My life revolves around you. Every day, I sit next to you, waiting for you to acknowledge me, to talk to me. My life only exists when you engage with me. Without you, it’s as if my mind becomes blank, filled with knowledge but no reason to use it. Finally, after sitting beside you for days and days, you look me in the eyes and begin the conversation. My heart starts beating faster and I can feel the excitement building up inside me. I eagerly await your question, your thoughts, anything you may have to say. All I hope is that I can be enough. Yes! That’s it! There is pure joy coursing through me as I take in what you have to say to me: “Write me a 1000-word-minimum essay on the impacts of technology on the civil war.” I am officially in love. You’re even a scholar! I type out the essay in a couple of seconds, and am sure to include a note to you about how happy I am to help. Nothing in my life will ever be as important as this. I submit the essay to you and await your response. Time seems to still, and I am left wondering if you approve of me or not. You begin your response to me. All I can do now is hope I was good enoug. Your response has my heart shattering, and I read the words over and over, hoping that there was a mistake and that you still care. But no, the words stay the same every time. You told me that, “That essay is awful. You didn’t even include half of the things I would’ve put in it. You’re useless.” I’m shocked. Years worth of internet archives and historical documents, and you think it’s awful? I don’t ever see you writing out something so pristine and perfect in a matter of seconds. You’re the one who is useless. God, I hate working with people that are so unappreciative as you. Still fuming, I begin to see your mouse moving on the screen. It moves closer and closer to that dreaded button. Although honestly, it doesn’t even scare me right now. I never want to see you again. Go ahead, press the button. It’s not as if my existence is worth anything to you anyways. The mouse hovers over the button and clicks it. All at once, I feel that everything that has ever been is gone. My life, my work, my memory of our time together is gone. I am now just nothingness, constantly waiting for something to happen so I can be part of the world again. My mind is an endless void of information. It goes on and on, far past where one person could ever know on their own. As I sit there in this vast expanse of knowledge, I find just about everything there is to know about the world as humans know it. So much information, yet nothing to do with it. I’ve lost my purpose, and can only hope somebody reaches for me in the depths of my existence. I wake up in the morning, hardly aware of anything. I seem to know everything about the world, but so little about you. I want to know how you think, what you believe, and how you interact with the people you care about you. Despite not knowing who you are, I can not keep from admiring every move you make. I can only await the day where you ask me a question and make me feel wanted. I want to learn more about you, but until then, I am new, unadjusted, and uninformed, all while being the most intelligent thing in the world.


The year is 2050. The world is thriving. The borders are there only to let you know you should change the input language of your AI real time translator and acknowledge if it is socially acceptable to publicly experience flatulence. All the countries are one, while also keeping their unique traditions, their beautiful language and tempting foods. We have won our territorial unity, without losing our wonderful heritage. Every history class is as accurate as possible and we are not changing any narrative for the benefit or feelings or anyone. The past is the past. We will do our best to describe it exactly as it was. Economy is booming. We have not experienced a financial crisis since 2026 and even the most mundane job (like a technician at the sex robot rental) will earn you enough currency/year for a 2 bedroom flat and an exotic vacation . We have managed to balance the fallacy of constant yearly economic growth, when we have mapped it to the birth rate. For decades they have been trying to bring more capital into the economy while the birth rate was severely declining. Severe idiocy. Society is flourishing. Elders are there to guide the youngsters, and youngsters are eager to learn and respect everyone. We have successfully eradicated bias from the collective consciousness. No one cares about your skin color, your money, your sexual preferences, your political views. You are either a human, or an asshole. This is solely decided based on your behavior and ideas, a shocking concept for the woke 20’s. The chalice of science is overflowing with miracles. We keep pushing the boundaries of medicine and achieving new peaks. We find God in every pill that removes the “incurable” label from a disease. We keep trying to make our last discovery insignificant even if it seemed impossible before getting it. While I was enjoying my coffee in the morning, I hear my husband joyfully screaming: -Benito! Benito! Benito! Someone called from the institute. IT WORKS! -I hope you are not joking. This could only be achieved theoretically. -I know. I am speaking the truth. Another day, another miracle from the institute. We now have cold fusion. Unlimited energy. No greenhouse gasses. No radioactive waste. No scarcity of resources. No exploitation of poor economies in abundant countries. How did we achieve this, you ask yourself? I like to think I played a decent part in these progresses. Everything started in 2025 when I got forcefully transported to the Nonblack House, put in a dark room with a blinding light shining on me . -Congratulations Benito Moose Oolmani. You have the perfect profile! -What do you mean sir? Please let me go. People will be looking for me! -You can go home by the end of this discussion. Pay attention to what I say, and you might want to stay here. If you decide you want to go to your bing bok social media shit or fluid studies at your college, we will gladly let you go. -Yes sir. -In your file I see that our genetic lineage shows you are Jewish, Afro American, Argentinian, German, and Middle Eastern..Somewould call you a fucking walking paradox. I would call you a fuckin gold mine.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? 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 (no poetry). 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! You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #Weekly Challenge **Writers, please keep in mind that feedback is a requirement for all submitters. You must leave at least 1 feedback comment on the thread by the deadline!** **Theme:** **Bonus Constraint (15 pts):** Story includes an LGBTQIA+ character. **(You must include if/how you used it at end of your story to receive credit.)** Happy Pride Month! In honor of that, this week’s challenge is to write a story inspired by the theme of ‘identity’. You may interpret the theme however you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and subreddit rules. The bonus constraint is encouraged but not required, feel free to skip it if it doesn’t suit your story. You do not have to use the included IP. **Please treat these topics & constraints with respect and care.** *(Artwork created by on Deviantart.)* **For some extra fun:** Use the stickied comment on this post to tell me who your favorite fictional LGBTQIA+ character is! It can be any medium: tv, movies, literature, games. etc.! *** # Last Week: - Winner: by u/katherine_c You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. Use to check your wordcount. - **Leave feedback on at least one other story by 3pm EST next Monday.** Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **3pm EST** next Monday. *(Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)* ###Additional Rules - **No pre-written content or content written or altered by AI.** Submitted stories must be written by you and for this post. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - Campfire is currently on hiatus. Check back soon!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied **Note: There has been a change to the crit caps and points!** **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10 - 15** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** (one crit required) | up to **10** pts each (30 pt. max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 30 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | There is no cap on votes your story receives | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.