror. He couldn't have made it here. Only he knew the location. The vines parted, revealing a room with a table in the middle, covered in broken straps. The seamed man gestured to the edge of the table, grinning widely. "Please, sit old friend." He still stood, working through his options. He had none. The fact the man was up and walking meant only one thing. "How long?" He asked. "Before you left the room last time." The seamed man replied with a broad smile. "I felt your fear and your curiosity. It was all I needed." JJ sighed. "The girls?" "They gave me all the energy I could need." The seamed man ran his fingers over his head. It slowly began to split, a hum filling the room. JJ fell to his knees. There was no one he could warn, no one who would come if he called. He realized he was asleep and had been for some time. The seamed man had tricked him, gotten into his mind and manipulated him like the test subjects. That meant everyone else in the facility was at risk. It was too late. The seamed mans face began to change until JJ was looking at himself. He began to feel drowsy as he watched his doppleganger stride past him towards the door. "Sleep now JJ. You are so very tired. I'll take it from here.


What do I order at Burger King? What are my favorite burgers or sandwiches there? Buddy, I just get whatever the commercials tell me to buy. I'm not sure anyone can really have a favorite or list of preferred burgers from Burger King because, like most everyone here, we're not eating Burger King because we want to or, god forbid, enjoy it. No, much like a kidnapped young adult from a very affluent family overhearing their stern father say that he doesn't care how many fingers the kidnappers send over, he'll never pay the ransom they want, and so the mind begins to crack and the beginnings of Stockholm Syndrome form, so too goes the typical, and unfortunate, trip to Burger King. As you stand there in the rightfully deserted establishment, you gaze in wonder and honest regret at the medley of gastrointestinal horrors laid bare on the menu. Not a thing looks appetizing despite the grumbling in your stomach begging you to eat. The last few breath mints in your car did nothing to curb this feeling and you pass another lonely exit on that endless highway, you pray the sign shows anything else aside from the putrid Burger King, but alas, that's all there is and nary an exit for another hour or more. You've effectively been ensnared by the King's trap, lured in by the promise of food of which you'll only get a mockingly cruel approximation of. So there you stand, exhausted from hunger, but uneasy and unsure. The smell of grease that lingers in the air is like a miasma, a warning that this is no place to stay long, no place for mere mortals who value their humanity. You occupy an unholy place where all things good and pure are rotted and contorted into some sort of sick joke, a bizarre and evil version of something you so love back in the real world, food. You try to make sense of the menu, try to convince yourself that there must be something there that won't eviscerate your insides like a savage badger digging in a snake hollow for precious eggs. "Nuggets?" you think as your tongue knots up and struggles to swallow the dry heaving. They're not chicken nuggets, you know that by the price. You might as well eat the foam from your car seat for at least then you may clean some manner of flavor or beneficial gut bacteria from the countless farts you're laid into it over the years, unlike these so-called "Nuggets". Your stomach pings you again, not caring anymore. It has become the desperate teen on the receiving end of "My parents aren't home" text, and there's no amount of reason or manner of obstacle that will stand in the way. Reluctantly, you approach the empty counter. What employee man's this register? Where have they gone? The silence is deafening. No other customer dares enter now. They're not in the same state of desperation as you. You should take the absence as a warning, a message. They're telling you through the silence, that this is a place of desolation and loneliness. Staying here will only bring about the ruin of your soul. But, you indeed approach because you must. A burger. After all, this is the "Burger King" and you've had the misfortune of seeing these burgers slathered and dressed in every conceivable gimmick known to man. Each commercial made you question whether or not Burger King is some sort of high art satire, and parody of what fast food and American culture has become, but alas, no. That demon King is all too real. You break out in a cold sweat when you remember their campaign comparing their burgers to literally fake meat. Those "real people" couldn't even taste the difference... They couldn't distinguish the Burger King's meat from that grown in a lab as an affront to the natural order of the world. Then you realize that's because there isn't a difference. Burger King burgers are equally an abomination. "Hello?" You ask, your shaky voice echoing into the dim kitchen. "I'd like to place an order." You nearly retch at the words. The shuffling of ill-fitting shoes against a never cleaned floor murmurs lazily from the back. Slithering like a swollen slug, the creature makes its way towards the register, never breaking eye contact. The expressionless face pierces your soul with a mundane sort of horror that nearly drives you into an existential breakdown. Luckily, your growling stomach, howling for sustenance, keeps your ground in reality. This… thing, man, woman, or otherwise is the void. It is where all things cease to be. It doesn’t speak. It doesn’t ask you what you want. It knows you cannot truly “want” anything from here, from it. It merely waits for you to speak and sew your own damnation. “One Whopper, please…” The words leave your mouth without you even realizing what you’ve just said. You feel possessed and violated because you swore to your own mother on her deathbed, and then again to her vengeful ghost some years later, that you would never allow yourself to order a Whopper from Burger King, and yet… You just have. The creature before you presses its spongy finger against some screen. The thing’s finger slips, unsurprisingly, because the screen is covered with a thick, yellowing film of grease, and its body is covered with an similarly off putting mucus membrane. It waits in silence as you fumble through your wallet for your credit card and then try to guess where to swipe it or if you need to give it to the thing or what. Eventually, you pay for the meal. You must linger at the counter as your food is prepared. You mind turns like worms in a bait pail imagining what that wretch is doing back there with you food. A bright light blinds you momentarily as a car pulls into the parking lot. Another guest would be welcome. Misery loves company after all. It’s too good to be true though, as the passenger must have reckoned their mistake, and turned around. Those red tail lights slowly fading back into the unnaturally dark abyss surrounding this accursed place. In just a few moments, your burger is ready. The speed of delivery is concerning. That was far too quick to have any degree of accuracy or structural integrity with ingredients, despite you placing now irregular or custom elements. There it is on the tray, hastily and lazily wrapped and so unceremoniously off center. The foul beast that crafted this malformed lump slinks back into whatever dark corner of the kitchen it came from, leaving you, again, in the soul crushing emptiness of that horrid restaurant. You pick up your tray, a flimsy affair and sleepwalk your way to an empty seat, or in other words, any of the seats. After testing three or four tables, each more wobbly than the last, you accept your fate and squeeze into a disease ridden booth. You don’t know why you’re compelled to do so, but you use a napkin to sweep the stale crumbs off the surface and set your tray over the crusted ketchup smear. Tentatively, you begin to unwrap the lukewarm package. It was just cooked, was it not? How is this burger already unappetizingly tepid? Once again, your stomach compels you to continue with another angry growl. With a deep sigh, you acquiesce your urges. Upon grabbing the sandwich, the first thing you notice is the false heft. There’s something wrong with the density and balance of this burger. Were you a dog, you would bark at the doppelganger in disguise to warn others of this danger, but what’s the use? You know full well the sickening future that awaits you. Throwing caution to the wind in a vague hope of getting it over with quickly, you chomp into what the King has called a burger. You recoil in disgust. The texture of the stale bun clashes with the sopping wetness of the mayo and lettuce. The only silver lining to the experience is that the flavorless meat patty is lost in the mixture. Sloshing through the chewing, your throat constricts defensively. Not so keen to eat now, are you stomach? After some effort, you force down a swallow. War. The conflict is immediate and lasting. The King tries to seize control of your innards, and against all logic, you fuel his forces with a few more bites before the sobbing starts. Your trembling hands can no longer cooperate with such destruction. The gurgling war cries in your guts drowns out any outside stimuli. You are in the void now. The dull infinite is all around you, a pocket dimension of pain and misery is centralized in your stomach. Is this how the old ones felt at the birth of the universe? Pounding the table, you will yourself back the world you once knew, the world where you can get up from this damned booth and back to your car. The dark oblivion of that lonely highway would be welcome company now. Sadly, the King’s forces have made their way to your lower intestines already, leaving utter ruin in their wake. It would be an understatement to say that you are no longer hungry. A frothing and bubbling begins to form in your bowels, as the pressure builds uncomfortably. It’s just a matter of time now and in between the stabbing and twisting in your intestines by the trained assassins of that Whopper, you resign to your fate. It shall be a long night in the King’s privy. As best as you can manage, you scoot out of your tiny booth while trying to maintain the delicate hold your anus has of the savage horde. You lurch along the floor on unsteady legs, you can barely feel them through the tingling and fluttering pain. Waves of heat ripple across your cold body. Your clothes cling inconveniently to your body because of the flop sweat making each step excruciatingly tense, a battle against force trying to restrict your movement. The bathroom is the goal in much the same way the choppy waves are for a bridge suicide jumper. Opening the door to this bathroom is akin to opening the door to a secret torture chamber in darkest of dungeons. There was suffering here. There shall be suffering here again. Unclean would be expected, but this squalid, rancid affair is like an abandoned concentration camp where the shaken, broken victims of an attempted genocide wander aimlessly in the mud and ruin. You’re out of place in such a miserable environment, yet your whole night has led to this moment. In your heart of hearts, you knew this was your destiny as soon as you pulled into the parking lot. The hot, humid miasma of unflushed dumps and piss make you want to gag, but you must stay in control if you want to ever wear these pants again. In one of the only positive things to come out of your ill-fated trip is that you do not remember the bathroom experience in full. Only in horrid flashbacks at night, the repressed memories come back to you. The PTSD is manageable with the right medication and therapy. You’re still haunted by it all, but thankfully, you may yet recover and rejoin society at large. At least, that’s how my typical Burger King trip goes down.


