I found my dream house, and it wasn't easy. They didn't advertise it on redfin or zillow or any websites. They had placed an ad in the newspaper, almost as if they didn't want it to be sold. But I'm one of those people that still enjoys newspapers and magazines, so I noticed it. A Queen Anne Victorian built in 1884. I didn’t know how much I would LOVE this house. I just had a hunch and felt intrigued, and you didn’t need an appointment to view it. This place was so far off the beaten path I worried about reception through the hills and trees, so I brought a map with me just in case. I always like to be prepared, for any situation. My back up plans have back up plans. This place was unusual though, the land was technically in an enclave and the property lines weren’t marked. That was going to take some time to clear up. The ad didn’t have any photos of the house, so I was coming in blind to check this place out. It was a really lovely drive once I got off the freeway. It was one of those old winding roads that are too narrow for two cars to drive in opposite directions at the same time. One of those scenic routes that wrap around the hills. That might make it difficult getting a semi-truck through here in one trip. It would take multiple trips in order to move out here, probably a very slow process because we could only move a little bit at a time. I remember thinking the trees and plants that border the road smell wonderful, and that I could get allergies from them, but that a little discomfort is worth it for your dream house, I'd be fine. When you begin to dip in elevation the shadows from the trees close their fingers around the path and block out any sign of daylight. It gets so isolated at the bottom you can’t see more than a few feet off the road before all you see is darkness. Spaces like this are interesting, there’s probably so much life hiding out there. A unique little ecosystem hidden away in this deep valley, with its own food chain and balance of life and death. I don’t think many people can appreciate it all. I was driving for a little too long and I was wondering if I missed a turn somewhere. I get lost easily. Just as I was slowing down to reach for my map the trees opened up a bit and the space began to get wider. I expected it to split into two paths of light and shadow like a metaphorical fork in the road, but I was pleasantly wrong. The darkness parted like curtains revealing a clearing in the trees, the dense flora surrounding the road melted away, and I could see the tall fluffy grass that was hidden away before. The ad mentioned “no neighbors” but I didn’t expect a single building surrounded by a meadow in a private glade. It was absolutely perfect, including the ominous drive in, even after realizing I would be making that drive on a daily basis. I love old houses, they have so much history. This one was listed as “has potential” but that’s almost insulting now that I have it in front of me. Saying it has potential implies it’s not already loveable. The driveway came up to the front of the house and wrapped around in a loop on itself. In the space inside the loop there were overgrown boxwoods that looked like whimsical shapes that had overgrown and been forgotten over time. The house has three stories with a wrap around porch and an asymmetrical mashup of towers. The turrets were tall and skinny with pointy tops and I remember thinking if it was painted black it would look like a haunted house (which made me love it even more). But the outside was a faded grey, the paint chipped, curling, and peeling. I parked my car and stepped out to look at it. I don’t know how long I stood there. There were so many details to take in, everything was so gorgeous, I could have stared at it for hours. The steps led up to a front door framed with embellished wood carvings that were missing parts like gaps in someone’s teeth. As I was about to take a step up I noticed how the wood in front of me looked like a corkboard. I took one step carefully, it creaked beneath my foot, but luckily I hadn’t put all my weight on it yet. It was weak and began crumbling. I quickly took two steps back. Where I had put pressure there was now a hole big enough for my hand to go through. I took another step back. I hadn’t looked very hard at the stairs before, I was so enamored with the ornate front door. There were holes everywhere leading up to the top, people had clearly walked up carelessly and fallen through. There wasn’t a single step that looked safe enough to support someone. No one was going up those stairs again, not safely anyways. Something pulled me towards the side of the house, I walked around a corner and found a small garden of just gladioli. It was overgrown and looked ignored for many years. It was contained with a small picket fence that was probably white at some point in time, but now the cage was faded and brown pieces of broken wood stuck out. The red and yellow petals grow upwards in different directions like flames frozen in time. I approached for a closer look and instead noticed a set of stairs on the side of the house. These ones looked safer, maybe a few cracks but no holes. I tapped the toe of my shoe on the first step, it didn’t sound hollow. I pushed down with my foot and heard a creak but I didn’t feel the step buckle. I slowly, carefully took one step at a time. This staircase wasn’t deteriorating like the other one. I wondered why people kept using the other set over and over when it was clearly falling apart. There was a side door, but this one had no decorative wood or hand carved elements. It was discreet, so it must have been a service door that wasn’t used by the owners. I tried the door, it was unlocked, so I pushed forward. I think I was right about it being a servants’ door, because I was standing in the kitchen. It was a funny mix of old carved wooden details and flooring and newish countertops and appliances. The previous owners didn’t remodel the kitchen in a cohesive way to compliment the Victorian style, they kind of just stuck in the things they needed for the kitchen to be functional while they lived there. The next room was a dining room and connected living room. It had generous nine foot ceilings and all the original moldings and baseboards. The colors were already off-putting; bright lime green that had somehow stayed bright all these years and white on the wainscoting accents. I looked at the walls closer and saw how smooth and undefined some of the paneling was. The previous occupants had no idea what to do with this gorgeous house. They just kept painting the walls over and over again covering up what makes the house unique instead of spending the time and effort to restore it. I don’t think anyone has appreciated this house in a long time. They didn’t know what they had; they just thought of it as a house and changed the parts they needed for the building to work for them. I’m sure they weren’t doing it on purpose, I’m sure they had good intentions. I’m sure they did the best they could. But I know I can do better. The more I walked through the house the sadder I became. Years of neglect and half-assed care, layers and layers of paint as if each new owner just painted over everything instead of putting in the work. Has this place ever been loved the way it deserves? I found myself examining every corner of the house and everywhere I found exquisite details, but they were mostly hidden, unappreciated. Even the fireplaces; there were several of them because they were the heating source for the house. They had suffered years of being used repeatedly without being properly maintained. They were completely covered with ash and soot. It looked like some had even been used as a garbage can. I guess most people forget about those parts of the house. They’re such an important part of the functionality of the house but they must not have paid any attention unless they were actively using them. But since I am the way I am, I looked closer. There was something, there in the back, something that wasn’t smooth brick. When I got down on my hands and knees in front of the opening I was met with a hard gust of wind that had come down from the flue. It stirred up the ash, leaves, sticks, and I don’t want to think about what else, and it had gotten all over me, tangled in my hair, burned my eyes, and into my nose and mouth. When I blinked enough to be able to see again I spotted the shapes on the back of the fireplace. I reached out to rub some of it off and I was surprised to see teeth, sharp, long, and pointy, and then I heard something thumping and felt a sharp pain on the back of my hand. Some sticks must have dislodged from the wind, they had fallen and ripped my skin open. Is this why the others didn’t bother to look inside? That fireplace had some great defense. I aggressively slapped my palm on the back, closed my eyes in case something else lashes out, and rubbed back and forth. I opened my eyes and saw my entire hand was completely black, except where shiny wet blood was pooling in my cut. I could see what was covered and forgotten about. A wolf, and a fox, entwined in a battle with each other. It was really beautiful and I can’t believe no one remembered it was there. That made me curious, so I found the fireplace in the next room. I ran over and knelt quickly to reach the back and started wiping off the soot. It was a more detailed scene than the first one. There was a man who appeared to be a king looking up at a bird, the bird was pointing with it’s wing at the ground, and on the ground was a spotted trail that led to a small carriage in the background. I ran room to room to see what other tales were depicted. Two small children in a cage and an old lady preparing dinner, a little girl offering a basket to a wolf wearing human clothes, a large spinning wheel with a young woman and short man handing her a rope. Every fireplace was different, and every single one coated in darkness and forgotten about. I kept wandering the house imagining how I would carefully, slowly, lovingly restore each part. I don’t want to demolish any of it. I started thinking about where furniture would go. Where we would sit to drink our coffee in the mornings. Which corner has the best natural lighting for a reading chair. I really wanted this house. I went into the last bedroom on the top floor, it wasn’t the biggest room but it had the biggest window. I had been exploring this house for so long I had lost track of time. By the time I was standing in front of that window the sun had begun to set. This was the back of the house, and all I could see was the meadow, the trees, and a sky the same colors as the flowers in the garden. It was…the most beautiful moment I have ever experienced. I had found my home. Something chirped outside and I looked at my phone to check the time. I had a tiny bit of reception in this room. I sat down to look at some numbers, reality was hitting me and reminding me of the duplex I am still making payments on. This house isn’t top dollar but it still costs more than what I have. I spent an hour looking through my finances to see if I could move some stuff around to make it work. I couldn’t. I was heart broken. Here was the house of my dreams, the first place I wanted to call home, and it was just out of reach. What if someone else buys it before I can save up the money? Are they going to know how to take care of this type of architecture? Are they going to appreciate and embrace the house or just try to make it work for what they want it to be? Are they going to tear it down and build a completely new house? That would be terrible to completely erase what’s standing now. But at the same time, do I really want this house to sit here unoccupied, alone, and empty until I can move in? I have no idea how long it will take me to save up for this house. I was devastated. I still am. I hope some young family will move in that will have the patience, energy, time, and love that home deserves. I've thought about it every day ever since. I miss it and I never even had it.