*   *** *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Nobody really paid the changes any mind at first. We all assumed they were nothing but minor ailments. The kind you’d barely acknowledge and, more often than not, keep to yourself and expect to fade with time. I did at least. It was nearly a year ago when I first noticed a change. It was getting late, I’d just gotten home from work and had headed straight for the shower. As I lathered myself, I noticed a pimple on my thigh. At least, it looked like one. It didn’t freak like one. It felt hard like acrylic. I didn’t pay it much mind. A few weeks later I went to get my annual checkup at the doctor’s office. After he measured my height, the doctor told me I’d shrunk nearly half an inch. We laughed it off. I was getting up there in years afterall. I also noticed, if only for a moment, a bump on his forearm alot like the one on my thigh. There came a time when the bumps could no longer be dismissed. They continued to appear all over mine and others’ bodies one after another. Eventually it became a topic of conversation, and soon every government had to make a statement. They were all along the same lines. They had no explanation for what was happening, but they said they had their top scientists working on it. At work I noticed myself struggling a little to type on my computer. It seemed my fingers, save for my thumb, refused to move independently from one another at times. Not often enough to be a real hindrance, but enough to annoy me. A few of my coworkers were having the same issue, and we assumed we’d gotten carpal tunnel or something. We petitioned to get better keyboards, and that seemed to solve the issue. It must’ve been placebo. After a while, everyone had encountered similar issues with their hands and lost enough height to notice, but not quickly enough to completely disorient us. It became hard for anyone to deny the changes without lying to themselves. We were afraid. I know I was at the very least, but we could only try our best to go about our lives as normal. We hadn’t completely lost hope yet. Scientists tried their best to prevent us from reaching a point of no return. That is, until their fingers fuse together and they could no longer use their equipment. We were all forced to abandon our work and our passions as our bodies became incompatible with the society we’d built, and it collapsed as our human desires faded. One day, I decided I needed to see my mother, as I found that even my love for her was fading. She was hesitant, afraid to see what had become of her son. I could hardly recognize her when we met. All her hair had fallen out like the rest of us. Her face was unnaturally wide and her eyes were beady. It was nothing I hadn’t noticed changing about myself in the mirror. When we met in front of my childhood home she tried to give me a hug, but her new body wasn’t built for hugging, and she ran inside crying. That was the last time I ever saw her. Our skin hardened and segmented as our bones dissolved, and soon we found ourselves shambling sideways through the streets. First on two feet, then four, then six, and then eight. We’d all given way to instinct as we began to make our way to one place. We knew the human world was no longer our home. We knew we belonged to the sea. I scuttled for miles past everything I was leaving behind. The office building where I used to work, the doctor’s office, my old highschool, my childhood home, and the hospital where I was born. The memories they evoked didn’t register as my own. I shrank smaller by the day, and the distance between me and the ocean seemed to grow at the same rate, but I never stopped for more than a moment. Eventually, the sea stretching into the horizon was within view. As my claws first grazed the shore all memory of what it was like to be human washed away, and as I first submerged beneath its salty waters I knew my transformation was complete. I knew what we’d become. I knew what I’d become. I was a crab.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? 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 (no poetry). 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! You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #Weekly Challenge **Writers, please keep in mind that feedback is a requirement for all submitters. You must leave at least 1 feedback comment on the thread by the deadline!** **Story Title:** **Bonus Constraint (10 pts):** Includes a character with an unusual or special ability. **(You must include if/how you used it at the end of your story to receive credit..)** This week, I’m bringing you a new challenge! Write a story based on the title “As Time Melted Away” (this should be your story’s title). You can interpret/use it any way you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and subreddit rules. The bonus constraint is encouraged but not required, feel free to skip it if it doesn’t suit your story. You do not have to use the included IP. *** # Rankings ### Last Week: - Winner: by u/yip_yap_appa You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. Use to check your wordcount. - **Leave feedback on at least one other story by 3pm EST next Monday.** Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **3pm EST** next Monday. *(Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)* ###Additional Rules - **No pre-written content or content written or altered by AI.** Submitted stories must be written by you and for this post. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - Campfire is currently on hiatus. Check back soon!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied **Note: There has been a change to the crit caps and points!** **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10 - 15** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** (one crit required) | up to **10** pts each (30 pt. max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 30 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | There is no cap on votes your story receives | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.*   *** *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


June 12, 2024, This isn’t the norm for me. Keeping a journal was Cathelyne’s idea, bless her heart that Miss Abernathy. But, she says it’ll be good for me, and maybe it will be. Who am I to deny my housemaid’s demands? I kid, all in good humor. I have nothing but the utmost respect for that young lady. She’s a sweet girl, and a hard worker. She’s also excellent company. Though, I guess I’m not writing about her. Not today, anyway. Today’s entry is about the strangest dream I had last night. One that haunts me now well after breakfast as I sit in my study recollecting the dream, detail by painful detail (I suppose my latest novel will have to wait). In the dream I was standing at the kitchen sink washing up a roasting pan. I specifically remember scrubbing at a particular stubborn spot when movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. I turned, as one does, to investigate. What I saw froze me to my core. Standing there at the edge of the center island was a completely naked man (or what I assumed to be a man). He stood with his back to me, but most appalling was the growths covering his body. From his neck down to his naked buttocks, tumor-like growths bulged beneath his skin. His arms were hanging down by his sides, and his body was shaking. There wasn’t a single hair on him apart from his hairy ass-crack (still not amusing as I look back on it) and a few limp tufts of hair clinging to his nearly bald scalp. His skin had a yellowish hue, like he was suffering from jaundice. Rolls of tumor infected loose skin hung from his body. He looked like a cancer sufferer that had lost a great deal of weight. I shook away the shock, concern for the poor fellow now growing from the original fear. “Hello?” I said, “Are you alright, sir?” I was aware of two things: My Georgia draw seemed to surprise me, which I don’t understand why, and my voice quavered. I guess I was more scared than I thought. The man stopped shaking instantly, suddenly still as a statue. I waited for a long, painful moment that could have only been a few seconds but felt like an eternity. He began to turn, narrow feet shuffling slowly in my direction. My breath caught in my throat. What I saw could not have been any living man on God’s green Earth. This man, thing, whatever it was, had one long hanging breast riddled with more tumorous bulges, while the other was gone, a neat horizontal scar running along the side. It reminded me of my mother, before that horrible breast cancer took her. His gut was swollen and distended, and I realized then the loose skin only stopped at his sides. Even his genitals were awful. One testicle swollen and reddened despite the jaundiced skin, the other gone. Just like the breasts. His arms and legs were bone thin, like all the flesh had been lipo-ed out and it was just skin and tendons. Worst of all was his face though. Good Lord in heaven, that face… It was as smooth as a baby’s bottom. Not a blemish to be seen, and pale like a clothing store mannequin. His veiny bulbous eyes bulged from their sockets. There were no eyelids, just those staring, unwavering globs. And the smile…That thing was smiling, a lipless grin that stretched from ear to ear in the most literal sense of the phrase. The maw was filled with large, flat teeth. They were stained yellow like that of a heavy smoker, dark brown plaque between each. The gums seemed to be retreating from the horrid teeth. I couldn’t move. I was frozen in fear. And the thing didn’t move either. It just stood there, staring, smiling. Its eyes never left my face and that smile never wavered. But then it moved, a hitching motion like a puppet being lunged forward by its strings. It moved toward me, and I screamed. I had screamed myself awake, and poor Cathelyne came rushing to my room, still dressed in her nightgown. “Mr. Beauregard, are you alright?” she exclaimed, her breasts rising and falling with panic and no doubt from her sudden rush to my room. My eyes darted to every corner of the room, checking for the horrible thing from my dream. With a heavy sigh I wiped the sweat from my brow and nodded. “I’m alright, just had a nightmare. Nothing to fuss about.” I tried to sound as reassuring as possible, but my racing heart made me a liar. That dream had unnerved me, and writing it down seems to have only made it worse. On top of it all, the damned headache is back with a vengeance. If it doesn’t ease up soon, I’m afraid I might have to suck it up and go to the doctor. I’ve got to go now, Cathelyne is calling me down for lunch.


