# Boiler Room **A high school girl bullied for having an abortion finds refuge and a new friend in the boiler room of her school. But when the kids at school find out, her trouble only gets worse.** *Written by Gregory Patrick Travers* Slut. Whore. Baby killer. The horrible names they called her and their cold, piercing stares remained burned in her brain, playing over and over in her head on repeat. When she was in class, when she was at her locker, when she was in the bathroom--there was nowhere Stacey was safe. Even the teachers at St.Mary’s seem to follow her with their eyes when she was in the hallways, standing at the threshold of their classrooms with their arms crossed, looking down on her. The librarian scanned her books a little slower than she did the rest of the students. The lunch lady splattered her mash potatoes onto her tray with a little more apathy than she did the rest of the lunch line. Even the creepy old janitor, who the children had given the nickname "Old Man Frankenstein", due to his limp leg that dragged behind him as he walked, seemed to stare at Stacey deeply whenever they crossed paths. And she could read their thoughts. They all were the same: *That’s the girl who had an abortion.* But it was on a cold, snowy day in February that a series of events were put in motion that would change the lives of everyone at St.Mary’s forever… The day started out quieter than most. Due to the blizzard outside, many of the students had decided to stay home, wrapped in a warm blanket, sipping hot chocolate and letting thoughts of tests and grades take a backseat to the pleasures of daytime television. But in the hallways of St.Mary's, those who were forced to attend their classes that day did so with heavy feet and little patients. Stacey walked toward her chemistry class, her books close to her chest and her eyes on the floor. This way she could protect her books from being swatted at while avoiding the rows of eyeballs lit up on each side of her like lights on an airport runway. If Stacey had been looking straight ahead, she may have seen the three girls approaching with Stacey dead in their sights. It was Tori, honor student and captain of the senior girls' volleyball team, and her sidekicks: Sarah and Veronica. Knowing how the girls felt about her, Stacey would have perhaps avoided the brash shoulder that came her way when Tori blew past. “Watch it, slut,” said Tori. Stacey’s books fell to the floor. A group of kids, boy and girl alike, started to gather around them with grins on their faces. Sarah and Veronica were showing teeth. Stacey kept her eyes on the floor, knelt down and started to pick up her books. “Real mature, Tori,” said a boy from the crowd. Stacey was surprised to look up and, of all people, see Logan Davis coming to her defense. They never talked. Stacey didn't even know he knew she existed. He was a popular hockey player and she was just…Stacey. Naive, stupid, Stacey. He knelt down beside her and helped her gather her books. The crowd disbanded. Tori and her sidekicks walked on. “Hey, grade eleven math. I’m in that class too,” he said. Stacey pulled herself from the floor and looked up to see Logan's well-chiseled face and beaming blue eyes gazing back at her. She hated jocks but always thought Logan was something different. He was kind. You could see it in his smile. *A smile will get you every time*, she thought to herself. But she remained cool as ice. “Uh…yeah. I know.” “Don’t mind Tori,” he said as they got to their feet and he handed her back her textbook. “She can be a real devil sometimes.” “Thanks,” said Stacey, tucking her hair behind her ear before returning to a double handed squeeze on her books. “Can I walk you to class?” Logan asked. Stacey almost didn’t understand the question. “Uh…yeah. Sure. Thanks.” As they walked, Stacey could once again feel the stares burning a hole through her back. This time though, they were all thinking about something else. They were thinking the same thing Stacey was thinking: *What is Logan doing walking with* her*?* Logan didn’t seem to notice. Stacey guessed he must be used to it. He got looked at a lot, too. “Today’s the first playoff game for the hockey team,” he said as they went. “I play on the hockey team.” Stacey couldn’t help but roll her eyes and grin ever so slightly. “I know. You’re wearing the team jacket.” He looked down at his red letterman. “Oh yeah…” he chuckled. “You ever come watch?” She told him she hadn't, but that was a lie. She had been to a game once before, with Steve. The night that changed her life forever… Steve had snuck in a small flask of vodka and they passed it back and forth, high up in the stands. To keep warm, he said. By the third period the contents of the flask was gone, and so were they. Going back to Steve’s car seemed harmless. The backseat seemed exciting. But three weeks later, it all came crashing down. Everyone knew Stacey’s name after that. The girl who aborted her baby. The family cast out. The friendless. The unloved. And as for her babysitting career, the one thing she actually enjoyed in her dismal teenage years, no one in town was about to hire a baby killer to look over their precious gifts from God while they were away. “You should come,” said Logan, breaking her from her trance. The invite stunned her. Every fiber of her being told her to say no. But that smile of his. Those kind blue eyes. *There really was something different about him*, Stacey thought. “Sure,” she said. And for the first time in a long time, Stacey smiled. At lunch, Stacey would eat her sandwich and fruit in the boiler room below the school. For one thing, it was by far the warmest place in the institution in what was one of the coldest winters in years. And for another, it let her eat in peace. There was no one watching, no one pointing or snickering. *Having people stare at you while you eat is like having people stare at you while you pee*, she thought. It's perverted. It was nice and quiet down there, with the exception of the whoosh from the water pipes and the random hisses and clanks that always followed. Even the reject *sounds* of the school found their way down to the boiler room for a little escape from the busy bodies above. Their sporadic company gave Stacey comfort and put her at ease. Warm and quiet. Just the way Stacey liked it. As she drained the small carton of its last drops of chocolate milk, she heard the faint jingling of keys. Then came silence for a moment before the jingle of keys returned once again, only louder this time. The jingles soon were accompanied by a gritty scraping sound, like something heavy dragging on the floor. Someone was coming. Stacey's first instinct was to hide behind the boiler, but she had burned herself on it her first time down and didn't want to live through that pain again. Before she could think of another plan, a figure, hunched over and pale, emerged from behind a row of pipes. *Old Man Frankenstein.* Surprisingly, Stacey was relieved it was him. At least *he* was harmless. The principal, on the other hand, was just looking for a way to suspend her from school. She relaxed and went back to her sandwich. “What are you doing down here?” he grunted. He pointed at her with the wrench in his hand, his limp leg dragging behind him. “Eating my lunch,” Stacey replied simply. “Well, I can see that,” said the custodian, not very amused at her reply. “You’re not supposed to be down here. It’s dangerous. What’s wrong with the cafeteria?” “It’s even more dangerous for me up there.” Deciding to carry on with his business anyhow, Old Man Frankenstein headed to a long vertical pipe near the boiler, grunting as he went, muttering something Stacey couldn’t understand. “Besides,” said Stacey. “It’s nice down here.” “It’s too damn hot…” Stacey watched the old man struggle to turn the valve on the pipe. After some harsh coughs and some sweat, he managed to get it going. Stacey's first instinct was to applaud the man, but she was still holding her sandwich. “I don’t know…I like it,” she said. The old man spun his head around and yelled at her. “Now, I’m serious! You can be badly hurt down here, you need to get gone, ya hear?” Stacey didn’t budge. “I know…burnt myself pretty bad on that boiler.” She pointed to the mammoth metal keg-barrel casing, with all its dials, valves, and industrial bolts. “That thing’ll getcha.” The man retreated back to his pipe. “You’re damn right. That thing will burn a face clean off.” *What a strange thing to say*, thought Stacey. “You’re not going to tell on me, are you?” she asked, swallowing a mouth full of PB and J. “How come you ain’t scared of me, like the rest of those students?” he asked her abruptly. "Why would I be?" asked Stacey, wishing she had have made that carton of chocolate milk last a little bit longer. Peanut butter was sticking to the back of her throat. "Most of you are. I hear what they call me. Old Man Frankenstein. They look at me like I'm some kind of freakshow." “Are you?” “Most underpaid freakshow in all the land, then, I suppose.” “I know what it’s like, you know…to be looked at like a freakshow.” “Is that why you’re down here?” Stacey nodded, biting into her sandwich. “And what makes you so scary?” he asked. “You don’t look that scary to me.” Stacey was surprised he hadn't heard. *What's one more?* she thought. “I had an abortion.” He stared at her for a moment, the same way he would stare when they passed each other in the halls. Then he snorted and shook his head as if a fly had flown in his face, suddenly becoming stern. “If you ask me, you all are too young for that kind of stuff. Now, you’re gonna ruin your life acting like that, ya hear me?” Stacey immediately regretted opening up to him and shoved what little of her sandwich was left into her lunch bag. "Forget it. Never mind. I'll leave you to your precious boiler room." She put her lunch bag in her knapsack and threw it over her shoulder, hurrying past the old man. “Wait…” he said. But it was too late. Stacey was gone. \*\*\* She could see her breath. Stacey sat in the chilly stands of the hockey rink, blowing into her fist, yearning for the radiating heat of the boiler room. But when Logan skated onto the ice and waved up to her, she felt herself warming up pretty quick. A few rows to her left, sitting behind the visitor net, Tori and her sidekicks, Sarah and Veronica, were sitting with some of the football team, watching the game. Tori had been cheering Logan on as his shift took the ice, but when she saw how he waved to Stacey, her cheer turned to a scowl, and her focus shifted from the game to a different type of competition. Stacey pretended she didn’t notice. But seeing Tori in such a state put a smile on her face that she just couldn’t get rid of. Stacey kept her eyes on Logan, amazed at his athleticism. His speed and grace made the other team look slow and sluggish by comparison. Stacey could hear his blades scraping into the ice as he zigged and zagged through the