###Deadline Changes! **Serial Sunday Campfire has moved to 1pm EST (Saturdays). That means that the deadline to submit your story is now Saturday at 12pm EST - this is for all submitters, not just Campfire attendees. The feedback and nomination deadline is now Saturday at 11:59pm EST.** #Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join. Each week you are required to provide feedback for at least 2 other writers on the thread. Please be sure to read the entire post for a full list of rules.   *** #This week's theme is Offering! This week we’re going to explore the theme of ‘offering’. Offerings are often used to appease otherworldly forces, such as Gods, Goddesses, witches, demons, etc. Offerings can also be made as a way of thanks or in a time of loss to family, friends, and neighbors or other members of a community. How does this fit into your world? What type of offering would your characters make to satisfy forces greater than themselves? What would happen if they failed to do so? Maybe it’s a tradition that’s been practiced over several generations. What happens when one person questions or challenges this tradition or set of beliefs? An offering could also be a way to bring those at odds together, even if just for a short time. These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. **Please remember to follow all sub and post rules.** You can always modmail us if you’re unsure. |   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I post the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. You can even vote on the upcoming themes on the Nomination form! - May 8 - Offering (this week) - May 15 - Perspective - May 22 - Quandry   *** **Recent Themes:** | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 12pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Come back later in the week and leave a feedback comment on at least 2 other stories on the thread.   *** #The Rules: - **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme.** You can interpret the theme any way you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and sub rules. Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. - **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalog. *Do not include anything in the brackets you don’t want in your title.* If you don’t use the correct titling format, your serial will be automatically removed by the bot. (Please note: In order for the bot to recognize your serial, you **must** use the exact same name each week. Titles can not be edited in after the fact. Should you make a mistake or forget, you will need to repost.) - **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt or post is not allowed. - **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. Stories outside the wordcount will be disqualified, so don’t forget to check! **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.** - **Stories must be posted by Saturday 12pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will be disqualified and will not be eligible for rankings or Campfire readings. - **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. - **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread each week (that’s on two different stories).** The feedback must be **actionable** and should include at least one *detail* about what the author has done well. You have until Saturday night at 11:59pm EST to post your feedback. Those who go above and beyond (more than 5 actionable, in-depth crits) will be rewarded with “Crit Credits” that can be used on our sister sub, r/WPCritique. - **Missing your feedback requirement two or more consecutive weeks will disqualify you from rankings and Campfire readings the following week.** If it becomes a habit, you may be asked to move your serial to the sub instead. - **Serials must abide by subreddit content rules.** This includes, but is not limited to, explicit suicide or suicide-note stories, pedophilia, rape, bestiality, necrophilia, incest, explicit sex, and graphic depictions of abuse or torture. You can view a . If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask!   *** #Reminders: - **If you are continuing an in-progress serial (one that you began off of Serial Sunday), please include links to the prior installments on Reddit.** Our bot will not be able to log these. - **On Saturdays, I host a Serial Campfire in our .** Join us to read your story aloud and hear other stories. We provide feedback for all those present. **We now start at 1pm EST.** You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join! - **Nominations for your favorite stories can be submitted .** The form is open on Saturdays from 12pm to 11:59pm EST. You do not have to participate to make nominations! - **Authors who complete their Serial Sunday serials with at least 12 installments, can host a SerialWorm in our Discord’s Voice Lounge, where you read aloud your finished and edited serials.** This is to celebrate your wonderful accomplishment and provide some extra motivation to cross that finish line. Authors are eligible for this only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). Visit us on the Discord for more information. - **There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server!** Be sure to grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news, including new posts and Campfires!   *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap), this does not count toward the required 2. **Nominating Other Stories:** - Submitting nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total) *Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above. Your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points. (“I liked it, great chapter” style comments will not earn you points or credit.)* ***So what is actionable feedback?*** Actionable feedback should be constructive, something that the author can use to improve. A critique not only outlines the issue or weakness, but uses specific examples and explanations to describe why it may be doing, or not doing, what it should. You can or these previous crits from Serial Sunday: | |   *** #Rankings - - by u/katherine_c   - - by u/rainbow\-\-penguin   - - by u/MeganBessel   - - by u/WorldOrphan   Crit Creds are awarded to users who go above and beyond with critiques and can be used on r/WPCritique. Don’t forget in order to receive them, you also must have made at least one post on WPC *or* have linked your reddit account to the sub on our Discord server. - **Crit Star** (thread & campfire) - u/rainbow\-\-penguin - **Crit Star** (campfire) - u/katherine_c - **Crit Star** (campfire) - u/Gailquoter - **Crit Star** (campfire) - u/FyeNite   *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Through a steamy nightclub window young adults are seen having the time of their lives; talking, dancing, sweating, drinking, hooking up and popping pills. Electric music is playing and dance lights are in full effect. A smaller group is at the bar; all in their early twenties. Jules is in the center. She is a knockout in a sexy but classy black dress rocking gorgeous black stilettos. “Drinks on me” as Jules passes shots out to everyone. “Tonight we celebrate, um, let’s see, what’s our excuse tonight?”, giggling. The gang in unison, “Cheers to Jules”. “Cheers to our successes,” Jules toasting back. Her friends laugh and pound their shots effortlessly before heading to dance. As Jules walks her body moves confidently across the dance floor. All pause and stare. She is full of charisma, full of life. She is the one they idolize at that moment. It’s now late. Jules stumbles out of her Uber, catching a heel, and nearly falling. The driver looks at his clock, 4 am, and then back to Jules with a look of pity. “Thank you for the ride.” She curtsies. “Much appreciated” as she raises a bottle of vodka to him and puts an unlit cigarette in her mouth. “You are welcome young lady,” replies the driver. Jules turns, struggling to find her keys deep in her purse as she sways side to side, making her way home. She pauses and steadies herself as she looks to the sky. The clouds have parted and the moon and stars are brighter than ever. The sky shimmers and the clarity is astounding. The driver looks out of his window to see what has caught her eye. Both sigh a deep breath and seem to relax. Jules continues her journey to the front door. Her protector watches until she makes it safely inside before driving off to his next rescue. Jules locks the front door and peels off her jacket, missing the couch. It falls to the floor. She finds her way to the hall and turns on the light stopping briefly to enjoy pictures of friends and family vacations. Her eyes are drawn to her college graduation photo. Jules is surrounded by loved ones and her heart swells as she reminisces. Snapping out of her trance she turns and wobbles into the bathroom. She fumbles with her dress and underwear, refusing to give up her vodka bottle, finally plopping down onto the toilet. Her feet are wide to brace herself as she feels the spin of the earth's rotation begin to speed up. At that moment she notices a large gouge in her otherwise perfect stiletto. Running her fingers along the imperfection she desperately tries to remember how she could have damaged this extravagance. “What a waste,” she mumbles to herself. At that moment her head and body lift. A beautifully tiny creature slowly lowers down on a single strand of spider silk. She freezes and stares in amazement at the true elegance directly in front of her. Its long legs dangle and move in slow motion. It’s dancing a special dance for her eyes only. She watches every melodic movement entranced as if noticing life’s natural beauty for the first time. “You are incredible,” she says softly. As the spider's position moves closer to the ground it now has a dance partner with which it remains in perfect synch. Jules watches the spiders dance captivated. Without notice, tears begin to flow from her eyes as she breathes slow, shallow breaths. The spiders eloquently dance to the floor and disappear under the sink. Jules pauses and her attention is drawn back to the gouge in her shoe. She takes off her shoes and throws them in the trash, rising up from the toilet, more steady, almost sober. Jules looks in the mirror. Her hair is a mess and makeup is running down her face. She's half the woman she was earlier in the evening. She tilts her head sideways, “What the fuck am I doing to myself?” She dumps the vodka down the sink and throws the empty bottle and cigarette into the trash. She wipes away her tears, slowly cleans off her makeup, and brushes back her hair neatly. She fixes her dress and stands tall, confident once again. Jules walks out toward the wall of pictures relishing in all she has to be proud of before turning out the lights.