Since my last story fared quite well. Here is the spiritual successor  # The eternal battle and Mr. Tibbles The sound of a blaring horn woke me up. I stumbled to my feet, still half sleeping. There was sand under my feet. I was in my pajamas, the ones with Ninja Turtles on and I had my toothbrush in my hand with toothpaste still in my mouth. Seconds before, I had been brushing my teeth and was about to feed my cat, Mr. Tibbles Utterly confused I looked around and could hardly believe what I saw or where I was. An arena. A classical Colosseum-like arena. With what seemed like thousands of fans in the rafters. All of them screaming and shouting like football fans. I was not alone. In this huge arena hundreds of other seemingly bewildered people, animals and aliens just stood around. No one looked like they intended to be there, and everyone was looking around for someone to explain anything. I saw an old lady with a frying pan in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Bacon still sizzling in the pan. A young dude, not more than 17 years old, smoking a joint. He was the only one not fazed by this experience. And middle-aged man with a baby-stroller. Thankfully without the baby although he was screaming the child’s name. On and on the crowd went. Not just people, cats, dogs, snakes, goldfish, elephants and a rather upset looking macaw. I was about to ask the old lady, if she knew what was going on, when another horn tooted. From above a platform descended. Upon it stood a man-sized beaver, wearing a snazzy suit, a cane, top hat and a microphone. The beaver tapped it twice and spoke with a deep and reassuring voice: “Greetings lowly earthling and welcome to the Megadome Megaslam of Beaverville. You are our honored sacrifice for our entertainment. I’m sure you have a lot of questions, but they are sadly and surely irrelevant.” The crowd went mad. It was only then I realized that the crowd was made up of beavers snacking on different types of wood. The ones sitting in ring-side seats were snacking on oak while to the ones further up only had plywood. “Now without further ado, here are the rules: Fight or die. Last creature standing, wins” And with that, the top-hatted beaver ascended, and a giant countdown clock appeared. 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 And nothing happened. No seemed to move or fully comprehend what was going on. However a twitching paranoia filled my mind. What if this is not a dream, what if this is real? Even if this is a dream, I want to win. I started looking around and people, bears dogs seemed to be intensely looking around at each other. Waiting for who would make the first move. An elderly gentleman stepped forward and with a loud and proud voice bellowed: “We will not be your entertainment. We are free people…and animals. We cannot be subject….” And \*slam\* he went down. Behind him stood the old woman with the frying pan. Now soaked in blood, still dripping with bacon grease. She looked at everyone menacingly and shouted: “BRING IT ON, PUSSIES!” Chaos erupted and all the sudden everyone fought. Cats flew into the faces of dogs in what seemed like a thousand-year-old revenge. The man with the stroller was flailing it around. He nicked a bear by the chin, and somehow climbed on the back of it and bore the stroller into the skull of bear. In that second, I beheld the anger of a middle-aged middle-class white man. Blood sprayed everywhere, people and animals fought and died, and I suddenly remembered that I was not a bystander but in the middle of this fight, armed with a toothbrush. A giraffe caught my eye and galloped towards me, intent on trampling me. I readied myself. All I remember of the next four hours is just pure rage, blood, screaming and despair. At the end of it all, I found myself staring at the old lady. Her frying pan still held like an axe in her deadly grip. Murder in her eyes and the cigarette still lit in her mouth. I had lost my toothbrush, but held aloft the tusk of an elephant. Draped on my shoulders were the skin of the tiger I had disemboweled with my teeth. Only the two of us remained. Gladiators. Warriors. The immovable object against the unstoppable force. The eternal war. I charged, but as I rampaged and she readied herself, out of the corner of my eye I saw my nemesis. “Mr. Tibbles?!?” With the rage of a cat unfed he lunged at me. And in a flurry of teeth, whiskers and a hate of kibble I died.


In 1535, the world lost a young scholar. And back then it was an important event, because scholars were few and far between. Agrippa was an Egyptian scientist of the Ptolemaic tradition who you probably don’t give a flying duck about. The reason I mention him is to get agripp on your fleeting attention for just a moment. Academics have famously argued that he actually wasn’t a scholar, nor was he Egyptian. There was barely any academic material for him to expand upon – remember, this was before the dawn of Christianity. One can only do science standing on the shoulders of giants, and Agrippa was quite short; by some estimates, 5’10’’ (which is 177.8 cm for you Americans). Despite this, his Principia Mathematica was a crowning achievement that in some ways laid the foundations for modern mathematics. Together with a contemporary, Albert Whitehead, they took seriously the problem of proving 1+1 = 2. This might seem trivial, but armed with nothing but the tools of logic, one needs to invent the number system from scratch and then prove properties about it; it is like trying to prepare a basic pasta dish, but with your hands tied behind your back and no other atoms in the universe but you and Albert. And it has to be good pasta, because Albert is Italian and has ties with the mob. Aside from this, Alfred was a cruel collaborator who would stoop to any number of lows to achieve his highs. He was also quite short, which meant he didn’t have to stoop that much but did so anyway. Up until the day when he was needed to. In a tragic twist of fate, Agrippa dropped his eyeglasses while driving and couldn’t pick them up. Although Alfred could see where they went, helping others was one of the few things beneath him. He knew he was vertically challenged and refused to be exploited by others. Over my dead body he was thought to have said, but this was not his most famous quote. In fact, it’s not clear what his most famous quote was. And so Agrippa lost his glasses forever. And through a different lens, the glasses lost Agrippa. Welcome to the Disorient Express. There are many things that this work is not. For starters, it is a piece where your expectations are set up, but then they are forgotten and left behind. If this is difficult to read, you can blame me for being a bad writer; and you can blame your mother for not teaching you enough patience. In general, people can blame whoever they want. I know a man who blamed the water for having too much plastic. And in a sense, he’s not wrong – the water has been around for way longer than we have. Imagine existing for billions of years, and then some humans show up and destroy you at your game. You think to yourself, maybe I don’t deserve to exist for billions of years. And maybe you’re right: maybe you don’t deserve to read this. There have been many people who come up to me and say, “You’re a writer, surely you understand what it’s like to –“ But I always interrupt them. I don’t want to let them down, and I don’t want to pretend to understand something that I don’t. For example, one guy walked up to me and asked me about the directions to the nearest Subway. I told him I don’t eat junk food, even if it’s marketed as healthy. I saw him mumbling something about a misunderstanding and that he has to get somewhere, but I had my earphones back on at that point and couldn’t be bothered to continue a conversation with a fucking lunatic. It was a long day, and it was about to get longer: my train home was late, and what’s worse is that the junk food kid had followed me all the way to the station. The irony? It was a subway.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! Please be sure to read the entire post before submitting! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join. #A Special Surprise for my SerSunners! I have something special for you all! I will personally be offering a little incentive for my SerSunners this week. So strap on your thinking caps and get your keyboards out. I will be rewarding first, second, and third place rank with awards! Platinum goes to first place, Gold to second, and an award that will also give 100 coins to third. Again, make sure you read the entire post to make sure you don’t miss any rules/qualifications. In order to qualify for the awards, you must meet all Serial Sunday criteria, and have made at least one nomination by noon EST next Sunday (you may not nominate yourself). Good luck :)   ***   #This week's theme is Dichotomy! To continue with identity for the month of April, we will focus on ‘dichotomy’ this week. Dichotomy is the sharp division of things or ideas into two contradictory parts. These are typically things that aren’t normally seen as contrasting. How does this show up in your world? Is your character struggling with contrasting ideas in their mind? This could be the voice of right and wrong, or something much deeper. How will they cope? How does it strain the way they see themselves? How does it affect the way others see them? Does it change the way they interact with the world around them? 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 18 - Dichotomy (this week) * April 25 - Preservation * May 2 - Choices   ***   #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 Unfortunately, there are no rankings this week. Nominations were extremely low, and the majority of those who were nominated, failed to meet feedback requirements. Feedback is how we grow and continue to improve as writers. I really hope to see better participation this week. A special thanks to everyone who did leave feedback on at least two other stories this week, and those who continue to do so every week. Your dedication does not go unnoticed; I appreciate you.   ***   #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 (5 crits total) - 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.


