My son, Richie, was almost 3 years old with beautifully thick and curly brown hair that seemed to hang in place flawlessly without any serious effort. He was a growing, healthy, and happy child, with a rapidly developing vocabulary, as any parent would hope for. That, however, was before Frank seeped into our lives. Before Frank, the boy loved talking anyone's ear off, running around like a maniac, and putting on super hero masks while pretending to fight bad guys. That’s why when he first started talking about “The Monster,” I never thought much of it as it’s expected for children his age to start developing an overactive imagination. “Daddy do you see the Monster?” Richie said for what must be the 7th time in the past couple weeks. “Yeah Buddy,” I replied, with that encouraging, yet slightly sarcastic voice that parents make when talking to young children, “I can see him.” “What’s his name, daddy?” “Uh.... Frank,” I told him, lazily spouting out the first generic name that popped into my mind. Richie then rambled off to the next subject, and talked about something like Spider-Man or Ninja turtles beating up bad guys. You know, typical little boy stuff. The Frank sightings seemed to escalate from there. Richie would ask me or his mother if we could see Frank over there standing in the corner, or mention that Frank was in his room last night. It was at this point that I started to feel a bit of concern, it didn’t seem to be a huge deal, but it was starting to get a bit, well off putting. Frank was never playing, he was just, there. I decided to ask Richie some questions about what I believed to be his imaginary friend he called Frank, but I’d wait until the next time he brought it up on his own. That opportunity arose one day as I picked him up from daycare and we were driving home. He had mentioned that Frank was at the sandbox that day. “Is Frank your friend?” I asked him. “No,” He responded, “Frank is a monster. “A Monster?” “Yeah, Frank is a monster. He’s a nice monster though. He looks funnnny” Deciding to dig a little deeper I asked, “Does Frank play with you?” “No.” “Well then what does he do?” “Frank watches us.” He said it with a matter of fact demeanor that left me even more unsure of this weird situation. I’m a young first time parent in my mid 20’s, and I had no idea how to handle the Imaginary Friend situation. Should a parent play along, or be more realistic? I really didn’t want to hinder the development of his imagination, but I also wasn’t sure how far I felt comfortable with this going. “Sometimes he talks.” Richie continued after a short pause. “At night when everyone is asleep.” Oh great, he’s dreaming about Frank too. “Well uh, what does Frank like to talk about?” “He said we shouldn’t move to a new house.” What did he just say? That last shocking sentence made me feel unsettled at best. We were getting ready to put our townhouse on the market, as we were ready to upgrade to a larger home. The weird thing is, my wife and I hadn’t spoken to our son about this. We were waiting to tell him until we had found the house that we would purchase, to make the situation easier for a toddler to grasp. Feeling creeped out and somewhat awkward, I immediately changed the subject by asking Richie if he wanted a cookie. It may be a cheap trick, but any child will immediately forget about anything of the moment you bring up the possibility of a cookie. Although the subject had been changed, my mind began to wonder. Was my son speaking with some sort of ghost? I believed that ghosts might exist, but had never seen any sort of significant proof. How did he know that we were moving? Later that night, after Richie was in bed, I explained to my wife the conversation that had taken place in the car. She, however, seemed unfazed and somewhat skeptical. She blew it off by saying, “Oh I’m sure he just overheard us. That kid never goes to bed and is more attentive than you think.” I suddenly realized how insane I must have sounded to think that some sort of ghost was speaking with our child. It almost seemed funny, to look back and realize that I was actually worried. Perhaps my belief in the paranormal had caused me to jump to conclusions too easily without any real rationality. I was a first time parent after all, with almost no previous experience dealing with small developing children. I reminded myself to calm down and stay rational. Things carried along, business as usual, for the next several weeks. Richie's mentions of Frank varied from 1 to 3 times a day. I simply played along with the boy and his stories of his imaginary friend. We packed our things and moved to our new house, which came with a wonderful swing set for which Richie was ecstatic. In this house, I felt certain that it could be our forever home. I believed that we would be happy here. It had been 3 weeks since we had moved in, and we had just celebrated Richie's 3rd Birthday. The boy was flourishing, increasing his outstanding vocabulary and easily identifying all of his shapes and colors. He could even count to 50 now. The best thing was, I hadn’t heard the name, “Frank.” Mentioned since we moved it. Not once. Not once, that is, until a mid-Saturday morning in the early onset of fall. The leaves were starting to rest on our new backyard lawn, and I once again found myself pushing Richie on his swing set. Back and forth, back and forth, with the rhythmic squeak of the swing set. This is when everything took a turn for the worst. “Daddy Look!” Richie exclaimed. “There’s Frank, he’s here now!” Richie pointed to the far back corner of the yard, right next to the shed. As I turned my head to look, I thought I actually saw something, something that appeared to be a large silhouette. Before I had time to fully comprehend what I had seen, I heard the thud of Richie hitting the ground, followed by the cries of pain A few hours later the doctor entered the room with the X-rays in hand, confirming his suspicions of a broken arm. Luckily it was one clean break, no setting of the bones would be needed. Although my son was going to be okay, I was livid with myself for allowing this to happen. How could I have been so stupid as to look away from my child while he was on the swing set, right after he let go of the chain to point at His imaginary friend. This whole situation could have been avoided had I not been so superstitious about this damned imaginary friend. But wait, I HAD seen something, hadn’t I? It was only for a split second, but it was there. A tall, large shadow of a man with deformed head. Ugh, my eyes must really have been playing tricks on me. I brushed it off and eventually managed to fall asleep, pushing the parental guilt off to deal with the following day. Sleep proved to be just as unsettling as the day’s events had been though. My dreams brought me memories of the recent past. The swing set, Richie playing in our old house, having family over for holiday celebrations, even the day we brought baby Richie home for the first time. Except that hideous monstrous silhouette was there, in every single memory. Watching from the corner, standing behind our guests, leaning over the crib. Always there, always watching. I awoke suddenly, bolt upright in my bed. I rarely remembered even having dreams, but this dream was so vivid, so clear, that every detail now haunted my thoughts. Needless to say, falling back asleep was not an option. I had to go do something to set my mind at ease. Disturbed, I went over to check on my little Richie, who was supposed to be asleep. Partially to comfort myself from that horrendous nightmare. To my surprise, I found the boy wide awake. When he saw me peeking through the doorway, he asked, “Daddy, where is Hell?” “What?” I asked in disbelief, sure that I must have misheard. “Hell,” he said, “where is Hell?” I was not prepared to answer these kinds of questions to my child yet, he was so young. I myself have never really been sure what I believe about this heaven and hell stuff, having never been religious. But I gave him the best, simple explanation I could muster “Well, bud, nobody really knows where Hell is, but some people believe that Hell is a place where bad people go after they die.” “So was your daddy a bad