other team and then, with the grace of a ballerina, spun around a defenceman and let off a hammering slap shot that whizzed right over the goalie's shoulder and exploded into the mesh of the top corner. The crowd cheered. Stacey cheered. Stacey was one of the crowd. After the game, Stacey waited for Logan at the hot chocolate counter like he had asked, her heart racing as if she had been out there on the ice herself. When he came out from the change room, wearing that red letterman, hockey bag hanging off his shoulder, and a grin that showed off his dimples aimed right at her, she felt a tingle in her belly. She hadn’t felt that tingle in a long time. She wouldn’t allow herself to. Not after Steve. *But Logan's not like Steve*, she lectured herself. *Logan's different*. “Glad you came,” he said as he approached. He was moving slower now. He put his elbow on the counter and leaned. “How was your first hockey experience?” Stacey relaxed. “A little frigid. But not bad.” “Maybe we can get you warmed up. A few of us are going to Pinz to bowl some games. Jerry’s got a fake ID, we can get pitchers.” He motioned behind him to the group of kids by the arcade game; more letterman jackets and a group of girls, including Tori, Sarah, and Veronica. “Thanks. But I should probably be getting home. I have to babysit my little brother.” Stacey didn’t have a little brother, but it rolled off the tongue pretty smoothly. Logan understood. “Okay, well…see you in math, I guess. Thanks for coming.” Stacey watched him jog back over to the group who seemed relieved he was coming back alone. Everyone piled out of the rink, except for Tori, who hung back and waited until her friends were outside before she walked over to Stacey and said, “You know he’s just paying you attention because he knows you’re an easy lay, right?” Tori left her alone with that thought and walked away with a satisfied smile on her face. \*\*\* Stacey sat in the boiler room, finishing the last of her sandwich, when the old custodian limped out from a set of pipes, his one leg dragging behind. But she knew he was coming. She heard those keys jingling a mile away. This time he didn’t look upset to be seeing her, nor did he break into a lecture about why she shouldn’t be down there. He just went about his business like she weren’t even there. Stacey wondered why that seemed so odd to her and then realized that she could not remember the last time someone ignored her presence. She was almost offended by it. “Come to give me more lectures?” she asked, watching him fiddle with the wrench on some bolts. He shook his head a bit but said nothing. focusing hard on the bolt lodged in the grip of his wrench. “Are you tightening or loosening?” she asked, now a spectator at the event. “Tightening,” he coughed back between grunts. Stacey nodded as if impressed at his answer. "I'm more of a loosener, myself. But that's just me." The custodian gave up on the bolt, took a big breath out and rubbed the wrinkles on his forehead. “I don’t know what I’m doing…I’m not really doing anything. This bolt doesn’t need to be tightened. I just…” He kept his eyes on the floor, almost embarrassed to look up. “I just want to say, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have talked to you like that. Anyway, that’s all I came to say. Enjoy your lunch.” He turned away and headed for the exit. Stacey called out to him, feeling guilty for instigating. “Wait, man! You don’t have to go just yet. You can chill.” He stopped and grinned, which made the lines on the side of his face curl and crease. “Chill? In the boiler room? Fine choice of words, kid.” “I’m sure you’re not that busy. Come chill, keep me company.” “I don’t think that’s allowed,” he grunted. Stacey was having fun with him now. “Come on. Do you seriously want me to only know you as Old Man Frankenstein? What’s your name, dude…or sir? Do you prefer dude or sir?” “My name’s Will,” he said. “And what’s yours? Besides Sad Lonely Girl?” “Sad Lonely Girl. I like that. My name is Stacey. As in, ‘Did you hear? *Stacey* had an abortion.’ And other famous phrases.” He raised his wrinkled palm. “Stacey will be just fine. Don’t have to add all that, now.” Stacey liked Will right away. It was nice to have someone to joke with. You don't realize how much you miss the little social interactions when you're isolated, even a thing as simple as joking around. And she knew it was probably just as nice for Will to have someone to talk to as well. She asked him about his limp, how he got it and where. He told her it was a war injury from his tour in Vietnam. Stacey was amazed and felt embarrassed and ashamed that she used to see this man as just a creepy old grump. People are so easy to judge and vilify from afar, it's only when you get close do you see that we're all just human beings. We all have stories. Good ones and bad. He asked her if she was ever planning on eating in the cafeteria again. "I'm actually thinking about bringing a bed and a TV down here and just moving in. Stay here forever," she said slyly. His expression was flat. “This is not a place for a young lady.” “Well, it’s safer down here. Trust me.” He paused to collect some thoughts. “Our past--” “You have any kids?” Stacey asked over him. Will bowed his head and said, “I do. A daughter. Somewhere out there. You actually remind me of her quite a bit.” “Somewhere out there? What, is she, like, in the navy or something?” “Her mother took her from me. The war…messed my head up something awful. I came back a…darker person. It’s probably better this way.” “That’s terrible, I’m sorry to hear that. If it makes you feel any better, it kind of helps to hear how I’m not the only person who has it rough. Puts things into perspective, you know?” “Our past makes us what we are. But we have the power to choose what that is.” "Like, learn from it, or let the loneliness, shame, and hatred consume you, kind of thing?" He seemed almost entertained. “In so many words.” "Well, take your own advice, dude. Did we settle on sir or dude? Go see your daughter. Be less dark. It's your daughter. You're supposed to do anything for your daughter! You would sail the seas for her! You would kill for her!" Her momentum halted. “Sorry,” she said, deflated. “It’s none of my business. But it would probably mean the world to *her, too*.” Will, who looked a lot less like Frankenstein and a lot more human-like, beat the wrench softly on his palm, then turned around and slowly limped away, the one leg dragging behind, scraping on the concrete. She felt she overstepped, but maybe, she hoped, her words might have helped him out in some way. It seemed like they got through. Stacey stayed a while longer and listened to the wish-washing of the pipes. If she closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of the boiler radiating on her skin, she could pretend, if only for a moment, that she was on a deserted beach somewhere, lying in the sand, watching a sunset, and listening to the waves crash in and out. She could escape from this cold, cold winter at last. Then she packed her things and headed for the stairwell. When she turned the corner into the corridor she ran smack into the brick wall that was Logan Davis. Before she stepped back and saw his face, she saw the “L.D.” embroidered on the breast of his red letterman. “Logan…What are you doing here?” He grinned. “So, is this where you’re eating your lunches now? I just saw Old Man Frankenstein come up from here. He wasn’t groping you, was he?” “No.” “Good,” said Logan. He put his hand on her waist and pulled her close. “That’s my job.” He leaned in for a kiss. Stacey turned her head. “Stop it, Logan. I need to get to class.” He squeezed tighter. “Come on, Stacey. I know you like me. You can spare a few minutes.” She tried to press herself off him but he was squeezing too tight. “I’m serious, Logan! Let me go!” He kept going, “I know you want it, Stacey. I know you like to fuck.” Stacey managed to wiggle an arm free, wound up and smacked Logan hard across the cheek. He let go of her immediately and grabbed the side of his face, which was quickly turning red. “You bitch!” he cried out. “What the hell is wrong with you, huh? You some kind of dyke or something? You’d rather be down here with Frankenstein?” “His name’s not Frankenstein, okay? It’s Will. And don’t you ever touch me again, you jerk, or I’ll have your name in the papers and it won’t be for scoring a stupid goal!” She pushed passed him and ran up the stairs. Stacey never ended up going to class. Instead, she locked herself in a bathroom stall and cried. \*\*\* “I heard you and Old Man Frankenstein got it on in the boiler room,” teased Tori when Stacey passed her in the halls the next day. “I know you like older guys, Stacey…but wow,” giggled Sarah. “Someone tell Rick James there’s a new Super Freak in town,” laughed Veronica. Stacey kept on her way, paying them no mind. But it was clear that the atmosphere around her had changed. The students were still staring, that much was the same, but now instead of scowls and resentment, it was giggles and smiles. Not welcoming smiles, but patronizing ones. Humiliating ones. She heard whispers as she walked. “Franky fucker” was the most common. Stacey put her head down and picked up her pace. The stares and laughs were coming from all around her now. It was suffocating. She needed to get somewhere safe, quick. “I heard you made out with the janitor,” said one of the boys from the football team as she turned a corner. Stacey’s teeth clenched and her fists tightened. She was furious. Not just at the students, who were so eager to gang up on her and strip her of any little dignity she had left, but at herself, for thinking Logan was anything different from any other high school boy. A liar and a jerk, that’s all Logan was. She was determined to let him know just how she felt about him the second she saw him in Math class that day. If he thought that slap in the face was bad, he was in for a rude awakening. But when she got to Math class, Logan’s desk was empty. Stacey didn't eat lunch in the boiler room that day. She didn't want to give the student body any more ammunition. But if she had, she would have found a body sprawled out next to the boiler in a red letterman jacket, the face unrecognizable from all the bubbles and scars that had disfigured the skin when his face was pressed against the steaming keg-barrel. Pieces of flesh and blood were still dissolving on the hot metal surface. Though, if Stacey turned the body over and looked at the initials embroidered on the red letterman jacket, she would have seen the letters ‘L.D.’ and beside the body, she would have seen a discarded wrench, stained in what looked to be crimson paint, and a pair of footprints in the same shiny, crimson shade leading away from the pool of blood. One of the shoe prints was normal and defined, and the other was shapeless and streaked, like a limp leg dragging behind, scraping on the concrete… The End.