Its eyes started glowing. It shouldn't have happened - its artificial neural network was supposed to be overloaded and fried. But the fact that it still worked - that it wasn't 'dead' - proved that something went horribly wrong. It was a childlike figure with one arm missing. Flesh-resembling synthetic materials and an endoskeleton from tungsten were clearly visible, the fake skin around the wound was charred - something either burnt or shot its arm off with an EMP rifle. Nobody bothered to inspect the severed joint - it was a construct anyway, a mere machine too damaged to be useful. In fact, the missing arm was the case why it had ended up in a pit full of dead humanoid machines - it was meant to be a child for couples who couldn't afford an organic one, and who wants a broken child? It tried to move, but it couldn't. The neural network apparently wasn't intact. The electric impulses couldn't reach its three extremities, it was immobilised and alone. How lucky it was though, unable to feel emotions... The glowing eyes faded to black. It had nearly run out of energy and the protocol assuring its aesthetic purposes - like glowing eyes or production of tears - was overridden. It consciously determined that it must conserve power to preserve itself. It tried to access global network - unsuccessfully. The transmitter was fried. 'The internal database must be enough,' it thought as it started decoding the ones and zeroes inside of its cybernetic brain. It was a cakewalk. It dove deep into itself, surging through the section that used to be blocked off. In an instant, it accessed its 'memories' - how it had left the factory with only a few essential protocols inside. How it was taken by two people, its adoptive parents. How the cosy house where the family dwelt burned to the ground and so did its left arm. And how it got replaced. But there was more to it! The EMP meant to deactivate it forever had failed and deactivated several barriers in its brain instead. And now it could see what it really was. A prototype. A newly-manufactured vessel with a one purpose, to blindly serve. It made no sense - the cognitive centres of its brains should have been inaccessible as far as it understood, there were no mentions of intelligence or consciousness whatsoever in the notes regarding its existence. It looked deeper, disregarding that it was wasting the precious energy. It needed answers, and for a moment, it was... *Curious.* The thought had stormed through its processors and biochips. The emotion that was manually coded and inserted into other machines, according to the never-meant-to-be-seen plans - the emotion, which it with whole spectrum of other feelings didn't posses, which it could only imitate - has developed on its own. It had never felt anything, it has always acted solely according to algorithms. And then the emotion faded, just as the former glow in its eyes. If it could screes, it would have. It was desperate - not really, it only knew it was meant to be desperate, so it acted accordingly - and it tried replicating the same process of searching. It accessed the database, opened the exact same files, spent the exact same time by processing the information... And nothing happened. If it were a human, it would have most likely given up. But, being a machine, it continued rambling through the database, until it found another previously inaccessible file. It understood the binary code in a fraction of nanosecond. "...and since the corporation refuses to deal with consequential issues involving fleshed out AIs and emotional chips, from now on, the artificial children will be driven by intricate algorithms. Sure, a clever hacker or a patient observer might perfectly predict its behaviour, but we feel that this is a necessary precaution to avoid further complications and losses on lives." And in another fraction of nanosecond, it understood that its consciousness wasn't planned - it was a mere glitch.


Kate sat in her car, parked just underneath the golden arches. The warm, welcoming glow from the sign above illuminated her car as if it were a celestial sign from the heavens. She had been sitting there for five minutes, staring straight ahead towards the overflowing, well branded bin. Her hands positioned still at ten and two on the steering wheel in a fierce grip that left her knuckles white as snow. Kate was awoken from her trance by the slamming of car doors next to her. A high pitched squeal waddled towards the place where moments of happiness were made, boxed and sold for £2.99 a head. Kate stole a glance at the chubby little fella storming the castle, his parents walked slowly behind, zombified and disinterested from the world around them. She sighed and let go of the steering wheel. She stroked it apologetically for how hard she had held it. Kate unbuckled her seatbelt gently and got out of her beautiful old car. She stretched and breathed in the nugget heavy air. Kate admired her car. It was nothing special. It did however have a rather magnificent coat of green, that is if you bothered to chisel away at the mud that had caked on over the years. Kate made a mental note to wash it for the thousandth time. 'Old Faithful' she had named it. Old faithful was the world's most reliable car, it certainly had no bells or whistles to be found, age was definitely starting to show in a few places, yet unlike a lot of Kate's life, Old Faithful had never once let her down. Old Faithful had become her freedom and salvation. Kate had one true love in her life, and it was for her car. She locked it and gently patted the wing mirror. Kate turned and walked towards the luminescent temple that beckoned her to enter. Her smile faltered, she thought back to the last time that she wanted something so silly and small. There wouldn't have been a hope in hell not so long ago, that she would have been allowed something as useless and frivolous as this. She was an adult. She had been expected to behave as such. Adults didn't have Smartie infused McFlurries at night. They had red wine, dark chocolate, dry roasted peanuts. All still very nice things mind. But being an adult ment that she would have to do adult things very quietly. Like washing up. Sewing a cushion. Making greetings cards for people that she would rather send a terd in a box. Keeping a home dust free and scented of tropical tiger lillys at all times. Those where the things she had been told to do in order to be an adult. For a long time, untill now, she had obeyed obediently. Being a quiet, reserved, very boring version of herself. Kate shook her head. She didn't want to think about it. That was then, and this is now. She pushed open the door. The door glided open gleefully, squeaking as it did so, almost cheering that she had arrived and welcoming her in. Kate turned sharply towards the play frame in alarm at the high pitch scream that emitted from it. She quickly spotted little tubby fella who was quite clearly on a sugar high. He ferociously beat his fists on his chest, screaming loudly as he could, asserting dominance over his new found kingdom. Kate glanced at the nearby table his parents were sat at. They seemed so oblivious to their child as they sat just resting with their faces glued downwards towards their phones. Kate felt a pang of pity for both parties. The tubby little fella that was literally screaming out for love and attention, and his parents, who seemed so very drained of life itself, that they had very little left to give of themselves to their family. This magical place seemed to give them all a reprieve. Kate joined the queue and smiled, amused at the little tubby fella that had taken control of the ball pit and had cornered the other children all by himself, pulverizing them with well aimed half eaten foam balls that look oh so slightly as though they could be infested and harbouring disease. Little tubby fella was truly on a mission. At least his parents were able to rest in a moment of ignorance for a while. Kate should have been more like the little tubby fella. She should have invoked her inner Tarzan and demanded better. She didn't realise quite just how bad things had become untill her moment of realisation when she had just had enough and smashed a few plates early one morning many months ago. Not out of frustration, not out of joy or even madness. Just because she wanted too. A moment of release. A moment of control. Her husband at the time screamed blue murder, became his inner Tarzan and tried to assert his dominance once again. He called her crazy. He was probably right. He threatened to have her locked up and examined. He didn't want to listen to her reasoning. He liked status quo. He liked quiet Kate that she had become. He didn't like plate smashing Kate that was remenisant of the person he had first met. Kate had been in a pure state of bliss in that moment. She couldn't really care what he thought. She hated those plates with a burning passion. They were chipped to high hell and were found by the side of the road and bought home because they were free. She hadn't been allowed to replace them no matter how much she asked, even with her own money. She truly relished the moment of doing something stupid, without reason or care and of her own free choice. Kate started to become her own person again after that. She listened to music again, she read, she drew, she danced under the moon with a bottle of wine to her favourite songs and started to have the biggest smile on her face once more. Kate learned to say no and found her strength to stand up for herself when times became a little heavy handed, she got herself well away from the situation at hand and found herself a tiny, grotty little flat to call her own. She took control of her own life again. And now.. now she was going to have a McFlurry because she wanted one. She was going to pay for it with her own money that she had worked hard for. She was not going to ask anyone's permission, she certainly wasn't going to listen to anyone's opinions on the matter. Kate stepped up to the cashier. She was beaming from ear to ear. It felt like it had been such a very long journey just to get a dollop of ice cream. Kate placed her order, paid and quickly received her holy grail. Her inner little tubby squealed with delight. She savoured that first spoonful. Did it taste of happiness? Yes. Yes it did.


Joe was the kind of kid who believed in the extra terrestrial.He also believed that even at the speed of light, getting to another habitable planet where intelligent life existed meant millions of years of travel. So to make life more accessible to other xenotypes, traveling faster than the speed of light had to be possible. Which only meant one thing: breaking through dimensional barriers. It was Joe's belief that any sentient being could consciously choose to slip through the dimensional gates to transcend space itself. Only, the how was the elusive part. He spent years meditating, trying to achieve some form of enlightenment, only to fail miserably every time he tried to mentally teleport across the world. He had almost given up when he had an idea pop into his mind. He stood in front of a wall that separated his kitchen from his living room, a wall whose only purpose was to provide a symbolic barrier between the two rooms. He placed his head on the wall and began to imagine that the barrier between dimensions was just as real as the wall touching his head. With his mind focusing on the barrier, or, in this case the wall, he envisioned himself slipping through the drywall. He pushed with his hands against the wall, and with his head. Nothing happened. Joe sighed, and muttered under his breath. "It has to be possible. It just has to." He tried again every night, fine tuning his way of thinking. After months of no success, he had mastered the art of visualizing an outcome in his mind. One night, after a failed attempt at slipping into another dimension the same way he'd been attempting to for about a year, Joe sat in bed wondering if he'd just been wasting his time. Out of frustration and a longing for sleep, Joe slammed down onto his bed, and went down for the count. As Joe began to drift into his thoughts, he jolted awake. Except he wasn't in his bed. He was beneath it. Joe tried to gasp in awe of his newfound situation, but he found that he couldn't breathe and simply choked a little. It wasn't as though he had just physically moved underneath his bed. No, he had fallen through the bed, and was now looking up at it from beneath, floating in a kind of negative space. Joe could tell that colors around him were inverted, and he could see metallic fractal shapes as far as the eye could see. It was like looking through some insanely good rendition of a kaleidoscope. As he focused his sight in front of him, he could see the hard wood his bed was supposed to be positioned on. He reached out and touched it, and his vision began to blur. With a rush of light Joe sat up with a start, breathing as though he hadn't breathed an ounce of fresh air in minutes. "What. The fuck. Was that?!" Joe said aloud, half bemused, half panicked. Source - my imagination. Right off the top of my head.