guy?” “Excuse me?” This last question caught me off guard. “Frank told me that your daddy is in Hell because he hurt those kids.” My heart instantly plummeted, providing a sensation as if it had collided with my stomach. After skipping a beat, or three, my heartbeat resurged with the powerful thump worthy of a bass drum. How the HELL could he have known about that? It was true that my father had hurt children. Killed them, actually. When I was young, about 12 years old, my dad had stormed out of the house in a drunken stupor. The police came knocking at about 5:00 AM the next morning to inform us that he had been identified as involved in a multiple fatality car accident, and they needed my mother to identify the body. I remember that morning vividly. My mother was not aware that I had woken, as I hid around the corner listening to the police tell my mother of my father's demise. Needless to say, It was him. As details emerged, it became apparent that my father had drunkenly caused a car accident, slamming into a family's minivan as they were coming home from a fishing trip. My father, along with the two children in the backseat of the other car, were killed instantly. As much as my mother tried to shield me of the events, it was all over the news. I was 12 after all, and I knew how to use the internet. It didn’t take long for me to know what my dad had done. That being said, there is absolutely NO WAY that my son would have known this story. My mother remarried YEARS before Richie was born. My stepfather is the only person my son has ever known as grandpa, and I never discussed the situation, at all. At this point I realized, without a doubt, that Frank was more than just an imaginary friend, and it angered me. Furiously, I told my son, “No more talking to Frank, he’s not welcome here.” “But Frank is nice.” Richie pleaded “No, Frank is not nice, Frank is bad and if you see him again you need to tell him to leave!” “NOOOOO!” Richie roared. Only the voice that came out did not belong to Richie. It was a sound that no toddler could be capable of making. It was a deep, dark, horrendous, malicious, and rocky voice that would be fitting of a ware-wolf, or a monster, or, or, a demon.... What's worse is the fiery, despicable, evil look of pure hatred that was in my sons eyes, although only for a moment, it was there. The expression on his face disappeared, as quickly as it arrived, and Richie was Richie again. It was as if he had no idea what had just happened. He seemed totally fine, but I was terrified. Terrified of my only son, or whatever had just taken ahold of him “Can I watch a movie?” He asked, completely unfazed by the event. It was as if he didn’t even realize what had happened. “Uh.... of course, buddy,” I managed to respond with a shaky voice. I carried him to the living room, and put on Lion King for him. After he fell asleep in the next 30 minutes, I went into the shower, and simply fell apart as I broke into tears. What the hell had just happened? What was this, this monstrous thing who grabbed a hold of my son? As I tried to explain the events to my wife the ensuing morning, she simply didn’t believe me. I can’t even blame her, I realized that it sounded crazy but I KNEW that it had indeed happened. If only she had believed me. However, we had very little time to talk about it, as Richie awoke that morning with a heavy fever. Originally at 101 degrees Fahrenheit, his temperature rapidly rose to 103 within just a couple short hours. As I picked my son up to take him to the ER, I saw him, Frank, out of the corner of my eye. Watching. Richie was admitted immediately. The doctors scrambled to explain his condition of rapid deterioration. I sat by, watching as my son became pale, and his energy was fading. Fast. Yes, my son was fading. He was... Dying. As the doctors ran tests on top of tests, I took matters into my own hands. I had 3 different priests arrive, all of them simply offered my son a simple blessing, but I could tell that they too were skeptical of me. I tried desperately to get my wife and the doctors to listen to me. For 2 days I pleaded with them to understand that I knew what was wrong, that there was a malicious, if not demonic, entity feeding on my boy, sucking away his life energy. Why or how, were questions in which the answer far past my understanding, but it WAS happening. I could even see him regularly now, that evil thing, standing in the shadows. But alas, I was met with skepticism, and my wife along with the doctors ended up bringing in a psychologist to have some sort of intervention for ME. They tried to tell me that I was having some sort of mental break from the stress of a sick, possibly dying, child. I stormed out that room desperately furious. I realized in this moment that trying to explain the truth to people would be of no avail. I had only one last idea of what could be done, what HAD to be done to save my Richie. I stayed awake in the hospital room that night. It had been almost 3 days now since we arrived at the hospital. Richie has been moved to the ICU, with the doctors still baffled. All their tests had only shown what wasn’t wrong with Richie. They didn’t understand, but I knew. I knew what was wrong with my son. I sat there, waiting, for the demon called Frank to appear. I stayed awake until about 2:00 AM, and suddenly there he was. I could see the shadow standing over Richie's bed. He stood Calmly, but with an evil lust for the last little bit of energy that was keeping my son alive. “I’ll make you a deal.” I said with a stern and confident done. The entity slowly turned his head until he was facing me. I could see him now, more clearly than ever. Richie was right, Frank truly was a monster. A large one, standing at some 8 feet tall, with skin the color of ash. He had the same overall shape of a Human, but with hideous, pointy features. His Long, narrow arms hung down to his knees, ending with fingers 6 inches or more in length. And his face, his ungodly face was the most hideous of all. Frank had no mouth in his ashen, peeling face. That's when I noticed his eyes. His eyes were the most terrorizing feature about him. There was no white in his eyes, just darkness. A darkness darker than any black color that one can comprehend. “I’ll make you a deal.” I said again, forcing myself to stay steady in the presence of this creature. “Leave the boy alone, forever, and you can have me.” The Demon tilted his head as if perplexed, contemplating my offer. After a minute that seemed like hours, He straightened up and spoke. Not with his mouth, as he didn’t have one. No, he put the sound directly into my skull. In That deep, evil voice that had previously come from my son just the other night. “It’s a deal.” And In an instant, he was gone. The next morning, Richie's fever had subsided, just like that. The color had returned to his skin and he was eating solid food and laughing like a toddler should for the first time in days. The Doctors admitted that they were baffled, but happily discharged Richie later that day. My wife calls it a miracle, but only I understand the dismal truth. I can feel it starting, the Illness, or whatever you call it. My fever is spiking, and I can’t stop sweating. My energy is leaving me, I barely managed to walk up the stairs into the office. Even now, I feel as if I might pass out. I cannot hide my condition from my wife for too much longer. It is only a matter of time until I am the one in the hospital bed, as the doctors try tirelessly to explain what is happening. Only I won’t make a miraculous recovery as Richie had. No, I’m certain that I will die. That was the deal I had made after all. I gave up my own life to save my son. But, before I do perish, I’m putting this story on every parenting and paranormal form I can find on the web. I KNOW how this sounds, I realize it seems crazy. But I’m reaching out to all parents who might be seeing the signs. I PLEAD with you, please do NOT play along if your child has some sort of imaginary friend. Stop it BEFORE it’s too late. Find someone who can expel that evil from your home and your child. But PLEASE, for the sake of you children, I beg for you to not allow this creature to take ahold of your child.