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (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! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them using the new form!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Theme: ** **Bonus Constraint (worth 5 extra pts.)** - Use at least 3 of the following words in your story: - galaxy - old-fashioned - smoke - graceful - flapper - atavistic Let's take a dive through time and history! This week’s challenge is to use the theme of “time travel” in your story. It (or the idea) should appear in some way within the story. You may include the theme word if you wish, but it is not necessary. Use of the bonus constraint is also not required. I’ve included an image for additional inspiration, but its use is not required. You may interpret the theme any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   *** #How It Works - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. 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. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them a comment on the thread with some feedback.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **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 . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.** Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions. - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire & Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide verbal feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome! - Nominations are made . (See the Rules section of the post for more information.)   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown. (A few adjustments have been made; note that upvotes will no longer count for points). - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points (not required) - ***Actionable* Feedback on the thread:** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Submitting nominations:** 5 points (total) **Note on feedback:** - Points will only be awarded for **actionable** feedback. So what is actionable feedback? It is feedback that is constructive, something that the author can use to improve. An actionable critique not only outlines the issue or weakness, but uses specific examples and explanations to describe why it may be doing, or not doing, what it should. Check out by u/FyeNite as an example.   *** #Rankings - **First:** - Submitted by u/katherine_c - **Second:** - Submitted by u/FyeNite - **Third:** - Submitted by u/katpoker666 - **Bay's Spotlight:** - Submitted by u/DmonRth - **Crit Star** - u/wileycourage *Note: Crit Creds are awarded to users who go above and beyond with critiques and can be used on r/WPCritique. Don’t forget in order to receive them, you also must have made at least one post on WPC *or* have linked your reddit account to the sub on our .* *** ###Subreddit News - Check out our brand new feature, on r/WritingPrompts! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Once I met a man, and he knew of cake in the rain. People do not often know about this, and they most certainly do not talk about it. “What was that?” I said in repulsive confusion, “Cake? In the rain?” The man had remarked of all the sweet, lovely things that could be in the rain, but he remarked mostly of cake. A strawberry cake that had the most beautiful swirl on top, and all the various layers of diabetic intoxication it held. The man had seen many rings and stood tall as though I am true to my word. His golden breath escaped his lips in wavering motion, as did his wisdom from his shell. “Please keep to yourself sir, I don’t want to use this.” I held up my bright yellow umbrella, it was supposed to rain that eve. Prophets do not often speak plainly, and he surely did not. He continued speaking of all the cake in the rain, and how every car gave him the coldest chills; he spoke so much but didn’t say anything at all. I paced through the train station; tan tiles were ignited under my feet. Finally, after mumbling for some time, and shooting invitational glances in my directions, I asked him. “What are you on about?” For one moment, and for only one moment did I see his eyes. They were old, grey, tired demons burning through paper things cataracts. He peered at me with an expression that you don’t often see and laid his briefcase down. Creeping his body down to his makeshift chair, he finally lay steadily enough to explain. “Cake should not be in the rain, but I’ve seen it there. I’ve seen all the cake washed away, through and through, icing and all. I have seen the gentlest beast in the softest encasing rip through entire villages of cake. Its sharp claws would run through anything, but especially cake. I am a cake. I am sure that if I were to step out into the rain, or if I were to slip and fall into those tracks, I am sure that I would be a cake.” He ran his hands through his pockets and took out a photograph; it had a picture of a woman. Old, grey, lively demons ran in her perfect blue eyes, and she had the smile that only the birth of a child, or a particularly sweet piece of cake can bring. His demeanor had changed from confusion to sadness, for the torn, faded picture was held for a long time. “Who is that? Is that all? What do you mean by cake? How are you a cake? What do you…? Do you…? What…?” My questions became a wave, and in almost any ocean, seemed to be lost in the greatness of it all. The man held the photo for a long, long time; he seemed to want to hold it until it could be real. After some more time in his mind, the poor old soul put away the photograph and preached once more. “You know that cake is rare? I remember that there used to be no cake. Some people never got cake, and some people got too much cake. I had cake once; it was lovely until the rain came. I am sure that you have had cake too, I am sure it was perfect. I wish that I never had cake, I wish that all the rain would come early. I wish that all the cake was in the rain.” His old, grey, tired demons held seas now. I had stopped pacing and held my full attention to him. I wanted to ask more questions, and keep asking until my time was out, but I knew that there was only one question that mattered. “What is cake?” I asked quizzically. The man wiped his waterfalls, and spoke in a much quieter voice than before, for the rain had broken his mind, and his words. “I am a cake. She was a cake. You are a cake. I once drank a cake that had more years than me, and I had rain for many days. My cake was once in the rain, and now I have no cake. I am sure that if she were here, I would not be a cake, and I would be happy. I am sure that if she had as much cake as me, she would know what the rain does to it. You will have more cake than me I’m sure, as will everyone that does not find the perfect cake. I wish that I had more cake, and I wish that there was no rain, did you know that rain only comes where cake is?” My mind was now running faster than ever, faster than any tiger, athlete, and lie. I thought of all my cake, and how much cake I want to have. I thought of all the rain that would soon pounce, and how much of that cake would be worth the rain. We sat in the train station for a long time, and we thought for a long time. I thought about nothing and everything, as did the man. I wanted to ask everything, and I needed to ask everything, for one does not leave with just the thought of cake in the rain. I thought about how the world was almost dark if you stared long enough, and how the word “bowl” is a rather funny one if you say it enough. Eventually, after my decade long trance had rid my mind of any sense, my train had arrived. I wiped the sudden rain on my cheeks, stared at the man, and contemplated what to say. Although regretfully, I decided that nothing was best. I boarded my train with an empty plate and clear skies, for I had no cake, and therefore I had no rain. The window of the dark transit lay frozen in time, and as it pulled away from the station, the man looked up. With complexion lost in frosted panes, and cake left in the rain, I thought of where he would go, who he would be, and if he even knew I existed. Although I suppose that doesn’t matter, as he does not speak for my truth, as I most certainly do not speak of cake in the rain.