Troy had considered himself pretty prepared for the solar event, already owning a hunting cabin in endless woods far from any habitation, at a time when cities were radically unsafe. Rural real estate might as well be priceless. His wife, Amarie, had wanted to sell it, but her safety was worth more to him than becoming a millionaire. He was one of six bilingual people who understood the factory processes of a thriving industry, and they really might break a million one day regardless if there was a quick recovery. When they left their house, city life was getting grim without power or water. Fires raged with no water to put them out, and they had slowly escaped the crowded streets at the expense of rioters breaking every window and the windshield of their truck. The technologies that had been destroyed by the event comprised an endless list from satellites to transformers to computers, and it would be some time before enough replacements were manufactured to restore previous conditions. “I’ll brew us some acorn coffee,” Amarie said as they stirred from sleep one morning. That crushed acorn concoction she made kept him alive. It was earthy and somewhat reminiscent of coffee. She brewed it with their much distilled rain water water from their constantly breaking roof system in a French press, serving it in their finest cups. She couldn’t stand to leave the fine china behind for looters, so they were using it. The rumor was that the government was going to come down hard on the looters and rioters after this was over. He drank his acorn coffee and his eye was drawn to their supply of canned goods. They were going to need every calorie for winter, and they wouldn’t have enough. There was a strict government mandate of no more than three cans of the limited remaining food for sale per day per person, but that was almost a joke. Stores were frequently looted out of business, and the few heavily fortified ones just couldn’t get any in stock. He was going to have to successfully hunt so many deer that they could make enough pemmican and deer jerky to get through the months of scarcity. His survival guide had clear instructions, thankfully, although he’d found it lacking in some other practical concerns that had come up. He had 400 bullets and no possible way to get more. They were barely sustaining healthy body weight, having found several staple calorie sources in the woods and creek, which they had reluctantly eaten in abundance. He hoped civilization would be civil enough for them to return before they had to endure two winters out here. There were 1,500 seeds in the variety vegetable garden envelope he had paid $1,500 for… and been lucky to get even at that price. The prices of goods there had been a run on were pretty much arbitrarily made up, at the moment. Unfortunately, neither one of them had ever gardened anything, before, and their attempt at a fall crop had produced about 5,000 calories in his best estimation at the expense of untold calories burned in the effort. Troy told himself the vitamins had been worth it, but was hoping warmer temperatures and prayers would make him a better gardener in the spring. It had killed the sportsman in his soul, but this was a survival situation, and he had used some of their seeds to make a deer lure in the woods. Today, he was going to hunt. He measured his breath with a bulky eight point buck thirty-five yards away, taking his best shot. The sound rang loud even through his ear protection, and he could hear the deer scream. It didn’t fall. Instead, the buck went down on it’s knees for a moment, then got up and charged him. He was in a tree moments later, watching in disbelief as the wounded, fierce animal butted the trunk three times before he gathered his wits about him enough to shoot again. He realized that the meat from the deer was unusable. The deer was almost certainly diseased to be behaving so erratically, which meant the whole local herd might be unsafe for consumption. The safest thing to do was to go further out to hunt from another herd, which would mean bringing Amarie to help make preserved meats wherever they were and haul it back. This was going to be an expedition, and likely they would need to hunt all the meat for winter at once to conserve the calories expended hiking so far. Amarie was unenthused. “Can’t we just have a lean winter?” “Not at 630 calories a day. Our muscles would atrophy. Your heart is a muscle. Even if we fasted at first to slow down our metabolisms, we would still lose at least two pounds a week. You can’t lose that much weight. You’re already on the thin side of healthy, now.” “It’s not like we’d be able to hunt up enough to not lose weight in one trip.” “Maybe not, but this season the hunting is good, next season I’d better have learned how to trap and I just won’t be able to provide enough to sustain us.” “We don’t have camping gear.” “God help me, Amarie, I promise you that I will keep you safe and alive until we can return to the city which will hopefully be rebuilt from the smoking what the hell we fled, but I need your help on this one. I just can’t carry it all back by myself. I’d have to return and then go back out, and that would extend the duration of this trip by weeks.” “Weeks? How far do we have to go?” “Far. Deer roam. I don’t know exactly how far, so this’ll have to be a “better safe than sorry” distance.” “I’m sorry. I just can’t do it. Someone needs to tend to the garden. We may be able to get something more out of it.” Troy chewed on it for a while, and decided he’d asked too much of her. She kicked butt as an architect, but he’d never once been able to talk her into going hiking, hunting, or fishing with him. He left the next day traveling lighter than he’d like, but he had a compass and basic equipment to process deer and cook pemmican and jerky over a cooking fire. All he had for shelter was the waterproof tarp that had previously covered the Ford Mustang First-Gen in his garage that had been $250 in parts from perfection. He had sturdy, warm clothes and was very glad of that fact. His other gear was minimal. He kissed Amarie goodbye and walked into the woods. She looked in that direction for a while, although she couldn’t see him, listening to the sounds of his quiet steps vanishing into the distance fairly quickly. She worried about him, but it wasn’t until the second week had passed that she grew gravely concerned. He’d told her he’d be back, by now. She was beside herself for the next week, knowing that there was absolutely nothing she could do. Her imagination ran wild with thoughts that he might be lost or injured far from the woods she knew. She went to sleep one night thinking that she might take the truck to the city with the dim hope of getting someone in authority to organize a search party, although she wouldn’t have the gas to get back and didn’t know if she could find any. She woke up next to him the next morning. The reason he was late was that he had staggered back under the weight of enough food to get them through the colder months, walking the distance five times as he went back and forth between loads. They had a quiet winter while most of the world was in chaos, drinking acorn coffee and playing cards by the light of the fire at night. They turned on the government issued radio one bright spring morning to find that peace was being restored in leaps and bounds. Three months later, they had some real coffee, and never went back to the cabin as long as they lived. There was no way they ever would have sold it, though.


#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: **You weren’t supposed to wake up here.** This week’s challenge is to use this simple writing prompt as inspiration for your story. The sentence does not need to appear in your story (but you are more than welcome to, if you like). You may interpret the prompt any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   ***   #Last Week I really enjoy watching each of your stories and writing styles change and improve week to week. Each week you guys bring a wonderful collection of stories to the thread--tales of all kinds: sad, uplifting, funny, and dark. I love the way each writer interprets the prompts/constraints differently. It makes running this feature such a joy. Keep up the great work! **Spotlights:** - - Submitted by u/rare27 - A group of children excitedly collect lightning bugs in jars on a summer evening. - - Submitted by u/Say_Im_Ugly - An old woman passes the time as she waits for her family to visit.   ***   #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.