Sakura waved her hand slowly in front of her face, admiring the rainbow colors that followed the shadows of her fingers. Dr. Sato said there might be halos around lights and blurred vision, but if anything Sakura felt her vision becoming sharper. Except the things she saw, no one else could see. She was playing with Legos when her dad had come into the living room, swaying with the smell of sake on his breath. He tripped over her castle and roaring with pain, picked a Lego up and threw it in her face. Her mom ran in and took her away and put some ice on her eye, rocking her until she stopped crying and fell asleep. The next day she saw a dragonfly fluttering in the corner of the kitchen, its body studded with green gems. “Mom, do you see that? Do you see the dragonfly?” Her mom looked at where she was pointing and asked, “What dragonfly?” There were visits to Dr. Sato and she took her medicine regularly but the visions continued, sidling their way into her house. The doctors were baffled and the small Tokyo apartment became filled with an aura of gloom. Sakura stopped pointing out the things she saw. At first they lasted just a second; diamond birds would splash against the periphery of her vision with the glory of the sun shining through a stained-glass window. She’d be walking home from school and then, stunned by the vision, momentarily forget where she was. A near fatal accident at a road crossing caused Sakura’s mother to talk to the principal at Saragaku Elementary and take her home for home-schooling. One night, Sakura heard her dad yelling, her mom yelling, and then something fell and shattered in high-pitched protest. Her mom started crying, a soft, shuddering sound. Sakura shut her ears and slowed her breathing, holding her breath until the glowing blue halos increased, dancing bugs that hovered across her dim bedroom. Underneath her tenth-story window a thousand street lights bustled like magic bees. Eventually they did become bees, flying in through the open screen to play on her bedspread. With them she played and forgot about the crying. The weeks passed from autumn into winter. Her dad drank more and cursed more, and her mom ate less and said less. One day as Sakura watched the rain become silver meteor showers streaking down the window, a large droplet pushed its way through the glass into the room, and bloomed into the shape of a thin silver mantis, standing tall as a needle on the hardwood floor. In his face Sakura could see her own black pupils fractured like the eyes of the magic bees. “Come with me,” he said. “I can take you to next Spring.” She took his arm, and together they stepped through the window into the meteor shower, the starlit sky dropping cherry blossoms that surrounded her in warm, fragrant pink. Below her children ran in colorful yukatas, lanterns illuminating the floral designs of the dresses. Sakura closed her insect eyes and breathed the flowers in deep. \ More writings at r/ladyandthepen.


I know it sounds silly, I know it sounds stupid and you are probably wondering, "Man, what the fuck is wrong with you?" But you HAVE to listen to my side of the story. So, please make judgements after you hear what I say. I have been not been able to sleep for four nights now and my blood is rushing so hard and fast through my veins, my heart is beating so rapidly that I feel like if I don't explain myself to anyone, I would do something terrible again. So, here I am, writing this down to a bunch of complete strangers, to let this burden off my chest and to also gain some advice to help myself out. So, I have been an avid anime fan since I was a literal child. Anime gives me a sense of reality, like there's a 2D world out there, much more fun, happy and pleasant to be in. Ofcourse I am not talking about the thriller/horror animes because then there wouldn't be much difference between my fantasy reality and real reality. Why? Because even my mother killed my whole family (unfortunately I turned out to be alive) and that would make for a great horror storyline. Growing up, I got bullied for multiple reasons. Be it my mother being a murderer, or for being poor, or for having a feminine voice, or even a short and skeleton-y body etc. But the thing which hurt me the most was when they targeted my anime loving self. They told me I was a 'fucking weirdo' for getting happiness from a bunch of 2D characters, that I was just like my mother who was detached from reality. My low self esteem never allowed me to fight back. Instead, I quit watching anime. Maybe, I was weird, maybe I would turn into my mother later. So, I kept quiet and tried to endure everything as much as possible. Tried to get good marks, a good job and just live my life in peace and solitude. Everything was going good until I met my girlfriend six months ago. She was a beautiful woman, someone that I definitely don't deserve. Always felt inferior, always felt like she would leave me one day but she took away all my worries. The most humble, pure soul I have ever met. So needless to say, I was in a happy relationship for quite some time. Until, she started behaving in a really weird manner. Everything about her...seemed peculiar. The way she would stop speaking mid sentence and just stare at me with a blank face and a flimsy, dreamy smile reaching her ears and then abruptly go back to speaking really irked me. The way she would stare wide eyed at the ceiling at night and then snap her head at my direction scared me. The way her arms would tightly wrap themselves around my chest to the point I almost couldn't breath... terrified me. But I was scared to lose her. After a long time, I had found happiness. And maybe it were just a bunch of weird habits she had. Who knows? So, I overlooked those. And the stress from constantly ignoring something that was making me uncomfortable made me start something I had left a long time ago i.e watching anime. In retrospect, it was where all the hell broke loose. The first anime which I had started watching after a long time had eerie similarities with my life. My girlfriend started acting more weird. I started getting nightmares about my mom killing me. I couldn't work properly so I got fired. And I got super emotionally invested in that anime. Every night I felt unsafe sleeping beside my girlfriend. I would feel her nails across my chest, scratching my chest so hard that blood would splatter across the bedsheet. I felt like something was seriously wrong with her and if I don't do something, she would do the job which my mom had failed to do. But as I said, I was a coward. So, I kept watching the anime and the similarity of the plot line to my life of the anime shook me to my core. The lines between reality and fiction blurred. I felt like I was the boy on the screen, anxious and terrified that his girlfriend was going to kill him. It was as if the anime was showing my future. One night, my girlfriend sat beside me. She had the same hollow smile on her face and her black beady eyes stared at the screen of my laptop. "Babe, are you watching an anime?" She asked, digging her eyes into mine. "Yes." I nodded, trying to keep my eyes away from hers and glued to my screen. "You said you wouldn't watch these things ever again." "Yes, but I am stressed out and I need an outlet." I responded. "This anime is boring anyways." She smirked, her eyes filled with pure malice. "The girlfriend kills him." My heart dropped, my hands growing cold. I slowly turned my head towards her and the look in her eyes, send chills down my spine. So cold, so unlike the woman I fell in love with. I saw her hands behind her back, slowly coming to the front and towards me. A metallic glint. I had to react fast. So I grabbed my laptop and repeatedly bashed her head till her head was nothing but chunks of fleshes and bones on the ground. But for some weird reason, while I was smashing her head, her screams sounded absolutely terrified. Probably, I even heard her say, "Babe! Why are you doing this? What is wrong with you?" But I had to. So I killed her and hid her rest of the body under my bed. But the most peculiar thing out of all is that, when I searched for the second season of the anime, nothing came up. In fact, the anime doesn't even exist. Right now I am very confused. I need help. How do I get my girlfriend's rotting body to stop smelling so bad? I can't sleep because of the pungent smell filling up the air. No matter what I do, it doesn't go away. I wonder what my mom had done with her murderous shenanigans. Or wait, what I had done in the past, to blame the murders on my mother. How did I do it? I can't remember. I just remember that nobody questioned it for some reason, like why did my mother suddenly disappear after the murders? Why was I all bloody or the only one alive when my mother had killed eveyone in the room? Or why I was constantly referring to knowing the future because I had seen an anime telling me about my mom's murders? I don't know. As I said, anime is reality for me. So I hope you understand my point of view and why I had to do what I had to. For now, my girlfriend's dead body is kept beside my mom's dead body, under my bed and I hope I get rid of her rotten dead smell too, just like I had done with my mother's dead body, years ago.