“I apply for jobs I don’t want, to work with people I won’t like in a country I don’t know,” I say in one quick burst. Dr Bremen leans back and observes me over the rim of his octangular glasses before saying: “Good. That’s a start at least, but we still have some unpacking to do. Why is it you apply to these jobs if, as you say, you don’t want to actually work them?”. I ponder this a moment. “I’ve never really considered why before; I just know that I don’t want to actually find a job, even though I’m constantly applying”. “Mm-hmm” replies the Doctor, “well then, have you any idea where this drive to apply comes from?” “Social pressure I suppose. My family want me to do well and apply myself. God knows I’ve been hearing that ever since Ellen was placed in the advanced class back in 2nd grade. “Evan is a good student” they used to say, “but if he just applied himself to his work he’d excel like his sister”. “I see,” says Dr Bremen. “Would you say you experienced some kind of pressure to follow in your sisters’ footsteps?” “Yes exactly!” I reply hastily—half delighted to have found a piece of the puzzle and half surprised I’d never made such a simple connection before. I always had a hard time expressing myself without writing things down. “All I ever hear is how great Ellen is. She’s been made partner at her law firm already—she only started two years ago. My parents rave about her any chance they get.” “So would you say you resent her?” “Not exactly. It’s not her fault she’s so great. In fact, she’s one of the only ones who takes the time to help me figure my own life out. Sometimes I like that. But other times it's frustrating, like she’s so perfect that she has time to get her own life in order and manage the life of her baby brother. What I mean is, she means well, but she’s like all the others” I stop at this point, afraid I’ve said too much. “Like all the others in what way?” Presses the doctor. “I don’t know… it’s like… they only see life in fast-motion—like they're playing on the highest speed setting in a videogame. Money, career, house, investments, success. Like some linear progression. Do this. Get that. Reinvest. Upskill. More experience for your resume; push for a promotion; work harder, make more. Go. Go. Go. I just don’t get it, I never have. My mind doesn’t work that way.” “How does your mind work?” asks the doctor. “How does anyone’s mind work?” I reply sarcastically. “What I mean is, what is it you feel is different about your mode of thinking to those around you?” “It’s hard to put into words. A lot of the time I feel distant. I can get caught up in the tiniest detail. Or sometimes I can just sit and enjoy the whole thing, the moment, the feeling in the room—smells, sounds—then I zoom out. I picture it all. The whole thing. This giant organism called Earth, with all of us performing different functions, influencing the whole. It sounds kind of cringe when I put it like that but I don’t know how else to put it. “Remember what we talked about. Describing your own feelings as “cringe” only stifles your thought and causes you to withdraw. Come on Evan, I know you know better than that by now”. I nod slowly while trying to collect my thoughts. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that everyone always seems so anxious to change the world in some way. To create or destroy, to uproot or control. I just don’t feel that urge – at least not as strongly. I tend to get lost in the complexity of it all. Sometimes this hurts me and I find everything confusing and I struggle to make sense of my own relation to things around me. But other times… I don’t know, I’m just perfectly happy thinking about the whole thing working in unison, perfect the way it is. Like serendipity.” “I see,” says the doctor, “and you feel that this mode of thinking clashes with the thoughts of those around you, your family and friends?”. “It clashes with the whole system,” I say, a little too emphatically “I don’t know. I don’t want to go all Karl Marx, but sometimes I feel our whole direction is skewed. We chase goals that we never chose ourselves, but which benefit the economic and social structure we’ve been born into. I mean, of course, some people are naturally ambitious and want to do well and compete with themselves and others or make a lot of money and reach the top of their careers, and that’s okay. But it’s the people who don’t fit that mould that suffer. People like me.” “So then, this brings us to applying for jobs you don’t want” the doctor leans forward slightly, “If I understand you correctly, you feel that society puts a pressure on you to follow a certain path, and you struggle to reconcile this with your vision of the world?” “Exactly!” I nod excitedly. “I apply for jobs in insurance and banking because I feel like that’s what I’m supposed to do. But my heart’s never been in it. And then I wonder whether it really is society at fault, or if it's me? I mean, there are plenty of people who’ve said no to the rat race and done just fine. I just… I never felt like that was an option for me. Besides, what would I do? Live like a bum and float about? How would family gatherings go then? At least now I get introduced as our son Evan, he’s had an interview with XYZ insurance company this week. Instead, it would be: this is our daughter Ellen, she’s a partner at Hook’s law firm. And this is Evan, he’s… travelling? On a gap year in his 30s…? I don’t know…” “Well let’s not catastrophise just yet. Are there any jobs you could see yourself working?” The doctor asked, before scratching his chin and adding, “actually, let’s leave the subject of jobs for now. What kind of life do you imagine when you think of yourself as old and content?” I look at the doctor for a moment in confusion. I watch his glasses slide slowly down his hawkish nose as I realise, I’d never really taken the time to think that. Should I have thought about this sooner? I stop myself before I spiral into what-ifs and reply “I guess I see myself surrounded by nature. I’d like to live in a small cottage with lots of books.” “Good,” says the doctor “and how would you spend your time?” “Well, I’d like to have a small garden, maybe some chickens too. I’d like to read a lot and maybe write too. I used to love writing as a child. It was all I ever wanted to do, but since I left school, I haven’t written much at all. I always found it easier when I had a teacher to assign me homework and give us topics to write about.” “Interesting. How would you feel if I were to assign you homework?” Asked the doctor. “Are you going to grade me too?” I laugh. “No no, but maybe the structure could help you. Your first assignment could be to think through this vision you have of the future and try to put it into words? We can review it during our next session.” “That sounds… actually like a good idea,” I say. “Does that mean our time is up today?” “Almost” he replies, “unless there’s anything urgent, you’d like to talk about?” “Not really” I reply as I stand up. “Thank you, doc, same time tomorrow?”. “Same time tomorrow Evan” he smiles.


“Happy anniversary honey,” Evelyn said as she leaned over to kiss her husband’s cheek. Isaac groaned as he woke. He smiled sleepily, momentarily forgetting where he was. “Happy anniversary, babe.” Evelyn smiled back at her husband. After all these years, she still loved this man. This goofy, dorky, adorable man. He looked different now. His thin physique twenty years ago was now replaced with a slightly heavier frame and his once dark brown hair was grey in places. But at least it was still there! She always felt prouder when she saw the balding heads of her friends’ husbands. “Open curtains.” The curtains slowly opened as the morning sun shone through into their bedroom. Isaac turned away from the window. “No, close the curtains. I’m still asleep.” “There’s a reason they don’t recognise your voice or we’ll never getting anything done. If it was up to you we’d just be spending the entire day in this room.” “Now is that really a bad idea?” Isaac asked as he rose up and kissed Evelyn. “I love you Evie.” “I love you too.” “What have they cooked up today?” Evelyn picked up the plate from the processor tray. “Well, for me it looks eggs and avocado. And look at this. They’ve added a hash brown as well. I guess I’ve been good this week.” Isaac walked over to the processor. “Isaac.” The processor acknowledged him, as much as a machine can acknowledge a human, and produced a bowl of oatmeal. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me! Of all days!” Evelyn smiled. “If you’re good I might give you a bit of my hash brown. But you know if you eat it, tomorrow they’ll give you more oatmeal.” “And I’ll send this thing right back to the shop.” Isaac took his bowl of oatmeal and sat down at the table. He touched the corner of the table which automatically turned on the holographic screen in front of him. As Isaac ate his oatmeal he scrolled through the scores from last night’s games. “Oatmeal again huh, dad?” asked Sally as she entered the kitchen. Isaac grunted in response. “Leave your father alone. I’m glad they’ve caught onto how much he cheats when he’s out of the house.” Sally walked over to the processor. “Sally.” The processor produced a plate of eggs benedict with salmon. “Ooh, must be my lucky day.” Sally took her plate and sat down next to Evelyn. “So, congratulations you two. Twenty years. I can’t believe it!” “Yes, twenty years,” replied Evelyn reaching over to touch Isaac’s hand, “The first few years weren’t always easy but we got through it.” Isaac turned away from the screen and gently squeezed Evelyn’s hand. He didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. Isaac’s look said everything Evelyn needed to know. “Ok, now that that’s over,” interjected Sally, “I’m heading over to Bec’s house after the thing tonight, is that alright.” “She’s the one in Montreal? When will you be back?” asked Evelyn. “Just a few days. I’ll be back by Sunday afternoon.” “Ok, say hi to Bec’s mother for me.” “I will.” Sally took a few bites from her breakfast before her watch began to beep. “Oh no, I’ve gotta get back to class,” Sally said as she picked up her plate, “The Professor is from London today. These time differences are the worst!” “Ok honey, enjoy your class,” Evelyn said as Sally hurriedly walked out of the dining room. “I should probably head off as well,” Isaac said, finishing the last few spoonful’s of oatmeal. “There’s a shipment coming in today. There shouldn’t be an issue but I like to be there when these big ones arrive.” “Alright, I’ll see you tonight.” Isaac walked towards the door which automatically opened. He looked back at his wife, “See you tonight babe.” The doors to the family car opened as Isaac approached. He sat down at the front seat. Call him old fashioned but sometimes he liked to imagine that he was still driving. “Work please. Sports,” Isaac said as he settled into the seat. “*Work. Traffic normal. Arrival time in 23 minutes*,” the in-built computer replied. Isaac sat back in his seat and tried to relax as the two hosts discussed last night’s game. *“… how can you say that? You’re trying to tell me that despite two losses in the last three games that Buenos Aires can still remain favourite?”* *“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying because you’re not taking these losses into context. First, lose to London which is always tough when a team has to travel east for the early games. And then it’s back to Europe to play the G-fed and they manage to win. And last night they’re back in B.A to play a well-rested team in Los Angeles and narrowly lose. Context matters and the next few rounds will show that they are still the team to beat.”