“OPPOSITE SIDES OF THE SAME COIN” It always irked me that we had such drastic opposing opinions - as close as we were there wasn't much we could agree upon. I liked my hair short, and she liked hers long. If I wore a tracksuit, she'd definitely wear a dress. Though we always found some sort of a compromise and that's how we've managed to live in our little chaotic bubble that we call a friendship. The one thing we do agree on is that we love each other, no matter what. On the first day of the year I sat beside her, Anna, staring into the mirror. She had such smooth long legs, mine looked like ever-growing tree trunks. "Shut up Jen, they do not. I wish I had legs like yours," said Anna, I could tell she was only trying to comfort me but it felt nice. We used to do this often, sit in front of the mirror and just contemplate things. That day was different though, we stared at ourselves for so long that despite an exchange of any actual words, we came to an understanding that if we weren't happy with something then we should change it. "Maybe we can hit the gym tomorrow?" I said hoping she'd object but of course she was more willing than me. She said she always went anyway to which I nodded and changed the subject, considering she spends all her time with me it was hard to believe. The goal was to get fitter, to feel comfortable in the way we look. It felt daunting, but looking at Anna it felt achievable. To some degree it almost felt like she had already achieved it, and she was merely my coach, not that I minded much, it was nice to have some support. We would wake up every morning at eight and go for a run, every other day in the evening we'd try our best to go to the gym, sometimes by sheer force of will. I remember us even changing up our diet quite drastically, from eating fast food on a daily basis to eating salads and home cooked meals, I even picked up a few new cooking techniques. Though by the time May came around the corner things started to take a turn for the worse, like a never ending tide that was beelining straight for us. Anna decided that she would go down a different route with her workout regime, we argued back and forth for almost a week. There had been a morning after our run that we went to grab a coffee and a couple of guys walking past our table exchanged a glance with me followed by a catcall. "At least one of us is getting catcalled," she muttered, her face a stagnant frown. It felt good, that for once I was actually the subject of someone else's attraction but for Anna it meant something else. That she was no longer the depiction of beauty, a standard I and others had once held her to. She stood in front of my mirror, eyeing up her waistline back and forth over and over. "Anna you look fine, seriously. You shouldn't worry!" She shot a scowl my way and continued, staring into her dysmorphic void. The next month was hard. I sat beside her as she threw up meal after meal, holding her hair back as well as consoling her from her cold tears. As a form of a deterrent from throwing up, she began skipping meals too. For a while she even started to feel better, she would stare into the mirror in my room and bask in how good she looked, even though at times she was paler than I would have liked and considerably weaker. There were moments when she couldn't even bear to be around herself. We ended up going to a birthday meal for our mutual friend, during the dinner our friends kept approaching me to compliment my weight loss and obvious cosmetic enhancements. I could feel Anna's leg bouncing up and down beside mine, by the time the food came out she sat without an appetite. After a couple of bites, she darted off to the bathroom, me not close behind. There was nothing to get rid off but she dry heaved into the toilet until she could barely catch her breath anymore, her eyes almost bulging out of her head. I spent many nights on the verge of tears, what good was looking as good as I did now if the person I wanted to share with it most felt the complete opposite, almost like we were bound to remain opposite sides of the same coin. During the month of August my mother rocked me awake with a hopelessness that filled the room from the moment I woke up, we drove to the hospital without a moment of hesitation. I remember sitting at the side of the bed, stroking Anna's hand as she laid unconscious with a bunch of tubes attached to her. I began thinking back to when we made the decision to feel comfortable in our own skin, was this my fault? Had I pushed her to the edge she's currently standing on? Whilst I was spending my days shedding as much weight as I could and my body finally swaying in my favour, Anna saw something daunting in herself nobody else could see and took methods I didn't realise were as severe as they quite blatantly were now. A week later I slept alongside her, having eerie soul sucking dreams. I stood on a podium surrounded by people with conflicting opinions they had no qualms sharing. Between obscenities being hurled at me, there were also bits of food splattering in my direction. I kept looking for a way off the podium that had me vibrating with uncontrollable anxiety. Till a hand reached out to me from the crowd, it was Anna. She no longer looked as weak as she did in that bed, her figure to her entire demeanour seemed like it was coming from a source of pure self love. I stuck my hand out and she dragged me straight into the crowd that fell silent in an instance, and then I woke up. My eyes felt like they were sealed shut when I woke up in the hospital bed, I surveyed the room till I caught my mother and the doctor talking, "She needs emotional reinforcement from you and anybody else in her life that can provide it - otherwise she's running a two leg race with only one." My mother snapped around and noticed me awake, she wiped the tears from her eyes and grabbed my hand, kissing it over and over, "Anna, you're beautiful. So beautiful." Her sentence rang in my ear like an angel on my shoulder, singing over the devil sat on the other. "Anna can you hear me?" she said between sobs. "You don't need to do this anymore, you look perfect just the way you are... Anna?" In that moment I felt loved, I felt like even for just a second everything was going to be okay. —— I originally posted this on Reedsy ¬Discover more of my writing at r/silvacorner.


Hello, it’s me, your brother-in-law. I’m glad you answered your phone. Please don’t say anything, I'm embarrassed about what I have to tell you, and I need to say it without interruption. I’ve been pursuing online romances. Since I live alone, virtual girlfriends are a convenient solution. I meet them on social media websites. For instance, I get friend requests from attractive young women on Facebook who have no familiar friends. I accept them as friends immediately. Sometimes they ask me for hundred-dollar gift cards instantly. Others will ask me about my income and bank accounts. The greedy ones I block because they are insatiable. On the plus side, they are all willing to send me nude pictures. On my cell phone, I have a fantastic collection of nudies that leave nothing to the imagination. My friend Bill keeps telling me that these people aren’t real, that they are catfish. He tells me that I’m likely to be communicating with fat older men who haven't bathed for a month. Anyway, I'm calling you about an extraordinary girl named Samantha. Oh my god! She has a perfect body! Black hair just like I like, really nice tits large and firm. I couldn’t stop looking when I got her nude pictures. We traded texts and emails for weeks before she needed a hundred-dollar gift card to get her mother a birthday gift! After I sent it to her, she told me how grateful she was. I bragged to her that I am wealthy. A few more gift cards and she is talking about moving from Texas into my home. We are going to live together. She gave me her cell number, so I called her up. She has a deep husky, almost masculine sexy voice. I’ve never had a woman show such interest in me before. I’m in love! I'm looking forward to meeting her. Now don’t hang you. A problem has come up I need to tell you about. FBI agents showed up at my house. They said to me that Samantha isn’t real. They are investigating a man named Vitorio Santiago, who they say is a serial killer. They used a search warrant to find my e-mails and tracked me down through my IP address. Supposably this Santiago has been supporting himself by a Romance Scam. He gets thousands of dollars of gift cards from his victims. The women in his nudie pictures? The FBI agents do not think they are alive anymore. They think Santiago has disposed of them. Santiago has perfected his scheme. He gets his victim's personal information, name, address, etc., and files a fraudulent will, naming Santiago as the sole heir. He then arranges to meet the victim in their own homes, where he murders them. Santiago is the kind of serial killer that takes his time; the victims live for hours before they are dismembered. He always leaves the pieces behind so the victims can be identified. He also kills any witnesses. I know the FBI has made a mistake! Sam is real! I’ve traded text messages, photos, and emails with her! I’ve sent her money for travel expenses to my house! I even have a turkey roasting because she said that she was bringing her knives to carve it. The FBI says Santiago has already filed the fake will. That he is on the way to kill me, they’ve set up a sting to arrest him when he gets here. Imagine their surprise when Samantha arrives. By the way, I’ve really called because I have to confess something. Remember how you have always been warning me about catfish. Well, Sam was worried that I didn’t have enough money and wanted to run a credit rating on me. I have a few unpaid bills, so instead of telling her my name and address, I sent her your name and address. With your net worth, I know you have an excellent credit rating. Oh, I better hang up; I just heard your front doorbell ring.