The salesman smiled slightly as he saw the father approach the counter, his lanky teenage son in tow. He knew the look in the man's eye, had seen it often enough with others, the grim determination of a teacher, blended with pride and a hint of melancholic remembrance. "We want to see the…goods," the man said, in a voice used to give orders. The salesman dipped his chin in acknowledgement but wasn't to be coerced into moving right away. He regarded the son, maybe fifteen years of age, who'd been looking around the store with a somewhat paranoid pattern of head swivels, eyes darting to the equipment on the walls, as if assessing their potential to hurt him. The salesman stepped out from behind the counter and led them through the nearby curtain, the heavy corduroy sighing as they entered the room behind, waiting in suspense for the lights to come on. It always took a breath’s length until the neon flickered awake, and the salesman had, over the years, found that this little moment of darkness helped to put customers into a more affluent mood. The man slapped his hand on his son’s shoulder, beaming with pride as if he had invented or owned all of the shiny black devices in the room. They were mostly held in cases, heavy duty with stenciled type numbers, in a variety of sizes. The smallest were easy to hide on the body, carried in ladies’ purses, while the biggest were professional grade, long black cylinders that reflected oily and readily. A slight smell of polymers and machinery emitted from the cases and their contents. The teenager seemed to be frozen on the spot, until the salesman received the OK signal from the father. Encouraging the youth, he smiled genially, took an object from a case and gently pushed it into the boy’s hands. "How does it feel? Do you like the weight?" he said. He noticed that the boy had an idea of what to do but seemed overwhelmed with the power given to him. Did the father ever let his son touch the one at home or was it safely locked away? The boy eventually leveled it and the salesman nodded with approval that he didn't immediately point it in someone’s face. By God, this had happened often enough, reason enough for many fathers to postpone the purchase by a year. He subtly positioned the arms of the boy, adjusting his stance. "Now here is where to aim, close your left eye and look through here…" The teen did as he was told. "Do you like it?" "I guess so," the boy said, lowering the black body, glancing at his father for guidance. "Maybe something a bit more suited for beginners," the salesman said and set another slender object into the boy’s hands, this one lighter and a bit more modern in appearance. "38 is more versatile," he said, awaiting the protest from the father. Men of his generation usually protested at this point. "It was 45 or 50 in my day," the customer said gruffly and predictably. The salesman took it as an opening to start his spiel, lecturing about sizes and grades and how they had changed over time, how nowadays everything was getting smaller and lighter, trending towards portability and such. He could tell the father wouldn't be convinced but that he eventually accepted the authority of the salesman, respecting his expertise. The teen wanted to hold the biggest item and he let him. At this age, they all wanted to feel powerful by holding the large caliber, maybe some sort of phallic symbolism related to puberty. While the boy perused the goods, the salesman exchanged some expert talk with the father, how some companies had released new models, others were taken off the market, how technology evolved in faster and faster cycles. In the end, they settled on the premium version of a popular bestseller and the salesman took them over to the test range. He loaded the device, using this opportunity to show the teen how to load it up, how to use dial in the right setting for single shots and how to make sure that everything was closed properly before operation. Primed, he stood close behind the boy, dropping his voice to a whisper. "Now, level up, look through the viewfinder, locate your target, breathe in…then, slowly, with your index finger, take the shot." To his credit, the boy wasn't startled as the device responded mechanically, keeping his grip. "Well done!" the father said. The boy smiled shyly. They went over cleaning and maintenance and options to purchase adapters and extensions, should the need arise. After the man had paid cash, the salesman took the boy aside, a ritual he had perfected over the years. "It's a powerful tool, you know. Always be careful and take some time to practice. Your friends will want to hold it and use it, but I advise you to keep it in your hands. Others will not know how to handle it, and they might cause a lot of damage." He added a conspiratorial wink before releasing the boy back to his father. Once they had left, the salesman tidied up the room, putting all the devices back in their cases, in one corner the Canon Single Lens Reflex, in the other the Pentax Mirrorless. He wiped down the Zeiss lenses and turned the Hasselblads so that the logo was shown properly. Lastly, he closed the showcase with the Sony pocket cameras, took the money from the recent purchase and left the room through the curtain, the automatic sensors switching off the lights shortly after.