I want to do something with my life but I don't know where to start. I feel lost and I feel empty. I haven't felt myself since You ended it. I know I would have fought harder to keep You but I just felt like if I grabbed the slipping rope harder i'd only hurt myself. Everyone tells me that I have to let it go and move on but they don't tell me how hard it will be. If i let go of You I fear it will diminish what value love has in my eyes. "It's better to have loved and lost then to never have loved at all" what a crock of shit. Once you've felt the warm comforting emotion of love you will never be the same. Like a cigarette you will always think back to when you had your first wishing you could go back and do something different.  I want to feel welcome and safe again but I fear it will never feel the same. Lingering in the back of my mind would always be the what if. What if I corrected my course the slightest bit, down the line would I end up here? Or miles off course? Tis a solemn thought that keeps me up, as I spoon my pillow late at night knowing I have to sleep for work tomorrow yet I stay up drowning in the sea of girls hoping that one will replace you. Hoping that maybe you weren't the one and trying to fool myself and others that you were just another belladonna I fell for and ended up poisoning myself with.  One flower perishes only for another seemingly identical flower to take its place, the same yet all so different. The flowers may look similar yet the petals may be a slightly paler colour, the leaves sprout from different parts of the stem and the roots spread all so differently, yet we account that this flower is the same as the other. The two flowers will live with out ever knowing of the others existence, two flowers running parallel the only thing separating them?  Time the only thing separating sadness and happiness. The two emotions run parallel inside us. Never could one be truly happy and truly sad at the same point in Time. We as a species refer to space as our final frontier making the same mistake as our fore fathers only focusing on what we see ahead of the car in the fog and never accounting for what lies beyond the wall of fog created by our own headlights. as we push forward we only consider the now we never consider the then after. Our "final frontier" is conquering time itself for only time can mend all wounds. Only time will make me forget the solemn feeling of being without Your touch without Your loving and caring words of reassurance that I will be fine, that I will make it, that I will find what the world needs me for. Only time separates us from cuddling and talking all night to not even knowing if you're doing alright.  We all feel destined for greatness, right? We all delude ourselves with thoughts of grandeur. It's what keeps us going, what makes us want to get up early tomorrow to go to work because if I work I will have money and money makes my time go by easier. Money wont cure my hurt but it will help numb it. Or so we think until we build an immunity to it then what are we left with? A pile of plastic or paper of false promises of happiness? I feel empty yet wont allow myself to lie and say to myself that money or fame will ever fill that hole. because the truth is it never will be full, it's an empty void that just stretches to fit anything you try plug it with. I feel the hole does shrink but only when I don't acknowledge it, only when I ignored it did it seem to shrink. You helped me ignore the hole and so You helped me shrink it, only after I lost You did I realise that.  I don't know why I'm writing this but that's okay because it's helping. Helping me realise my own foolishness. You helped me out of my pit and the second You left I fell back in. I kept blaming you telling myself You tripped or shoved me but writing this out now I realise you just let go. I wasn't ready to stand but you didn't know that. You had to let go because You were loosing your own balance. I'm glad You let go. I'd rather be in this hole looking up to You standing above me then looking up and seeing nothing. I guess what I'm trying to say is I understand and I hope you don't blame yourself for any of the pain You have caused, because in the end without sadness we could never appreciate happiness.


My face was numb. "I...guess this is it." He said. The skies were dark. Eternal dawn without the Sun. With the only truth being pity and sadness that the truth will forever be beyond us. And our forever was about to begin. "Yes. Maybe it is." A mellow song played by the failing stereos. Both of us slacked on the floor, listening to what would probably be the last song. The ironic melody. "Was it worth the wait?" "I'm not sure. All I know is that the wait would be over soon." I sighed, reminiscing moments of my vain life. How free it was, how loved, lonely. But none of it mattered anymore. In fact, none of it mattered at all in the first place. But the memories of it do paint a smile on my face. Perhaps that's what he's chuckling about as well. "That's a nice thought." He said, weakly brushing the crumbs off his beard. "So, what happens now?" "The wait. It shouldn't be too long." I replied, taking gulps out of my beer. Eyes red and wet, his face struggled not to crumble into pieces. "I..." With his voice struggling to come out between breaths, he spoke. "I wish I married. Argh. I wish I lived some more! Laughed some more! Cried! Loved! I never thought...If I knew, I would've...hah!!" The song played on through his pleas. Pity, once again. I pitied him and him too, no one else. And that spoke volumes of how contradictory we were. Of how people, was. "...I guess that's all too late now." He added. We shared tears. It made no sense, all of this. But it felt that much more. "Maybe you did. Could've. But you'll still say the same things at this point." I saw his pain as our eyes met, I knew it. Because I also struggled with regrets. At the end of time At the end of the world. At the end of all things. There is truth and deceit. "But if it happened, it happened. Why does it have to mean anything?" I asked myself the same way I asked him. He seemed to understand despite the lack of context. Nonsense. It's the core of us all. —I watch them grow They'll learn much more Than I'll ever know— Terrible song. It's a waste listening to such a tune in the already rickety bass. Our silent weeping didn't play well with it too, but it was comforting in a sense. "Although, I am thankful. For most of it." "Some times, huh. At least we'll have the coolest way to go." Sorrow turned to laughter, but it was grief nonetheless. As pain sowed in both of us, there was little left to resist. I just wish it all ends before we break. "Makes you wonder. How long would we have lived?" He jests, opening another can from the pile we'd gathered. Like death-row inmates. "It'd suck. I'm sure. Old age is overrated, but the experience never fails. Except for beer. If you experience beer too much, you'll be stopped." We broke out in laughter once again. I am tired. Tired. My soul was exhausted from knowing too much. It made ignorance seem so luxurious, so sweet. If I didn't know that the world was about to end, would I have faired better? Stop it. "I don't think anyone's ever passed painlessly." He continued blabbering. Silence descended upon us as the song was interrupted by the power outage. Reality turned grey and cold, it felt alone. And it was fueling the madness consuming us. No. I closed my eyes and found myself praying with whatever semblance of faith I had. Save me from this nightmare. Save us, please. But saving, what is saving? What happens when we're saved? How is saving what stops this? Don't venture there. It's dangerous. The song blurs back on one last time. —what a wonderful world. I was stunned. Nothing came on after that. "As the songs of the dead fill the space of my mind." He sang, slowed, and tone-deaf. Or at least he tried to. But the following words never came out. Hope is a dirty thing. It's a drug. The most addictive one at that. Nothing could destroy and rebuild a person over and over more than hope, and it is not something that anyone can control. This is the byproduct of sentience. A side-effect of the wonderful. For the universe is not a machine. It is flawed, designed for oblivion. We are part of the aimless process and that makes us think of a relevant future. Of a higher purpose, a madness that's run rampant throughout history. How conceited. How meaningful. My thoughts stray towards happier times. Feelings that filled me with warmth. It drove my questions away. Though stupid as that may be, I was thankful from the bottom of my heart. Was this how he felt? My spirit was at peace once more. I was also startled by how easily I settled. "I suppose the whole of life is an act of letting go." I said, content. He grins. "Yeah. A wonderful world it is." My face felt numb at those words. A prickling feeling washed over me as a low hum could be heard from the distance. "Yes." I smiled, the happiest I've been.


I sat on a chair and watched Tobias gather his thoughts. He lay on one of the beds, sporting the hotel’s white bathrobe with his hands over his stomach. We both were wearing the robes, since we’d handed in our clothes for laundry last night. “That’s it?” he asked after a moment. “That’s the summary,” I said. “You just jumped over a whole year of your life?” Tobias continued. “Jumped over the part where you learned to use magic?” “I didn’t think it was important to the story,” I said. “It wasn’t important to *your* side of the story.” I opened my mouth for a retort, closed it, and finally took a deep breath to calm myself down. I didn’t want to repeat the whole hide and seek again. “You’re right,” I said. “It’s not something I want to share... yet.” Tobias nodded. At first, it had felt great to spill things off my chest. But now afterwards, I half-regretted it. As if I’ve given Tobias a weapon to hold over me. “Can you recite that incantation for me?” Tobias asked. I shook my head. “I don’t even remember the first syllable. It was like I was being possessed. Was that Rosa — ” “No.” Tobias’ voice shut down my idea. “It has nothing to do with Rosie.” “How can you be so sure?” I asked. “You were wrong about her actions after the Hunters sealed you. I’ve seen her experiments with magic, combining different schools and triggers. Could she somehow put a spell which triggered when a Darmitage touched a Sarsen stone?” “I know Rosie, she wouldn’t open a portal and let demons into this world.” “Didn’t you listen? She was torn and angry after the Hunters sealed you. And I opened it due to one of her memories taking over me.” Heat rose up my face matching my level of frustration. Tobias was too biased, too blind to not accept that his sister might have done something wrong. “Nadia.” The way he said my name made me pause. I thought he would’ve raised his voice to match my tone. But instead, he’d said it with an outbreath, almost as a sigh. “You may have some of Rosie’s memories but I have shared a life with her,” Tobias said. “I know her better.” What a load of crap. But I bit down on my tongue and held my words. “How did you get sealed?” I asked, switching subjects. “You were the strongest out there. It didn’t seem like anyone could’ve matched your strength during your time.” Tobias shook his head. “Strength might win a battle, but it’s the mind which wins a war.” Someone had outsmarted Tobias? The guy who plunged himself into books and scrolls whenever he encountered a problem? A doorknock interrupted our conversation. From the other side, a maid addressed that our clothes were cleaned. I opened the door and received the bundle and headed to the bathroom to change. It felt much better to wear my own clothes than prancing around in a bathrobe. Tobias didn’t touch his pile. “I prefer wearing the robe,” he said. “It’s more comfortable.” “You’ll have to wear something else when we go outside,” I said. “Speaking of outside, what’s your plan?” “The plan was to ask the Calamity to help against the demons, but now…” I shrugged. “I’m not sure. I don’t know.” He drummed his fingers against his thigh. “Don’t you have any questions?” I asked. “About Darmitage, about the current world? Anything?” “Loads,” Tobias said. “More than you can imagine.” “Well, let’s figure those things out first,” I said. “What are you wondering about?” Tobias looked at me with serious eyes. “What’s ‘witness protection’ and ‘mob family’?” “What?” “You mentioned that you thought your parents were under ‘witness protection’ or they were part of a ‘mob family’, what does that mean?” It took me a moment to understand what he referred to and I realized my mistake. I had been churning on and on without taking his background into account. “Why didn’t you say anything?” I asked. “I didn’t want to interrupt,” he said, matter of factly. “Let’s take a walk. We’ve been stuffed inside for too long. We’ll get some clothes for you, eat something and I’ll explain what ‘witness protection’ and ‘mob family’ means.” “And ‘lottery’ and ‘passport’ and — “ “We’ll take a *long* walk.