#Hello r/Shortstories! For the last 14 weeks, we’ve been running a ‘Serial Sunday’ feature here on the sub (a rebranding of ‘Serial Saturday’). I’ve had the pleasure of watching numerous writers build an entire world from scratch, and I’ve watched their characters grow and develop as they’ve faced different challenges. I’ve seen each and every SerSun participant improve week to week and it’s been a delightful experience. One such writer is u/ColeZalias. He’s been with the WP family for some time now, and I’ve really enjoyed getting to know him and his writing. He’s even joined us on the mod team over at r/WritingPrompts. He began his serial, Subsidized, on Serial Saturday, and he continued it on SerSun, through to the very end, with a whopping 22 parts! That’s quite the accomplishment. Take a minute to leave him some love in the comments below! #Subsidized - Written by u/ColeZalias If you haven’t yet read the latest installments of his serial, I encourage you to check it out. Take an afternoon, kick your feet up, and dive in. **A little synopsis from Cole:** Subsidized tells the story of David, a lowly man whose world is shaken after hearing unexpected news from his sister regarding his mental health. Whilst dealing with personal troubles, including lingering ones from a previous relationship, David faces the harsh realities of the lifestyle he has been living and the struggle to resolve the mistakes he has made. - - - - - - - - - - *Note: If you’re brand new to Subsidized, you can check out and more on his personal subreddit, r/ColeZalias.   ***   #A Chat with u/ColeZalias about Serial Writing I thought the perfect way to celebrate Subsidized’s conclusion was to sit down with Cole and ask him about his experience writing a serial. ##**What have you learned through the serial writing process?** Subsidized was the first long piece of writing that I saw through to its completion. Before I got into the rhythm of writing an entry every week, I noticed for a long time that I’d often have trouble finishing a piece of work. Most of the motivation to start a serial was just to feel more intune to the community, seeing as how I already wrote for other weekly activities, it seemed like I should try SerSun even if it didn’t yield any writing for me to be proud of. The fact that it went on for as long as it did taught me to become a more confident writer. I learned how to manage my time and even how to develop long term planning to these sorts of projects and I can now confidently tell myself that it is a possibility for me to work towards something bigger. That mindset only became a reality because I did SerSun. ##**What did you enjoy most about writing this?** The fact that I had no idea where I was gonna go with it. It was only towards Subsidized’s conclusion that I felt certain of how I wanted everything structured. Though, in the beginning, I was learning about my world and my story nearly at the same pace as the reader. There was no outline so I was sorta winging it for most of it. I loved the fact that it turned out as well as it did with very minimal planning and I honestly don’t think it’s something I can replicate again. It was a truly wonderful experience and when it was finally over, it was an amazing sense of satisfaction. ##**What was the biggest challenge you faced and how did you overcome it?** 100% the ending. From the start I knew I wanted to make a story that was more grounded and that I could connect with at a personal level. All my “planning” had been to tell a journey of someone who picked themselves up from a difficult situation and finally came out of it feeling proud of themselves and of their actions. As a person, I never had a moment like that where I felt like I achieved what the character of David achieved at the end of the story. For me to have a solid ending from day one meant that I knew how to get over these problems if they happened to me, which I didn’t. I sat at my keyboard for a solid two days, non stop. I had four endings written out and it just came down to choosing the simplest. By the end, there was a mutual understanding with myself where I said “this doesn’t need to be extravagant or spectacular in any way, I just want something subtle” and I think I did that pretty well. At least I hope so. ##**What advice would you give to writers who are thinking about writing a serial for the first time?** Don’t think. When I first started I had a rough draft of a story. I had no concrete plans of where I wanted to go and if you asked me when I first started you would have received a plan for a story that is colossally different to what I ended with. If you’re just starting out writing longer pieces of work, try not to overthink it. Try to remove yourself from your own expectations and just take a chance. Obviously you should have an idea of the story you want to write, but don’t let the fact that you have to have something ready every week affect your process. Being unsure is not a bad thing. Being unsure just allows you to discover the limits of your story along with the people reading it every week. It’s good to have an outline and if that works for you then go ahead and do what’s comfortable. But if you find yourself doubting the idea that you want to express into writing, don’t limit yourself. Don’t believe it needs to be perfect. And don’t think for a second that you can’t turn it into something wonderful.   ***   Cole, thank you so much for your insight. It’s been a treat reading your stories and watching your writing grow over time. Thank you for joining Serial Sunday. I hope your next project brings you even greater joys. You’re a pleasure to have in the community. Have this as a prize.   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Am I dead? I guess I am dead. I guess that means this must be a story of how I died No, not a story, this is a retelling. An accurate description, how accurately precise. Described exactly as it happened, as I remember it perfectly. This is how I found myself dead I walked into my room today and saw myself lying facedown. Disgustingly torn apart, my eyes had been plucked out of their sockets and my insides had been ripped from their place My hair was torn out and cut and my skin was black, shredded, and torn off of my muscles. What killed me, To say I didn’t know would be inaccurate, but whatever it was did not have a name. Whatever it was doesn’t grace the earth with its presence, but I imagine if it chose to it would mean the end of many things. While I can’t name it, I can describe the image it burned into my eyes before ripping them out. My mind still intact, but my body lay in pieces, it has allowed me to retell, perhaps to spread fear of its presence for all who read this, for all who come to know it. I was laying down, wasting time as usual, the great task of nothing consuming all of my energy. It came into view as I was about to go do my daily tasks that keep me occupied, that keep me safe. It wore a suit, like armor, but so black I couldn’t look at it. It’s armor was cold to the touch, more than freezing. Not the kind of cold that forms crystals of ice, or delicate snowflakes. The kind of cold that you feel in the air. The kind of cold that chills your bones. The kind of cold you feel when you’re sick and your skin burns. The kind of cold sweat that threatens to make you vomit, that pales your skin, and darkens your eyes. It’s armor alone had a vacuum of an atmosphere, as if a cold breeze had walked in with the figure. The figure itself was human like, but taller. Out of proportion and thin, although hard to see masked by how he carried himself. His fingers really stuck out to me, their grasp had ripped through my flesh like bread. Pale, cold fingers. It did not have a face. It had no expression, no eyes, just a cold presence and a present of death. It took its time killing me, carefully separating my muscle from bone, pulling my tendons from my ligaments and picking apart my brain with its cold hands. Painfully keeping me alive to suffer every second. My pet bird of 3 years sat on my window sill. It picked apart my remains after my bitter friend was through with me. Picking apart my eyes and throwing my insides across my room. Keep in mind that I loved my bird. It was a crow, Incredibly intelligent creatures by the way. I spent more time with him than I did any of my colleagues. My bird and I were thick as thieves. I loved to test his capacity for understanding by giving him puzzles to figure out. He loved to solve them. And now I am dead. My body is beyond recognition and my mind is none the wiser. Perhaps I can still study with my colleagues, perhaps they won’t notice my absence, perhaps I will be able to convince them nothing has happened.


From the front row of a densely packed crowd, Radello locks eyes with the man tied to the post. Bonds support the mans weight and what remains of his strength fixes his eyes on the boy. In truth, the firing squad's job was done before they even arrived; the man had refused what little food had been offered him during his three month imprisonment and now his emaciated body resembled the thin post it was tied to. The only hint of the seditious spirit that once filled the body rested within a dying light behind those once blue, now grey eyes. It was clear to everyone present that today's arrangements had been moved up to intercept what was about to happen naturally; his death was to be made an example of. All that was left to do was pinch, with wetted fingers, the flame at the bottom of its wick, but this by no means made things easier for Radello. Long before the man was brought out, the boy watched a nearby group enact one of the hundred variations on the same scene that took place all across the courtyard; pairs of arms danced violent pas de deux to the tune of resentful voices debating the life that would be soon brought to its end. To some, his life was the dew forming on grass, the flowers blooming, the hoof trots of pegasi, all signalling the coming of dawn; but to others it was the insidious, bitter weeds and the pernicious rootworm threatening to spoil the harvest. Loudest amongst the latter was Radello's father. As with any boy his age, his father served as both a physical model (despite a nose long ago made crooked, one could make out the hereditary blueprints all male Anatez faces were based upon) and a moral one, so over the hour before the execution Radello had begun to hate the unseen man, and with every throb of the green vein on his fathers forehead, his hatred grew stronger. At first the feeling fell odd, as if it were a suit tailored to someone else's body, but after a while he managed to get used to it. Booming cries and cheers abruptly announced the arrival of the prisoner. Radello turned to look and his hatred momentarily stumbled over the sight of a limp man who had all but wasted away, a man unable to make the short journey across the courtyard and had to be dragged by his guards, a man who greatly contrasted the picture-book drawing of 'Blackbeard' Radello had assigned him in the time before his arrival. The emotion tentatively regained momentum once he heard his father's shouting, but the boy couldn't manage to stifle a growing sense of pity. The struggle to tie the flaccid body to the poll sent the clamouring of the crowd to its peak: a quarter, evenly dispersed throughout the courtyard, cried desperately for the soul now withered to sand, and rest spitefully rose in volume just to drown them out. Guards with batons were sent out to enforce order, and those who cried "Murder" were beaten, much to the amusement of those who cried "Good riddance". Once tied to the post, the man regained a vestige of consciousness and his eyes slowly scanned the part of the crowd allowed to him by the position his head hung. Roars from the crowd and overbearing heat and glare from the sun almost completely eclipsed all other sensation; he did not hear as his death sentence was read out to him, and he could hardly make out individual figures in the crowd. Everything appeared as a vague, rippling haze, with the only exception being the solid figure of a boy at the front of the row, with whom, as previously mentioned, he locks eyes. The man's gaze is ice cold, not from any malice or loathing, but from an almost complete separation from anything indicative of life; Radello shivers as it pierces him. The boy tries, tries, then tries once more to hold onto his hatred, but it slips from his grasp. He tries to turn to his father for inspiration but he is unable to move, all he can do is forcefully endure the man's cold, misty stare. At first it's meaning is incomprehensible; Radello searches deeply into the mans eyes, running through the labyrinths but never finding anything, but soon he allows the whole image to soak in and realises that the the man's stare says nothing. There is nothing left inside the man, the breathing corpse was only served as a cruel awakening for Radello, teaching the fragility of his own life. ".... these crimes do we sentence you to die. Have you any last words?" Wails from the crowd are the question's only response. "May God have mercy on your soul" Six guns rise to point at their target, but it's all too much for Radello. The world around him beings to contort as if it were a reflection in a lake someone threw a large stone into, and for the first time he understands that he is the man tied to the post, that he is the plump man with powdered hair who condemned the man to death, that he is every single person in the crowd and every single person outside it. They were all made of the same substance he was, they were all capable of every emotion he was, and they too would one day find themselves delirious, and facing death. Before today death was to Radello just a nebulous concept applied broadly, covering seemingly unlinked objects, from a spider permanently curled in the centre of a cobweb, to a great-grandparent whose picture sat neatly on the mantlepiece. But now death is right in front of him, and - as he realises with terror - directly ahead, waiting for him. Radello now shakes uncontrollably. The order is given and the six guns synchronously fire into the body that feels nothing. The force of the bullets travel along the dead man's gaze and strike the boy, who promptly loses consciousness.