She was at that corruptible age where duplicitous friends and family were not yet revealed to her in their adult form, yet their sugar-coated malice could be faintly detected along with some bitter note on the tongue. This was the bitterness Faye Holbrook soured her petite and beautiful—if not somewhat precocious—face at, along with the sweet, sweet liberty that a $20,000 inheritance can bring to a 15-year-old girl from a low-middle-income family, if used properly. Of course, the dollars she inherited were trivial compared with the good sense passed down from her industrious parents—who respected the teenage hunger for responsibility to equal parts fun—colored with their own impoverished, naïve worldview when it came to the serpentine dwellers of the inherently wobbly branches of the family tree. Her parents, Gary and Maggie Holbrook, had sat down with her in her bedroom in the wake of her grandfather’s funeral to explain the details of his will, and Faye, with a mournful look in her eyes, listened. “Grandpa saved his retirement money to leave you this,” Maggie said. “Half goes to the college fund, and the other half he explicitly wrote that you should spend any way you like, and I quote…” Maggie paused to smile and catch a nostalgic tear before it fell. “He says ‘…Use ten-grand to enrich your life however you see fit, just so long as you don’t spend the second half of my gift on anything so silly and boring as college, or worse… a savings plan, that is unless you want your dusty ol’ grandpa to come haunt you. (And don’t give any to Uncle Leon. It’s an inside joke between me and him that he gets nothing). Donate it; burn it, and laugh like you’re a comic book villain, go to Disney World, buy Disney World, or buy a billion popsicle sticks and construct a house bigger than your parents’ in the backyard… just so long as it enriches you, my dear. My sweet Faye, wise beyond your years… You deserve much more than this pile-a-bones can give you. Love, Grandpa.’” When Maggie and Gary finished reading the more evocative sections of the will and consoling their only daughter as much as they had themselves, their faces streaked with cathartic tears and lines of laughter, Gary left the room and came back with one more gift. He placed a small, black, Moleskin notebook in Faye’s hand with a taut nylon band wrapped around to keep shut. “What’s this?” Faye said. “This,” Gary said, “is your grandfather’s other gift to you. He told us not to open it and then he said in a grumpy voice—you know the voice, where he pretends not to love you, but you know he loves you more because he acts grumpy because he was born during the Great Depression—he said… ‘for Faye’s eyes only.’” Gary smiled. With hugs and kisses her parents left Faye alone in her room to contemplate her wealth, old and new. Sense and dollars, dollars, and sense. She cried, she laughed, she loved with all the mortal confusion in her 15-year-old heart. She had known what to do with the second half of the 20 thousand the moment her parents read her grandfather’s words, and was doubly sure when she received the notebook, which, in a rare fit of adolescent discipline despite her curiosity, she elected not to open. That is, until she’d properly enriched her life as she saw fit. The money was already working its peculiar magic. Soon, her life was to be enriched in that bittersweet, melancholy manner that so often accompanies a known family inheritance of which a vulnerable young girl is the recipient. Enriched by losing or writing off the people in her life who did not enrich her. Friends, who’d had the nerve to come to her birthday each year, and family who’d had the nerve to hold her when she was a baby, that then furtively or in a straightforward way suggested they were entitled to some of the money for some banal reason. She might have given them some had it not been for their haughty, gauche display of asking with an ominous subtext of demanding. And so, the unexpected fallout of her newfound wealth would have to inform how she made use of it. She split the ten-grand in half and divided that amongst her friends and family whom she remained grateful for. They were of course grateful to her in return after having refused the money multiple times with an ill-refined sense of civility and grace. For as long as she lived, these wonderful people always staked a warm place in Faye’s fondest memories. With the other half of the split half, she got to work on her grandpa’s list of suggestions. She donated one thousand dollars to a charity that went toward helping impoverished seniors. She burned a single dollar bill and reveled, then cackled maniacally, in watching it burn Halloween orange, night sky blue, and Christmas red. With the help of her father, she invested an insignificant sum in Disney World and lost the money as quick as she’d parted with it. She stowed $200 under her bed for her to spend on the family vacation next year when they all went to Disney World, but they came home early when they realized the road trip there was more fun than the destination. Then she bought an obscene amount of popsicle sticks and hot glued herself a small, lamp-sized house and placed it in front of an even smaller popsicle stick house that she labelled her parents’. Finally, she spent the remainder of her money on all the black, Moleskin notebooks she could find, and she got a great deal on them since she purchased in the kind of bulk that would make a small promotional products company fret their bottom line. It was with great care and great love that Fay Holbrook passed the years of her remaining youth, and the tumultuous but enriched years of adulthood, by filling the pages of thousands of black notebooks with imagined worlds, poems, songs, recipes, diary entries, to-do lists, reading lists, grocery lists, encoded messages, foreign languages, doodles, birthdays, sad days, happy days, latter-days, first kisses, last kisses, the big move; weddings, children, and grandchildren, and every other beautiful thing under the holy sky, and which she shared none of with Uncle Leon as an inside joke with him, her grandpa, and herself. With each passing year and with each completed notebook upon her black-spined shelf that acted like encyclopedias of day-to-day life and compendiums of otherworldly fiction, she pushed back the date when she could open her grandfather’s notebook to satisfy her curiosity. And her curiosity grew with her discipline in not opening it with every passing year, thanks to the good sense imparted to her by her loving parents, and to them by their parents. It was an ordinary day in June, not long after Faye Holbrook turned 65-years-old, that she filled the last of her pages from so long ago, with an idea for a short story she had about one of her grandchildren. With that, she ambled over to the sacred bookshelf and put the last completed notebook at the end of the top row, then walked to the other end of the long bookshelf to pick up the one her grandfather gave to her, the first on the bottom row. She undid the delicate nylon strap that had all but worn away in various moving boxes over the years. She turned to the inside cover to read the inscription. “My dearest Faye. I always knew you were a writer like your dusty ol’ grandpa. Fill these pages with the things that make you whole and keep from them the things that don’t. If I haven’t haunted you by now, you’ll know I approve. Love, Grandpa.” It was here that Faye swiped at her eyes with the sleeves of her plush sweater the way a child might. She sat in her favourite chair and wielded her favourite pen, her grandfather’s notebook in hand. It was time to write a story.


I grew up in a small community in Louisiana right on the river. We had many old wives’ tales, ghost stories and the occasional boogeyman. The tale that always fascinated me the most was the story of The Jabo. The legend goes that a man named Benjamin Jabo, a veteran of the Civil War, lived in the expansive forest that surrounded our community. He stayed to himself and never really ventured into town, preferring to live off the land. One winter, several people started going missing in the woods. A search party was formed, and they set out to look for the missing people. On the way, they decided to go out and check on Benjamin Jabo and tell him of the disappearances. When they reached his shack, they were invited inside where Benjamin was cooking a big pot of stew over the fire. “Well Ben, we were just comin’ to check on ya and let ya know ‘bout all them people that’s goin’ missing lately,” one of the men said. “Well, thank ya kindly boys, y’all find anything yet?” Ben asked. “No sir, and we been looking all damn day. I don’t rightly think we’re gonna find much if we find anything at all.” “I reckon a cougar got ‘em, its been a tough winter and I wouldn’t put it past a starving animal to go after anything that moves.” “Y’all have been out all day and I’m sure y’all ain’t had lunch, why don’t y’all sit a spell? I got plenty of stew.” Ben offered. So, all the men sat with old Ben Jabo in his shack and ate and ate and ate until all the stew was gone. “Why Ben,” the leader of the party said, “this is some of the best stew I ever had! What’s in it?” “Oh, just some squirrel and some plants from the forest,” Ben replied. One of the men went outside to relieve himself and, on the way back in, saw that the door to the smokehouse was slightly ajar. As he went over to close it, he got a good look in the door. Inside were bones and a few slop buckets of viscous red fluid and internal organs. Now none of this was out of the ordinary or even mildly concerning as it was winter, and you couldn’t very well leave it out without attracting predators. But what really chilled him to the bone was the three human ribcages on hooks hanging from the ceiling. He ran out as fast as he could and threw up. And that’s when it hit him, Old Ben had