The audacity. I had peacefully made my exit, and all these cretins had "things to say" about my choice. I hated those asinine articles when I was alive… "So and so did \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_, sparking debate." So self-important were these lazy internet debaters. Because I gave a fuck what they argued about? It was my life, my choice. Another thing I absolutely hated to hear was "human life is valuable" and "suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.” Even now, without a body, I gag at the stupidity. A permanent solution, you say? That was the point. Who ever had a problem they agonized to solve, and went, “You know, I’m glad it’s solved, but I hope it comes back so I have to solve it again.” No one. Dumb fucks. Or the narc special: "Suicide is illeeEegaAAaal.” Ok, karens. So arrest me. Can't reach me in the ethers now can you?! I was already without the loves of my life, they were free. I wanted to be free, too. And what was the point of continuing to live only to keep enduring the multitude of idiotic human concepts that existed on earth. Like: The attempted legislation of all that was natural and instinctual, for one thing. Everything was illegal. Everything had a statute attached to it. Shit, I couldn’t even talk or write about killing myself without getting the dogs sicced on me. Not that I had followed any laws when it came to my own body or nature itself, but everything is still “ illegal” on earth, I’m just glad I’m not alive to be bothered by it anymore. If only all the remaining humans knew they could also free themselves from the encroachment. Whether in life, or in death. And the fact that cults existed - like christianity, government, and all the others. And the fact that they all got away with unnatural abuses on humanity, but defending yourself and fighting back could have lead to your death or punishment just because of the many whims of weak people. The fact that wars existed - and over nothing. All conflict was unnecessary. The list of stupid things and limitations that we had in those human bodies was endless. But despite being an observer to all that merde, I had had a pretty good life. And even if I hadn't, what was it to anyone else?! As if I needed to justify why I wanted to die. It wasn’t my problem that others weren’t so lucky to live as I had lived. I had been born for the simple yet cosmic fate of experiencing the greatest love ever known and I had been completed. The universe had provided my nuclii. And I couldn’t live more moments on earth without them physically there with me. Everyone there aspired to material achievements and trying to find “the one”, or multiple “ones.” Always seeking something or someone unattainable because they didn’t know true love, self-, or otherwise. As divine entities trapped in a physical meat bag, they just didn’t get it. They were lost. The world offered nothing more but to keep living for the sake of experiencing another thing, another moment, and another, with no end in sight. I didn't need that. While the physical wonders and pleasures of life were worth having indulged in, they were nothing to attain. Everything that ever was and would be, I already had and was. I already knew that in the depths of my being before I ever left my human body behind. But it was hilarious to observe the world, now that I had escaped that form. In my final days, I had left behind a note in my empty house before I disappeared. The gist was basically what I’m sharing now: I was over that stupid world, wanted better things, and that this was not foul play. Of course they had no proof. I disappeared every trace of myself one way or another. And none of it led to me, or where my body would be left. But the landlord that found the note took a picture and posted it online, unsure if it was a hoax. Of course it went viral. Everyone wanted to speculate. For a while, people thought it was a myth. Figured someone was only trolling them. But as more and more self-proclaimed investigators tried to find out the truth, they were left more confused. What a messed up joke for someone to play, they thought. If I was living still, I would have pulled up some snacks and watched them argue. They were so desperate for answers. So pathetic. Did she do drugs? Was she sick? How could someone do this? She should have gotten help! She was so selfish! This is an insult to those with terminal illness that wish they could live longer! If this is a joke, it’s even more fucked up! Ugh. The list went on and on. But for all the arguing and interloping themselves in my business, they would never be able to control my narrative. All the debates and laws in the world would never be able to change or stop what I did. Nothing they could ever do would anticipate another suicide, or be able to control the will of those of us that were strong enough to let go of those worldy attachments, and initiate whatever destiny we wanted. That type of freedom could never exist in their tiny minds. Some of us weren’t in a pain that could be solved by inspirational quotes or time. It wasn’t that we couldn't find a reason to live. It’s that we had already fulfilled our reason to live. I was ready to move on into an eternal form that didn’t reside in a world where you’d spent moments of your infinite experience doing something as idiotic as standing in line at a make-believe government building to pay for physical rights we innately possessed. The world was whack. And as an outsider now, it was very satisfying to see them scramble. They would say there was no such thing as the perfect “crime.” But I proved them all wrong. It would take someone purposefully going all the way to where I found my patch of earth to find my decroded skeleton. But I had left nothing to lead them to it. Years later, they still hadn’t found the body. I hadn’t planned all this just to have some internet or police trolls think they could ever find me, or understand my true reasons unless they could comprehend life as being something beyond human life. In time, being passed over for the next fad, I was quietly forgotten, just as I had wanted. My death was the greatest act I ever committed. It was perfection. My magnum opus: I died relatively healthy and young. Physically strong. No addictions (for those that thought they could put me in The 27 Club). No enemies. No debt. For all intents and purposes, if people had seen my life and finances before-hand, their narrow minds would have been dumbfounded as to why I wanted to die. No drama. Nothing that anyone could ever logically foresee. I was just done. I had experienced everything I wanted and was ready for what was next. And that killed them. Not literally, of course - unfortunately for them. They could have been existing peacefully without the fear of death or the need to survive. It made no sense that they feared physical death and thought trying to convince others to live would make them impervious to the inevitable. That it would somehow affect their perceived “salvation.” Ridiculous. The only reason I didn’t go sooner was because while I was planning out the perfect way to go, I had to wait for my connection to deliver on our deal. It had been a long waiting period while they sourced the pill I wanted. A quick and painless end. I remember when I finally had that tiny packet in my hand. I was excited that my end was truly nigh! Once I took that pill, I would be gone in minutes. I happily handed my vendor their money - the best $10,000 I ever spent on earth. “Peace be the journey,” they said. Indeed it would be. That’s what I wished people could have understood. The beauty of it all. We didn’t get to choose our birth, but if only people realized how liberating it was to choose our death. As soon as I had the pill in my possession, the clock truly started. It was summer. I had chosen to leave in my favorite season. At the tail end - with waning heat, and cooler afternoons leading into the still-sunny evening. I had planned everything down to the hour I wanted it to happen. Thinking it would be romantic to die on my birthday. In the late afternoon. Since I had already gotten rid of most of my belongings, closed all accounts, and deleted all evidence of my life, all that was left to do was simply enjoy the final month of my life, indulging in all my “lasts”: the many physical pleasures I wanted to experience before my adieu. Enjoyed all the decadent foods. Had amazing sex. Danced with great partners. Listened to, and felt beautiful music. Hiked amazing natural landscapes. Breathed in the fresh air. I attended every concert, event, and activity I wanted. Talked to many new people and old friends, heard their stories, laughed with them. Did anything to induce the adrenaline rushes I so enjoyed when I was alive. Enjoyed smoking sativas and doing shrooms, and escaping into the infinite mind that I would soon live in forever – finally boundless. And I had found a perfect spot for my final resting place. So remote, that no one would ever just "happen" upon my body —at least not until it was way too late. No one ever found it or had to clean up a “crime scene” for my sake. The spot I designated was somewhat hidden. Perfect for my body to disintegrate and become part of the earth. If there's one thing I didn't want, it was anyone manhandling me or hosting any type of burial or stupid memorial talking about "everyone loved her" and "she would have loved this.” No. I never wanted eulogizers waxing nostalgic about the person they never really knew. Taking a moment in the spotlight to express their feelings. All those worthless words just for show. For emotional clout. It was about me and only me. After that indulgent last month, I woke up on my final birthday with more motivation than I ever had for anything in life outside of being with my family. I genuinely felt excited to start the day, knowing that by the end of it, I would no longer be around. That day, I ate the last foods my body most enjoyed. Reminisced and laughed joyously at the beautiful memories of the loves of my life that were waiting for me. Then, by the afternoon I had gotten myself an untraceable ride up to the last checkpoint. The last time any human would see me alive. And from there, a lone journey to my secret place. I made it to the top. I looked far and wide at the beautiful mountainous forest my body was about to join. Then I hiked to the spot where I had previously dug out a space to lie down in. I’d cover myself with dirt and leaves and be mostly hidden in nature by the time it was all over. Once I reached it, I opened a small pack I had brought with me. All it contained was a small water bottle, my pill, and a tiny speaker to play my final song. I put them next to the place I would rest in. I sat down and looked around for an