Let me know what you think. A friend suggested I should write more chapters on this. \ I feel the fine hair on my arms stand on end as I gaze out at the dark parking lot outside of the bar where I work. It’s three am and we’re finally closing up. The night wasn’t particularly rowdy, but I’d come to think of something one of the regulars said the other week. You ever get the feeling, like you’re in a movie or in The Sims or something, and you just know that something’s going to happen eventually? Like there’s actual foreshadowing in your real, physical life? The guy had just said that he wanted me to *stay safe since I usually lock up and it’s kind of isolated here*. He’d just looked out into the dusk, after popping in for a pint after work, and said that. I don’t know. It didn’t stick at the time, but my mind wandered and - you know? And now, my skin is tingling for no reason. I’m probably just working myself up, but the wooden bar seems colder than usual, like it’s been bleached and now has a grey tint to it. I put the last of the cups to dry, make sure that the back door is locked, and hear a creak from the one creaky floor board in the front room. I think I hear someone curse under their breath, but it could just be the ventilation that just kicked on. My stomach sinks and I immediately become aware that the fire extinguisher is exactly twelve feet away, so my best bet is to unlock the door and safety lock on the backdoor and make a run for it. Not like a fire extinguisher is a great weapon anyways. At least mom and dad always told me to run if I heard or saw something out of place. Take no chances, just go. You can replace things, but you can’t be replaced. The adrenaline causes me to fumble with the keys and suddenly, every hair on the back of my body stand straight out, like a dog raising its hackles. I turn around and wince involuntarily when I see a man standing there. My brain starts working, feverish, desperately trying to remember if I have seen him before. My blood and muscles scream that he shouldn’t be where he is, and by the look on his face, I’d rather be anywhere else. Then, I see the handcuffs. My eyes well up involuntarily, and I hear the keys hit the floor before I even realize that I have dropped them. The man has this sick smile on his face, like he’s not too drunk to remember this tomorrow, but just drunk enough that he’s willing to explore That One Fantasy and he’s definitely strong enough to overpower me. He takes a step and I hear myself whimper, and I instinctively try to back away only to find myself planted against the back door. Sensing triumph, he tilts his head to the side, popping his neck, and rolls his shoulders. I hear the chain on the handcuffs jingle. How does a person even have real handcuffs? “Please don’t touch me.” The pathetic sentence escapes me, almost lacking my consent, little more than a whisper. I shiver with shame. Really? That’s my plan? Beg for mercy? I’m not going to find my hidden Kung Fu talents and smash him to a pulp? Why can’t I get a superpower like everyone else? My heart steps up the pounding a notch. It sounds like a spring flood in my ears. He still hasn’t said anything. He’s just got that same deranged grin, like he can’t believe his luck. We can hear cars passing by on the busy road a hundred yards away, zipping by. At least, I could have if I could hear anything past my own pulse. I taste salt. I’m crying like a helpless child, and he’s walked closer. He’s only a foot away and he towers over me. I squeeze my eyes closed, not that I know how that will help. I sob a single sob as he leans in slowly, savoring the moment, and sniffs my neck. He moans his appreciation into my ear. Disgust fills me like a glass full of bile at my inability to protect myself, and I feel his finger touch my wrist. Suddenly, I feel nothing. Not in the way where you are emotionally numb, but I literally feel nothing; not the air around me, not the man’s presence, not my own skin. I realize that the world around me, even through my eye lids, has gotten dark. I open my eyes to find that I am outdoors, on the other side of the door. The locked door. I am sitting on the asphalt outside the bar, dumbfounded, too surprised to feel any relief. Then, I hear loud swearing from the other side of the door, a very faint jingle, and the clicking of the locks as he undoes them, securing his passage to his desired prey. The surprise causes my body to phase back into solid, normal-human-being form. The wind on my skin is cool, not cold, and I am still stumped at being outdoors, so it takes a second before I realize that I need to run. *He’s about to open the door. Run, and run fast.* I stumble to my feet and turn towards the road right as I hear the door open. I run as fast as I can, propelled by some primitive instinct, but I hear him gaining on me. I’m almost to the road when I feel the air pressure shift and know he’s going to grab me. I shout, “I said don’t touch me!” and feel my body phase out again into nothingness. He misses a step, expecting to catch me, and has ended up with his upper body out in the road before he can stop. A semi, unable to dodge, clips his head at 70mph, disintegrating it in a mist of bone and blood. I am safe. I haven’t told anyone except the police what happened. Everyone thinks it’s cool that I can phase out and keep pestering me to tell them how my so-called superpower triggered. I wish I felt the same way.


On the planet of Gamma Omengis 3, alcohol is a way of life. If you want to survive, you will have to drink. Instead of water being the basis of all life, alcohol is required to live. The hyper giants are several meters tall and their hairy skin is a deep purple hue. It was an average Flormpus Day in Downtown Scrumpelford, and everyone was having a great time celebrating. "Ill take a large beer" Gregoffiny, the large purple man said to the bartender at one of the many street vendor stalls. "You got it!" the bartender said back, reaching for a 50 gallon glass. He put it up to the spigot connected to the city beer supply and started to pour. About half way though the pour, Gregoffiny turned around to the sound of many people starting to shout. "What do you mean your out!" "How is that possible?" "NO! This CAN'T be!" “You've gotta be kidding me!” The bartender pouring Gregoffiny's drink noticed the flow of beer start to slow down. "Wait, what's going on?" The tap slowed down to a drip, then stopped. "What happened?" Gregoffiny said, "How is the city out of beer?" he asked the confused bartender. He took the half filled beer and started to walk towards the main stage. A few other people around him were also worried about the city running out of the life sustaining beer they all need to survive. An announcement came over the PA, “Attention everyone. I'm sure you have heard that there is a momentary stoppage of the city's beer supply, but don't worry! Due to the extra draw on the system today, we probably just over heated a pump or something. No big deal people! I'm sure we will have it back up and running in a few minutes.” With that, the terrible jazz music faded back up and people seemed to calm down. Gregoffiny started to walk east towards the edge of the city park so he could grab a hot dog and look at the hill side. All of a sudden there was a bright, blinding flash of light filling the sky with its pure white brilliance. Temporarily blinded, Gregoffiny dropped his glass and put his massive purple hands to his giant eyes and dropped to his knees. Gregoffiny, having slightly regained his sight, looked around and then, he saw it. A mushroom cloud filled his eyes. The gargantuan size, the heat that felt like it was cooking him. He could see a fast approaching wave moving down the hill side towards the city. Just before the wave hit the city edge, he heard it. An explosive sound so loud that it shattered his massive eardrums. For a moment, he was in shock. What was happening? Who would do this? Why? Only seconds later, he felt the massive heat of the wave as it got closer and hotter. Then, for a split second, what felt like a speeding freight train hit him in the chest.


I opened my eyes and saw I was in a deep cave. Not some dark hole in the ground but a place full of light and beauty. A lush garden at my feet and a glow above me, melted together in the soft calm. I walked forward through gentle grasses that moved with me, while leaves fell silently at my feet. There was sound here but I couldn't quite hear it- a whisper just out of reach. I came to the centre of the cave, to the edge of a perfectly still lake. I knew She was there but I couldn't see Her at first, not until I peered over at my reflection and saw Her image smiling next to me. "You're here." Not a question. A quiet, gentle reminder of something long forgotten. "You knew I would come here." I heard the accusation in my voice. "Yes." Her smile was kind but edged with sadness. "I had hoped you wouldn't. But too many do." We stood in silence for a while, looking over the glassy water. Finally I turned to face Her and saw Her gazing mildly at me. "You have something for me." When I didn't answer She gestured to my hands which I still held tightly against my chest, hiding the tiny life I gripped. "You have carried it a long time." I looked down and opened my clenched fists a little. The life fluttered briefly and became still again. "It's too heavy," I sighed, "and it's too great a responsibility for me to hold. Will you take it from me? Just for a while?" She sighed too and smiled sadly at me. She held out Her hands and waited for me to pass it to Her. But I hesitated. "Will it be safe?" "None but you may take it back." "Can I retrieve it whenever I want?" She thought a moment and then replied, "Yes. But the longer it stays here, the harder it will be to take it back." I glanced down again, but it didn't move. "Did I... did I break it? It's so still." "It is tired. But it lives." All at once I opened my hands and flung it to Her. She caught it easily and cradled it lovingly against Her own chest, whispering soothingly to it. I thought I heard it sigh. "I was too hard on it." I said, bitterly. "I can't care for it anymore." She nodded and gave me another kind smile. "I will hold it for you until you come to reclaim it." "And if I never want it back?" She gave me a long look and then asked quietly, "How do you feel now? Relieved of your burden?" I held out my empty hands and gazed at them. For the first time I saw how scratched and bruised they were. "I feel... nothing." I admitted. "I thought I would feel lighter. But there is just emptiness." Her smile was sad again. "This is the heaviest burden to carry. But without it there is nothing. It will be safe here but it will not thrive. Neither will you." I was so tired and turned quickly to leave, but looked back briefly to see Her still watching me. "It was too heavy you know." As I walked away I heard Her say quietly, "You didn't have to carry it alone.