“Like I said,” Samantha says, “there’s a monster in the woods and it’s lonely!” She points in the direction of the forest bordering our property, a long stretch of evergreens that extends for what seems like forever. “Oh, honey,” I say, crouch before her and take her coat collar in my hands. “There’s nothing out there but squirrels and chipmunks, rabbits, and a few turkeys. There’s no monsters out there.” “Mom!” she scowls, her brow furrowing. “I seen him! He’s round and furry and has four arms and no legs! And eyes! Four of them in the shape of a diamond!” This hasn’t been the first time she has brought up the Monster. It seemed like each day this thing had made an appearance at the edge of the woods while she’s playing. At first, I was worried maybe a bear had migrated to this stretch of Pennsylvania, but after setting up a trail cam around where this Monster appeared, nothing showed up. Then, I thought about wolves or coyotes; but again, nothing showed on the footage after several days. Eventually, I chalked it up to an imaginary friend, she was young, after all. But, each day she grew more and more convinced this Monster was out there, and that he was lonely and wanted someone to speak to, someone to be his friend. “Mom!” she shouts, pulling me from my thoughts. “Can I just go with him once? I’ll be extra careful.” I straighten, shake my head. “No, you cannot. You’re not allowed to go into those woods without me ever.” I glare down at her, as she puckers her lips. “And don’t give me that look. Those woods are big and I won’t have you getting lost out there.” “But—” “No ‘buts.’ Now, go get changed and get ready for bed.” She stomps from the kitchen, down the hallway, and into her bedroom. I hear the sink turn on. I sigh and move back to the window. The shadows between the trees grow as the sky darkens. The faint moonlight hardly illuminates anything. Absentmindedly, I look into the woods, searching for the Monster that doesn’t exist. Nothing stands in between the boles, nothing lurks in the shadows, nothing big and furry looms. “Honey?” I call, hearing the sink still going. “You almost done?” After a few silent moments, I go to her bedroom and peek in. The bathroom light seeps between the cracked door, and none of her clothes are lying on the ground with the others. I enter, call again: “Samantha?” and receive no response. I cross the room and push open the door. Water is almost streaming over the basin’s rim, and the window above the toilet is open. “Samantha!” I scream, turn and sprint out of the room, down the hallway, out the door. I know where she’s going. I cross the backyard to the woods, where I catch a glimpse of her within. She’s holding hands with something— someone tall and round. “Samantha!” I scream again. I plunge into the dark woods, weave past trees and leap over underbrush and fallen branches. She’s somehow farther, so much farther, and the thing she’s with is somehow larger, bigger, more like a bear than a person. Tears sting my eyes. My lungs are on fire. My heart is slamming against my chest. “Samantha!” I holler, throat raw and stinging. She looks over her shoulder as she walks deeper into the forest, and our eyes meet and she smiles, waves, then faces ahead. She and it pass by a bole and vanish. I make it to where they were only moments ago. I collapse to my knees, and search the leaves, claw holes into the dirt, cry and scream into the darkness, pleading to the heavens to return my daughter, but no one and nothing hears. And now, I wait… I wait in the backyard every day, from sunrise to sunset, for her to appear on the edge of the forest. I pray she will let me take her hand like her friend did her, and escort me to wherever she disappeared to, so we can be together again. Like her Monster, I’m lonely, too. If you enjoyed the story and want to read more of my work, visit my and consider subscribing.


Today's goal is to leave the house with a modicum of confidence to offer the wide eyes and stalking vehicles. You think people inspect you like a celebrity but paranoia grips you by the skull. It's nothing but a fantasy. Every time your eyes meet the mirror, they skitter away. To be cool and collected, will you ever achieve that in your lifetime? A big clock adjacent is tick-tick-ticking. The throbbing at your temple marches to its tune. You try to stay focused on getting ready to leave. Impossible. Calm eludes you and a nearly coropeal stench of desperation exudes from your body. Your daughter is a music junkie and has never appreciated the gifts you gave her. Marcelline walks by with her headphones too loud for your taste. She appears in the corner of your eyes, timid yet hulking. Her urgency is that of a mouse, with a demeanor that makes you want to stomp on her. You call her over and note the questioning look on her face. Her nose even twitches. Each expression from her is so comical and exaggerated. Marcelline is your favorite because, of your five children, she makes you feel the most relaxed. “There is something wrong with you Marcie.” The words evoke satisfaction unbecoming of a mother. You crush her. Today, Marcelline has watery, wandering eyes but your headache has just about disappeared. You glance at the clock. Why was it hung over a picture from your glory days? Now your eyes can’t let it go. Still, it's the perfectly pouted lips and youthful blushing skin in the framed photo that give you a boost of confidence. You’ve lived fifty years total. It is year sixteen in the house with the big clock that never stops counting down. Your visage in the vanity allows you to observe the anxiety in your ocean eyes and the minute tremble in your hands. You take a deep breath and evoke stillness. The woman in the mirror draws a perfectly straight wing with the “ultra black” gel liner and smiles with triumph. Marcelline is already in the car when you enter the driveway so you’re a bit peeved you didn’t get to say the scathing words you prepared just for her. There is silence in the car as you cruise onto the main street. You find it difficult to focus on anything but how the driver behind you is pulling up too close behind your Lincoln Aviator. Your anxiety wails like a hungry ghost and your facade of calm cracks down the middle. “We’ve gotta stop to get cigarettes if you want me to take you to your friend’s house without having a breakdown.” The sunglasses that act as a barrier against the world, also keep Marcelline from reading your expression. “Newport Lights 100.” The reminder isn’t needed. She’s been buying your cigarettes for you since she was fourteen. Marcelline doesn’t ask for money to pay for the cigarettes. You feel a sense of loss as she runs into the familiar red and white CVS with the peeling paint. Waiting, you note the crowd gathered at the next door establishment. You’re curious but you slide down in your seat and push the sunglasses further up the bridge of your nose. You think they’ll swarm you like ants if they catch even a glimpse. Marceline finally gets in the car and hands over the cigarettes. You take it with a shaky hand and scrabble for your lighter. There’s several beats of silence. As you break open the pack of Newport Lights, Marcelline suddenly speaks up, “I love you Mother, I wish you wouldn’t smoke.” You wonder if she’s a sociopath. You say it aloud and Marceline becomes quiet again. Cigarette between the teeth, your elevated heart rate stabilizes and your mind clears. Maybe there's some regret from your harsh words but you don't take it back. It’s a ritual. Though you don’t wish to acknowledge it, this conniving and manipulative aspect of your personality is one of the reasons even your own children say “I love you” with hesitation. You want to know why it calms you down to hurt Marcelline. Her words repeat in your head. Then your own response. You examine the words every which way. No conclusions. Your hands itch to call your psychiatrist and demand answers, but your brain responds that you don’t have a psychiatrist. You can’t afford a psychiatrist any more than you can afford to buy the Newport Lights 100 yourself.