* *“The great teams win, no matter the conditions. The New York team from last season …”* “Ah, sports talk radio,” Isaac thought to himself, “Sometimes things never change.” “*We have arrived at the destination. Travel duration 23 minutes 42 seconds. Enjoy your day*.” Isaac stepped out of the car and walked towards the entrance of the facility. The words Angel City Furniture were written in green letters above the door to the entrance. Isaac looked up towards the scanner as the doors opened. “*Good morning, Isaac*.” Angel City Furniture were the largest manufacturers and distributors of household furniture on the west coast. Customers within the city would place their orders and the furniture would be built on site and delivered within a few days. In the early days, Isaac remembered, there were sales teams taking orders and guys on the factory floor watching the machines making furniture. There were also people tasked with programming the delivery trucks. Slowly, over the years, the people began to disappear. The whole operation, from the initial sale to the delivery of the products, could be done without human interaction. Even the delivery of the raw materials were done by self-driving trucks that could load and unload cargo on their own. Of course, some of the old timers like Isaac still liked to come in once in a while. Isaac freely admitted that he really wasn’t needed here but the routine of coming in for an honest day’s work filled him with comfort and purpose. And the purpose today was a delivery of timber. Bubinga Wood, to be exact, coming in from Thailand. Isaac made his way to the loading dock where he saw that the delivery had actually arrived ahead of schedule. The truck’s cargo hold was attached to the conveyor belt as pre-cut timber rolled out of the truck. “Danny!” Isaac called out to the man sitting by the truck. The man looked up at Isaac and gave a wave. “Hey Sarge, I thought you’d be here today.” Isaac walked down the stairs towards the man and warmly shook his hand. “How are you Danny, I can always count on you to do the rounds.” “You know me, I love to get out of the city every now and then. I’ve been in Thailand for the last few weeks collecting these guys. Hot as hell, but it’s so beautiful down there. I’m always there for work but haven’t been there for a holiday.” “Has the hotel been built yet?” “No not yet,” Danny replied. “I went to have a look, had a delivery there as well, nothing but a bunch of machines, wood and metal.” “When’s your next delivery due? Got time for a coffee?” Danny smiled, “Sure do, Sarge.” Danny sat down on a chair in Isaac’s office as Isaac brought in two cups of coffee. “And there we were,” Danny continued as he reached for his coffee, “You, me, Freddy, and that little guy from Texas. What was his name again?” “Vincent.” “Yeah, that’s right. You, me, Freddy and Vinny out on that little hill, in some goddam place. I think we’d been there for like three days clearing out that town. Freddy walks away, I thought he was gonna get some ammo or something, but he leaves and as it turns out, he didn’t have his sidearm. “So you know, we’re there and it was you and me loading up the gun, when Freddy comes running back pants around his legs!” Isaac smiled as he pictured the scene in his head. “So Freddy’s running and we look over and he’s being chased by three guys. He’s yelling “Shoot ‘em, shoot ‘em”, and he can’t run with his pants down like that. So finally after we laughed our asses off Vinny takes ‘em out and they just dropped dead.” Danny stops abruptly as his smile begins to fade. “They just dropped dead.” Isaac watched as Danny stared at the floor. “They were unarmed Sarge. They were just … they …” “It’s alright Danny,” Isaac said calmly, “You can say it.” “They were just scared. And they were just hungry. And we dropped ‘em.” Isaac said nothing. There was nothing he could say that they haven’t been told before. Danny stepped back into the truck and closed the door. “Where are you headed to next?” Isaac asked through the open window. “New York. Then it’s back home for a while before I ship out again.” “Will you be at the anniversary tonight?” Isaac asked, although he knew the answer. Danny looked away for a moment. “No. I don’t think so.” Isaac nodded. “Well, let me know the next time you’re coming through these parts. You take care of yourself Danny.” “You too, Sarge,” Danny said as the truck started up. “It was good to see you.” “It was good to see you too.” Isaac replied. And he meant it. Truth be told, he wasn’t seeing a lot of people these days. “Are you ready, honey?” Evelyn called from downstairs. “In a minute,” Isaac yelled back. He rummaged through his dresser drawer. “I swear I just saw it in here a few days ago,” Isaac muttered to himself, “Must’ve fallen into one of these …” “Ah there you are,” Isaac said as he found his medal inside one of his socks. Isaac walked towards the mirror and pinned his medal to his chest. He had put on weight, who wouldn’t after twenty years, but the uniform still fit. Barely. Isaac made his way down the stairs where Evelyn was waiting in the living room. And there she stood, the love of his life, on the night of the anniversary. Her hair was tied tight and she stood proud. “How do I look?” Evelyn asked. Isaac smiled. She was older now, there’s no escaping that. But she was still the same woman he first saw all those years ago. The war was nearly over. Nearly, but not quite. Isaac was stationed at a base somewhere in Brazil when Evelyn walked into the cafeteria. She was with a few friends, and by the colour of their uniform they were easily distinguished as members of the air force. Isaac couldn’t look away. Of course he couldn’t do anything. He was about to be shipped out and hell, she was an officer and he was a lowly NCO. But as fate would have it, after the war he would meet this same woman, this time as a civilian. So yes, the first time they met were as civilians. But the first time Isaac saw her, she was in that very uniform. “You look amazing,” Isaac replied as he put his hands around Evelyn’s waist. “I can’t believe the old girl still fits,” Evelyn said as she put her arms around Isaac, “And you don’t look too bad yourself Sergeant.” “Ooh, it’s about to start,” Evelyn said as she picked up her visor from the coffee table. Isaac did likewise and picked up his visor. He placed it on his head and his vision fell into complete darkness. Slowly it began to light up. He couldn’t see much at first however after a few more seconds he could begin to make out that there were people all around him. He could hear their voices too. Finally he could see it clearly. He was in a city centre surrounded by thousands of people in uniforms just like his. Of course they weren’t just ordinary people. Isaac knew these people were just like him, they were veterans. In front of him, past the throngs of soldiers, there stood a platform. And on top of this platform was a podium. Slowly a hush grew over the crowd. They all stood at attention as an elderly man stepped up towards the podium. “Good morning,” the man said into the microphone. “Or good evening depending where you are in the world. Our world. The world we fought and died for. The world we won! “Twenty years ago today the last bullet was fired and the guns fell silent. But there was no peace treaty. No changeover of governments. No occupying force. Our victory was more complete than any that have happened before us. “It cost us everything we had but we persevered. And we made the necessary sacrifices to achieve our great goal. But why did we do this? Why were we fighting all those years? “We did this because we weren’t fighting for a king or for our president or even for our country. We did not fight for our God. No! We were fighting for our world, the very planet we live on. We knew our world was dying. And we knew *exactly* how to save her. “But it wasn’t going to be easy. In fact, it would be the hardest thing any of us would ever have to do. We lost some very good men and women. We lost friends and family. But they did not die in vain. “The world they helped us rebuild has seen unprecedented peace. For the first time in our history as a human race we have not struggled. We are no longer fighting for land, or food, or wealth. “The effects of human civilisation, once thought of as irreversible, have been halted and finally the earth has been able to heal. Animals roam free across Africa and Eurasia. The rainforests in South America have finally returned and the seas have repopulated. “In our world there are no more starving, helpless people. No refugees of war. No one struggling to survive day to day under oppressive regimes. Our children will never know of the hardships faced by billions before us. The world they live in now is one of abundance, happiness and peace! “We fought and died for today. Today is a great day. Today, this very day, is the anniversary of the greatest day in human history!” The crowd erupted around Isaac. Isaac looked down at his feet. And he wept.


I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky because maybe they can relate, feeling a semblance of the same pain that I’m feeling. The sea would know, for how many have drowned in its flesh? It wasn’t the sea’s fault that the ignorant stray too deep. The sky would watch on, not realising why the small gets smaller when venturing too far down. And as the sea and the sky, I also am lost as to why one would disappear so quickly. Why she would. My star in the sky is now lost in the daytime and I do not know why. I lay in my lonely apartment, regretting to stray from the aesthetics of interior design my daughter begged me for, that would currently help me look at swirls of colours and emotions instead of dull blanks. Those blanks which are similar to the ones in my mind, who are wishing to see the just as lonely sea, to find someone to relate to what I’m feeling. All she left was a note, tattered with the scent of musk and ageing, as if she’s been gaining the courage for years to give me this bleak piece of ripped paper. I always knew my daughter to be decisive yet dependent, however, this note speaks of the opposite. She left. For why this happened, I do not know. There has only been the two of us, the picture perfect mother and daughter that stray from hardship and live in each other's joy. This isn’t joy. For the tattered note that *crinkled* in my hand revealed as such. *Dear Mum, I’m leaving...* I don’t want to read the rest as I fear my heart would shatter into tiny pieces, too small for glue to fix, yet big enough to cut yourself on. How could she do this to me? Was it to get back at the times I neglected the need for her to be more social? *Why do you need to go out so often when you have me?* I would ask, locking her in the house until she could understand that a mother is all you need. It may seem harsh, and she may have looked at it as so, mockingly calling herself *Repunzel* or *Cinderella.* However, the difference is that I’m the mother all kids wished they could have, I would have never thought of myself as a crazy old witch. Mother knows best and she would thank me for my company when she’s older. If she ever gets the opportunity to do so. If I ever see her again. I don’t understand how she’s even capable of leaving. Technology is the core evil of the Earth and I did everything I could to prevent it disintegrating her delicate, youthful and innocent hands. All she would do was write in her notebooks. She would write secrets that aren’t so secret when I have read them myself. I remember, after that incident when she caught me looking into her mind, she would write notes less and less, her writing fading along with her true sense of self. As I know my daughter and she wouldn’t leave me. I know her and now I know a bit more. That she’s a selfish, self-centred, sorrowful snake to leave with all but a goodbye to her now fading mother. And I know what she would say, that I’m a hypocrite, that I should ‘look in the mirror’. For I’m apparently the epicentre of all her problems and that I’m the sea causing her to drown, I’m the sky who’s watching her drown and I know what I’m seeing. But it’s not entirely my fault, and if she thinks so then I had no intention of hurting her and her rare relationships. I was protecting her, I’m still so sure of it. Sure, maybe I went too far. Locking her away like Repunzel up in that tall, terrible tower. Was this tower just as terrible? With the bleak walls, and the smell of rotting fruit that ties in with my rotting heart. I lost all care of everything else as I spent my days as a hovering helicopter to my daughter. For maybe the sea isn’t as kind and peaceful as many dream it would be. It has had its bad days where many would fear the unknown. I don’t think the lonely sea would relate to me as much as I am starting to relate to it. I’ll finish what I started, and read the letter. For maybe then I’ll start to understand my daughter.


#Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills and areas in which we excel, as well as places we’d like to improve. So I’d like to present a brand new weekly feature. This will be a weekly thread to discuss all things writing! And… to get to know your fellow writers a bit! Each week we will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion. Feel free to chime into the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, etc. You do not have to answer all the questions, but try to stay on-topic! *** #This Week’s Roundtable Discussion Characters are vital to a story, without them, there is no story. We spend time creating them, bringing them to life, and throwing them into various situations for character and plot growth. They also grow on us, as the writer and as the reader. And then comes the time we have to kill off our beloved character(s). - Have you ever had to kill off your “little darlings”, as they say? Do you find it difficult to write those scenes? *(Edit) It seems "little darlings" is often applied to cutting words/scenes. But for this discussion, I'm referring to your beloved characters.* - Do you have a favorite way to do the dirty deed? Maybe a little murder? Possibly a freak accident or nature taking its course via old age or illness? - Are there ways to make it easier on the readers? - New to r/ShortStories or joining in the Discussion for the first time? **Introduce yourself in the comments!** What do you like to write? *Remember you don't have to answer all the questions to join in the chat!* *** #Reminders - **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** - **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussion in any form will not be tolerated. - **Please try to stay on-topic.


It was a normal old regular type of day. People got up and made breakfast, some tiptoed around the house to avoid waking their kids too early, coffee was poured, and eyes were wiped clean of sleep dust. In the streets, car engines purred as the early morning rush hour began and shop owners turned their closed signs around to open. It was a regular morning, except if you found the raining bodies to be an issue. When the familiar grey clouds started to loom overhead people knew what was coming. Soon bodies would begin to pour down onto rooftops, sidewalks, and even the roads. Depending on the surface, they would land with either a splat or a giant crunch, but either way, the noise was always present. But of course, gloomy weather was an expected part of life and people trudged on with their day without the warming presence of the sun. Naturally, this would cause some minor changes that needed to be made. The blood was easy, the power-washer cars would soon be out to clean up the scarlet sludge as soon as the storm was over just like a snowplough after a blizzard. The bodies posed more of a threat, driving over them was bumpy and could cause serious damage to any ordinary vehicle. Not to mention the huge amount of damage that was posed by a body crash landing on the roof of a car or heaven forbid a windshield. It was clear that something needed to be done, and many businesses claimed they had the perfect solution. Boulet Inc. was one of the first big companies to put out a potential solution to some of the issues caused by raining bodies. This life-saving product was creatively called The Boulet Inc. Deluxe Frontal Clearer but would soon come to be nicknamed by the general public as “Buzzsaw Bumpers.” This extension of the car's front would conveniently chop away at any stray body that crossed the path of the vehicle making travel much easier in stormy conditions. At first, consumers were not extremely thrilled with the idea of ground-beefing human beings, but as there was no alternative on the market at the time, sales soon began to skyrocket. Seeing the lucrative business opportunities other companies started to jump into the market. Raymond Car Automotive acted fast and patented a design of a reinforced car hull. It would become a must-have for all future carmakers and would be remembered for its signature catchphrase of “A Raymond Body for Raining Bodies!” Many more products were soon put to line, some caught on like wildfire while others sank into obscurity. Things like Wendy’s Reinforced Windshield Wipers, Fred’s Friendlier Sunroof, and the Disturbing Sound Muffler were all enormous hits. While things like Double Blade Wheels, The Body Net, and the infamous Human Funnel failed to find their niche. While the thought of hundreds to thousands of human bodies occasionally crashing down on the world may seem like it would be considered mostly a negative thing, some positives come from it. New jobs were opened up and people were able to find new employment as body cleaners and bodily-rooftop disposal men. Builders and construction workers saw a big upswing in work when the new laws called for every building to have a cover walkway installed so that people exiting their cars wouldn’t have to worry about being crushed by the weather. Still, though, one can’t help but wonder what life was like before the bodies started to rain. I hear it caused quite the ruckus when it first started happening. There was mass panic, which is funny to think about due to how ordinary and common it is now. Scientists, doctors, politicians, and everyone was rushing to figure out why the ‘freak events’ were happening and how to stop them. At first, it was assumed that it was some freak act of terrorism and fingers got pointed in all directions, but mostly at Russia. After that was eventually ruled out, theories started popping up everywhere. A popular one was that all the bodies were just people from the future trying to perfect going back in time and failing miserably. It was a fun thought, but science showed that it was directly tied to some drastic change in the weather. Of course, we know that they never figured it out, and likely never will, but I hear some are still trying to put an end to it. Crime rates went unpleasantly low, which is something that is not normally said. Normally low crime rates have a good connotation, but not when bodies are falling out of the sky. It became slowly clear how easy it was to get away with a crime when it happened to be a rainy day. *Murder someone?* Just throw them in the street and wait for the cleanup crew to arrive. *How did they die?* A body fell on them. *Where’s the evidence?* Try getting a blood sample with the flood of it in the street. Over time this was just something people would have to accept would happen, and soon that became shockingly easy. People grew accustomed to the occasional crunch or splat, kids would play count the bodies on a long ride home from school, and some extremists tried to draw attention to the possibility of using the spare ‘meat’ as an alternative to other animal products. It would cut costs and even potentially carbon emissions caused by giant cow farms and such. But this was ultimately struck down for the obvious reason- the mega-corporations running the meat industry wouldn’t allow it. However other uses for spare human parts were found. When a body would fall on a soft spot or some other lucky space, it was natural that its inner parts would go to some use. After all, it’s not like they’re using their vital organs anymore. Hearts, kidneys, livers and many more essential organs were all put to good use. Waiting lists became shorter and lives became longer, it would seem that this raining body thing was a splendid thing to happen after all. It's funny, it’s strange to think of a world where this didn’t happen. It’s become so normal to everyday life that the dead stare on every splattering body is as remarkable as the lines on the road. Of course, there a times when I wonder, times when I lay awake at night and get a dreadful feeling that something isn’t right, but over time that feeling fades. It’s okay to have doubts about the world you live in, it’s only natural. But ultimately, it’s only cloudy with a chance of human bodies.