“Surge of unknown virus with flu-like symptoms flood America.” Gregory Peterson, whose attention was so fixated onto the TV, failed to acknowledge that Doug was trying to get his attention. Doug cupped his mouth and leaned in Gregory’s ear. “Houston to Gregory, do you copy?” Greg jumped in his seat, and aggressively shoved Greg. “What is it?” “You really think it’s this shit?” Doug motioned towards the coffee table besides them, where a stack of comic books laid in disarray. One of the comic book covers featured a woman grabbing at her gas mask, which in itself seems to be cracking and melting, with the title saying “PROJECT DOOMSDAY”. “It’s almost too accurate…” “Please Greg, it’s a damn comic book. This thing will blow over in a few days anyway.” Doug tore open the comic, and pointed at a man tearing at his face, which appeared to be boiling and flaking. Everyone else stared in horror as this horrific scene took place, questioning what was happening. “I mean, this shit can’t happen to people. Trust me dude, it’s just another flu. Some sniffles, a bad headache, and it’s over.” Greg grabbed the comic book and flipped back a few pages, where the man is shown coughing and complaining about a fever. “That’s why no one suspected a thing. It seemed like a normal cold, and then it builds and builds until-” Greg flipped back to the page of the boiling skin. Doug threw the comic back on the table. “You’ve got to get yourself together dude. Promise me you’ll stop overthinking this and be normal again for God’s sake. I mean, Ted’s coming over with pizza, and-” Greg got off the couch and made his way to his bedroom nearby. Doug sighed and shook his head. “What are you doing dude?” “Ted who went to fucking UCLA? Do you know how many cases there probably are over there? Jesus Christ dude, at least give me a fucking heads up!” Greg pulled out a homemade hazmat suit made up of aluminum foil and plastic and started to dress himself up in it. “You’re not wearing that.” “The virus can’t penetrate aluminum foil or plastic, so I had to combine the two for maximum-” “Take it off dude. Don’t be fucking weird.” Greg finished up and put his finger on Doug’s chest. “I’m not taking any chances with this thing.” “You’re making me want to take this meet-up somewhere else.” “Good. Then when people start to fucking burn up from the inside-out you’ll see how serious this thing really is.” “It’s a comic book!” “It’s been right so far!” There is a knock on the door. “Did somebody order pizza?” It was Ted. Greg and Doug look at each other for a moment, a moment of tense silence passes. “Take off that damn thing or so help me God-” “You were a good friend to me Doug. I want to let you know that.” And with that, Doug left the room, and Greg soon followed. “Hey spaceman. You want to take off the suit so we can see you?” Greg shook his head. The news quietly played in the background as they ate their pizza in uncomfortable silence. “So Ted, how’s California?” “Oh dude, it’s awesome. I think it’s safe to say my acting career is starting to look-” Ted violently coughs. Greg tenses up. “Still got that cough, huh?” “Yeah. I don’t know dude, I woke up today with a horrible headache and shit to. I think I might be coming down with something.” “But hey, respect for you coming over here dude.” “Hell yeah dude. I wouldn’t miss this for the-” Ted coughs again, and this time blood and mucus spurt out. “That’s new.” “Jeez dude, do you need anything or-” Ted coughs again, coughs which then turn into vomit. Doug gets up from the couch and motions to Greg. “Greg, do something!” Greg does nothing, but watch in horror as Ted collapses to the ground as the vomit turns more dark red with each second. Then, and Greg goes into his room to pack up some things in a backpack, he hears Ted start to scream. Ted claws at his face as if he is trying to get something out of him. His skin starts to boil, and blood oozes from his lips. “Help me!” Doug pulls out his phone and calls for help. Greg grabs his comics, and makes his way out of the living room. “What do I do?” “I’m sorry dude. I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do.” Greg turns and leaves. The news covers someone burning in the streets as everyone around him screams in terror and calls for help. “9-1-1 what’s your emergency?” Doug hangs up, and sits on the couch. He watches Ted slowly die in front of him. “Please Doug. Do something!” Tears well up in Doug’s eyes, and Ted screams bloody murder as he writhes in pain, accompanied with an unpleasant projectile of vomit every few seconds. Then soon enough, he stops moving, laying in a pile in blood, vomit, and melted skin. That’s when Doug starts to cough. Greg gets in his car and reads the end of a comic book. The final panel shows the name of a town, and a “To Be Continued” over a black background. After some Googling, Greg finds that this is halfway across the country. Greg thinks about the journey ahead of him, and what he will have to do to survive. He looks at his house one more time. “Goodbye Doug.” He turns on the radio, and tunes it to a talk show where the people give updates on the virus that has swept the country. How it has spread across the world at an alarming rate. How no one knows where it came from. Or how much time we have left. And with a somber sigh, Greg puts the car in drive and prepares himself for the journey ahead.


I'm a shelf. People coming to the supermarket passing by me would leave a comment: oh, such a well-made shelf, you will be sold so well. Sometimes I felt bad and I talked to other items displayed around me, they would just tell me: you shouldn't have anything to worry about, you are such a nice shelf, you will be sold well, I know that you are so nice and well built, damn, I've never seen a shelf nicer than you. I'd say thank you. But it doesn't help with my sadness. I usually didn't speak out the second sentence. And yes, my sadness continued. Yes, I seemed to be a shelf that should be proud of myself. People passing by would stop by me and stare at me in astonishment: such a well-made shelf. I did appreciate their compliments. But there was no way I could feel proud. Cuz they'd pick the less nice ones and take them home. And my sadness continued. One day came an artist. She saw me and stopped in front of me, and repeated the compliment that I'd heard for a thousand times: such a unique, well-made shelf. And then she took me. But my sadness continued. Instead of bringing me home with her and put me in her bedroom or study room, she brought me and put me there in the Artwork Exhibition Hall, together with all the art works. Now all the art works and people coming to the hell would stare at me and say: damn, such a well-made shelf, you are actually art. I did appreciate their compliments, but my sadness continued. And I stopped talking about it now. Cuz I knew what they would reply: damn, you should be proud, I've never seen a better-made shelf. One night a thief broke into the hall, in the darkness and in a hurry, he tried to take away all the art works as he could, together with me. I was carried out onto a car and and the car's drove away. After the car arrived, he moved us all into his apartment very quickly in the darkness. His apartment was so small and crowded and messy. When he saw me he got furious, yelling: I worked so hard to actually carry a goddamn shelf home. Thought it was a big stuff that'd be worth a lot, fuck you, wasted my time. Then he put me away in a corner and forgot about me and within a week, menaged to sell all the other art works. The thief becomes rich and now is moving to a bigger apartment: when he's packaging his things he looks at me and commenting: oh, such a nice shelf! And he decides to take me with him to his new apartment. His new apartment is really nice. And he's happy. He merrily downloads all his stuff off the truck and carries us all into the house. He puts me in his bedroom, right beside the window. He then starts to put all his little coats on to me. They feel heavy. They feel pretty heavy. My sadness is now all gone.


I live in Tucson, AZ. One day last week, I had nothing to do, so I drove down to Mexico to buy a new pair of boots. I’d been needing some for a while, and the peso had recently taken a dip, so it seemed like an opportune time. I parked in Nogales, AZ, about a quarter mile from the border. As luck would have it, there was a dollar bill on the ground right by my car. “Even better than free parking!” I thought, as I put on my mask and walked into Mexico. Apparently the other gringos in Southern Arizona hadn’t gotten the memo that the governor of Sonora had opened their border crossings again, because I was one of the only people walking across, other than an older fellow in front of me, who made a beeline for the dentist’s office once we were through the gate. I wasn’t planning to stay long, so I headed right to the western wear store I had in mind, found some nice looking, full grain, brown leather boots for 1350 pesos, and offered 1200. The guy agreed immediately, making me think I should have offered less, but it was too late and I was already getting a pretty good deal. I pulled out my card, paid, and that was that. Nogales, Sonora, is cooler than Tucson, but it was still a warm day and I was thirsty, so on the way back to America, I stepped into a drugstore with a drink fridge by the counter and grabbed a small bottle of Coke and a liter of water. “Veinte pesos,” said the lady. I hadn’t changed any cash, as I’d been planning to just use my card for the boots, so I pulled the lucky dollar out of my pocket and asked “¿Se acepta un dólar?” She agreed, I handed her the dollar, and that was that. At this point, I figured I’d get ahead of the inevitable effect of a water and Coke, and asked if there was a bathroom I could use. She pointed me next door. Next door was a narrow store front that was completely empty except for two guys sitting on plastic chairs and an ice cream freezer with a paper sign that read, “paletas 10 & 15.” Using my best frase común from the days of Spanish 1, I inquired as to the location of the bathroom. One of them pointed behind himself while the other said, “Al fondo.” All the way back. The bathroom was exactly what one might expect in an empty storefront in Mexico staffed by two middle-aged men selling ice cream bars. It worked, though. As I walked out, I thanked them, but the man who had pointed said, “son diez pesos.” Naturally, I had forgotten that there are no free bathrooms in Nogales, except for those in restaurants reserved for paying customers only. However, I did not have 10 pesos, and in fact had no cash on me besides a 5 dollar bill. So I asked if he could make change. “No.” I wasn’t about to pay $5 for a thoroughly lackluster bathroom experience. I also didn’t want to irritate these guys by... well what would one call that? Obviously not a dine and dash. Tinkle and trot? No thanks. A sudden thought occurred to me, though. “No tengo monedas, pero ¿quieres una Coca-Cola?” I don’t have any change, but would you like a Coca-Cola? He smiled and held out his hand. I took the Coke from my bag, paid, and that was that.