been having a hard winter and had resorted to hunting humans. And eating them. He ran in the shack and cried, “It’s him! He’s- he’s been EATING the missing people!” There was a brief scuffle, and the men carried Ben Jabo back to town to stand trial. Benjamin Jabo had gone crazy from isolation and PTSD. When he started having a hard time finding food, he resorted to hunting people from the community and eating them. He was found guilty and was hanged the next day. They took his body back to the shack and burned the whole place to the ground. And so, the legend of the Jabo was born. Every child in our town has heard the story at least once, and it’s said when anyone goes missing that the Jabo got them. I felt sorry for the man in a way. He was alone with no one to turn to. Sometimes, I liked to think that, if I had been alive then, that I could have been his friend and none of that would’ve happened. Through a lot of hard work and A LOT of saving, I had enough money to buy the parcel of land that the story supposedly took place on and decided to camp out there over the weekend. I invited a few people that I work with who are into the paranormal, and they jumped at the opportunity to be the first to investigate the place. I was glad of the company because even though I loved the legend; I was scared shitless about what we might see. As we made camp, Bill and Frank were setting up equipment to catch any signs of the Jabo or other strange things we might see. “Holy shit,” Sally said as they finished pitching the tent, “did y’all ever think that we’d get the chance to investigate this place? Let alone be the very first ones.” “No, this is like a dream come true,” Bill replied, “hunting the Jabo.” As night fell, we had a great time breaking some cold beer and swapping ghost stories. They decided it was time for them to start their ghost hunt, and I bid them goodnight as I got into my tent and drifted off to sleep. As I slept, I had horrible nightmares about the Jabo. He was a mountain of a creature with pale blue skin and soulless black pits where his eyes should be. He was chasing us, and he moved quick as lightning through the shadows surrounding us in the dying firelight. I watched in horror as he grabbed frank and ripped his throat out with his razor-sharp teeth, blood gushing out of the wound at a sickening pace. As we ran, Sally stumbled and fell, and he was on her in a blink. He was strangling her and, when she tried to push him off, started biting chunks of flesh off her arms, splintering bone as he went. Bill and I ran back to camp and as I opened the car door, I realized I couldn’t hear Bill behind me. I turned, and he was just standing there staring. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth as he sank to the ground and exposed the gaping meaty hole in his back. The Jabo stood behind him, holding Bill’s heart in his hand. When I woke up, I stepped out of my tent and into the bright morning light. I realized I was alone. I checked the tents, the car and the woods, but Frank, Bill, and Sally were nowhere to be found. As I returned to camp to pack up and go get help, I saw him. The Jabo stood by my tent. He looked just like I had dreamed, his impossibly tall frame dwarfing my 6’2” form. As I opened my mouth to scream, the Jabo spoke. “There is no need for that. No one would hear you anyway.” “Why did you kill them?!” I screamed at him. He shook his head and smiled, “I didn’t kill anyone,” he stated. And with that, he was gone. I stared with disbelief at the spot where he had stood. What did he mean, he didn’t kill anyone? If that was true, where were they? I headed to the car but stopped in my tracks when I saw Bill’s camera lying on the ground. It was dead, so I took it to the car and plugged it in. When it came back on, I saw there was video footage from last night. The first bit that I watched was part of the ghost hunting that was done last night. Then, there was movement in the corner of the screen and that’s when the screaming started. It was exactly how I had dreamt it. Down to every detail except… Bill. When he hit the ground, the camera tumbled out of his hand and faced the night sky. I caught my breath as the camera focused on the creature as it leaned over it, eating Bill’s heart. I let out a sob as I realized what was happening. I recognized the features instantly because they were my own. I guess that was why I always felt pity for Benjamin Jabo; we were one and the same. We knew what we were doing was wrong but, sitting there watching the video of me eating my friend’s heart, my mouth started to water.


"Dave? It's time to wake up, darling." Dave reluctantly opened his eyes. It was early morning, the sun just beginning to hint that it was rising. He was tired, yet satisfied. The lovely beauty beside him had been there all evening and night, and she had been the cause of both symptoms. *It was worth it.* They had met in the many meetings their group had held in the months before. He was immediately drawn to her, even to the point of distraction. That was uncharacteristic of him. He had always prided himself on his dedication and focus on his work. She undid him, and he couldn't have been happier about it. He had been pondering a life of solitude, especially since his "options", as it were, were about to be cut dramatically. "Do you want some eggs? Or maybe a waffle with bacon?" She asked with sweet eyes and a playful smile. "Why not both? I'll help you." We struggled to disentangle from the sheets and get to our feet. It took a great deal of effort to get his mind off of what he was seeing, but he finally did. As they putted about in the small yet fully equipped kitchen, the events of the last few weeks played back in his mind. They were, quite literally, life changing for him. Since the discovery of the wormhole phenomenon, dozens of habitable planets had been identified and colonized. Some were vast desert planets with the occasional oasis and massive mineral deposits, others were lush rainforests with enough arable land to feed multiple planets. Most, however, were something in between. Almost all were monoclimatic - a new term used to describe the planets that were composed of a single climate across the entire world. The laws of statistical probability indicated that while one of these planets was possible, having so many within technological reach was nigh impossible. That was a problem for other people though. His job was to build things. Houses, tables, barns, etc. He was to use as much of the local material as feasible. To that end Mars furnished him with a fully automated lumber mill. He had landed on a forest planet. He built this house first, to shelter himself and his smiling bride. There were ten thousand other colonists, so he was busy. The prefabricated homes the colony ship transported were sturdy, but not meant to last longer than ten years. He had that long to build a city. He wasn't the only carpenter, but he was the most motivated. It certainly beat his last job. Making widgets on Earth was monotonous and thankless. If those at the top of society only knew how much their life would suffer if not for the Unseen……… Who am I kidding? Even if they knew, they still wouldn't care. That's why I left. A life where you didnt matter compared to being a tamer of a new world? There isn't any real comparison. "Here, darling, I got your coffee the way you like it." "Thank you, my sweet." As I drank the dark, slightly sweet liquid, I reflected on the different lives we had lived, and how they brought us to the same place at the same time. She was born on the Martian plains, her parents were terrafarmers. They planted genetically modified plants that would, in turn, modify the atmosphere into a breathable oxygen and nitrogen mix. They planted vast portions of the planet. Just by themselves they increased the oxygen levels across the whole planet by 5%. They were well respected and financially stable. She had her pick of the best universities, only held back by her own ambitions. She was a free woman, in every respect of the phrase. She chose to study traditional economics. One of our elderly colonists called it "home economics", whatever that means. In practice it meant that she focused on cooking, making clothes, being a support to whomever she chose to commit to. She chose me. My path was a rougher one. I was born on Earth. My birth date and given name lost to the vast archives of the Health and Human Resources Department. No parents either. I assumed they didn't want me. I wouldn't want me either. I was always in trouble. The schools kept me only as long as they had to. The factories kept me as long as I was useful. I gained, then lost, too many promotions to count. My life was gray and monotone. Then one day, I looked up. I happened to catch a shuttle launching into the night sky. It captured my imagination. The next morning I immediately applied for any and every job that would take me off that rock. Every application was rejected. My carelessness at the factory was my undoing. I fell into a pit of despair. I stopped showing up to work. Then I stopped carrying my Identification Papers. I was becoming one of the Unseen. I had to get out. Through some morally questionable means, I secured transport aboard a cargo ship heading to Luna. From there, getting a seat to Mars was child's play, if that child had to bribe his way onto the playground. The captain of that ship had an old AI that he was using to regulate his plasma generator. Needless to say, that AI was as lonely as the guy sweeping the generator room. We talked. She told me of the wormholes. Of the colonies. Of the chance to escape from the drudgery that was persistently defining my life. The thought awoke something in me. A feeling of purpose, of adventure. I smiled. "What is that smile for?" Snapped back to the present, I could only look at her and say, "It's a beautiful day.