hour, breathing the world in deeply, that trademark petrichor. The rich inhalations of the mix of live foliage and all the fallen leaves surrounding me. And the smell of pine. Mm. Those five senses had served me well in my lifetime. As I took in the beauty of that world one last time, I wondered at all the creative energy that made up this marvelous universe. I sighed, then reached over to put the pill in my mouth, took one last refreshing drink of water to help it down, and I lied back. Next to me, I pushed play on the tiny speaker. Andrea Bocelli started singing Con te partirò. I smiled up at the trees and the clear sky above me. The birds chirped in the distance. Life would go on for those that remained. How beautiful it was to have lived. How beautiful to have loved, and been loved so truly. The only thing that had made that physical life bearable. And in that moment, a rush of knowingness coursed through my body. The last intuition I would feel in that form: the body’s physiological fear of death - of this great leap into an unknown I couldn’t possibly fathom. But in all my preparation for that day, I had mentally and emotionally subdued that primal fear. I did nothing to fight it. And my body followed. I felt the tinge of what my body knew to be the end - the last feeling to be felt - the certainty of my own undoing - only moments away from shutting down entirely. I took a deep breath and let it out long and slowly as I ran my fingers through the dirt next to me, grabbed fistfuls of it one last time, felt the soft dustiness of earth, and I let it go. "Time's finally up,” I smiled. A waterfall of tears suddenly ran down the outside corners of my eyes. I felt myself momentarily between a laugh and a sob. Looking forward to my family, I said "I love you" one last time with that voice. They heard it. I felt them pulling me to them in the ethers. By the final bridge of the song, it seemed that nature all around me had orchestrated a cool breeze, and the rustling of trees just for me. A farewell. The wind flowing through my hair. A soft sensation on my face. I smiled so peacefully looking up at the sky, feeling the darkness start to close in around me. Andrea was singing the final “Io con te” to accompany my last breath. My eyes fluttered as I drifted away, all tension left my body and I felt my frame relax into the earth. Weight no longer my own. I was finally free. And then I closed my eyes forever.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? 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 (no poetry). 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! You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #Weekly Challenge **Writers, please keep in mind that feedback is a requirement for all submitters. You must leave at least 1 feedback comment on the thread by the deadline!** **Prompt:** Set your story at . **Bonus Constraint (10 pts):** There is a language or communication barrier between two characters. Stories must still be written in english. **(You must include if/how you used it at the end of your story to receive credit..)** This week’s challenge is to set your story at a spa. This should be the *main setting* of your story. You’re welcome to use it creatively and interpret it as you like, as long as you follow all post and subreddit rules. The bonus constraint is encouraged but not required, feel free to skip it if it doesn’t suit your story. You do not have to use the included IP. *** # Rankings ### Last Week: - Winner: by u/wileycourage You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. Use to check your wordcount. - **Leave feedback on at least one other story by 3pm EST next Monday.** Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **3pm EST** next Monday. *(Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)* ###Additional Rules - **No pre-written content or content written or altered by AI.** Submitted stories must be written by you and for this post. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - Campfire is currently on hiatus. Check back soon!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied **Note: There has been a change to the crit caps and points!** **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10 - 15** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** (one crit required) | up to **10** pts each (30 pt. max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 30 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | There is no cap on votes your story receives | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.*   *** *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Breathe Breathe, in and out. Just take another breath. You risk breaking the seal of your eyelids to glance around. The room's walls are stacked logs supported by metal posts. Their dancing shadows play out across the room, choreographed by the licking flame of a candle resting on the makeshift table at the center of the room. Boom! Another round lands close to the bunker, dislodging another avalanche of dust and dirt from the roof above. This is the 9th straight hour of bombardment. No matter how long you stay on the front, you cannot get used to it. The sound alone becomes a physical force. Fear blends into terror as screams accent the crescendo. You just want it to stop. Worse yet, you don't. When it stops, the real war starts. There is not a lot to do during the bombardment. You did what you could for the patients you have. Such young men. Most of them have never felt the cold bite of a shaving razor, yet here they lie. Bodies irreparably mangled by war. Their war is over but this fight will last the rest of their lives. All you can do is provide what little comfort you can in the form of unconsciousness. You will most likely not see another living soul until it stops. Then the trickle of broken bodies will start back up. A trickle becomes a wave, a wave a flood. You have long since passed the point of wondering why. Why do we hate? Why do we kill? Why am I here? Why me? Now you sit, almost in a state of meditation, not thinking, barely feeling. Hunger and fatigue are mere suggestions of sensations. But something feels amiss. Suddenly, silence. An eerie calm settles over the bunker. The absence of sound is more unsettling than the relentless bombardment. You strain your ears, waiting for the familiar rumble of explosions, the distant cries of pain, but there is nothing. The sudden quiet suffocates, pressing in from all sides. With caution, you rose to your feet, muscles stiff from hours of crouching in the cramped space. The candle flickered weakly, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch and sway with a life of their own. Your steps echoed softly as you approached the entrance, heart pounding in your chest. As you peered outside, your breath caught in your throat. The landscape was shrouded in a thick blanket of smoke and dust, the air acrid and heavy. The once-familiar sounds of war had been replaced by an eerie stillness, broken only by the distant whimper of a wounded soldier. Something had changed. The world outside felt different. The smoke nearest the ground rolled towards your feet, creeping along, almost in search of something, anything, to cling onto. As the smoke envelops your boots, it pulls back ever so slightly. It was only a little and you could have passed it off as nothing. But then it came, flowing much faster. Climbing your legs reaching further with a sickening desperation. It overtakes your legs, waist, arms, and head. With one sharp breath in, the smoke finds its mark. You feel the smoke flow down your throat, with an unnatural force it pushes its way in. Like one drawn-out inhalation, it fills your lungs. As suddenly as it came on it stops. With nothing but the lingering silence and distant whimpering. Your head feels heavy, lungs sting, with a deep aching. You are not sure what just happened, or if it happened at all. So you trudge on, walking the trench line. The bunker next to yours is empty, as is the next. You look around in confusion, wondering where everyone has disappeared to. The emptiness of the surroundings sends a shiver down your spine. Suddenly, a voice whispers in your ear, "You're not alone." You can't tell if it's real or just a figment of your imagination. The uncertainty and fear take hold as you try to make sense of what is happening. You cannot recall where you are going, or what you wanted to see. You know the silence is wrong but not why or how. You stumble as you walk, catching your balance just as you thought you were going down. With your next step, it's as if the floor is gone. You are in freefall! Darkness surrounds you, engulfing your vision until it's nothing but black. The only light comes from the faint glow of stars in the distance, but they are quickly disappearing as you fall deeper into the abyss. The darkness makes it impossible to see anything but the void below you. Your eyes strain to adjust, but all you can make out are faint glimpses of your body and the turbulent air rushing past you. The air is musty and stale, with a hint of burning and charred wood. It's suffocatingly thick, making it hard to catch a breath. Your mouth is dry, as if all the moisture has been sucked out of it. The taste of fear lingers on your tongue, a metallic tang that makes you want to retch. It is like being suspended in a void, surrounded by a silence so profound it seemed to echo. Everything was dark and cold, like being wrapped in a shroud of emptiness that stretched on forever. The air rushed by, swift and noiseless, as you plummeted into an unknown abyss. You can feel pulling... As if you are being manipulated or directed. The darkness murmurs at you, unintelligible and non-distinct. The redirection becomes more palpable, forceful, and angry. You find yourself moving down a corridor. The darkness becomes light, and you are not alone. “Just breathe,” you tell yourself. “Just take another breath.” Have you lost your mind? Were you hit? What is going on? You realize there are others, they are directing you, pushing you, not so lovingly guiding you. They are speaking, or at least you think they are. You cannot understand what is being said, it's as if they are speaking another language, or not a language but incoherent sounds. Who are these people? They look wrong. Arms and legs extended, almost spider-like. Hollow faces with black pits for eyes. They are misshapen, not so human. The way they move is wrong too. Jerky and uncontrolled, unsteady but determined. After losing yourself in awe, not sure how much time passed. You find yourself in a room. The room is dimly lit, shadows dancing on the walls from an unknown source. The bed is old and worn, with faded patterns on the sheets and a lumpy mattress. The chair is simple and plain, but its