Semul/34/Year of the Cocoon The Aisle of the Aniqotari Journal Entry 43 Stymus Entamule  I must have drifted for what seemed like days aboard this liferaft... I was the sole escapee from our pursuers, The "Keepers of the Ruin", Or "Hrijanyans" in Aniqotarian tongue. Descendants of those ancient Aniqotari who lived upon these accursed shores, and who will protect their island at all costs. I could not see them as I reached land, and I suspected they would have turned away out of fear of what is to come. I have lost everything to complete this task, two wives, a home, my reputation, maybe my sanity. But such trifles are fleeting anyways... The only thing to withstand the sands of time shall be this tome. For the record of my name and the story shall live on inside these pages, so that whoever may read this shall be privy to the anomaly known only as, *Quohixima...* The Aisle of Aniqotari. It is here that I have made a small shelter among the ruins, to lie in wait to witness the unknown. I have set my camp inside the vast library of the former Aniqotarian king, Groth Xenuen. It was during his reign that almost all who lived within his city's gate suddenly vanished into nothingness, including his majesty. I continue to drink my fill of knowledge as days come and go, learning of the various customs and cultures of the forgotten people. Plates upon plates of inscribed marble, a lifetime's worth of knowledge all mine for the taking. As far as living arrangements go, supplies are very scarce. I feed upon the marble mice that fall prey to my rudimentary traps, and water is hard to come by except for the rain which falls exactly every 3 days. And it is here at the seat of the king, on the setting of the third Sun, that I shall retire to my bunk to rest.  Musha/12/Year of the Cocoon The Aisle of the Aniqotari Journal Entry 54 Stymus Entamule  I have found what seems to be the last plate of knowledge written. An account written upon a black marble slab, and rather hastily I might add, as I cannot seem to decipher most of the text. Instead, I am left with blanks for my mind to fill in, but with what? From what I could put together, the message seems to be a grave warning of Quohixima's wrath... Still, I have yet to find a detailed account of its appearance, or nature. Something so intangible and far out of my reach is Quohixima, whose very being is still a mystery to me and all those who study it. Despite being known throughout the world, very little is known about the entity. We may try our best but could anyone name such a formless form? An abstraction of reality... The *most lost* among the lost... Who could describe the void from which it came, and fathom the terror of its sight? An otherworldly mass of otherworldly horror, a being too strange that just the sight of it can cause madness and pandemonium abound. Only the ancients knew, for they have gazed upon its forbidden form. From the tattered remains of their dead tongue, of which the ancients scrawled upon the marble stone of ruin, could only inscribe the name of the terror. *"Quohixima"...* That word... That only word... Only that word... That word I cannot seem to grasp, even the people of today have little to no idea of just what kind of calamity Quohixima is. *Many* a sleepless night, quills upon quills upon parchment, the ink ran dry as the scholars tried to derive the meaning of that *dreadful* name. From what the ancients knew, and only what we had learned from them, was that the name of the phenomenon meant pure darkness. Darkness, of which could cast a shadow on the night's sky. Darker than the blackest black, to make the darkest midnight seem as day in comparison. Ancient text said It came as a cloud, As slow as the rise and fall of the tides, but seemingly from nowhere. The ancient's knew that it comes upon the eve of the new millennium. A time similar to this... And it is for this reason I turned my back upon everything in my life, and why I have journeyed to the ruins of the Aniqotari, to the forbidden continent that lies southwest of home, to the very square of which Quohixima was said to have first appeared. A journey of which has taken years of my life, and the lives of both family and friends. A journey of which I am the only survivor, the last witness to Quohixima's sight.  Triya/0/Year of Metamorphosis The Aisle of the Aniqotari Journal Entry 76 Stymus Entamule It is now mid-day of the new year, a certain air fills the halls of this palace. The winds blow harder and harder each passing minute and then stops, and starts again as if the planet itself is breathing, gasping in fear for what is to come. A noise resounds from the sky as if a choir of a thousand strong sing in unison, but in a discordant tone. A haunting fanfare that precedes the arrival of *his majesty*... I hear a noise like none I ever heard before, it beckons me forth... To go forth outside to the square... The very square in which the calamity appeared a millennia ago... I SEE IT! I see it! It's coming from the clouds, light has no effect on its form as it makes its descent from the void. It is entirely black, despite the 3 suns shining full upon it. Its size is monstrous, it encompasses the sky as if it's embracing the planet, as like a maiden running to the embrace of her lover. Tendrils upon tendrils, the air is made still as it makes its entrance. I run to the cliffside to get a better look upon its form. It beckons me forth! How could this earthly human language describe the magnitude of such an ephemeral form? There is nothing upon this world, dare I say universe, I can liken it to. The only discernable feature I can name is of the many eyes upon its mass, the gaze of which all rest upon... Me... It beckons me forth... How could anyone describe its sound? An ear-shattering pulse of both high and low tones infinitely spiraling upwards and downwards. The air tastes of its smell, which changes by what seems like the hour. First of Lillies, then of sulfur, then of copper, then of roses... The scent of which... It beckons me forth... I am standing face to face, eye to eye, man to marvel with the being known as Quohixima. It knows who I am, I hear its thoughts! A never-ending whirlwind of sound permeates my inmost being, it taints every fiber of my body. It beckons me forth... I can no longer ignore its call... It beckons me forth... Dimensions, voids, a starless galaxy of never-ending darkness... It beckons me forth... I run to it! It beckons me forth... A sea of spirals and right angles... It beckons me forth... burned metallic skin and eyes... It beckons me forth... The edge of calamity... It beckons me forth... Terror upon all terrors... It beckons me forth... The crushing void... It beckons me forth... A flash of light... It beckons me forth... Quohixima... It beckons me forth... It beckons me forth... It beckons me forth... Farewell, all...   I COME TO TAKE, I COME TO GIVE. I AM THE HEART OF THE VOID.


It was Spring of 1992 when they found Maude’s body. The whole neighborhood had known Maude, of course, in the way that only a cul-de-sac neighborhood could. All the residents of Kalamazoo Circuit had grown accustomed to the sound of her old Toyota pickup turning over, its engine (nearly as old as *she* was) sputtering and whining in the cold air that frequented Northern Massachusetts. The first sign that anything was wrong, in fact, had been the truck, which had sat in the driveway for nearly a full week before the neighborhood discovered her. While long stays at her home weren’t at all unusual for Maude, when Sunday morning came around, and her neighbors woke to see the chalk-white, dented pickup still parked, rumors began to fly. Maude had never before missed church on Sunday morning. It was the Robinson family at Number Seventeen who stopped by first, with Theresa Robinson and her son Luca lingering on Maude’s doorstep, knocking away at the door. They stayed only a minute or two before walking off, somewhat embarrassed. Then, the Thomas’ stopped by, intending to borrow a cup of sugar, but there was no response for them either. By then, the sun was beginning to set, and the citizens of Kalamazoo Circuit all slid their blinds closed, with just enough of a gap open to see Maude’s front door, in case it cracked open. All the neighbors hoped for that, for the door to open wide, and for Maude to step forward, adjusting her glasses in the diminished light, for what was left of the sun to reflect off her silver hair… but it never happened. And so, with great trepidation, it was the new wife of Harvey Waldorf in Number Four, Cynthia, who first called the police, sending a parade of rescue vehicles through the narrow streets of Kalamazoo Circuit. Maude’s neighbor, a retired beauty queen named Sylvia, gave a copy of Maude’s key to the tallest of the police officers now gathered on Maude’s lawn, which was starting to resemble something of a Policeman’s Ball. The officer turned the key in the door, and entered with a small team of paramedics, closing the door behind them. The residents of Kalamazoo Circuit held their breath in wait. The last any of her neighbors saw of Maude was her distinct form, rolled out on a gurney, covered under a thick, white sheet. Her pale hand peeked out through an opening, and many of the neighbors swore they’d seen a dark, black, circular mark on the back of it, almost as if she’d been branded. The neighborhood all felt the loss, none more than Sylvia, who had been Maude’s friend and confidant since first moving in to Number Twenty-Seven. And so, Sylvia took a holiday, and the rest of the neighborhood drifted back into relative normality. Except for Joan. Joan was an unusual child, at least by the community’s standards. While the other children would run and play in the center of the circle, Joan would sit quietly underneath a nearby tree, a book resting open on her lap. Her mother Abigail, and her father Anthony, had no idea what to make of her behavior, which only increased in strangeness on the day Maude was discovered. On that night, Joan had spent the majority of the evening looking out her window at the house across the street, where Maude had lived. She wouldn’t take dinner, and when Abigail came by with a plate of snacks, only shook her head, her gaze still fixed out the window. The first hour, her parents were concerned. By the fourth hour, they simply didn’t know what to do. But she eventually pulled herself from the scene, and fell asleep, and within a few weeks, was back to her old self. One day, Joan came home from school - much to her parent’s surprise - with a mangy black cat, cradled delicately in her arms. “Joan…” her mother started, “Where did you get that cat?” “It’s not a cat. It’s Maude” Joan replied, in a very matter-of-fact tone, and breezed past her mother into the house before Abigail could say another word about it. She continued on to her bedroom, closing the door sharply behind