I wrote this for Furious Fiction, but sadly I didn't win, or even get on their short or long list. It has been edited slightly to be bang on 500 words. I hope you enjoy \*\*\* There was a deep sigh as he leaned back against the bench. He could see the sun beginning to rise over the horizon, lighting the sky. His mother was in the hospital behind him. She wouldn’t be watching the sunrise. It had been three months since she’d slipped into the coma. Three months of praying that she would wake up. Of late night sprints to the hospital when some part of her system failed, only to be brought back from the brink by the doctors and nurses. Of listening to the machines beep. Of machines breathing for her. The doctor had come to him yesterday. “Sir, I know you might not want to hear this.” She’d said. “But the patient, your mother, she may never wake up from this. It says here on her file that she didn’t want to be kept alive if she wasn’t conscious. You need to start thinking about letting her go.” “Letting her go?” He’d roared in return. “Letting my mother go? It’s not as if she can just wake up if the machines are taken away. You’re asking me to *kill* my own mother.” “Sir, no. We’re not asking you to do that. We are informing you of her wishes. We will leave the decision with you.” The doctor had left, and he’d stayed at his mother’s bedside that night, holding her hand and running his thumb over the soft skin. He hated how she looked, tucked into the stark white sheets, her hair neatly pinned back. Her hair was supposed to be free, to hang about her face and get in her eyes. A bell rang in the morning air and he turned to watch a bicycle fly past, a woman, her hair loose and her feet bare. A woman who could have been his mother when she was younger. Their eyes met, and she smiled at him, her eyes crinkling at the corners. Then she was gone and around the corner. He stood, slowly making his way back to the hospital. There was a peace in his chest that hadn’t been there before. Perhaps she’d only had a passing resemblance to his mother, it was hard to tell with how fast she was going, but he believed that it was his mother, telling him that it was okay. The nurse on duty handed him a clipboard and a pen. He skimmed the words, his pen finding the page and leaving his signature at the bottom. Then he went back to his mother’s side, took her hand in his. The room was quiet now, without the beeping, without the hiss of the machines. But it did not feel dead. He cried when she passed on. As all children do when they lose a beloved parent. But he could still feel her fingers in his hair, comforting him. He could feel the warmth of her kiss on his cheek. It told him that she was still there, watching over him, as she always had.


Narrator of unspecified gender for easier reader insert ————————————————————————— My father was always an imposing person, tall and dark haired, with a piercing judgmental gaze. He had a tendency to look at people from under his brow, giving him an almost constant glaring look. He was quiet, almost to the point of muteness and preferred books and solitude over parties or socializing. He was by no means wimpy looking, rather a strong quiet aura seemed to radiate off him. He had many dislikes, and was distasteful of people in general, always finding a flaw he did not like in anyone he met. As a child I was always a bit fearful of my father, yet I yearned for one of his rare smiles to shine on me. My mother always smiled. She seemed to light up a room wherever she went, and everyone loved her. Why she would marry (let alone fall in love with!) such a gloomy pessimistic loner, no one knew. They had met in college, as many couples do, and from what I understand my father found my mother insufferable at first. Why was she always smiling? Why did she show such an interest in him, in everybody? It confused and annoyed him, why was this girl not taking his many hints? He refused to be some popular girl’s pet or charity case. It took a long time for him to realize that she was genuine, her actions were not driven by greed, but by a genuine interest in whatever she was doing. He soon fell in love and so did she. Now, it would have been such a romantic and heartwarming story if it had ended right there. His heart was thawed by her warmness and he became a better person because of it right? No, unfortunately that wasn’t the case. He was still the same, cynical and people hating , disliked many things and scowled more often than smiled. It was just now...there was a glaring exception; my mother. Picnic dates and going to the movies, things he would have normally scoffed at, he endured just to see her smile and laugh. Don’t get the wrong idea, he didn’t suffer through these things for my mother, he was many things, but a pushover was not one of them. I am fully confident that if he had truly wanted to, he would have objected. No, just the simple act of doing the normally annoying and insufferable activities with my mother, he enjoyed it. Such was my mother’s and father’s love; un-understandable for everyone but still strong and true, nonetheless. My father never wanted children. Why would he? Annoying screaming babies that grow into brats that grow into ungrateful selfish adults. But he did have a child, me. I suppose he figured that he could endure it if my mother was alongside him. I think he thought that his enjoyment he shared with my mother could be transferred to me. Perhaps. And anyway, my mother desperately wanted a child. How could he say no? I was born a spitting image of my mother, down to her light eyes and pale complexion. We smiled the same, we laughed the same, we talked the same. Everyone always connected us as familial at a glance. While my father looked more like he was some kidnapper when it was just me and him. His dark aura didn’t help at all. We may have looked like an odd family, but regardless, we were happy. As a very small child I felt that my father viewed me with distaste, but as I grew, I thought I could feel him thaw more and more. His small smiles seemed to grow more frequent the more I grew. I don’t think he loved me yet, but it seemed he was coming around. Who knows, maybe he would have loved me one day. Maybe I would have grown through my teenage years with a father and not a stranger. We will never know. Because my mother died when I was 11. And the second she died so did my father’s budding love for me. My endearing traits, traits that reminded him of my mother, became a curse. No longer did it make me easier to love because it reminded him of his love for her. All he saw when he looked at me was his dead wife. A constant reminder of her missing from his life, and his hatred for me became palpable. “How dare they.”, he seemed to seethe. “How dare they live and thrive, while she rots in the ground” I knew he wished it was me instead of her.


I sit in a cage above the sea. My only connection to the kingdom above is the rope that suspends me. My legs hang through the bars, free to swing along with the tempo of the waves below. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I can feel the ocean air as it travels to my lungs, taking my problems away momentarily, sending me down to the beach below. My eyes suddenly sting from the salt water, my skin burns from the sun. The hustle and bustle of the lively kingdom above is not muffled, as if I’m much farther away, and I allow my brain to muffle it even more, ignoring it in lieu of the sound of the ocean waves crashing against the shore. I flex my toes, moving the sand below me. I take a step, letting my feet be submerged. Walking forward, I feel every cell in my skin rejoicing. I go to dip my hands in the cool water, splashing my face with it and momentarily relieving the pain of my sunburnt skin. I wander farther into the sea, giving no mind to the fact that my clothes were becoming drenched. I lean back, letting myself float aimlessly, not caring that I seemed to be meandering farther and farther from the shore, no, in fact, I welcomed the vast ocean as a father, a caretaker, a mother, a home. Breathing a sigh of contentment, I go to stand, finding that my feet can no longer reach the sand. For a second I begin to worry, and as I turn to see that the beach is miles away, a wave hits me. I go sprawling forward, breaking the surface of the ocean and sinking quickly, finding that it seems to be getting farther and farther away from me, not just at a normal rate, but almost as if someone is forcing me downward. Immediately I feel the burning of suffocation inside of me. My lungs scream from within and my chest threatens to collapse as my hands desperately attempt to grip the air that is long above me. Finally, I hit the ocean floor, and the impact is so fast that it forces the remaining air from my lungs. I desperately need to breathe, but I don’t want to. I lay on the empty, vast ocean floor, fighting against my body, clinging to the sand, vainly begging my lungs to accept the gift of water in lieu of air, pleading with them to *just let me have this, just let me drown*. Against my own will, I gasp, air filling my lungs. I open my eyes, and my heart sinks. My feet are not wet. My eyes do not burn. The sound of the kingdom above me fills my ears to an almost unbearable level of noise, and I cover my ears with my hands. I sigh and lean against the bars to catch my breath, so that I may soon return to the ocean below.