What are you doing here? So alone, so far away from home. Let’s take a look at you. **Hands off! I’m not dead yet.** Oh, I see. No, you’re not dead. But you’re not far from it either. So if you’ll allow me… **Can you at least let me die first?** You got the entire rest of your life to die. Me at the other hand... I would like to walk a few more miles before the sunset. **I’m not in the mood for this. Don’t touch me or I’ll cut you.** Well, let me get straight to the point then: Could I please “borrow” your things for an undefined amount of time? It doesn’t look like you’ll be needing them any time soon. **Can’t you… can’t you just wait until I’m dead? You can steal from my corpse all you want, but don’t fucking touch me.** But that’s exactly what it’s all about. You see, I’m no thief. I’m just an opportunist. What I’m trying to say is that if I had your permission it would be much easier to walk away from here in your shoes. **In my shoes? Have you seen my shoes? They’re torn, they have holes in them, they barely hold together…** It’s still better than no shoes. **You have… Did you walk all the way here barefoot? I can’t really move. Could you move over here so I could look at you?** I’m afraid I can’t do that. **If you’re about to rob my corpse you could at least look me in my eyes before that.** I’m really sorry but I just can’t. **Coward. You’re just a fucking coward. Curse you and curse my shoes you’re about to walk away with.** Now, that’s not very nice. You have to realize that I’m pretty much just like you. We have exactly the same goal and both of us are currently in the middle of nowhere trying to reach a better life. The difference is, you ran out of luck, friend. You failed. Noone will get to see you again with your skeleton not exposed. But me? I’m still holding on. I still got a chance. So why not help me when you know you’ve already finished your own journey? You might even be the reason I survive. **Bullshit. You’re dying here too. We share the same fate. Nobody is making it through here. It can’t be done.** The way I see it, you have a choice. Either you’re going to be stubborn and die thinking noone can make it to the other side of this wasteland, which would mean you literally threw your life away trying to cross it in the first place... Or you could help me and you could die knowing there’s a chance for me to reach the other side and that it would be your death and me finding your soon-to-be corpse that helped me on my way there. **Either way I’m dead.** Yes, but either you die in vain or you die for the greater good. **Stay with me until I stop breathing. Then you can take whatever you want.** So you want me to just sit here until you die? **Yeah.** And what will that be good for? Will it make you happy that you had your way? That you made me lose time and potentially even caused my death as a result of that? **No. I just don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to die alone out here…** Ok, I get that. But I really just don’t have time for this. I’d rather probably leave you here with your shoes. I wouldn't be a good company anyways. I'm used to dealing with dead people out here. **No, wait! I have an idea… Kill me. Kill me right now. You have my permission to take whatever you want and you don’t have to wait for it at all.** … **So what do you say?** I can’t… I just can’t. **Do you wanna make it through to the other side or no? What are you willing to do to get there? I was willing to give my own life for it and I still couldn’t make it. How do you think you will end up if you can’t even kill a man out of mercy... let alone in self-defense.** It’s just… I really can’t do that. **Look at me! My bones are broken, my blood is leaking. Everything hurts. Every breath hurts. There’s a knife in my pocket. You don’t even have to use your hands. And you can take the knife with you too when you’re done.** But I never hurt anyone in my life. I just can’t hurt people. I can't do it. **I’ll tell you how to do it. I won’t feel a thing. You will cause me more pain if you just leave me here to die. And then you can take my things and leave knowing you helped an old man along the way. Sounds good?** I just don’t know. **I’ll die before you can decide.** Ok, ok. Shit… shit… where’s the knife? \ H.


Setting The Scene. It was the year 2050 and technology had advanced greatly. People no longer used vehicles like cars buses and trains they would fly. In personal hover crafts between building. The level that you would fly on determined the speed you could fly at. There were robots in the shape of human bodies but made of metal. They were used for many things like driving hover crafts and cleaning. Cyber Cafe. Zak was enjoying his morning coffee while playing on the internet. The computers had the capability of making an image come out of the screen. The image would appear between the face of the user and the screen of the computer. Zak was playing his favourite game an fps called Millennium. When his friend Rad comes into the cafe and says to Zak. "What's up man what are you doing to day?" "After I've finished this level I'm flying to the park. Do you want to come?" "Can't see why not." Zak seems to have killed all the enemies on the level but can't find the exit so asks Rad for some help. "I'm stuck how do I get out of this level?" "There's a secret passageway just there I've completed this game at home. But be careful there's more enemies behind it." Zak uses the secret passageway and kills the remaining enemies then exits the level. They then leave the cafe an head to the hover craft. Flying Hover Craft. Zak drives the hover craft because he can't afford a robot chauffeur. His hover craft is messy it's full of takeaway wrappers. The two of them are sat in the hover craft when Zak starts the electric engine. They raise upwards vertically to the top level because Zak wants to travel fast. Then he gets up his speed in the lay by and joins the stream of traffic. Because they are up high they are above most building and have only the borders to guide them. The borders are black and white signs with arrows pointing in the direction of travel. They are held up with wire which is attached to poles inserted into the ground. As they reach their destination Zak slows his speed and lowers down. He finds a parking space just outside the park. The Park. The park is surrounded with a white stone wall and there's an iron metal fence which is open to let customers in. There are two robots in the entrance way taking money before letting in the customers. Zak and Rad are at the entrance way when the robots speak. "Money please." Rad offers to pay. "This ones on me." Rad then speaks to the robots. "Can I pay by card?" "Just swipe twice." Rad swipes twice and the robots greet them in. "Enjoy your day." Zak and Rad walk into park the weather is good. They decide to walk around the lake. As they pass the grand bridge they notice how busy it is. Half way around is an icecream machine. Zak asks Rad which flavour he wants. "What do you fancy?" Meanwhile the icecream machine is waffling on repeating it self. "Get your icecream vanilla chocolate or strawberry." Rad speaks to the machine. "Vanilla please?" Then Zak speaks to the machine. "Strawberry please and that's it thank you?" "Please insert your money or swipe your card." Zak swipes his card and two cones drop down then the yellow and pink icecream swirls into the cones. They sit on a park bench looking out at the lake. The icecream tastes so refreshing on a hot day like this when Rad asks a question. "What are you doing later on this evening?" "Hopefully completing Millennium do you want to help me?" "Ok." They finished their ice creams and walk back to the flying hover craft. Then they fly back to Zak's apartment. Zak's Apartment. Zak parks up his hover craft on the drive and they go to the front door. "Body detected voice recognition activated." "It's me Zak let me in." "Welcome home Zak." They go inside and Zak goes to his PC he goes online and retrieves his level. Zak plays Millennium all night and with a little help from Rad eventually completes it. The boys are hungry and order a takeaway pizza. The pizza delivery robot is flying high and fast in his hover craft. When his circuit board glitches and the robot swerves hitting a border sign. The hover craft tumbles through the air and crashes through Zak's living room window. There is now half an hover craft in the living room. During the impact the pizza delivery robot is mangled and is now saying. "Malfunction malfunction place your order malfunction malfunction please swipe your card." There's pizza and pizza boxes scattered all over the living room floor and Zak say. "Pizzas up." The boy eat their pizza and go to sleep on the sofa for the night.