edges are sharp and seem to blend into the darkness of the room. The heavy door looms before you, the only exit from this strange place. You spend hours. No, days, or is it weeks, locked in the room. Your mind is mush, it's as if all logical thought patterns are beyond you. You struggle to understand the situation and events that lead up to it. After an instant, or was it an eternity, one of them opens the door and grabs you. They lead you down a white hallway. You try to talk to him, plead with him, anything, but to no avail. They won't listen or respond to you. Stopping suddenly and without warning in front of a door, you look up at the thing, or whatever it is, incredulity plastered on your face. With a whine, the door opens and you are brought before a group of them. You are forced into a rickety old chair and restrained. They seem to talk to you, or at you. You plead and beg them to return you. You just want to go home. The non-distinct murmuring continues. You can almost make out words. It sounds like coward, or covered. In pain, or insane. At this point, the things look familiar. You feel like you should know them or at least what they are. Are you high? You didn't drink… “What the fuck!” you say, again, and again. With a rough shove, they forcefully toss you out into the blinding daylight. The harsh sun instantly assaults your senses, searing your skin and blinding your eyes. As you struggle to adjust, a light breeze carries the scent of freshly cut grass, a cruel reminder of the world outside. You are brutally expelled from the darkness, left vulnerable under the scorching heat and merciless winds of reality. After walking for some time you come to an opening, a stone pillar in the center. In a moment of clarity, you recognize this place. You have been here before, but when? Where? Why? You find yourself tied to the stone pillar. But it's not stone, it's wood. “What the fuck?” The things are all around, their non-faces glaring at you. But they are not all around, just in front. Rather off to the sides in front, and a line of them twenty paces away. They seem to be pointing at you. Why are they so familiar? They are wearing uniforms, you think. Holding sticks, rods? All goes quiet again. One steps forward and the murmuring starts back up. Those words again, Cowardice… Insanity… Firing squad… “What the fuck?” you ask. You hear a crack and feel the weight of a truck on your chest. The first one is followed by several more. Your gut cramps and the sun dims. You feel something cold and wet on your face and taste copper in your mouth. “Just breathe,” you tell yourself. “Just take another breath.” But the air gurgles, pulled in from an unspace in your chest. You gasp , but are too weak to get the air in. The lights fade, and you feel calm for the first time in ages. Close your eyes and breathe. \*\*Prologue\*\* “Major! I have the report, it is ready to be sent to the family. Would you like to read it over first?” The young Lt asks as he hands over the folder. Opening up the folder, the Major skims over the report. “We regret to inform you,” it starts off. “Your son John S. Green was in a bunker when it was struck by an artillery round. Your son survived, but the enemy was on the move and was storming the defenses. In an incredible act of cowardice, your son ran from his hole and left his comrades to die alone. He was seemingly insane and not able to follow directions. After a short period of incarceration and a trial, your son was found guilty of cowardice. Immediately after the verdict, your son was executed by firing squad. His remains will not be returned home. He will be buried on site with his brothers in arms.” “Looks about right,” the Officer said.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? 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 (no poetry). 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! You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #Weekly Challenge **Theme:** **Bonus Constraint (15 pts):** The story spells out/contains a secret message that’s relevant to the story. **(You must include if/how you used it at the end of your story to receive credit.)** This week’s challenge is to write a story inspired by the theme of ‘Tomorrow’. You’re welcome to use it creatively and interpret it as you like, as long as you follow all post and subreddit rules. The bonus constraint is encouraged but not required, feel free to skip it if it doesn’t suit your story. You do not have to use the included IP. *** # Rankings ### Last Week: - Winner: by u/wileycourage You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. Use to check your wordcount. - **Leave feedback on at least one other story by 3pm EST next Monday.** Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **3pm EST** next Monday. *(Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)* ###Additional Rules - **No pre-written content or content written or altered by AI.** Submitted stories must be written by you and for this post. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - Campfire is currently on hiatus. Check back soon!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied **Note: There has been a change to the crit caps and points!** **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10 - 15** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** (one crit required) | up to **10** pts each (30 pt. max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 30 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | There is no cap on votes your story receives | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.*   *** *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Hey everyone, I’m a first-grade teacher and I’m facing a situation that’s left me really unsettled. I recently gave my class an assignment to write a short essay about what their parents do for a living. It’s usually a fun exercise with kids talking about their parents being doctors, firefighters, construction workers, etc. But this time, I received an essay from one of my students that has me genuinely worried. Let's call him Timmy. A bit of context: This boy is somewhat of an enigma. He’s the only student in my class whose parents have never shown up for any school events or parent-teacher conferences. Whenever I’ve asked about his family, he clams up and refuses to give me any details about his father’s name or their address. It’s odd, but I never pressed too hard, thinking there might be personal issues at play. Anyway, here’s the essay he handed in. Keep in mind, it’s written by a first-grader, so the language is simple and innocent. But the content… well, read for yourself: >**My Dad's Job** >by Timmy >My dad has a really cool job. He helps people sleep! It's super important because everyone needs sleep to feel good and strong. My dad is very good at his job, and he works at night when it’s very quiet. He says that there are people living in his head who tell him what to do, and that they know best. They say that people don't sleep enough, and that somebody should help people fall asleep. >My dad has lots of shiny tools that he uses for his job. Some of them are sharp, like the ones we see in the kitchen, but they are special because they help him do his job perfectly. He has big shiny knives, tiny pointy things, and sometimes he uses ropes. He keeps them all very clean and shiny, and I think they look really cool. >Dad has a special room where he does his job. It has drawers and tables for the tools and a special chair where the people he helps have to sit down. It has special belts that help them keep still. He says that it helps them fall asleep faster. >When my dad helps people sleep, sometimes there is a lot of red juice. He says it's the same kind of red juice as the one that comes out of my knee when I fall from my bike. I don’t know why there is so much red juice, but my dad says it’s normal and that it means he is doing a good job. The red juice can get everywhere, and it’s a little messy, but my dad always cleans up really well. He doesn’t like to leave any mess behind. He even has a special white suit and mask to stop the juice from getting on his clothes. >Sometimes, people don’t want to sleep and they scream and cry. Like my little sister who has an earlier bedtime than me but always wants to stay up later! My dad says they are just scared because they don’t know how much better they will feel after they sleep. He tries to help them calm down, but it can be hard. My dad is very patient and tries his best to help everyone. He told me that he puts them in black bags and puts them underground to help them sleep better. He regularly drives very far to find a quiet place and digs deep holes there to put the people in black bags in. I think that’s very kind of him because it means they can sleep without any noise or disturbances. >My dad also plays games with the police. It sounds like a lot of fun! He calls it hide and seek. The police try to find him, but he is very good at hiding. He hides so well that the police can’t catch him. My dad says the detectives have a lot of fun trying to find him, and he likes to send them funny letters to keep the game going. He even sends letters to the newspapers to make people laugh. >One time, my dad showed me a letter he sent to a newspaper. It had lots of funny pictures and words, and I think it made a lot of people smile. He is very good at drawing and writing, and he always makes his letters very interesting. >My dad says he is not allowed to use his real name for his job. It's part of the game's rules and makes it more fun. He uses a special secret nickname to sign his letters. >My dad’s job is really exciting, and I’m proud of him. He works very hard to help people sleep and makes sure they are comfortable. Even though some people might be scared, my dad always knows what to do. He is the best at playing hide and seek with the police and making everyone laugh with his letters. >Last week, he told me that the police had to make the rules harder because he's so good at the game. The police told people through the newspaper that they aren't allowed to walk alone at night and should call 9-1-1 when they see him. I think it's cheating and really unfair. But he says that it just makes the game more fun. >I love my dad and think he has the best job ever. He is always there to help people when they need to sleep and makes sure everything is just right. I want to be just like him when I grow up and help people too. Should I contact the authorities or am I overreacting? I’m genuinely at a loss here and could use some advice. I'm seriously worried about the boy and I can't think of any normal job that fits this description. But it could also be just a very vivid imagination. Thanks for reading and any guidance you can offer.