(WP) A Mind is a Terrible Thing to Waste At the beginning of the Jewel Revolution, scientists were overjoyed when they discovered that the precious gems could be used as artificial brains for machines equipped with AI programming. But no one could have ever guessed the drawback that this boon held in the end. Depending on which stone was used to serve as the being’s brain, it developed a personality, and this quickly got out of control. After all, our government had implemented this technology to make life easier for humanity. It really threw a monkey wrench into things when the robots suddenly became the complete opposite of docile. It wasn’t just personality that these beings were suddenly given: It was free will. They’d been made to serve us, but now, they were sure that their purpose lied elsewhere. Even the threat of taking away the thing that made them almost human did little to quell their discontent. It got so bad that several of them were rounded up and executed, as a warning to others to keep in mind the directive. My team was one of the few to object: They might have been machines, but it was still wrong to be this cruel to them. “If you cannot serve the purpose you were created for, you will be terminated,” A toneless voice boomed over the square. The voice was so dead, so emotionless, that if I didn’t know better, I would have thought that the AIs were giving the announcements. But no, that was my boss, the man that had discovered how to use the jewels to form dependent neural systems. When I’d first entered the scientific community, I’d looked up to him, had leapt at the chance to work under him. He was using science and innovation to change the world and make humanity better. But I’d quickly discovered that humanitarian front was just that: a lie. He talked a big game, threw giant checks at the right people, made television appearances, gave lectures and speeches. But it was my team, fresh out of college, that did all of the grunt work. No one really minded except for me; for most of us, it was good enough just to be in his orbit. I’d wanted to leave, but one of my government contacts convinced me to stay on; who better than one of the man’s own subordinates to report on the inside details? If I didn’t hate the man, I would’ve balked. But if this helped get him out of power, out of this position over man and machine, I was more than willing to do it. Scientists were supposed to make the world better with their discoveries, not use their power to oppress others. What good was I to my profession and to my people if I didn’t right this wrong? And it wasn’t just semantics, though everyone loved to pretend it was. ‘What does it matter? They’re not human, anyway. Who cares?’ I cared, and other people did too.


The Yellow Dog Tavern A morning like any other. That’s how Erik always begins this story. The sound of roosters signal the start of a new day. The smell of morning dew and and smoldering embers fill the room behind the Yellow Dog Tavern. With a stretch and a yawn tavern keeper Erick Addler rouses himself and starts his morning routine. He washes the sleep from his face with the brisk water from the basin by the now open window. First thing’s first, get the fire started in the large hearth at the back of the taver and begin brewing the day’s first coffee. Erick preferred his coffee with a healthy dose of fresh milk and sugar, just like his mother used to make. Once the coffee finishes, he breaks his fast with a hot plate of eggs and sausage. With a full stomach and the morning stiffness warmed from his bones it was finally time to get to work, starting with chopping wood. People come to taverns to end their day in comfort and good company and this far north even in the summer you need a fire to stop you from freezing let alone be comfortable. After a couple hours of chopping enough wood to last through the day and into the night, it was time to start the kitchen fire and bring up the casks from the cellar. Erick always kept his finer drinks in the cellar not just because the cellar kept them nice and cool, but also because the cellar has only one way in and out and it always stays locked. Brightwood, named after the large brightwood tree at it’s center, is a small hamlet and none of the denizens would ever even think about robbing the Yellow Dog. However Brightwood also sits directly on the main road leading from the far north straight to the capital farther South which means The Yellow Dog sees more than its fair share of travelers. Once the preparations were done and the food was nearly ready, the day’s first patrons walked through the door at noon and were greeted by the smell of wood smoke, cooking meat, and Erick’s warm, welcoming, smile. A group of four, they were unfamiliar to Erick, a tan skinned older man slightly grizzled with a cropped beard and well kempt hair. Two younger men probably in their early twenties both clean shaven, if shaven at all, one with the sides of his head shaven and a short patch of hair on top, the other with shoulder length hair loosely pulled back in a half ponytail. And a young woman, also early twenties with her hair cut short and a short pink fresh scar under her right cheek. All four armed and lightly armored, but bearing no banners or coat of arms, clearly mercenaries. It was fairly common for mercenaries to pass through Brightwood on their way to the capital in search of work. Erick greeted them with “Welcome to the Yellow Dog, we got a pig on the spit and nice cool ale fresh from the cellar. Find a seat by the fire and give me a shout when you’re ready. Name’s Erick”. “‘Preciate it Erick” the older man said with a rough voice as he sat at a table near the fire and pulled out a short, well worn, pipe. They ordered a round of ale and four plates of the pork to start. As the day went on people came and went, some regulars but mostly travelers during the day. The regulars didn’t really start to pour in till the sun started to set and the day’s work was done. Erick loved that part of the day. He loved seeing his friends and helping them enjoy a well deserved break at the end of their long and strenuous days. Erick also enjoyed the fact that he had recently found that the Yellow Dog was making enough money to hire someone to help serve drinks and cook during the later, busier hours. This meant that Erick could now spend most of his nights drinking and talking with the people he had known and loved since he was a small child. Today, however, was different. His friends wouldn’t stop by the Dog tonight. Just a few hours after the first patrons of the day walked through the door Erick heard something he would go on to describe as “It sounded like the sky itself had been smashed asunder.” Everyone ran outside and looked around till they saw the southern sky. A purple green pulsing light filled the sky above what Erick knew in his heart to be the capital, despite it being a three day ride away at least. Immediate panic filled Brightwood. What was that noise? What was that column of light pulsing in the sky? Was it truly the capital, and if so is everyone alright? Is anyone alright? Erick felt compelled to go to the capital and see for himself, but Erick was a tavern keeper not a fighter. Brightwood wasn’t exactly known for its military might. They had a town guard, of course, but now didn’t seem like the best time to leave the guard short handed. “The mercenaries!” Erick thought. “I could hire the mercenaries to go to the capital and relay whatever news they can find.”. “You lot, you’re all mercenaries, yes?” “Aye, what of it?” replied the girl. “How much would it cost for you to ride to the capital and bring back work of what happened?” “Sounds easy enough.... 40 silver. 20 now and 20 upon our return.” said the older man. “I suppose I don’t have many options, 40 is fair.” Erick reached into his coin purse and produced the 20 silver. “Hurry if you can.” “We’ll leave now.”. Erick watched as the mercenaries mounted their horses and rode hard South toward the lights in the sky. Erick never did see them again. But, regardless, Brightwood soon learned what happened that evening when the sky was torn open.