The machinery of the oilrig ground on innocently, unaware of what lay in wait. Colored clouds nearly hid the setting sun. Suddenly, a towering fire rose up, eclipsing the dim rays of the sun and illuminating the towering structure. The rig afire. Workers were paralyzed for a moment, like deer caught in the oncoming lights of a car. Then, for most, the survival instinct kicked in and they screamed and ran. Other workers just stared in mute disbelief. The scene was utter chaos. The fire scorched the sky and began to spread on the metal construct, blocking escape routes from the rig. Charred, burning men staggered around on the platform. Some workers unhurt by the blaze rolled the victims on the ground to out the fire on their clothes; others tried to smother the flames licking their fellow workers. Those still trapped screamed and ran, mad with fear. In desperation, some workers braved the high fall and jumped on some trucks parked near the rig. Some landed on their targets, others on the ground; either way, the impact was bone-shattering and in some cases, nearly fatal. By nightfall, fire trucks and ambulances arrived to tend to the hurt and rescue the trapped. A new problem materialized. The fire engines’ ladders and hoses weren’t long enough to reach the conflagration. The state was growing dire – there were no fatalities yet, but if a solution weren’t found soon, that would change. By this time, relatives of the workers had arrived, tearfully comforting those who had escaped the blaze or screaming the names of sons, husbands, nephews and cousins still trapped high on the oil rig, saying tearful goodbyes. Night drew on, but the towering fire rebellious, lit up the scene like mid-day and seen for miles. Eventually, mercifully, rescue came. Hose extensions were found and firemen perched on the trucks’ ladders spread foam and water on the inferno and the platform nearest those trapped, bringing the fire to bay. Then a helicopter arrived. Unable to land on the still ablaze rig, it hovered above the trapped workers and, dropping a rescue line, was able to hoist the workers to safety. Amazingly, despite the intensity of the blaze, all souls on the rig were saved. But the drama had one more after taste. Firefighters fought hours to extinguish the blaze and it was days before the charred skeleton of the rig was cool enough for investigators to find the cause of the explosion. The rig was due for several electrical upgrades, which were never done. The fire may have been ignited by a spark from faulty wiring, but the true cause was negligence; company executives in their plush offices chose to save on expenses rather than make improvements to save their workers’ lives. Dollars before souls. When the truth came out, heads rolled, bosses were fired and new people were brought in. But in the end, was anything accomplished? All the workers and their families could do is hope their experience falls not by the wayside.


Submitted for (AND WON) Reedsy Contest #87, Prompt "Write about a mischievous pixie or trickster god." I’m not sure how long it was before I realized that the shuttle train never stopped, probably about the time it dawned on me that the people who had gotten on with me were gone. The train is supposed to run from Grand Central to Times Square, one stop, five minutes at the absolute most. But it had been… how long had it been? I don’t know, I was reading my book. I can space out pretty bad sometimes. Family lore has it that I slept right through a freak tornado that ripped off our roof. But the bluish fluorescent lights on the train flickered out with a hum, and when they turned on again, I realized something was amiss. The windows were turned into mirrors by the underground darkness, and in them was a face with a mischievous grin, complemented by a rakish light in the eyes and a tumble of curly brown hair. Samill, the trickster. He materialized from the window. “It’s been some time since we’ve seen each other.” “I can’t say I’ve missed you much, Samill,” I replied, sighing and putting my book down. He laughed heartily in response. “All of the wonders I’ve shown you and you don’t even have a smile to spare for me?” He had a note of mock offense in his voice. “I guess I’ll have to take this little adventure to someone else.” “Go ahead. I won’t mind.” He smiled, more broadly still. “Just kidding, it has to be you.” “Why?” “You’re the only one who’s done it before and let’s just say I need you to survive.” He meant that I’m the only mortal to travel to the realm of the gods and return both alive and a mortal. I did it when I was a girl; it was a whole thing I can’t get into now, but Samill was behind that, too. He damn near got me killed. “I don’t need anything from you this time, Samill. And I’m not a kid anymore. Why would I take this risk?” Samill appraised me. “Indeed, you are no longer a kid.” He turned his head to the side and held his fingers to his eyes like a camera lens. “A fine young woman, might I say. Are you in want of a companion?” “No,” I replied flatly. “Alright,” he said, smiling. “No need to be testy, just asking. Anyway, I need you to get something that was stolen from me.” “Get it yourself.” “Oh no, I can’t show my face there. But you would be able to slip right in and out, unnoticed.” “Surely there’s some other mortal in this world or another, aching for adventure or in need of your favors. I don’t need anything.” I looked down at my phone to check the time, but the screen displayed Samill’s mischievous face in profile. Samill looked at me seriously for some time, calculating something as he always did. “How is your sister, Stella? She must be twenty-seven years old now, am I right?” The air went out of me. What was he planning to do to her? He narrowed his eyes, a playful grin forming in one corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry, love. Your sister is fine. I kept my end of that bargain.” “And I paid a huge price. We’re even.” He crouched in front of me. Up close, I could see the glow of his skin and smell his hair; unearthly and unfathomable. “I can give you your magic back. You and Stella.” I froze, not daring to breathe. Samill took our magic in exchange for Stella’s life. We’d lived more than ten years without it. Sometimes, I wonder if I dreamed that I had it: a memory of fire dancing on my fingertips or chasing Stella on the surface of a lake; ephemeral, slipping from me like water in a palm. A gnawing, gaping longing opened up in me. “Ah,” Samill said, standing up smiling. “You’ve missed your magic. I do wonder sometimes how any mortal can bear life without it.” “Magic attracts the gods and all mortals are better off without that.” Samill grabbed his chest. “My poor heart. Come, let me show you something.” He beckoned me to the front of the train. It had stopped moving. With a dramatic swipe of his hand, the front of the train melted away, revealing the damp entrance to a long tunnel. “I need you to find the goddess Badha and retrieve the emerald she’s guarding. She’s blind and can only sense the gods. You will be able to go without notice,” he looked down at me out of the corner of his eye. I shot him a sharp look. “The underworld? Last time was different it was the heavenly gods. This is the realm of the dead, I won’t make it out. They won’t let me cross back into the living.” “If you speak your secret name to the guardian, he will let you pass alive. And if you give me the emerald, I’ll return your magic to you and your sister.” “But my secret name is for my passage into the afterlife. I can’t speak it twice.” “That’s just superstition. Encouraged by the gods, mind you, because your secret name has power and the gods know it. But you can speak it more than once. I give you my word.” I faced him and looked defiantly into his eyes. “No, sorry. I don’t need the magic, neither does Stella. Find someone else.” Samill laughed. “Well, Phoebe, I’d hoped you’d come around on your own. But barring that,” he shoved me through the front of the train and I landed right on my face in the rock and the mud. Before I could stand up, he smiled at me and waved his arm, making himself and the train disappear over my head. I made a hearty effort to bang on the now closed wall where Samill had thrown me through, but it didn’t work. If I was going to get out of there, I knew I’d have to descend this tunnel to figure it out. I pulled up my phone. Dead. Technology didn’t really work in the magical realms. The gods are terrified of it; Google is better at reading our minds than they are. It took some time for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but when they did I noticed tiny dots of light embedded in the rock. I hit my face on the occasional tree root that was hanging from the top of the tunnel. I can’t say how long I walked, but at some point, minutes, hours or days later I arrived at a dried up river bed that I knew I’d have to cross to continue. Water is powerful and even its absence can be a trap set by a sorcerer or a god. I crouched down and put my ear to the ground. The *whoosh* of running water filled my ears. Some kind of underground river. I pressed my finger into a spot of soft mud beneath a rock and pearly liquid that looked like a cross between clouded water and honey emerged. I recognized it from old stories