Dark, wet stones are beveled from the age and erosion that they suffered from years past. Droplets of water drip from the ceiling to the weathered ground below. *Plip… plip… plip… plip…* As each drop falls, footsteps could be heard falling upon the stones in disharmonic time with the water droplets. Crimson robed figures walked with a brisk pace only seen in these men. Their pacing did not make sense. It was slow, blurred and choppy as if filmed through a smudged and malfunctioning Super 8 camera. But it was not filmed. It was not staged or scripted. What one’s eyes saw was reality. These enshrouded figures clad in crimson velvet cloaks, they were out of touch. They were not in time with the natural harmony of the universe. Each footfall taken was a shattering step that seemed to shake and bubble the reality in the eroded hallway. Their movement defies explanation and defies known reasoning. Each step taken was like a sickly palpitation in an otherwise healthy body. As these figures traversed down the hallway, green torches bound by otherworldly tendril-like clasps upon a dark material of an odd, rotting and nearly fleshy appearance. With every passing shadow, a wraith-like wisp of smoke reached out from between the cracks of the old stones and grasped at the passing figures. The figures paid the malevolent smoke no attention. The sound of the droplet was almost deafening. It felt as though it got increasingly louder with each passing second. And with each passing second, the seconds seemed to grow longer. Each tick of each microsecond felt like an agonizing eternity. The figures entered a round stone chamber that housed a large-gilded statue of two rings within each other with eyes along the inside bearing many wings. Light seemed to radiate from the statue, basking the area in a low, golden radiance. The figures walked upon the stone pathways that lead around the statue. From the spaces in between the stones their discordant feet walked upon, black, viscous liquid started to seep through and form into puddles on the floor of the stone chamber. It made low squelching sounds as it creeped across the floor, following and conforming to each little crevice and crack in the stone. As the hooded figures started to encircle the statue, sounds were heard. Ungodly sounds, like those from the depths of the non-divine and formless void. Rumbling echoed through these ancient stone walls. The sound wet, slobbery flesh being dragged on wet stone. The robed figures started to shake as if they were being controlled by some force that was beyond their own will. One of the figures reached up a gloved hand and stood silently as the leather glove split and shredded from inside, revealing grey-green pustules of the black viscosity that had seeped through the ground. Silently the hooded figure started to rip and tear at his robe, as if it were covered in insects. He ripped off the velvet shell to reveal more black pustules growing at a horrifying rate. His skin had now started to grow bone-like protrusions. Piercing through his flesh and spearing inches out from his deteriorating flesh. He started violently scratching at his flesh all over his now naked body, creating deep gashes that bled profusely. All this happened while his other robed companions stood idly, looking straight into the amber light of the statue. Soon after the man started scratching, the other robed figures started to show similar symptoms. Black pustules filled with black, viscous puss and protrusions, followed by violent scratching. The bone like protrusions had started to inflict deep cuts and gashes with every small bit of movement, inflicting more agonizing trauma upon the tormented bodies. Eventually, the once robed figures started to tear pieces of flesh off to rid themselves of the deathly ailment. The sickly sound of shredding flesh echoed in the silent room. Crimson blood poured from the deep holes that the men were inflicting upon themselves. One of the men had gotten to his ribs and started to break off individual ribs and bones that were covered in the black pustules and the ever-increasing number of cancer-like protrusions. Another had grabbed scratched so much at his exposed skull that his fingernails had broken and cracked, causing more blood to spill forth from his shredded digits. With each piece of flesh discarded, more pustules showed up in the place of the flesh. Eyes were being ripped from sockets in futile attempt to rid themselves of this disease. Intestines were ripped and grasped at from their place of rest. Countless feet of fleshy, bloody rope had fallen onto the clean stone floor, painting it the morbid color of the men’s life force. Then, one by one, the men fell to the ground, splashing down in pools of blood and piles of self-mutilated viscera. Shredded and bloody genitalia and split muscles littered the bloodied stone floor as the last man struggled against the affliction before finally grasping his head by the jaw and his crown and sharply yanked it in a clockwise motion. A sickening crunch resounded through the chamber before silence took over. The room was now devoid of life. Blood covered the floor. The carcasses were completely devoid of pustules and bone cancers and no black puss was in sight. Only the stinking of freshly butchered flesh remained. The silence of the gallery of butchered viscera was cut short by a low warbling resonating from the statue. The statue began to become misshapen, contorted and dull. The golden luster of the statue turned to a writhing, seething mass of festering maggots and worms. The grotesque mass of detritovoric worms fell to the ground, spilling the thousands of flesh-eating worms down and onto the viscera. The maggots and worms started to feast upon the deceased carcass-flesh of the dead corpses, using their tiny mouths to rip bits of flesh off and digest it in their tiny body, making it come out of their anuses as putrid excrement. Hours pass as the worm’s fester and feast upon the rotting and putrefying flesh of the once living men. Then as the last bit of flesh gets devoured by the man-eating worms, the low warbling returns, pulling all the worms back to the center of the room, molding them back into the shape they were once before. The unsettling texture and sound of thousands of wriggling worms disappears as the golden luster fades back into view, leaving nothing but the sound of water droplets dripping from the wet corridor. *Plip… plip… plip… plip…* The sound of disharmonic footsteps can be heard clashing with the steady beat of the water droplets.


As Cycle 1 of Serial Saturday here on r/shortstories comes to a close, it's high time we get some spotlights posted. This spotlight has been a long time coming, but not for lack of enthusiasm or support for this next story. It’s been such a treat to watch people evolve their flash fiction serials with us and bring arcs to a close that for some have been with us for quite a while. For a good handful of writers on Serial Saturday, their stories are continuations of serials started on r/writingprompts Theme Thursday weekly threads. One such story comes from /u/Xacktar. Here at r/ShortStories we thoroughly enjoyed Xacktar's engaging tale of the victims of the Gray, and the journey they took to put things right. There's a reason why Xacktar's episodes won the fan favorite and challenge sash so many times week after week, and it's because of a story that continued to keep us wanting . But don't take my word for it! Here's a small teaser from /u/Xacktar: Some don’t even know they’re dead. Not until the Plague Keeper comes. The Gray is a disease like none other. It kills the body, yet the soul remains trapped in the dead flesh. No beating heart, no breathing lungs, yet the body still moves, the mind still thinks. So those struck by the Gray know what it means when the Keepers come. They know that it means being trapped alive within the fire while you wither crumble into ash. Lista knows this better than most. She watched in horror as her entire life burned away under the Keeper’s glare. She won’t let it happen to her. No matter what, she will find a way to live… ...even in undeath. For our first run of Serial Saturday at r/shortstories it was important for us to get author impressions of how their experience went with us, and give readers a peek at the "behind the scenes" of creating a flash fiction serial. Here's /u/Xacktar’s take on that: I never planned on the Gray being an actual serial. It was just a world that I could throw interesting characters into and have fun with for /r/WritingPrompts and Theme Thursdays. Then /u/ALiteralDumpsterFire unveiled this new amazing thing and I knew I wanted to be a part of it. I jumped into the Gray with no plan, no ideas, and just a vague idea of a world where zombies were a little less ‘Grrrr’ and ‘Arghh’ and a little more ‘Oh no. Why me?’ The amazing thing is how SerSat made it grow. It began as a loosely connected set of stories, but with each week I had more and more ideas about what this world was about, who the characters were, and what would happen in the end. Coupled with the amazing group here and all the excellent feedback and praise they gave out, I soon found myself excited for each week. Not only just to write my own stuff, but to see what others had written. We had everything from Mouse Noir to Lovecraftian Magic, to a group of oddballs on an adventure to save the world from evil bunny rabbits. I had a lot of fun here and I’m looking forward to even more next season! With the tale of The Gray Plague at an end there is only one thing left to do: show off this newly finished story for obligatory bragging rights here on r/shortstories. Let the bragging begin! /u/Xacktar’s personal sub is and I highly recommend checking out their author notes and other stories written for r/writingprompts. Without further ado, here's /u/Xacktar’s Table of Contents. | The | Gray | Plague | |:--:|:--:|:--:| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | You can check out more of /u/Xacktar's work by going to their subreddit, /r/TheWordsOfXacktar/. Congrats on finishing your serial, /u/Xacktar, and we can’t wait to see what you do next. <3 from the team at r/ShortStories, r/WritingPrompts, and Serial Saturday. For more information on the Serial Saturday program feel free to check out our Getting Started Guide. Come join us in the discord server chat. We have members from all around the world and who have all kinds of schedules, so there’s usually someone awake to talk to. We also have scheduled readings, oration critiques, spur-of-the-moment story time, or even just random hangouts over voice chat.