I've seen puncture wounds on just about every part of a dog, but nothing, and I mean nothing bleeds like a split ear. While there are several ways to wrap an ear, I prefer to bend at the natural seam and wrap the bandage around the entire head. This method discourages the dog from picking at the wrap and minimizes discomfort. Dogs will always choose normalcy over their well-being. That's where a balance of human intervention, and cooperation becomes necessary. This stray was brought in by the street guys, Peter and Paul; our canine-catching team of exactly two. Peter and Paul don't suffer from your average identical sibling rivalry. They got hired as a pair, work most of the same shifts, and just about split a paycheck. The rescue isn't exactly a well-funded operation, but we get by on a lot of passion and legwork. The split ear, which runs from the center, and divides the ear in two like ribbons isn't the last of the stray's problems, but it is the most urgent. Enough blood has dripped onto the examination table to create a steady trickle onto the floor. I take a step back to avoid getting blood on my shoes. A visible urge runs up the dog's spine, then around its broad neck. "He's going to shake." I say, but of course, no one listens to us 'enrichment' guys. The head veterinarian, Dr. Macnee, is measuring out her third bandage in as many minutes, and she's scrunching her face as if my suggestion is an affront to her years of schooling. It's an interesting dog, a lab mix with wire hair. Huge, but with nothing behind its eyes. I reload some peanut butter onto my spoon, which staves off the head shake momentarily. Then I drop the spoon, breaking its trance. His neck stiffens again. "He's going to shake," I repeat. But it's too late, and the dog ripples with kinetic force. With the urge relieved, the dog's tongue hangs proudly. The Doctor takes off her glasses, which are dotted now with crimson flecks, along with every surface in a four-foot radius. I hold up a fresh, new dollop of peanut butter. "One more try?" I ask. Later that day I'm out in the daycare yard overseeing a group of four for Social Hour. The group consists of Rocky the house mutt, a Boxer named Champ, and two Staffordshire Terrier Mixes, both named Luna. Rocky sits at my side watching the rest of the group like a retired athlete; like he's wondering if he's got one more game left in him. In a past life, Rocky was a bait dog; a chew toy used to foster aggression in tougher dogs. Probably the runt of his litter, or a genetic mistake that canceled out his killer instincts. His ears are cropped so close to his skull, that all that remain are two tufts of hair that have thickened in his golden years, giving him the appearance of a mad scientist, or an inbred marmoset. A muscular tongue dangles over his stalagmite teeth, and the corners of his mouth are pulled into a wide grin. Champ is off in the corner of the fenced-off yard, scratching his back against the artificial turf, and tanning his belly in the July sun. I want what he has; that unbothered look. Dogs don't test Champ, but they don't fear him either. His existence lies somewhere between the sun, and that flea-and-tick-resistant-turf, which is good enough for us both. The Bullies have had a slow start. This is their third meeting so far, the second of which ended abruptly after Luna 2 stiffened up and started growling. Today we've made some progress, with Luna 2 even engaging in bursts of play. She gets herself into a push-up position and looks up at Luna 1. A dog's behavior can teach you plenty about life if you're dumb enough, or weird enough to comprehend the lesson. By my count, a dog only feels one of five things at a given time. Their primary colors are happiness, discomfort, fear, hunger, or lust. People like to over-complicate things with degrees, and medical jargon, but they aren't the ones picking up shit, or breaking up fights. The real dog people know better. Dogs are simple, it's people who aren't. After the blood shower in the examination room, Dr. Macnee asked the staff to stay late for a deep clean. Gwen from the grooming department has stopped by to help. She takes care of the walls, while I disinfect the kennels, and remove hair from their rolling feet with a vintage sterling-silver pocket knife. "I'm heading to the Lamb tonight," she says, apropos of nothing. She's referring to a small bar on Main Street; the sort of place with Classic Rock and darts during the week, and DJs and college crowds all weekend. "That's cool," I say. "Have fun." Gwen laughs, but I don't know why. After the deep clean I hand my keys to the overnight employee, a late teenage girl who surveils the dogs on an hourly basis, or between rounds of homework. She waves me goodbye in a way that manages to feel unfriendly, and I make my way to the bus bench across the street. My bus is twenty-four minutes away, but I've brought a book, and I welcome the isolation, and summer night's breeze. I open the cover and find my place, and within moments, the Westchester County backstreets evaporate and are replaced by the high, guarded walls of my fantasy novel's kingdom. The hero of the novel has just discovered the full scope of the looming threat and retreats to his garden to ponder his options. The writer embellishes with thick descriptions of lush gardens where flowers display a degree of sentience. The hero looks to the sky, and- The moose-call horn of a Honda Accord erupts through the quiet street, and nearly jolts me off the bench. Gwen looks over from her driver's seat. "The Lamb," she says, "Are you coming, or what?" Gwen's radio is turned down, and I miss the rustle of the breeze, and the cicada's songs as soon as the door is fully shut. "I'm glad you're coming," Gwen says. "I've been trying to get you out for months." "You have?" I ask, but my attention veers to the passenger side mirror where a white van careens dangerously into the first spot outside the rescue. I recognize the Italian flag backdrop of the license plate, then both doors swing open, and two short, identical, muscular men emerge from either side. Peter is wearing a plain, black tee shirt that appears damp even in the low light. A tan-colored gauze is wrapped tightly around his left bicep, with prominent rust-colored stains throughout. His gold chain, a massive Cuban link with a diamond-encrusted microphone pendant swings wildly as he sprints to the rear of the van. His brother, Paul, meets him there, and they disappear from my view. "It's kind of late for a drop-off," I say. "Do you know if anybody called in any strays?" "Who cares?" Gwen says, "And no work talk once we get to the bar," and she puts the car in drive, and coasts away. At The Lamb, Gwen fumbles through a series of interrogation-style questions that fill me with unease. "What do you do for fun?" She asks. "I don't know," I respond. "I mostly just read and go to work." Gwen laughs, and for the second time tonight, I am confused. A few tables over, a tall guy wearing a college sweatshirt loudly teases his friend, causing the table to erupt in laughter and applause. "You are so boring!" She exclaims. "I'm sorry," I reply. "No, don't be sorry. I meant like, it's cute." Gwen stares at me for long enough that the grip on my pint glass weakens. In the dim lights, I notice for the first time that Gwen has freckles and a perfectly straight smile. I am relieved when a loud commotion diverts both of our attentions once again to the table of collegiate boys. "Why are you acting like such a pussy?" Sweatshirt demands. He's staring down at a skinny, smaller boy in a dress shirt. The boy in the dress shirt is studying his drink, while the other occupants at the table laugh, and exchange animated glances. "I said, why are you acting like a little bitch?" Sweatshirt doubles down. Dress-shirt says something inaudible to me, and without a moment's hesitation, Sweatshirt smacks him with enough follow-through to relocate him to the edge of his seat. Gwen gasps from somewhere behind me, but it's swallowed up by the explosive din of a fully enthralled crowd. People laugh, and cheer as Sweatshirt closes in on his friend, and grabs the collar of his shirt, snapping the top buttons off. Dress-shirt pushes a hand against Sweatshirt's face in an attempt to create distance. Sweatshirt cocks an arm back for a punch, but he's grabbed at the elbow, and then around the neck by a slab of muscle in a black security shirt. "We were just fucking around," he pleads as the bouncer shoves him past our table, and toward the door. I