The first time that I remember seeing them, I was five and my sister wouldn’t give me the time of day. At first, they were just vaguely humanoid shapes that I’d notice just out of my peripheral vision. I’m not going to lie, they scared the shit out of me for a while there but, as time passed, they became less skittish and I less wary. The first one I saw up close was a little woman about four inches tall. She had green skin, yellow hair, and white eyes. I don’t just mean the irises were white, she had no pupil and no irises like her eyes had rolled to the back of her head. I had been outside playing in the garden and she had lighted on the grass next to me. She slowly creeped towards me, almost as if testing the waters. I sat there unsure of what to do. As she reached out her hand to touch me, my mother called to me from the back door. “Honey, lunch is ready!” The little being grinned, waved, and took off into the bushes. After that incident, I went to the garden everyday to look for my new friend. When a week went by without so much as a glimpse of her, I started leaving little trinkets in hopes that they would coerce her to come out. Two weeks later, my sister had some friends over and they had banished me to the other end of the garden claiming that I was a little kid and would ruin their fun. As I stood by the bushes pouting at the unfairness of it, a little voice called out, “Have you brought me more presents?” Startled, I whirled around to find the green lady peeking out of the bushes. “I-I don’t have anything else for you,” I said as I lay on my stomach to be level with her. “Is that why you’re crying?” she asked. I furrowed my brow. “My sister and her friends won’t let me play with them because they say I’m too little,” I explained. She cocked her head to the side and smirked. “Would you like to make them notice you?” I shrugged and quick as lighting she had moved to the other side of the garden and knocked into the stone birdbath the girls were sitting by. It seemed to fall in slow motion and fell right onto one of the girls’ legs with a sickening thud and audible snap. Screams erupted, the girl was crying, and my dad ran out and immediately lifted the birdbath. There was so much red, and her leg was bent at an awkward angle. The sight that forever haunts me was the bone protruding from the girl’s shin as my father carried her to the car. None of the girls ever came over again. After that, I didn’t venture back into the garden alone and I ignored any shadows that flickered just in my line of sight. It all changed when I was 14 and my sister was 18. We got along well enough even though she was a cool senior and I was her dorky freshman sister. She was going through her “partying stage” (at least that’s what my parents called it) and, since they didn’t like her going out alone and unsupervised, I was routinely drafted to be her chaperone and report and suspicious activity. They figured she wouldn’t get into so much trouble if she had her little sister to take care of. Boy were they wrong. I somehow turned into the (underaged) designated driver for her and her senior friends Stacy and Olivia. Some of the seniors were having a party in the woods just outside of town and lucky me got dragged along. She was talking to some boy by the fire and I went to get a drink. At parties my sister always made sure that I stayed in her line of sight, so it was weird when I turned around and she was nowhere to be seen. As I walked further from the party to the edge of the woods, I could just barely make out voices in the trees. I looked closer and realized it was my sister and a tall lithe boy. And I know what you’re thinking, “Why are you following your sister and some boy away from a party in the middle of the night? Don’t you know what they’re probably going to go do?” But trust me, what really happened was much worse. I followed a little way behind them and struggled not to make any sound as he deftly led my sister through the forest. They weaved through the trees…no the trees seemed to bend out of the way for them. That’s when I noticed that the night had gone deathly quiet. I barely had time to grind to a halt as they stopped at the edge of a clearing. She seemed to be stuck at the wood line as the boy went further in and stopped dead center. He beckoned her forward with his hand and I saw him muttering something. I figured this would be as good a time as any for chaperone little sister to break in. I yelled her name and the boy’s head snapped towards me. I marched up to my sister and pulled on her arm, but she wouldn’t budge. Slowly she turned her head to face me and I realized then that her eyes were a milky white. Eerily like the little woman in the garden. The boy stared at me as he called her name once more and she started to walk towards him. I was screaming at her at this point and pulling her arm so hard that I thought it might pop out of its socket. But this didn’t seem to phase her. As we neared the boy, I noticed that he was standing in the middle of a perfect circle of toadstools. I jerked back as if by some primal instinct and my body screamed at me to get the hell out of dodge. I realized my mistake seconds later and reached out for my sister again. Just as I touched her, her foot crossed the line and she vanished. I stared in horror at where my sister had been only moments before and slowly looked towards the boy. He cocked his head and smirked. “What the hell did you do with her,” I screamed at him. He stayed silent for a moment and his next words chilled me to the bone. “She is mine now. You could join her. Would you give me your name?” I paced outside the toadstool ring. “I don’t know what the hell you’re playing at, but I swear to God I’ll call the cops,” I threatened. His features shown confusion and quickly morphed to glee. “You have the Green Sight!” he chirped. And then he laughed and laughed and laughed. Tears of frustration pooled in my eyes. He stopped and straightened. He looked at me stoically and said, “I will not take you tonight. You will remember while others forget. But only for a while. I will come back for your name one day little one, when you no longer remember and when your Sight fails you.” And with that, he was gone. That was years ago. I am old now and I know my time is coming. I can feel it in my bones. I still live in the house that I grew up in, hoping it would help me remember. Its fuzzy sometimes but every now and then I’ll look into the garden and see green skin, yellow hair, and milky eyes staring back. They know what’s coming too. There are no photographs of her. It’s like she never existed outside of my mind. Even now, she fades, and I’m so far gone that I can’t remember her name. He took it with him, as he’s taken others and as he’ll take mine too.


The eleven year itch. TV has a different quality when you’re sick. It’s not as comforting as it usually is. It drags, hurts her with every commercial. She watches Dr Phil, then Maury, then Entertainment Tonight. She flicks through channels, trying to find something to distract her. TV’s big promise is that it can be your friend, you can laugh with it, cry with it. She doesn’t own Netflix or Hulu. She is old fashioned in that way, she doesn’t have the internet either. She uses it at work, but doesn’t necessarily trust it. With the internet there’s no filtering process, everything and anything could be thrown at you. Pornography, beheading videos, gambiling websites, viruses. All this scares her, the randomness of it all. She remembers clearly her niece telling her a story of a time when she had been playing a game online and a scary face had flown out at her. This scary face had flashed with no warning and just filled the screen. Kelly knows that if that ever happened to her she would die inside, she would scream and scream until she ran out of life. If there is going to be a scary face on TV, there will be a warning. A stern voice will tell you that “Parental guidance is recommended” or that this show “ Is for mature audiences”. With TV, although there is no control, the programming has been designed by someone. A programmer has considered what will play. She is in the most marketed to age group 18 to 35. With the internet you have no control, and no one has planned it, the internet just keeps going whether you want it to or not. When she gets out the vodka bottle she has to dust it off. She rubs it clean with a dish rag, grey specs fall off it to pile into the sink. She pours a small glass, then drinks it straight. The moment is over quick, no graduality to it. She feels like a bridge, a big steel bridge with exactly one beam missing, every day cars drive over her, these cars are the general pressure of life. All the tiny but monumental tribulations and humiliations of being a human. These include but are not limited to periods, traffic, headaches, stomach troubles ( Being too full and too empty, the twin pains), acne breakouts, clothes making her look fat, awkward silences, random eye contact, laughing too loud at someone’s joke and much, much more. All these annoying little niggles, that everyone deals with are like cars driving over her. And as the TV commercials got too boring, the bridge collapsed. With one vodka comes two, then three, then the whole bottle, then the sponsor breaking the door down after seeing you through your window, then the ambulance ride, then the stomach pump. When she wakes up in the