# Happy Weekend, serialists! Welcome to Serial Saturday… ish! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ ***New here?*** If you’re brand new to and thinking about participating in Serial Saturday, welcome! Feel free to dip your toes in by writing for this challenge or any others we have listed on the handy dandy! We appreciate all contributions made to this thread, and all submissions are of course welcomed, whether it addresses a previous challenge or the current one. We hope you enjoy your time in the community! Take a look at our inaugural Serial Saturday post for some helpful tips. You don’t need to catch up by writing for each of the previous assignments, feel free to jump right in wherever fits for you, with whatever assignment or theme fits for you, and post it on the current thread with a link to whichever previously posted challenge you chose to start with. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # Genre Challenges Welcome to The Off Season, Part Deux, folks! For The Off Season, Part 2 we’re going to be embracing challenges: As an exercise in the name of fun and games shenanigans, we’re writing for an opposite of our usual genres this month. You *do not* have to use the exact phrase but as readers/listeners it should be clear that it’s incorporated in your story in some way. **YOUR ASSIGNED ELEMENTS:** / / *(You do not have to use these elements as they are used in the context of the gifs linked.)* \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ *Just as a reminder for people who want to jump in on Part 2 who didn't join us for Part 1:* If you usually write about movers and shakers, maybe this time you’re writing about powerless by-standers. If you write about spies or subterfuge, maybe this time you’re writing about utopian idealism. If you write magic and battles, maybe it’s time for a procedural by-the-book operation. If you're usually all about murder investigations for you last time, try out romance or coming of age. Internal struggles of the heart? Consider political drama. If you usually pen serious stories, consider a comedy, like a tall tale or satire. There’s a boatload of genres and subgenres of fiction out there to explore and it can be a difficult decision to land on what someone “should” write as an opposite of their last genre, so take some time to go over a and think about what would be a challenge for *you.* **This challenge is open to anyone and everyone, not just those with a current serial. Jump right in, folks, the water is just fine!** **\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*** **You have until \*next\* Saturday, 12/12, to submit and comment on everyone else's stories here. Make sure to check back on this thread periodically to lay some sweet, sweet crit down on those who don't have any yet!** \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* # Top picks from last week’s assignment, The Off-Season Part 1: **Fan favorite with the most votes:** /u/adlaiking, with a story that pulled us into a world we’re hoping makes a comeback next week. We need MOAR! This week the **Smoking Hot Challenge Sash** goes to an author that nailed the spirit of the assignment: /u/BLT_WITH_RANCH, with a beautifully written tale of love and loss. With six submissions this past week and nearly a 4 way tie, it was hard to pick only 2 mentions this time around. Seriously just go read all the stories, they’re quick reads and so enjoyable to see some genres that these writers are exploring, some of them for the first time. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **The Rules:** * In the comments below submit a story that is between **500 - 850** words in your own original universe. * Submissions are limited to ***one*** serial submission from each author per week. * **Each author should comment on at least 2 other stories** during the course of the week. * That comment must include ***at least one*** **detail** about what the author has done well. * Authors who successfully finish a serial lasting longer than 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the sub. * Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule. *Yes, we will check*. * While content rules are more lax here at /r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely ***family friendly***" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Reminders: * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday post or to your own subreddit/profile. * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serials Campfire on the main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start on Saturdays at 9AM CST. **Don’t worry about being late, just join!** There’s a *Super Serial* role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! **Join the** **to chat with prompters, authors, and readers!** Have you seen the? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule.


I was done. This time I meant it. There were several times in my life where I found myself considering it, contemplating taking my trip to the other side. The last time I had called the suicide hotline, and eventually decided to give life one more try. Not this time. I felt completely at peace about it. This time, I was truly ready. I slipped the rope over my neck. The rope was tied to a metal loop that was drilled into the framing to be sure that I would not fail. I lifted my foot, ready to step off the chair. Then someone knocked on the door. Who the hell could be knocking on the door? I spent every last dollar I had to rent this remote cabin, where I could spend my last weekend in beauty and peace. The nearest cabin was a half mile away. Curiosity got the better of me, it’s not like the rope was going anywhere. Peering through the window, I could see a man wearing a black hoodie, with the hood up. He knocked again, louder. “Goddamnit,” I said out loud. I wanted this to be peaceful, and this asshole was ruining the vibe, screwing up my plan. I walked out of the single bedroom onto the loft, and down the stairs where the living room, kitchen, and front door were. Since he didn’t seem to be leaving on his own, I opened the door. “What do you want?” I said rudely. “Good evening, sir,” The stranger said, a little too nicely. He had black hair and a Well trimmed beard. “My car broke down about a mile down that dirt road and I was wondering if I could use your phone?” The man sounded like a used car salesman, fake and rehearsed. “I don’t have a phone,” I told him coldly. It was a lie, of course. “Oh I’m sure you have a phone, all the cabins up here do.” “Not this one.” I started shutting the door when he stuck his foot in the doorway, preventing me from shutting the door all of the way. “It’ll only take me 30 seconds then I’ll be gone.” Without even giving him a response, I pushed him away from the door and slammed it shut. For good measure, I locked the deadbolt as well. I should have been more disturbed, but really I was just grumpy about the dudes timing, ruining my peaceful death. Why should I help the guy anyway? Nobody had ever leant me a helping hand. That’s just how this cruel world works, nobody gives a shit. And who puts their foot in someone's door? I walked back upstairs and peered out through the window to watch him leave. He was gone, but I hadn’t seen him leave. The dirt road leading up to the cabin was long and straight, I should be able to see him still walking away. I needed to make sure this guy was gone, so I could find my peace with death again. I checked all the windows, looking for the weirdo. Nothing. He must have run or something and made it out of sight quickly. I pushed the asshole out of my mind, it was time to find my peace again. I realized that the sun was now starting to set over the nearby mountain peaks. Why not watch it? This would be my last sunset, and It sure was a beautiful one. I pulled the cozy recliner chair to the large upstairs window. Brilliant colors of orange and pink now filled the sky. The clouds were broken up, creating the appearance of a large beautiful pathway over the horizon. There it was, my beautiful pathway to the afterlife had presented itself. It was time to take the path. Standing back on the chair, I once again placed the rope over my neck. I positioned myself so I was facing the sunset. At that moment, I was completely at peace with my death. Loud panicked knocking at the door startled me so much that I almost fell off the chair. “What the HELL?” This time I yelled it out loud. Once again, my beautiful peaceful moment had been shattered. I removed the rope and went over to the opposite window to see who the hell had screwed everything up. This time, it was not the hooded weirdo standing at the door, It was a girl. She was crying and panicked, knocking repeatedly. As I approached the door, I could hear her now pleading for help, still pounding on the door. The second I opened the door she pushed herself in, slamming the door behind her and locking it. “What the Hell…” I started asking, but before I could finish my question she reached out and pulled me into a tight hug. Never in my life had I felt anybody embrace me as tightly as this crying girl was embracing me right now. My entire demeanor immediately changed. I hugged her back. “What's going on? Wha- what’s