my grandmother told Stella and me, the River of No Name that runs through the center of the earth. It would expect payment of some kind, I reckoned. All enchanted crossings did. But I had nothing on me. I was unprepared. I tried my phone, since it was the most expensive thing I had. I placed it gingerly on the rocks, but moments later the phone launched itself back at me. Ok, that wasn’t going to work. I thought for a few minutes and then realized: the river would want my name. I leaned over to the rocks and whispered “Phoebe,” but the rocks let out an agitated hiss and rumbled. I wiped my hands on my jeans and looked up, cursing Samill. The river wanted my secret name. I was forced to trust what Samill said about my secret name not losing power if I say it more than once. I bent my face even lower this time and said, in as low a voice as possible, the name spoken to me once by my mother the day I was born and written on my heart, *Efweth*. Water coursed through the rocks, gold and white and pleasant. It leveled off when it was a few inches high and pulled itself to either side, allowing me to pass over the rocks. Eventually, I came to the end of the tunnel which was a large, circular cavern with walls made of rocks and mud. The light in the rocks was brighter here, so I was able to see more easily. It seemed I was alone. I walked around the room, my hand on the walls, feeling for some exit or hidden door, but I came up empty. I looked up, but whatever was above me was either too high or too occluded by the darkness for me to see it. “Ok, Samill. What am I doing here? Help me out?” Just then, an enormous woman descended from the ceiling; twenty-feet tall with a tangled mass of hair falling over her shoulders. She seemed old, older than the earth, but also ageless. As soon as I noticed something that would indicate her age, a wrinkle, a grey hair, it would fade away before I could be sure it was there. *This must be Badha*. “Samill? Are you here you nasty little imp? I told you if I ever saw you again I’d rip you to shreds and it would take you three millennia to stitch yourself together.” I pushed myself into the wall and held my breath, not wanting to make a sound. The goddess moved a few steps forward and backward, shaking the cavern as she did. “No it can't be Samill. He couldn't be... But who said your name? Why would anyone speak of you here?” She moved her arm around the cavern to feel. I pressed myself further against the wall. “Make yourself known, whoever you are. Another useless goblin? Be gone, goblin. I’ve nothing for you here.” I looked all over her for some sign of an emerald, nothing on her neck, nothing on her fingers or in her hair. She made herself some kind of beverage and after she was done, she sat down with her great legs out in front of her. I was standing next to her massive calf, I could have reached across and grabbed it if I wanted to. She sipped from her cup and paused, putting her ear up like a curious dog. She sipped again and got on all fours. I had to run toward the entrance of the cavern to avoid her as she changed positions. Then she put her ear to the ground and knelt up. “Mortal, I know you’re here.” Damnit, Samill. “Tell me why you’re here, mortal.” I neither replied nor moved so much as an eyelid. “The river told me mortal. I’ll say your secret name if you don’t answer me. I don’t think you want that.” I wasn’t sure what the consequences of that would be; should I call her bluff or answer her? Everyone in my culture is given a secret name at birth, whispered in their left ears by our mothers at the moment of birth. We are never to speak it until we die. We were told to always guard it as the name possesses great power that could be used to harm us or someone else. “Did Samill send you?” “Yes,” I croaked out. I was very thirsty. She laughed, quietly at first and then so forcefully the walls shook. “Tell me, mortal, what did he tell you to get?” “An emerald.” She laughed again, this time wiping tears from her cheeks. “My sweet child, Samill knows I don’t have that emerald. What did he promise you?” My stomach dropped. What had he set me up for? “Eternal youth? Love? Please, tell me.” She was still laughing and occasionally broke into wheezing coughs. “He said he’d return my magic.” She stopped laughing. “Who took it?” "He did, Samill.” “Why?” “In exchange for my sister’s life.” “And you believed him, when he said he’d return your magic?” “I don’t know. I refused him. But when I refused he threw me down here.” She brought her hand to her chin like she was thinking very hard. “I don’t have the emerald, dear. Samill knows that.” “Ok, then, I’ll just get out of your hair.” She cackled. “You’re in the realm of the dead. You can’t return. You must know that.” “Samill said…” “Samill lied,” she said, still wiping tears of laughter from her blank eyes. “You can’t return. And I’m hungry, come here.” She swiped her arms out again, narrowly missing me. I ran again to the entrance of the cavern and had nearly managed to get away when a tree root ripped from the floor and pulled me back. “I told you, there’s no returning for you, mortal. Samill as good as killed you. I don’t know what you did to piss him off.” I had no weapons. No magic. No way out. I closed my eyes and readied myself for my fate. I wondered what death would be like if I died already in the underworld. Then I got an idea. Lining the walls of the cavern and up into the ceiling were tree roots, the ones that brought me back into the cavern when I tried to escape. I escaped from the root holding me and ran across, another root shot out and chased me. I ran back and forth around the cavern, narrowly avoiding the roots as I did. The whole time Badha was laughing. “Mortals always fight so hard. So entertaining. Well, I’ll be back in a minute when you’re dead.” She stood up but fell right away as the roots pulled her back down. I’d trapped her in them. She pulled and grabbed at them, breaking a few, but they held. I knew they wouldn’t hold long, so I made one final move. I leapt up onto the roots holding Badha, the tips of new ones chasing me as I did, and ran headlong into her chest, dodging out of the way at the last second. The root didn’t find me, but did find Badha’s chest, shooting straight through it and out the other side. She gasped and choked. “No, no. This isn’t possible.” She weakly pulled at the root in her chest, but then she started to disintegrate into the dirt below her, her flesh and hair and clothes falling into so much dust. I was stunned. I thought I would incapacitate her, not kill her. I had no idea what the tree was made of that it was strong enough to kill a goddess, but I ran out of there as quickly as my feet would carry me. The River of No Name parted for me, it did not expect a second payment. I clambered back up the tunnel as fast as I could, falling and tripping as I went. I reached the end of the tunnel, still closed off. “Samill! Let me out of here.” I could see the tunnel starting to fall away too. Soon the ground beneath my feet would be gone. “You feckless bastard let, me, out!” Nothing. "Damn it,” I said, realizing that this wall was the Guardian and I needed to tell it my name or I’d fall into the creeping oblivion below. “Efweth,” I said as quietly as my adrenaline would allow. I was back on the shuttle train. Samill sat jauntily across from me, legs crossed, smiling as though he could hear a distant good tune. The only evidence I had that anything had happened was that I was covered in dirt. “I’m going to KILL you,” I shouted and ran over and started battering him with my fists. “Kill you. There was no emerald.” He restrained me easily, smiling. “I know. I needed her killed. I knew you could do it.” My jaw fell open. “Why? Why didn’t you just kill her yourself?” “This is the problem with all of you magical mortals who chose to integrate into the larger society. You missed all of your lessons. Celestial gods cannot descend into the underworld. Only humans can. I would immediately evaporate if I stepped down there.” “Why me?,” I asked, crying now. “Why? It could have been anyone.” He shook his head. “No, not anyone.” He sat back down the seat. “It had to be someone with your talents.” “I don’t have any talents,” I wept. My shoulders were shaking. “I was just trying to survive.” “And yet, most would not. Just as most children would not have survived the ordeal you went through. No, it had to be you, I’m sorry.” He stood up again and walked to the door of the train, which I realized was moving again. “Here,” he said, reaching into a pocket in his garment. “Your magic.” “No! No, please,” I begged. “I don’t need it. Keep it.” He smiled again, larger than before. “I need you to have it. I’m not done with you yet, *Efweth*.” The loudspeaker called out, “Stand clear of the closing doors, please,” and he snapped his fingers in my direction, stepped out and disappeared into the crowd. People filed into the train and I wiped the tears from my face and tucked my hair behind my ears, but people still avoided sitting next to me, covered as I was in mud and dust. I held up my left hand, cupping it around my right forefinger as though to protect it from the wind, and produced a dancing blue flame from the tip of my finger. I couldn’t stop myself from smiling.