uncomfortable bed it feels like someone has shoved a fire poker down her throat, she coughs and realises that she’s drained and dehydrated. She can hear her brother near her, he’s on the phone. “ The dumb cunt’s only gone and fucking killed herself.” he says into the phone. “ What?” “ No she’s not actually dead it’s an expression, she’s alive but she’s still out, Soph I thought we were past this.” She should be offended by this, her own brother calling her that, but it isn’t the first time and in a way he is right, it’s all her fault, no one else's. Technically she could blame her neighbour, for giving her the bottle which did her in, she could blame the cold that made her stay home from work, or even blame the television programmer for putting such boring ads. But the neighbour didn’t know better, she had given it to her as a moving in present and she hadn’t thrown it or poured it down the sink. She probably could have gone to work, sure her throat was sore and her nose was blocked but what was that compared to this. Maybe if she had just adapted, gotten a netflix account, then she wouldn’t have been bored by those ads, those horrible monotonous ads. As they are driving back from the hospital her brother tells her so many cliched things that she’s dangerously close to rolling her eyes or sighing. She fights the urge though, cause that would make him explode, he’d call her a cunt, a drunk, a waste of space, time and energy, a waste of life and talent, and he’d be right. These things he would say wouldn’t hurt her, she had accepted those long ago. She knew that he would feel bad though, he probably had never called another woman a cunt, she never saw him so full of rage. The reason she doesn’t sigh or roll her eyes, but only nods and looks sorrowful is because of him. If he explodes, he will feel terrible, there will be the horribly awkward silence on the drive home then the few days of respite, before he calls her. He will cry on the telephone, tell her sorry, how sorry he is for hurting her and calling her names. And even though she knows this is terrible, it’s non the less true that when she gets these phone calls she is bothered and annoyed. She feels that he shouldn’t get to play both sides, call her a cunt then comfort her. She feels annoyed that he feels so obliged to her, she doesn’t want to let him down, but would rather do that then let him down, then let him apologize to her for it. Kelly has gotten adept at sensing what face people are pulling on the phone. She can tell from people’s tone, the subtle shifts and lulls in their voices, the words emphasized, and the pauses. When she first got out of rehab all the phone calls were outgoing, she would be reaching out to people to talk, to ‘ catch up’ as her mother used to say. When ever the phone connected and she spoke there would be a pause, as if who she was calling had received a call from a ghost. Then they give a hesitant hello, that rises up in tone at the end which tells you that it’s actually a question. Kelly knew her that at this point the person would be rolling their eyes, unsure how to feel. And when you answer back hello the second hello is triumphant and soaring. A hello with an exclamation mark as if to compensate for the question. Their face would remain the same though, The chat is so overbearingly happy that it annoys you, you almost want them to burst into tears and feel sorry for you, almost. This overhappy response is precisely the second worse response someone could have to someone coming out of addiction. But the feeling sorry for you is the worst, the one time this has happened to her confirmed it for her. It had been Naomi, a friend from her public relations degree, bubbly Naomi, always too friendly, like an overeager dog that drools in your lap from excitement. Naomi hadn’t burst into tears, she had felt sorry for her though. “ Oh you poor petal.” She said. At this point Kelly hung up the phone. There’s a thirty second delay and then the phone rings again, and it’s her, Naomi, the overeager dog wants to call back to drool more. She grabs the phone, ripping it straight from the wall, and she smashes it against the wall, smashes it until chips of black plastic fly off. She had slumped to the ground, black phone in hand. As her brother drives her home, she remembers all of this, all the painful phone calls after rehab. When they get inside Sophie is waiting for them. She’s a big woman, not fat, but she certainly takes up space, occupies a room. When her brother first got together with her, she had wondered why. But one night when they had locked gazes she understood. She had warm brown eyes, like a cow’s. Those eyes were always smiling, they would take you in and make you feel wanted. When ever she looked into her sister in laws eyes she feels better, no matter how dire the situation. She feels loved. She just imagines what it’s like for her brother, getting to see those eyes all day and wake up next to them. This is why her brother loves this woman, he may have a hundred other reasons but she knows this is the true reason. Sophie is dressed up, in a lovely brown dress which suits her figure well. She has a job interview. It reminds Kelly f the time when she vowed she would never drink again. She was 21 years old, she and three colleagues Jane, Ruby and Alex had been out celebrating. They had just finished a campaign for breast cancer, and it was received well . They are all dressed in cocktail dresses, Kelly in a peach one. They had just been profiled for a major magazine, under the headline ‘ The New Woman Of PR’. The four of them had stood looking fiercely into the camera, sophisticated and intelligent. They were at an upscale cocktail bar. The bar had ridiculously sexual names for cocktails. Kelly remembers blushing slightly at the titles, but the other girls had ordered them confidently. She was the least confident in the group… until she got some alcohol into her. By the time she had had four glasses of something called a ‘Cocksucking cover girl’. A gaudy pink drink with a high alcohol content, she’s on a roll. She would order more but the girls are hinting they want to leave, and she figures that she can drink at home anyway. As they leave the fancy bar, down a set of concrete steps, Kelly is in the front, rushing ahead laughing. Her white heels crack on the last step and she trips, she lands roughly on her left hand. The pain blooming there is so intense she pukes. She sprays pink all over her peach cocktail dress. She rolls onto her back, and looks up at her friends. As she realises that she has actually hurt herself ( it will later be diagnosed as a sprained ankle and a fractured wrist), she feels it. A stream of urine flows down her leg. She is laying on the ground, in her own vomit,and now piss is streaming down her leg. She looks down between her legs then back up at her friends. She sees the three of them there and she knows that she never wants to drink again, actually that’s not true. She knows that she never wants to be drunk again. Never wants another hangover or drunken stumble, never wants to be bent on her knees over a toilet and firing chunks into the bowl. Alex, who is wearing bright neon yellow, laughs, and she points, actually points like a bully in a cartoon, she grabs her stomach. She's laughing so hard. Ruby, adorned in a cocktail dress the same colour as a ‘ Cock sucking covergirl’ looks down at her and smirks. Ruby has always hated her, Kelly knew it and this proves it. Jane is the worst. Jane is the only one who she thinks of as an actual friend, the only one that she will stay in contact with. Jane looks at her with a mix of pity and disgust. It was after that that she went to rehab, and it was hard as hell, she never tries to tell people how hard it was, because it will sound cliche and self pitying but it was. It was physically, psychologically and spiritually draining, she felt like she was broken down and built up again, several times. At times she thought of suicide, just to end the process. If she were dead she wouldn’t have to worry. Rehab was terrible, but once it was done, about a year after, she felt content. Sure there was the awkwardness of phone calls, and the pitying looks she would get from people, but it was a piece of cake compared to the hell of rehab. But as the years of rehab went by it faded. They often say that long term alcoholics forget how bad it was. She didn’t forget, she couldn’t. How do you forget the worst thing in your life? So this is why as she is fearful when she is sitting on the couch with her brother and his lovely, cow-eyed wife. In three seconds eleven years of hard work went down the toilet. As she was drinking the vodka down she didn’t once think of all the heartache it would cause. This is why she feels a deep despair. Because even if she survives 11 years what’s to say that it won’t all happen again, in three seconds of blind craziness she will drink and be back at the beginning of the horrible cycle. What if she makes it to twenty years? Twenty one years? It’s the same really. She is 99 percent sure she will never relapse, but then again before the boring TV ad and vodka fiasco she had been 99 percent sure. She will always be 99 percent sure. You are always an addict, no one used to be an addict. For the rest of her life the cars will keep coming, she will need to build the bridge and hope all the beams are there, but you never know and you never will.