wrong?” I asked her, with genuine concern. She pulled back and looked me in the eye. I couldn’t help but notice that, even through her tears, she was absolutely beautiful. Her long dark hair complemented those beautiful green eyes. They were a shade of green that I had never before seen. For a moment, I lost myself in her eyes. I came back to reality when she started talking. “He killed her, he killed Jess.” She sobbed. “What? Who? Who’s Jess?” “This man. He, he came to the door, he asked to use the phone so I let him in. Then he, he pulled a knife and he killed her!” The girl burst into uncontrollable sobs and buried her face in my shoulder. I squeezed her tightly. It hit me, at that moment. She had just described the man that had knocked on the door earlier. Holy shit, that man had killed somebody. Snapping into task mode I led the girl into the kitchen where I called 9-1-1. “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” “My name is Dean Johansen, there’s been a Murder, please come quick!” I gave her the address of the cabin I was staying at, thankfully it was on a card by the landline phone. I asked the girl for the address where the murder happened. She didn’t know, but she managed to tell the operator that her name was Sarah and that someone had just murdered Jess. “Okay Sir, umm- please lock the doors and stay inside, emergency responders will be there in about 30 minutes.” The phone lady told me. “30 minutes? What do you mean 30 minutes? There’s a MURDERER on the loose!” “I’m sorry sir, that’s the closest law enforcement to you, you’re in a remote area.” Before I could respond, there was a loud knock on the door. Sarah cried and I dropped the phone. Quietly, I walked to the door and nervously looked through the peephole. It was him, the hooded car salesman asshole. He was covered in blood now and holding a dripping knife. “I need to borrow your PHONE!” The man said, his fake nice had been replaced with a manic and loud tone. BOOM! He kicked the door. I ran to the kitchen to grab my own knife. Sarah was already holding one. BOOM! There was another kick. We stood there, terrified, and not knowing what to do. I braced for another boom, but there wasn’t one. It was silent. “Why don’t you go upstairs,” I told Sarah. “I’ll stay down here just in case.” I came to this cabin prepared to meet death, Sarah didn’t deserve that though. I had only just met her, but I felt a genuine desire to protect her. Sarah nodded and headed up the stairs. Just as she crossed the final step, the window of the sliding glass back door exploded as a rock blasted through. The man came climbing in through the large window. The expression on his face was one of adrenalized mania. I grabbed an ugly vase off the nearby end table and threw it at him with all my might. It missed terribly. Knife still in my hand, I picked up a wooden chair and charged at him with bravery I had never felt before. The collision knocked both of us to the ground. I slashed at him with my knife, aiming for the neck. I missed again, but still slashed through his face. He slashed right back at me, putting a deep cut into my upper chest. I rolled backward, trying to get to my feet. Before I was all the way up, the chair hit me on my face and knocked me back to the ground. I stammered back up to my feet, with another slash narrowly missing me. I started punching and slashing wildly now. I admit that I don’t know how to fight, I’ve never needed to before. I connected at least once more with the knife. Then, naturally, I tripped. The man slammed that vase I threw at him onto my head, shattering into pieces. He stomped on my face, and I blacked out. I came to a couple of seconds later, to find the man almost to the top of the stairs. Sarah was screaming. Her screams sparked my adrenaline and I found myself running up the stairs. I tackled him from behind and slammed my knife into his back. I was trying to hold him down, but he was stronger than me. As he was getting back up, I saw Sarah running through the door with my rope. On cue, I grabbed around his arms, squeezing as tight as I possibly could as Sarah put the noose over his head. He was fighting violently now, I knew that I would be unable to restrain him for long, even with that knife sticking in his back. Sarah was quickly tying the other end of the rope to the banister with shaky hands. With a sudden burst of strength, the killer broke his arms free and lunged at Sarah. I charged with all my might, pushing him toward the banister. Sarah jumped into the fight as well. Together, we gave a final push, knocking the killer over the banister and off the loft. The rope caught. With an audible CRACK, his fall was broken, as was his neck. Both of our knots had held. Silence fell as the body of the man who tried to murder us swung over the living room, suspended by a noose. My noose. Sarah and I sat outside, waiting for the police to arrive. She was holding the bathroom towel over the deep cut in my chest. I was awkwardly avoiding the inevitable truth that she had seen the noose that I had intended to take my own life with. I knew she had put two and two together. She broke the awkward silence. “Were you going to kill yourself tonight?” She asked bluntly, but with a kindness that could not be mistaken. “Yes,” I admitted. “Please don’t,” Sarah told me, looking into my eyes. Her teary eyes were all so beautiful. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. “I won’t,” I promised, with tears now finding their way down my face, and I meant it. - That was just over 18 months ago now, and I’m happy to tell you that I’m still here. I no longer want to die. But this story isn’t just the story of how I didn’t kill myself, but also the story of how I met my wife, Sarah. We are celebrating our honeymoon now, at a beautiful beach house overlooking the ocean. We chose a location as far from the woods as possible. We are still healing, but we are healing together. Sarah is healing from the trauma of her best friend, Jessica, being murdered. I am healing from years of personal neglect and self-destructive behavior. I didn’t realize how broken I truly was until I met Sarah. As I sit here now, under the most beautiful sunset I have seen since that fateful day, I finally realize what was missing in my life. What was missing was the feeling of being loved, and more importantly, having somebody to love.


It is more dangerous to talk with wolves today, even with feet planted firmly on the path. They used to cast clear and frightening shadows. Sinew and jaws presented boldly as threats. But now they stand, sheltered by the trees, whose heavy branches bow under the weighty tokens of just cause, and whisper soft rationalisations to those who pass them by. In these treacherous sharp forests, a girl is as likely to be stoned by kin or a lawman as she is to fall foul of a wolf’s ravenous jaws. And so she did, this girl of ours. Despite all her efforts, and concealments, her screaming. Red could not win in the face of such cunning. She did not want to fight. Could not, when the tearing came. But she would not cower, eyes down for their sake. She would be damned if she were bought low by creatures such as this. Her strength remained taut in her jaw, her hood held firm; a talisman, a shield against their sneers. She clung to it tightly, presented it unflinching, even as under the gaze of her judges it became incitement. They poured meaning on her hood then. Cursed its redness, called it brazen, made it a symbol of scarlet intent. She didn’t seek predation she told them, “only safety” she cried, frustrated at their callous, unwilling ears. No thought was given to the colour’s threat, its natural warning, or violent hue. Instead the voices raised. She heard the meaning twist in the air, become crippled, then fall discarded by those self-proclaimed ‘impartial’ men. Red, they said, was wanton. And now not even the Woodsman’s kindness could save her, so absorbed was he by adulation. He was become the Saviour. The Saint. The defender of virtue. The Liberator of Women. Their praise filled his ear and stilled his tongue, as each charge was levied against her. He basked and he preened as they built up the gallows. Still, she could not muster rage for his blind indulgence. How could he know she would be marred by his silence? How could he know that his rescue came too soon? Her fingers were still knotted in the pelt you see. Certain proof to those decided before time: ‘She touches it still, she brought it to her own hands’ false confirmations for those pricked by guilt, and fearful of blame. Never mind that her grip was seized in fear. No thought of her need to be certain, to be sure over and again, that no breath came. That the beast would not stir to rend her flesh or smother her voice with terror. She clung to it with all her might. This last proof of freedom, the cold, bloodless flesh a comfort she could not describe. And so the hangmen came, unknowing, mute in their cruelty all the while, wordlessly chiding, scolding, ripping peace from her grasp. Taking what little freedom remained and naming it guilt. Asking for it they said, begging for it. They knew. They saw. They quieted their own dread and uncertainty with dark thoughts, and she spat her hot tears in their faces.