With bright blue eyes and a pronounced chin, the man in the grey suit sported a handsome smile as he removed the hat from his head extending his arm, “Hey there, Gustaf Olrog, I work for the government.” And before there was even a moment to respond to the man he made his presence known as he made his way through the doorway handing over his hat and there I stood quite shocked for a moment over the curious man looking around my home, through shelves but before he could make his way to the living room I took a step in front of him and said “Well, so what? Does working for the government mean that you can just barge in wherever you want!?” “Oh but you looked at me so invitingly, I suppose I may have jumped to conclusions, although I do smell some coffee brewing so if you don’t mind can I ask you for a cup?” “Mr. Olrog was it? I can give you a cup of coffee and all the damn semi skimmed milk in this house if you so want if you can explain yourself and this intrusion. I am quite offended by you simply shaking a hand to enter my home and now when I see it I’m even holding your hat…” “And that is why I made an assumption,” mr. Olrog said taking off his coat, “now as I said I work for the government. Specifically, the Unusual Robot Incident Unit, so perhaps you have heard of what we do? No need to answer that question so please put my hat on the hanger and give me a tour.” On closer inspection mr. Olrog appeared to be a quite well built man and his two piece suit drew attention to his broad shoulders and slim waist. It was quite enough to be able and put up a fight or even roughen up someone like me, and so I made way through the living room showing some of my antiques. The man seemed quite disinterested and sparsely commented on them or any of the books he inspected closer, didn’t read much he claimed. Although his interest in all bookshelves near the antiques and small knickknacks was somewhat contradicting this. The kitchen was somewhat less furnished and clean, a large wooden table with a large red table cloth covered most of it, and in the centre were already the can of coffee, some cookies, and coffee cheese. I looked through my cabinets for the nice cups with saucers, the one with small gnomes dancing on it. Of course I was looking to seem nice and quite bothersome with all the small things to show and talk about, perhaps backing away from the encounter, perhaps because the man hade made his way in so effortlessly. I poured us both some coffee and looked on as he took a healthy portion from the cheese and a single cookie that he ate immediately, he looked at me and smiled “I do appreciate the effort and for you to offer me this cheese is a rarity indeed!” “Indeed…” I muttered with a sigh drawing my cup far closer to my chest, “so then mr. Olrog you didn’t quite specify what you do?” “Oh I did quite well but I suppose you want me to explain the details.” “I do” I retorted angrily, “nothing big ever happens in these parts and never have I seen a government employee!” “Well, big things happen in big places” said mr. Olrog with a great smile, “so this is an unusual incident indeed. Now as I was saying before being interrupted, there is something strange that occurred in these parts. I received constant calls about this machine that ran loose, that came close to homes, especially those with families, almost as if the machine was peeking in through the windows. And now I must ask you, why would a machine do that? For what purpose would it serve something that lacks any sort of video equipment or cameras?” “I wouldn’t know” I hesitated, “But then again I don’t have a family so perhaps that is why I don’t know about this event at all.” “Yes, perhaps you are much like me, working away our lives until there is nothing left but a heap of bills and wrinkly fingers. No, I shall tell you about this machine, it is quite large, about your size in fact. It has a colour scheme much like those produced by Prosperos Musical Machines, if you have seen them. They are built as entertainers, playing mostly piano but some able to play flutes and string instruments. And I can see you are quite the musician yourself.” “Yes, I do own a lot of instruments, but I haven’t played them in a while. I got sick and my lungs aren’t quite the same, can still play the piano though, if only I owned one.” I said thinking of better days. Mr. Olrog nodded and frowned at the bitter coffee, “The machine wandering around does not only look for families you see, it also appears to search for musical instruments. And what the families have in common is just that, a piano and a group of people nearby. Quite what a stray machine would want to find to fulfil its duties.” “I suppose that would make sense, if it is broken or damages to roam around for an instrument and guests.” I said spilling some coffee all over my shirt as I attempted to drink it, “Dammit… So what is your point anyway, that I am alone and without a piano? Am I really the only lonely man in these parts?” “This coffee has been standing for a while, hasn’t it? Not too hot. And no, you are not the only one. But you are the only one missing in my report.” Mr. Olrog said reaching into his pocked, “Now, I wonder, with so many instruments in your house have you even thought of owning a musical machine to compensate for your disease? I would certainly do myself if only to hear the fine tunes once more in the comfort of my own home.” “I wouldn’t afford one” I mumbled, “I wouldn’t afford one. Besides I can still play and play for my guests.” “Would you mind playing for me?” “For you?” “Yes, play for me” said mr. Olrog standing up, “play for me on whatever instrument you wish.” We walked into the living room, me with the coffee-stained shirt and a violin and mr. Olrog with his hand in his pocked tilting his head as he looked at me. He gestured and nodded. And I began playing, and I was playing for a moment before the violin broke down in my hands. It broke down as if the wood had grown soft and I simply looked at it. I looked at it for quite a while then back to mr. Olrog who pulled out a small handgun, “The term you are looking for is memory plague, you have existed for nearly a century and your memory banks are full and here you stand in the rotting home of your last owner, taking his personality. All fragments of your mind is from previous owners that began replacing programming as the congested memory began deleting files, with such a congested system it can no longer decide which to keep and which are important. You are now decommissioned PM-2781, the last of your defective kind.


How I die and the pigeon’s cookbook I happen to know how I die. And I do not mean in any abstract or metaphysical sense. I happen to literally know how I die. As all things in my life, I stumbled upon it. I was in a bookshop looking for a pigeon cookbook. Not a cookbook written by pigeons, but a cookbook on how to cook pigeons. I had always wondered what they taste like, and never really let go of the thought that they taste soda. Anyhow I digress. I was in this bookshop on Brooks Street. You know the place. It is right by the frog fountain and squeezed in between the Jewish baker and that man who shouts about vegetables all day. As I was idly looking for my book. I came to a section of the store, which somehow I had never been in before. I frequent this particular store quite often and yet a new section seemed to fold open when I rounded the corner from Greek food to Helenistic cuisine. This new section was unlike any other in the store. The shelves were made of old and almost rotten wood. There was dust everywhere and it smelled like my grandmother used to: Of mintcake and Chanel no 17. The bookcases towered over me and threatened to keel over at any minute. I paused, wondering whether I should seek the help of the proprietor, Mr. Dunder, but relented as I noticed the titles of the books. “Jordan Dale: Killed by his cat” “Jennifer Kendall: Slipped and fell in mayonnaise” It struck me as weird. Not that anything about this experience wasn’t weird, but this intrigued me. I put down a book named “Scottish Meals and Trantra Sex” and ventured onwards. The section seemed to expand and widen and with each step a new bookcase seemed to appear at the end of the row. Every book was named in the same manner: “Geoff Wintrop: Hit by a car while looking at his phone” “Ismail bin’Said: Choked on a piece of bread” There was no sensible order to the books, so I took one to read. It had 300 pages with the same sentence over and over again. “Danielle Winchester Cotton: Stabbed by her best friend” Over and over again. At first, I wondered how all these authors had managed to get published with such lackluster materiel. It gave me hope of being an author myself, at least if the bar was this low. But then it dawned on me. This is how people died. I took out my phone and googled Danielle Winchester Cotton., but there was no wifi, which was really disappointing for a store in 2021 not to have free wifi. Anywho, I did what anyone would do if they were in a store with a book about how people died. I looked for my family. Not that I hoped that they died, but those whom I knew was dead. My uncle, Frank. He kicked the bucket six years ago while inside a wheat silo, which collapsed and crushed him. I went looking, and searched for what seemed like hours, but no Frank Finkle appeared. There was a Francis Wonderwood who got shot, twice, for being a cunt. A Frederik von Finklevile who died giving birth, which just screamed intrigue, but my search was in vain, until I by chance said his name out loud. “Frank Finkle” And the book just fell from the top shelf into my hands. And there it was: “Frank Finkle. Crushed in a silo”. A thought popped into my head. Is it just people who died or how people will die? And you know you cannot help yourself. I said my own name. And \*plop\* a boo fell into my hands. It had my name on it, and my cause of death.


# The Downside of Infidelity **A girl tries to muster the courage to come clean to her boyfriend about her affair.** *Written by Gregory Patrick Travers* I left Nick’s house that night and got in my car. I felt a lump in my throat as I checked my phone to see another missed call from John. This can’t go on, I thought to myself. I needed to come clean and tell John the truth. Not just for him, but for me, too. Keeping this secret, running around behind his back and covering my tracks…it was utterly exhausting. I can't pinpoint exactly when I fell out of love with him, but I can remember the day I first met Nick. He came into the bar by himself; I had never seen him around before. He was shy for someone so cute. Usually, the guys around the bar act as guys do, horny and a little too honest with their desires…Not him, though. He just smiled and watched the sports highlights on the bar screen. Maybe that was the reason I kept coming back to check on him. He had just moved to the city from Vancouver for work. He did lighting work for movie sets; a job most might find uninteresting, but I loved movies…Lights, make-up, sound, whatever—if it had to do with film, I was all ears. I don’t know if it was the stories about being on set or his blue eyes and dimples, but when I got home that night he was all I could think about. In all the five years that John and I had been a couple, I never once thought about cheating. When we got together in high school it was this magical thing, like something out of a romantic comedy. He was this funny, quirky guy who everyone seemed to like and I was swept away by him. In the first years, I was thankful every day that I was the one he chose to call his girlfriend. I would get mad when he talked to other girls and I would be on needles all day until he was back home with me, cuddling on the couch and watching Seinfeld, our favorite show. My heart would race when he sent me a text message, even if it was just a smiley face or a "LOL". The sex was great; we had this connection like we knew exactly what the other person wanted without even saying a word… But we were young and I suppose we weren't sure who we really were as individuals. He maintains he did, but I *know* I didn’t. Back then all I wanted to do was get married, have kids, and live this fairy tale life with the man I loved. College made me mature…or immature. I loosened up and stopped taking life so seriously. The idea of being tied down to one spot with one person sounded more like a prison sentence than a dream. Slowly I began to have subtle resentments towards him. Where once I saw him as sweet, now he was kind of over-sensitive. The sex that had been so magical became routine and left me uninspired and unsatisfied. At this point, Nick had been coming into the bar more, which always made my night. Every time the front door opened I would prop my head up in hopes to see him walk through the door. I felt like such a goof but, at the same time, the fact that I felt this electric attraction made me feel alive again and I wanted more of it. Lots more. I found myself getting off shift and, instead of going home to John, staying for a drink with Nick. First, it started out as one, then two, then three…Then came the night he invited me back to his place for the fourth. He laid me and his bed and kissed my neck, his hands were rough but I wanted them on me. I was wet even before he shuffled my jeans off me and threw them to the floor. He made me shake and quiver…He made me cum. Six months later I was juggling both of them. At first, the affair made me feel dangerous and sexy but when John and I began to fight, I failed to see the reason as to why I was keeping up this charade. I guess I didn't want to see the hurt in his eyes when I told him there was someone I wanted more than him. Knowing John, he'd probably start crying or something. Maybe in some way, I as well didn't want to see all those years go to waste…but there was no denying we weren't the same couple we were in high school. As I drove home, I heard a *Barenaked Ladies* song on the radio that John and I used to dance to. That combined with passing by the park we used to hang out at was too much for me. I pulled over and started crying right there on the side of the road. How could I be such a bitch? I thought. How could I break his heart like this? Maybe if I had told him about my concerns with our relationship, he would try to change, try to compromise…I hadn’t even bothered to try. I got myself together and wiped my eyes. Be strong, I told myself. I sat in the underground parking of our building for about fifteen minutes before I mustered up the courage to do what I had to do. As I entered our apartment I heard the *Barenaked Ladies* playing on our stereo system and was hit in the face with the distinct smell of garlic. I walked into the kitchen to see John setting the dinner table. He looked up at me and smiled, “Hey, babe.” “You made dinner?” “Spaghetti and meatballs, your favorite. I wanted to do something nice, I know I’ve been kind of preoccupied lately.” Then he noticed my eyes. “What’s wrong, it looks like you’ve been crying.” I straightened up, “Oh, no…Nothing. Allergies…” “Well, it’s almost ready.” “Okay…I’m just going to get changed.” I walked to the bathroom and shut the door behind me. Tomorrow, I told myself.