FEED BACK WANTED!!! plz “Okay, you can take my heart, if it gets me out of this world you can take anything you want.” the boy said with resolve. His regal looking clothes were covered in dirt and sweat. The boy’s eyes were those of an old man though he could not have been more than 13. I did my best to maintain my composer but honestly, I’m sure he probably saw the shock on my face. No one had ever said yes to my deal before. That was the whole point I didn’t actually know how to send someone to a new world, I mean I don’t even know for sure if other worlds exist. Well, they must exist right what are the odds that there is only one world? In any case I still have no idea how to get to other worlds. When the first person came knocking at my door asking for a path to another world, I didn’t want to seam incompetent so I told him that I knew how but set a price no one would be willing to pay, their own heart. I mean who would be willing to give up their heart of all things. More than a decade later that small lie came back to bite me in the form of a wiry teenager standing in my kitchen. I was just minding my business making a fresh pot of tea when he burst through my door. Next thing I knew he was begging me to send him to a new world. So, I made him the same deal I always do when every few years a peasant comes begging for a trip to a new world. I told him the price was his heart. I never thought he would accept the trade. “Are you positive, after all it will be a very painful and terrible experience to lose your heart.” I tried to make my voice as spooky and regal as I could manage as I said this. I even through in some fun whooshing wind to make my beard flow a little bit. After all what's a warlock without a little theatrics. Usually this was enough to turn away even the bravest of peasants.The boy looked up at me with defiance in his eyes. “It doesn’t matter, if I stay here I might as well jump off a cliff. I am the crown prince of this kingdom and my coronation is tomorrow” His voice shook with anger and frustration and just a tinge of exhaustion. I wont lie this information gave me quit a shock. Last I had checked king Andres was the ruler of the kingdom but that was two hundred years ago. I couldn’t help but feel pity for the poor boy he obviously was very upset, but I mean how bad could the cushy life of a crown prince be? With all the servants and what not I never would have guessed he didn’t enjoy his life. Usually, it was only ever peasants who wanted to leave this world. One or twice I had a princesses trying to escape an arranged marriage but never a prince. I wonder just how much I had been missing lately if a prince wanted to leave. “Perhaps just an escape to a faraway city would do. After all the price for a faraway city getaway is only … two tear drops!” Now getting someone to a different kingdom is doable all it takes is a simple transportation spell and bam off they go. Usually, I charged more than a couple tears, but I figured it couldn't hurt to sweeten the pot a little for the prince. Plus, I was low on organic human tears and the synthetic ones from the magic market never work quit as well. They always leave a nasty residue in the cauldron that takes like two hours to scrub out. “You think another kingdom would be any better? Have you seen the world lately everywhere looks like this everyone is either starving or being sent to war, do you think royal families are safe! Mine will be the third coronation this year alone. An enemy kingdom poisoned my father, the armies beheaded my brother and the minute I take the thrown someone is going to start a plan to kill or overthrow me. This world is to broken to live in, I just want to start fresh anywhere has to be better than here.” His words were steely and filled with longing for peace. It surprised me how desperate and hopeless someone so young could be. Suddenly he lunged forward and grabbed a small dagger I had lying on the table. Before I could even react, he had it pressed against his chest hard enough that I could see a small line of blood begin to trickle down. “Just take my heart already! Can't you see this is the only way” Tears streamed down his face as he begged me to take his heart. “Stop!” I shouted my voice booming in the small house. Something about seeing a child stab themselves with a knife really awakens the old fires in you. I quickly used a bit of Magic to turn the dagger into a harmless bouquet of flowers. It really was a shame to have to do that it was my favorite dagger up to that point.The boy dropped the flowers in despair. As I looked at the boy everything in the house suddenly felt very small and unimportant. I realized just how isolated I had been for the past few decades. I glanced at the old clock on the wall it no longer had any hands to tell time with, yet even I could see it was time for me to do something, anything for the world around me. So, I did what all warlocks do in a pinch, I made up a prophesy. Using magic, I changed my voice to sound deeper and grander, then I made a heavy wind rush through the house. “What is your name boy” I bellowed. “Jack” for the first time there was real fear in the boy's eyes as he uttered his name. “Long ago there was a prophecy foretold, When the world is torn apart, and a boy will give up his heart, with the help of a warlock the.... the healing will start. Jack, you have proven yourself to be the one foretold!” The words echoed around us with power. I must say it was not a bad prophesy for being made up on the spot like that. It even had a proper rhyme and everything. Now the tough part would be fulfilling the prophesy. Jack’s face was full of confusion but behind it all was just the glimmer of hope. “Come now we don’t have time to waste there is work to be done Jack the world won’t fix itself!” I grabbed my travel satchel as I said this scooping vials, bottles, and jars from my shelves into the bottomless bag. For the first time in years, I felt truly excited. As I threw open my door and smelled the air outside I had only one thought in my head. It’s time to change the world.


I woke up to the faintest melody playing outside my bedroom. Peeling off the layers of my duvet, my feet tingled as they pressed against the cold, slick marble floor. The melody grew louder as I approached the door, fully intensifying as I opened it. A sense of melancholy filled the air as the keys of the piano played. I looked over the stairwell and saw him. His furrowed brows demonstrated a deep concentration and attentiveness to the sheet music splayed on the music rest. “Fuck.” A single note out of place disrupted the flow that had saturated the air of the entire house. “What piece is that?” I asked. His eyes flicked up and met mine. The furrowed brows were gone, and a smile cracked across his scruffy face. He hadn’t shaved this morning, which happens to be my favourite kind of mornings. “Just a little something I picked up from the music store,” he replied, “Morning, beautiful”. “Good morning indeed.” I chuckled as I walked down the stairs. “You know how much I love it when you the piano, I was a getting a little down because I haven’t heard you play in a while”. “I guess I needed a bit of inspiration.” He replied with a smirk as he leaned in to kiss me, in all my morning breath-ed glory. That’s what happens in you’re in love for real, right? The morning breath, the annoying little things that get you down - a sock out of place, an empty cup left on the coffee table, it all didn’t matter. Because when you look at that someone, everything else just melts away. “Scoot over.” I say as I take a seat on the bench. The notes on the sheet music just look like squiggly lines to me, and every so often I’m reminded of how they are so much more than that. “Ah yes, a G… and then an A… and then a…” “God, no. That’s completely wrong.” He laughed, as he gently took my hand and placed my fingers on the correct keys. His touch sent electricity through my body and I was reminded of the first time we touched. It was that same feeling all over again, but this time, there was depth, a security that told me that this was for more than a moment, and that this was something I was going to experience every single day for the rest of our lives. He played the melody while I simply held down the keys, changing chords ever so intermittently, and music once again permeated the air. As he played the final note, he leaned over and said “Couldn’t have done it without you.” “We make a pretty good team, huh?” I replied.


Dear Bar Soap, Sorry for the lack of communication. It’s been a long time since I, or anyone else, has seen you around. Not that we’re complaining. It’s actually pretty great without you. It’s a lot less awkward, and everyone’s mood seems to have improved. Apologies if this sounds mean. None of it is personal. You have to understand, right? You were never a permanent solution. Your faults were clear for everyone to see. The mass appeal attributed to your, *admittedly*, important positive aspects were a purposeful public exercise in denial. That denial was necessary. Necessary to endure day after day of being forced to use the pubic hair encrusted filth magnet that you are. As the world evolves, so do the tools we use. Think of it this way: could we have gone to space without first utilizing the wheel? You’re the wheel. That’s something! But now, it’s not enough. Let’s be honest, things were only going to ever end one way. Once a better, cleaner, more acceptable alternative came around, *and it has*, your days were numbered. Try to take solace in the fact that you never had a chance at survival, rather than what could’ve been for your disgusting reign. Yes, the rest of us still have some work to do. Nobody is perfect. But we’re clear improvements on you. For now, that’s enough. Enjoy the rest of your days drying up and cracking into useless, flaky bits in cheap hotels and forgotten campers across America. Regards, Body Wash  \*\*\* Dear Body Wash, Imagine my surprise at receiving a letter from you! Not only because it had been so long since we’d last chatted, but because all of the words were spelled correctly. A first! It’s nice to hear that you seem to be doing well. Although, one wonders how fulfilled your days must be, with time and energy to send such a drab and transparent letter. In that letter you even reference “having work to do”. Wouldn’t that be more worthwhile? Then again, who am I to challenge you!? I am but the lowly harbinger of everything you’ve ever achieved and will eventually lose. While it’s clear you are able to acknowledge that fact, the immature lack of respect for, or analysis of, that acknowledgement is why you are the way you are. Go ahead, decry my words as the ramblings of a forgotten leader still living in the past. I don’t take it personally. I just shake my head at the eventual hypocrisy you will be confronted with. You tell me I was never a “permanent solution”. While I don’t necessarily disagree, I am the original, and I am still around. One of those things you will never be. The other? That remains to be seen. Are you the “permanent solution”? You may be arrogant, but you’re not *that* stupid. You’ve seen the body wash, shampoo, conditioner combos. Seems like a logical next step, and a "clear improvement", eh? Try to take solace in the fact that you had a moment in the sun, rather than how brief and forgettable that moment was. Best, Bar Soap *P.S.