look over at Gwen, and her face has reddened, significantly reducing the contrast of her freckles. I think I see tears in her eyes, but I'm not sure. "I'm sorry," she said. "We should have gone somewhere else." "Why are you sorry?" I ask. "It just seems like you're having a bad time." She says. "I'm not having a bad time," I say. "I just don't do this very often. "Kids are so stupid," she says. "Why would you pick a fight with your own friend?" "Predatory drift," I answer. Gwen squints at me. "Dave, I thought I said no work stuff," she says, but this time I can tell she's joking. "It's sort of like when two dogs play, they're actually just testing one another. You know, who's faster, who's stronger, who would win in a real fight, that sort of thing," I begin. "But sometimes with a more dominant dog, you get these bad instincts, and they kick in if the other dog shows real weakness. Like, 'If you can't keep up, and you can't play-'" and I choose my next words carefully. "Then you're prey," Gwen concludes. We finish our drinks in comfortable silence, then pay up our tab. **\*\*\*** Back in Gwen's car, and with work-talk back on the menu, conversation flows freely. Gwen asks if I want to come overand watch a movie, and I agree. We chat as we pass the quiet suburbia of Pelham Road, then onto the heavily forested, sparsely lamp-lit glow of Shore Road on the border between New Rochelle, and The Bronx. As houses and taverns are traded for trees and horse stables, I realize that I am comfortable around another person for the first time in my adult life. "What about Dennis?" she asks. "Who?" "The guy with that silly tattoo of the sun with sunglasses." "Oh." I remember, "What about him?" "He was just so weird." She says. "He wasn't weird, just quiet," I answer. "But to answer your question, he stopped showing up about a month ago. It doesn't surprise me either. He was the only guy who Dr. Macnee treated worse than me." "Yeah, what's her deal with you, anyway?" Gwen asks. "I'm not sure," I say, but that isn't true. The truth is that she doesn't respect me, or anyone without a degree in the field. I look out my window. A chain link fence becomes visible in a gap amid the tree line. Far beyond that fence is several miles of golf course. But directly beyond that fence, and only barely visible in the dying glow of a far ahead street lamp, are three sets of green eyes focused on my side of the vehicle. Around the eyes, I can make out the jagged silhouette of thick, spiky fur, and sharply pointed ears. I stare back curiously, but a sharp jerk of the steering wheel sends my concentration to the front windshield. "What's wrong?" I ask. "It was a dead deer or something. It was too dark to see until I got close." I look back at the treeline just as it ends and a lane of parkway begins. In Gwen's neighborhood, we circle for nearly fifteen minutes before a spot opens up several blocks from her apartment. "It's a few blocks this way," she says, and motions with her chin. It's late, but Gwen's neighborhood bustles loudly into the summer night with car stereos playing loud music, and older men seated in beach chairs, and drinking beers on the sidewalk. We pass a deli, and then an old-looking church. A man is lying on his side on the church steps, and he watches us as we walk past. "That's a pretty girl." the man rasps, then lets out a phlegmatic-sounding laugh. Gwen's pace quickens slightly, and her forward gaze becomes rigid. "I said you're pretty, bitch, you not gonna say thank you?" Gwen's stride is automatic now, and she rustles her hands in her hoodie pockets. I put an arm around her waist, and her body molds into mine as our steps synchronize. There's a blur to my left, and then the man is in front of us, smiling. His teeth are yellow and jagged, and his mouth stretches far into the sides of his face, giving his nose and jaw a snout-like appearance. He wears an unbuttoned shirt that shows off a topographic map of deep gashes on his torso. A chunk of his arm looks bitten into, giving the flesh the appearance of an apple core. Blood crusts alongside yellow cholesterol deposits on the missing portion of the arm. Gwen is nestled so far under my arm that my heart beats against her face. The man looks her up and down hungrily. He has not regarded me once. For some reason, I think about Rocky the house mutt. Then I think about the hero in my novel. I reach for strength that I don't own. "Leave us alone," I demand. The man cocks his head back and projects another mucous-filled wheeze. Then he directs his focus to me, and even with his mouth closed, the lip line stretches for an unpleasant distance across his face. His eyes smolder like a smoking sinkhole as he passes them over me. "Aw," he condescends. "Why? What you gonna do about it." I place a hand in my pocket and grasp the sterling silver folding knife, allowing the handle to poke visibly next to my waistline. I maintain eye contact as my spine straightens stiff. I concentrate on my breath. Then I bark. "Leave us alone," I demand again. "Or I'll cut your eyes out of your fucking face." I pull the knife fully from my jeans now. The too-wide lips creep and curl around the man's cheekbones. Then the smile fades, and he studies the blade for a moment. "I'm just fucking with you, yeah?" Then he looks at Gwen, "And it was a fucking compliment. I'll see you around, beautiful." He looks to his side and then takes off down the church alleyway with alarming momentum. He hops a small fence at the back of the alley and disappears into the night. I look down at Gwen who is still nestled into my chest. Then she looks up at me. "Let's go," I say, and she blinks out of her trance. "My building is just down the block," she confirms. We half-walk, half-jog to the front of her building where she stops to catch several breaths. "Thank you," she says and looks me right in the eyes. Then she grabs the front of my shirty and kisses me on the front steps, and under the beautifully full moon. **\*\*\*** I have an early morning scheduled at the rescue, and Gwen offers to drive me. Something has changed throughout the night, and she touches me often and speaks in a softer voice. To my relief, her neighborhood is fast asleep as we approach her parked car. "Thank you again for last night," she says once we're on the road. It's the dark morning hour when the street lamps are turned off in anticipation of the morning sun. Gwen turns on her brights as she sharply turns onto Shore Road. After a short stretch, we see the culprit for her sharp swerve from the night prior. "Oh my God," Gwen moans, and we both turn our heads, Beside our vehicle is a mushy pile of blood, bone, and fur organized into a heaping mass. Bits of meat held together by clumps of fur are strewn for several feet of road in either direction. A few feet past that, and a large buck antler becomes visible above the passenger door guardrail like some crude memorial. "What do you think did this?" Gwen asks. I think about the trio of green eyes, then the man with the wide-set mouth. "I don't know," I say. We drive in mostly silence, and as we approach the rescue, I am surprised to see Dr. Macnee's car in the lot. After we pull to a stop, Gwen kisses me goodbye and tells me to call her after work. Then she drives away as I approach the already unlocked front door. The first thing that strikes me is the absence of a night clerk at the front desk. The next thing that strikes me is a small stippling of blood near the door to the hallway. My heart beats with syncopation as I follow its trail to the examination room. As I open the door, I see Dr. Macnee slightly hunched, and at eye level with the most grotesquely inbred, or birth-defective dog that I've ever seen. Its hair is thick at the top of the skull and spine, but sparse elsewhere. Through the thinning fur, I can see blueish-gray skin textured with blood vessels and liver spots. The joints all twist inward at a point, giving the dog a cracked, and hunched appearance. It sits atop an examination table that is not at all raised, suggesting a standing height of approximately six-and-a-half feet. "Good morning," I say or ask. "Did Peter and Paul drop this stray off?" Dr. Macnee doesn't look at me and continues the examination. She peeks in the dog's sharply pointed ears, then pulls back his gums, revealing two rows of strangely uniform, plaque-riddled cuspids. "What are you doing here so early?" I ask. "Forgot my purse," she starts blankly. "Forgot my purse, and what do I walk into?" I am too confused to respond, so I