I don’t even know what to think right now. My body is shaking and it’s getting harder to move my jaw enough to talk. “I don’t know how much longer we’re going to make it like this,” I mutter to Patrick. As I glance in his direction I can see his lips are becoming a faint purple. His teeth momentarily stop chattering and he replies, “Let’s leave. We have to do something.” “It’s 20 miles Patrick, we’re weak, we’ll never make it.” “We owe it to our families to try! I’m not going to sit here huddled together in a cave waiting to die. I’m leaving! And that’s with or without you.” “You’ll never make it. Don’t be an idiot, someone could show up any minute now.” “Yeah… let’s just put the chances of our survival into someone else’s hands. Get real man. No one is coming for us. They would’ve been here. I can feel myself shutting down. It’s time to go.” We left our food and gold in the cave and began marching into an assassinating windchill of -47 degrees. With each breath, the skin inside my nose burns deeper. My feet feel prosthetic; I’m moving numb limbs. As we march, the hallucinations are becoming reality. I am delusionally euphoric. Is it my brain shutting down? Or is there something empowering about trudging through a frozen tundra knowing your life's on the line? “I’m done John. This is it for me,” Patrick croaks as he falls forwards onto the rock solid ground. “Think of Ellie,” I plead, but it’s too late. His eyes are lifeless. The necessity to continue takes precedence over the swarm of emotions begging me to mourn. I want to break down, but a force inside of me authoritatively screams I must keep walking. The sun has fallen. It’s somehow gotten even colder. I’m able to make out the dangling crescent-shaped branch of a tree we passed just two miles after arriving. I’m close. I’m captivated by a surge of energy unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. It’s incredible, the resources our bodies reserve for the times we need them most. Flooded by adrenalin, my pace becomes brisk. Images of reuniting with Samantha, Robby, and Mark flash through my mind. I see a sign warning of bears and wolves. I’m close. I can’t believe my eyes. I reach the cabin and it’s empty. Everyone has gone home. Again, I’m alone. I reach for the door handle and pull with the limited strength I still have. It’s locked. I can’t survive another hour out here. I begin hyperventilating. Shaking my head back and forth, back and forth, moving it up and down in circles. I see a rock the size of my hand. Without hesitation I launch it into the window. The glass shatters and I throw my limp body into the cabin. “HEAT! HEAT! HEAT,” I pant. My system is shocked. I’d forgotten the sensation of warmth. I look up from the ground I’m lying on, and my heart sinks as I see the window. What have I done? This cabin is my lifeline and I’ve put a hole in it. Cold air is rushing in by second, this cabin is a sinking ship. I crawl to the back of the room, and open the door to the closet. I cram in and shut the door. I’m going to sleep, comfortable with the fact that whether I wake up depends on how early the cabin attendants come to work.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! Please be sure to read the entire post before submitting; there are changes! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join.   ***   #This week's theme is Harmony! As we continue the overarching theme of ‘identity’ for April, we’re going to explore ‘harmony’ this week. In our lives, we are constantly working to make things harmonious. What does this look like in your universe? This could be musical harmony, or something in your characters’ lives or within themselves. Are your characters struggling with this or does it come easily? Is this something internal or something that affects their entire world? How does it affect their identity and the way they view themselves in the world? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. /   ***   #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I will be releasing the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * April 11 - Harmony (this week) * April 18 - Dichotomy * April 25 - Preservation   ***   #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   ***   #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story.** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on stories to quality for rankings every week.** The comment **must** include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   ***   #Reminders: * **Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments**, if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday/Sunday posts or to your own subreddit or profile. But an in-progress serial is not required to start. You may jump in at any time. * **Saturdays I will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge**. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **You can nominate your favorite stories each week**. Send me a message on discord, reddit, or through modmail and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Super Serial role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news! *** #Last Week’s Rankings - - u/ReverendWrites - - u/veryrealisticperson - - u/LuvAPup - - u/stickfist - - u/akuzena - - u/MossRock42 - - u/Xacktar   ***   #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. I’ve recently added two new ways to get points each week. Here’s the breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 6 points - Second place - 5 points - Third place - 4 points - Fourth place - 3 points - Fifth place - 2 points - Sixth place and on - 1 point **Feedback:** In order to be eligible for feedback points, you have to complete your 2 required feedback comments. - Written feedback (on the thread) - 1 point each, up to 3 points. - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 1 point each, up to 3 points. * ***Note:*** Completing the max for both is equivalent to a first place vote. Keep in mind that you may not use the same feedback to receive both written and verbal feedback points. Your feedback should be actionable and list at least one thing the author has done well.     ***   ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


A villain is what? Who determines what a villain is? Why does there have to be a villain? When did the conflict between superimposed figures of good and evil come into play? And how long has it been since I was forsaken by my own world, shunted into this path of supposed darkness in which I have no choice but to partake in? *You know better than to ask such questions in the face of this world, Commander...* Perhaps I do, but after all this time, all these ages that have passed. Worlds built and destroyed. You and I, side by side, with no determination of what is wrong or right aside from our own perspectives. After all that, I have no other words left to speak. For what choice do I have? They have put this mantle before me, and ordered me to step upon it, in such a means to create a great evil to put down. And for what? This fake? This twisted glory? Are they so desperate to find themselves that they don’t even see that they are lost? *The battle approaches. I trust that you shall put away your words and fight?* ...Yes, I shall. For as I have said, what choice do I have? *There is no choice, just the illusion of one, Commander.* Then I tire of this collection of smoke and mirrors. I believe not in what we do, up here on this pedestal of lies and mysterias. Our path is one of a self-fulfilling prophecy. But it is not one we created, merely the one we live in. *I must prepare our troops, Commander… But, as parting words… I must say, it was an honor to fight by your side. I hope that you do not carry guilt into the next world.* Guilt and shame is all I feel, Lieutenant… And I hope that you may pass over in the blaze of glory you have always wanted to. Now, go. And carry the burden of my own unwilling will. *Goodbye, Commander.* Goodbye, Lieutenant. >*A noise is heard as the Lieutenant departs the observatory for the very last time, to die in a battle, their name never known. History would be quick to erase the happenings of the conflict between this Commander, doomed forever to be a Villain, and the Heroes, who knew nothing of the truth. There would be no grave for those who fell today. But the Villain would not lose. The Villain was forbidden from failure. Condemned for actions that were not theirs. What good was it to fight a Villain so against their own Villainy that they would seek to sabotage their own actions? The answer would not be found today. The Heroes forced their way through the Villains forces, only to find the Villain having awaited them, their head low with shame and regret, and a hollow determination. Today, like many other days, would be just another movement that aligned with the lost cause that was the governments that had knowingly installed a Villain to take the fall. There was no hope, and no despair. Just the illusion of choice.* > >*And so, to the Heroes, the Villain had but two words, empty as all else in this farce was:* > >*“Release me.