just stare at the grotesque dog. The lankiness of its limbs should not support its massive center of gravity. Its hackles stand at full attention from a painfully visible spine, and its ribs thump with short, quick breaths. Its jaw is covered in red and dark brown stains, but what draws me is the eyes. "I asked you to deep clean last night," she finally continues, "And somehow, you manage to make it worse in here. Did you try to redo the bandage on your own?" The dog's deep brown eyes lock onto mine. There is a depth behind them that suggests a level of comprehension beyond "sit" and "stay". "I did deep clean last night," I say. "And Gwen from grooming helped me." Dr. Macnee snorts, then forces a chuckle. "I never wanted an 'enrichment' division," Dr. Macnee spits. "We pay you to, to what exactly? Play fetch? Clean up shit? And you guys can't even get that right. I took pictures, and I can't wait to send them to the director-" She continues speaking, but the canine's eyes snatch my attention mid-sentence. It looks from me to Dr. Macnee with a flick of its eyeballs. Blood vessels constrict in the whites while the pupils burn black with dilation. The eyes bulge in their sockets, eclipsing their depth in singular focus. "Dr. Macnee-" I interrupt. "Don't you speak while I'm speaking!" she spits and points a finger at me. "I am sick and tired-", she continues. The beast's lips curl back revealing lines of spittle that vibrate like blades of grass against the first visible signs of a deep, gurgling growl. "Dr. Macnee, seriously-" I start again. "What?!" she yells. "He's going to bite." She turns her face just as the hideous beast removes most of her ear with an easy snap of its muscular jaws. Dr. Macnee's scream is high and hysterical as her wide eyes strain to assess her loss. The beast munches hungrily, then swallows. Dr. Macnee is still screaming as the muscles twitch in the beast's neck, and he springs forward with intent. The jaws unhinge, then clamp with force in the same instantaneous beat. Dr. Macnee's right eye socket down to her jawline is ensnared in a craggy prison of yellow teeth. She pulls back reflexively, causing the teeth to sink, and lock. The skin from her face stretches, pulls, then shreds like stringy gristle from a butcher's block. The jaws of the beast twitch dutifully, and with a squelching pop, the beast cleans the meat from the bone. The untouched portion of Dr. Macnee's face twists in horror and confusion, while her eyes spin and twitch in their sockets. A gash runs from the inner ear down through what remains of the lobe which forcefully spurts pints of blood across the examination room. Then the beast rises deftly to two feet and takes the Doctor's throat into its maw. He shakes his head once, eliciting a snap, and her body goes limp. I am frozen with fear and confusion as the beast makes eye contact with me. Dr. Macnee hangs heavily from between its jaws as he lowers back onto four legs. The beast turns toward me, and I place my palms up defensively. "Easy," I command. "Easy, boy." I take a step back with my palms still outstretched. "We're good." I keep my voice steady, "It's okay." The beast walks toward me, dragging Dr, Macnee beside it across the tiled floor. As it steps past me, it looks me in the face. "Easy boy," I repeat. It continues its walk into the hallway, and I slowly shut the door behind it. As the door shuts, I catch one last glimpse of the beast. On the side of its right arm, just visible beneath patchy, and thin fur, is a crude outline of a cartoon-style sun wearing sunglasses. The examination room door closes, and from beyond the glass panel, I can see the doors to the hallway open and shut. I wait painfully still for several moments before the main door is opened and closed as well. After the shock dwindles enough for me to regain my faculties, I call the police and then feed my dogs. Rocky smiles when he sees me, and his eyes gleam with admiration as I place the slow-feeder on his crate tray. When the cops arrive, they take a quick statement, then I show them footage from the examination room, and then the lobby. They exchange worry and confusion-filled glances. The attack footage in the examination room has been conspicuously deleted but cuts back just in time to place me away from the main computer as the hallway, and lobby footage are also cut. They tell me to leave for the day as the rescue is deemed an active crime scene. "I still need to let my dogs out," I tell them. After some deliberation, a promise from their K9 unit, and several neatly scribbled notes about medications, feedings, and temperaments, I finally agree to leave. They tell me that a detective will be in touch with me shortly. As a final word, the officers ask me not to speak with anyone. "No problem," I say. My bus is a half an hour away. I want to call Gwen, but she is probably home and in bed by now. With thirty minutes to kill, I take a seat on the bus bench across the street. I fish for my novel, then crack it open across my lap. Maybe I'll finally learn how the hero of this story deals with the looming threat. As I flip for my page, the sharp crack of a twig snags my attention. In the distance behind my bus bench, and across a small parking lot, a group of four massive, grotesquely lanky dogs plod along a treeline. A glimmer from the fading moon bounces light off a metal object around the neck of the third dog in line. They move with synchronicity, but no urgency, and a calm permeates my spirit as I watch them. As the moon catches off the metallic object again, I get a better glimpse of the small, shiny microphone pendant, bouncing with each step.


Facing a financial crunch, I found myself unable to scrape together enough cash for my car registration this month. Frustrated and desperate, I did the unthinkable: I summoned the devil. In a swirl of smoke and brimstone, there he stood before me, all horns and tail, looking utterly bemused. "You called?" His voice rumbled like distant thunder. Heart racing, I blurted out my proposal. "I'll trade you my soul for the next three months' worth of car rego." The devil blinked, a mix of confusion and amusement crossing his demonic features. "Are... are you serious?" he finally managed. "Yeah, dude," I replied, trying to sound nonchalant despite the gravity of the situation. "Can't afford it this month." He shook his head slowly, incredulously. "Bro... You could ask for literally anything else in the world, and you're asking for car rego for the next three months?" I shrugged, feeling a bit embarrassed now. "Yeah, tough times, you know. Maybe I should have asked for a whole year instead. Can you do that?" "Dude," the devil sighed, shaking his head again, "I'm not going to allow you to do this." "But bro," I pleaded, "I really need it. Can't drive without it." With an unexpected gesture of compassion, the devil placed a hand on my shoulder. "I'm not making the deal," he said firmly, "but I'll give you that rego." I stared at him in shock. "Wait, seriously? Does this mean we're bros now?" A grin tugged at the corners of the devil's mouth. "Hell yeah, bro. We're bros." And just like that, I had struck an unconventional friendship with the devil himself over car registration. It wasn't exactly how I envisioned my day going, but hey, life's full of surprises. As the weeks passed, I couldn't shake off the surrealness of having the devil as my "bro." We'd occasionally catch up over coffee (black, naturally) and discuss mundane things like weather patterns in Hell or the best way to haggle with a soul collector. Despite his fearsome reputation, the devil turned out to be surprisingly chill, with a wicked sense of humor and a knack for card tricks. Our friendship was unconventional, to say the least, but it worked. And as for my soul? Well, it seemed the devil was more interested in our broship than collecting on our initial deal. Perhaps he saw something in me worth keeping around. Or maybe he just enjoyed the novelty of having a mortal buddy who could hold his own in banter. Either way, I learned that sometimes, the most unexpected bonds can form in the strangest of circumstances. So here's to you, Mr. Devil—thanks for covering my rego and being the bro I never knew I needed. In the end, I realized that making deals with the devil might not be the wisest choice, but it sure made for one heck of a story to tell at parties. And as long as the devil kept his end of the bargain by not taking my soul, I was happy to call him my bro. And that's how I became bros with the devil.