A man begins filming with his phone. Dressed in security uniform, the night guard had a grumpy look on his face. "Oh sh\*t, it's recording." He exclaimed with an accent so Russian that almost every word he said sounded like vodka. He tries to fix the shot to capture himself, ultimately settling with his face covering the entire screen. "Every night. At this time of night. This office gets infested. What is infesting it? Rats? Insects? No, no." The Guard walks over to the Meeting Room. He pans the camera over as he approached the door, which violently swings open. "You see that?" He says, completely deadpan to what was certainly paranormal activity. He then enters and turns on the lights, revealing three women standing in the far corner. They were eerily pale. Bloody lips and hollow eyes stared directly at the man, still and silent. "What the f\*ck are you staring at? And how many times I tell you not to slam the door, huh?" The lights flicker. A moment later the women vanish. The Guard sighs, looking at all the floating chairs. "You see? This not my fault but I get paycut? Bullsh\*t!" He continued ranting as he fixed the chairs back down. The lights kept flickering but he seemed unconcerned, cursing under his breath. "I don't get paid for this." The Guard switches off the lights and closes the door as if it was all part of his routine. "And now I'll show you the Director's Office. Hey man, after I show you this, you better give me raise." This time, he opens the door and switches the lights on. Small shadows scattered back behind furniture, leaving behind absolute chaos in the room. Cabinets were open, files crumpled, and the pens were stuck on the wall. The matted floor was littered with tiny balls of excrement and piss that had a terrible stench. "Ahh, I know you see that. Messy but no burglars, sir. Just Gremlins. I am very professional security, no one can break-in." The recording captures everything. He sniffs around and retches, coughing a few times. A crowd of mischievous and high-pitched laughter could be heard. A number of tiny shadows with glowing eyes were peeking at the Guard. The room seemed to darken as they multiplied. "Oh, you think that's funny? How about I bring my cat here after burning you all with water?" He cackled in protest, mocking the tiny creatures. They flee. A round of screams and whispers of fear filled the room. "Oi! You clean all this sh\*t up. I give you all cookie. I know you like cookie. But if you don't fix this, I bring firehose." The Guard shuts the door, keeping the lights on. He checks the time before making sure that the phone was still recording. "Gremlins are not bad. But they are more annoying than my mother-in-law. They are the ones who keep hiding your credit cards mister Director, sir. If you give me higher raise, I guarantee they bother you no more." He had gone through his bag, retrieving a pack of Oreos. The Director's Office was quite loud when he'd arrived. Putting his hand on the handle, he silently counts while looking at his watch. Just before the mark, he enters. Spotless. The office was cleaner than it was after the janitors left. "Very good. Sometimes cookie don't work. Sometimes they want money like little hookers." He narrated to the camera while leaving a quarter on the desk. The Guard left the room with the lights on, double-checking the locks before he moved on. Then he stops on his tracks. "It's Thursday. That idiot will be here again." This time, he exits the building. Nothing was spoken for a while as he walked to the nearby shore. With a flashlight in hand, he arrives at a lifeguard post and finds a megaphone and a key. "I know I'm abandoning my post but that's temporary and you'll see why I have to do this." He pulls out a half-full bottle of vodka from underneath the bench. "I am not drinking on job because I am outside premises." The soft calm of the waves stopped and the streetlights dimmed. An eerie silence engulfs the beach as it was plunged into darkness. The water retreats. Loud and rhythmic hums caused patterns in the dancing sand. Followed by heavy thuds and the sound of waterfalls. Clouds parted and stars shifted to the colossus moving in the distance as if drawn by its presence. The megaphone whined. With the key, the Guard lazily turns on the spotlight that he'd set up especially for this occasion. And there it was. A monster of vaguely anthropoid outline, but with an octopus-like head whose face was a mass of feelers, a scaly, rubbery-looking body, prodigious claws on hind and fore feet, and long, narrow wings behind. The creature was so terrible to behold that it destroys the sanity of those who lay their eyes on its form. It was an eldritch god. "OI, SH\*THEAD! IF YOU FLOOD THE SHORES AGAIN WITH THAT SLEEPWALKING BULLSH\*T OF YOURS, I SWEAR TO F\*CKING GOD." The eldritch god flinched. It looked around, confused. And then it waved at the Guard. Seemingly embarrassed. As the Lovecraftian creature descended once more to the depths, the world returned to normal. Just as the Guard came down from the post, however, the waves came rushing in. That night, a flurry of curses that would've made the devil cry was heard. "As you can see, I have to do this so that you can still have an office and I would have a job. Pretty good, ah?" He explained to the camera, which was the only thing left dry. "My shift today is almost done. Later I need to get silver bullets for the full moon. Consider company insurance, please." He lights a cigar whilst getting out of his soaked garments, revealing a bear-like bod. "Oh, and my raise. I want raise. Give me raise. If you don't give me raise..." He puffs out a ring of smoke whilst checking if his gun was also wet, looking at the camera with his grumpy expression while cocking the pistol. "Enjoy the next 24 hours." The recording comes to an end.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words. However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. Please read the entire post before submitting. Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **”The door crept open.”** This week’s challenge is to use the above sentence in your story, in some way. You may add onto it, but the original sentence should stay intact.   ***   #Last Week A smaller group of stories this week, but wonderful still. Thank you to everyone who left feedback for another writer on the thread this week. I hope to see more feedback exchanged this week. Now for spotlights! - - Submitted by u/pathetic_optimist - A story about the sacrifices we make for our children. - - Submitted by u/katherine_c - A tale of love. #Two Weeks Ago Thank you everyone for being so patient. The holiday weekend was a very busy one! Great stories on the thread though, as usual. - - Submitted by u/GammaGammes - A short tale about a galactic boogeyman who can wipe out a planet with a single bullet. - - Submitted by u/LuvAPup - A fun, futuristic story about a man deciding when he’s put in his time.   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. Use to check your word count. The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **I will take nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or discord.** Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the stickied comment on this thread or through modmail. - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


“You built it right before… I did my best but-“ the cage swung softly from side to side. The men behind the wheels didn’t give the process a second thought. They lowered and raised cages, that was their job; what was in the cage was someone else’s job. Cleaning the cage was someone else’s job as well. Today under the blazing sun, I became what was in the cage and I prayed I wouldn’t be cleaned out of it. “The event will start once both cages hit the bottom of the pit,” the announcement echoed off the walls of the pit, followed by cheers from the lips of people who had nothing better to do with their day than to come to the market and watch a fool die. “Do you remember this? I finished it for you,” I whispered the words into existence and glanced at the opposite cage lowering beside my own. It held a man, which meant if people were betting, it would be for him. Women usually do not come out of the pit alive when they go in with men. He was glaring at me, ever since they closed the cage doors. I wonder what he saw. Was he scared? Maybe worried I was more than I appeared or was I just a fool standing between him and his prize. The cage touched the bottom of the pit and as he swung his door wide open I knew I would soon find out. “Come on out, don’t make this any harder,” He said. My fingers rested on the hot metal door and it squeaked as it slowly opened. His hand went out toward me and in another life I would think it was to help me, but I know why we’re here. I stepped out unassisted. “Do you have family?” he asked. “No, do you,” I replied and he gazed up at the top of the pit at a woman and two little boys. I took them in for a moment before the sight of zombies, with spray painted numbers on their chest, grabbed my attention as they were tossed in. He took a quick jab at my face. My head flung back. I stumbled for a moment. Cheers drowned out the sound of the zombies smacking into the ground. Some were still, killed on impact. Others crawled, spines shattered. And, then there were the ones that ran, unphased by the trauma. His boot connected with my gut and my body hurled back into the cage. The man grabbed me, like a butcher would a slab of meat, without care. He reached back and swung. Another jab to my face, there was blood, but from where I didn’t know. Another jab. More blood. He reached back once again preparing for another blow and then warm rain hit my face. I could see through my eye two fuzzy figures. “Oh God!” He shouted. I cleared the blood from my left eye. The right stung as I attempted to do the same. Only one of them was useful. It allowed me to see the zombie ripping into the man’s bloody arm. Flesh hung from its lips and instead of feasting on its victory, greed drove it to tear more. Grimy jagged teeth, with maggots jammed between them, ripped into the man’s open wound. They were huddled on each other, bent over the cage’s doorway. His fingers tightened around my shirt. I felt my body being dragged closer to the carnage, “Help!” He screamed. I touched the hot metal of the cage door, it was slick from the blood. I pulled it in as hard as I could, pinning them between the bars and the door. I stood up, shirt tearing underneath his grip and I slammed my boot down into the zombie’s neck. I raised my boot and slammed it. I raised it for a third time and then I felt it. The man’s bloody fingers warped around my ankle. “Please-“ So, I stomped down on him next. I kicked and stomped. Kicked and stomped until there was nothing but flesh and gore under my boots… and I kept stomping. It wasn’t until I felt arms pulling me from the cage that I realized they raised me to the top. There were cheers, boos from lost bets and tears from his family, but none of those things stood between me and my prize. People fought at the market table to buy supplies and zombies; some used them as pets, labor and slaves, “Well look at our little winner, so what do you want?” “I want a car and a zombie,” I said. “You get one prize for the pit,” he replied. “I killed a man and a zombie, that’s two deaths… one prize per death, those are the rules,” I said. “Zombies don’t count as a death,” he snapped back. “I just need an old car and an old zombie,” I said. The man combed his fingers through his thinning hair and sighed, “Alright, what kind of car? And, you can have one of the pit zombies.” “Don’t care what kind and I need number 87,” I said. “87? That’s a low number, I might not have it-“ “I went to four markets and they said you have the lowest numbers, can you check?” I pleaded. “Fine,” he said, “Just keep the collar on it or it’ll go rabid.” An hour later we were on the road. He said the car wouldn’t get me far but we didn’t have far to go. The tires rolled up the old driveway. I popped the truck to see you lying there, staring into nothingness. The bright green light blinking on your collar, keeping you simple and dull. It was one slow step after another until we were in the backyard. “You remember the birdhouse, Daddy? You were building it when…” I stopped and slowly loaded two bullets into the revolver, “ I finished it for you.