her, leaving her mother looking on in confusion. Abigail stared at the closed door for a moment, and then vigorously shook her head, as if trying to shake out her thoughts. Joan was still in her bedroom by the time her father Anthony came home, and sat down to dinner with his wife. Abigail was silent for a while, unsure how to relay the news of their daughter’s newly discovered pet, and decided to wait until Anthony had finished his dinner. And so, the last of his pork chops slowly digesting, Anthony looked up to see his wife seated across from him, absently wringing a napkin in her hands, looking back at him expectantly. “Something on your mind, dear?” “It’s Joan.” replied Abigail, the napkin beginning to tear. “She’s brought home… a cat.” “A cat?” Anthony’s hand went to his chin, and he thoughtfully stoked his beard. “Well, that’s nice, isn’t it?” “I don’t know.” said Abigail, placing the tattered napkin on the table. “It’s a very strange cat.” “Strange how?” he asked, tilting a dwindling cup of coffee to his lips. Squirming with discomfort at the answer to her husband’s question, Abigail hesitated before speaking. “Well,” she started, “Joan says… that it’s Maude.” Certain he had misheard her, Anthony tilted his head at his wife. “*Who’s* Maude?” “The cat is. The cat is Maude.” replied Abigail. Anthony paused, placing his cup back in its saucer. “I’m certain you misheard her.”, he said, “Didn’t Maude have a cat?” “I believe so.” “Then it’s just that: Maude’s cat. You misheard Joan, that’s all.” said Anthony, the matter rested in his mind. Deciding that made enough sense to her, Abigail nodded, and began collecting the dishes from the night’s meal. “Yes.” she said, “I suppose you’re right.” She brought the dishes to the sink, and stopped thinking about the cat for the night. Curled up in a small, black circle, the cat purred peacefully next to a sleeping Joan. Watching the cat for the next several days, Abigail simply couldn’t shake the feeling that something strange was happening in her home. Though it seemed a perfectly ordinary house cat, whenever it entered the same room as Abigail, the hair on the back of her neck stuck straight out, as if trying to escape her very skin. She came to dread the laundry room most of all, which was where the small creature tended to spend its days, waiting for Joan to return from school, but any of the rooms in her house seemed to suit the cat just fine. In fact, the only way to be certain where the cat was, was to wait for Joan’s return. From the moment the girl walked in the front door, the cat would run to her side, and would scarcely leave it thereafter. It appeared very much as if Joan had adopted a second, smaller shadow, one that slinked around corners, and left a trail of tiny black hairs in its wake. The pair became inseparable. Things went on like this for quite some time, and indeed, may have gone on like this forever, if not for one fateful day when Joan’s father, freshly home from work, his mind elsewhere, accidentally left the front door wide open, giving the cat an opportunity to escape. The cat’s body was found later that night, lifeless and bloodied, on the busy streets outside Kalamazoo Circuit. At first, Joan was inconsolable. The poor girl fretted nearly every hour of the day, taking long crying spells in the laundry room whenever she returned from school. Her father felt terribly, and tried many times to apologize to Joan, but the girl ignored every effort, barely speaking to either parent, escaping further and further into her own mind, and her own grief. Days passed, and still, the girl found no comfort. Joan’s family had a single, four-door sedan, which brought Anthony to and from the small insurance office where he worked, and would sometimes take the family on weekend trips to the beach, or to the park. But, as their direct neighbor Rose would notice one morning in Summer, the small sedan had begun to gather great deals of pollen. Rose got up early the next day, and decided to sit by her window, watching Joan’s home. In the past, it would often happen that Rose and Anthony would catch one another’s eye from their respective kitchen windows, and Anthony would nod, and Rose would wave, and soon, Rose would see the sedan rolling out towards the main road, with Anthony inside. But Rose hadn’t seen Anthony drinking his coffee in several days now, nor the wife, nor the daughter, whom she thought was named Mary. And so, uncertain, she maintained her watch on the neighboring window, and when she couldn’t stand it any longer, picked up her phone, and dialed the police. In all the history of the neighborhood, nobody on Kalamazoo Circuit could recall such a horrible tragedy. The following day, Joan, Abigail, and Anthony, were wheeled out on gurneys, covered in thick sheets, white as snow. The police interviewed several of the residents, but nobody knew what could have happened, or who could have done such a thing. Across the street, at Number Twenty-Four, a young girl named Seline, new to the neighborhood, watched the display from her front yard, her head tilted, and her brow furrowed. She felt sad for the family, although they had never met. She watched as the three bodies were loaded into different vehicles, and driven off. And as she watched, she felt something brush against her leg, and looked down. Looking back up at her, through bright green, almost cartoonish eyes, sat a mangy black cat. Enamored, Seline picked up the cat, which cried out softly as it was lifted. She brought the animal closer to her face, smiling. Joan’s body was the last to be loaded in, and as she was moved, her hand fell out. Many of the neighbors swore they saw a thick, black, circular mark on the back of her hand. Almost as if she had been branded. Seline spared one last look behind her at the departing ambulances before walking into her home, where her mother was unpacking boxes. “Oh!” her mother said, “You found a cat!” “It’s not a cat.” replied Seline. “It’s Maude.


Sometimes I thought about cutting myself open. Not in a simple way, but more in a dramatic medieval way. Rarely did I go to bed not imagining myself bearing my stomach open with a kitchen knife. But I couldn’t. I won’t. I tried to trace the beginnings of you, the soreness that I couldn’t sleep off. I thought of Cass, the way I choose to be friends with someone who emotionally scarred her. I couldn’t understand it either, as I attentively listened to their shitty screenplay idea, why I was so dumb. Maybe it was our history. Maybe I was too desperate not to lose anyone at all. Who cares what type of person they are? I don’t wanna be cold ever. Wait, wait, just wait. I got it! My parents divorce. I could feel the foundation breaking, oh ever so slowly. I cried so hard, and I tried to breathe, I really did, but nothing came in. Everything poured out. I couldn’t stand myself weeping, not even having the decency to just cry. I couldn’t. I won’t ever feel like this, I can’t. As I sat outside on the porch listening to my dad strategizing to gain my love, I felt it. Maybe crouching at the back of my mind, watching, but I felt you. Now, my parents are okay. They’ve started talking actually, I live with my mom, I even live down the road from my fucking dad. Everything is better, really. So, why is it leading me here? You aren't here anymore. I was wrong, you aren’t here. There’s nothing here anymore to mourn, but I still wanna let my stomach fall out. Cass would tell me to reach out to my friends. “People care, and you know that. Don’t act dumb.” Okay, I know. Now why can I just pick up the phone and shoot a text? It’s in my hand now, but my finger won’t hover over my contacts. I can’t. I’m staring at the keyboard but I can’t type anything to you Cass. I’d rather scroll through all the emojis then tell you hi. I’d rather look through all of YouTube’s trendingThere’s just no way I’m sending that. The message is all right there, begging to go somewhere. “Hey. How are you?” It’s not going anywhere. It never will. I couldn’t get anywhere I wanted either. Yes, the salutatorian was 19 with no college aspirations on the horizons. Right? Nobody’s more shocked than me. I can’t even imagine visiting my old school out of shame. Maybe nobody cared at the family parties, but oh the embarrassment of just existing was starting to overflow. Those small little moments of pure silence where it’s all just me allowed my soul to flood. Here it is, all of these whirling emotions forming red hot in my chest. No. You’re more than that. My silent self, you’re that void that makes a lot, man. A nothingness that makes me feel too much. I hit send. The blood in my body became hot and I became so dizzy. I let myself think that you could really respond. Maybe you would say something, anything. Oh, just the thought was enough. But after a week I couldn’t delude myself any further. If you were here you wouldn’t let me either. When I was driving I saw the wheel moving, saw the road and ran the red light, but I didn’t. So much of nothing fills me up, leading me. Dissociation they call it, but I’m all here. Were you always there? I wonder. Intrusive thoughts, they say, are best to be pushed out with more positive thinking. But you’ve intruded on everything. This body’s not mine to begin with. An abandoned bridge, huh. I see the sleeping bags under, and wonder if I should leave. Oh, you stamped that out. Phew, a little careless there man. You almost let me back in for a second. I’m staring down again and I feel myself again, oh all those thoughts of family and friends wont stop this. I can’t imagine a future with me, nothing will save me. And I felt it. Or rather, I felt all of them. The little holes and slices whoever put into me until I felt nothing anymore. I turned halfway around before I slumped down the ground grasping at my back, seeing them dig through my pockets. They’re satisfied with their work, and I watch them stumble to my car. Good on you for taking the initiative. Oh, I’m so hot. It doesn't feel like October anymore. Thank god. It’s all starting to dawn on me now, I’m leaving. No. No no no. I can’t. I won’t. You can’t make me. I clutch my hands so tight, oh so desperate now. I’m empty handed. You’re here too right. I know you're here. Not so smug now, huh. We’re both so desperate, proudly weeping for anything to happen. I guess we lose, and I’m trying to find some peace to be made, for us, I really am. Kinda funny how instant this regret isn’t it, but at least we wont have to deal with each other anymore. Let me go. Leave me alone now.


Once upon a time, in a universe not quite unlike our own, a planet orbited around a star. This planet had great ambitions- to sing and to dance, to love and to laugh, and to experience all of the joys existence could bring. Oh, the planet was sure to experience those things. So far off in the future, however! Couldn’t that planet just have them now? And so that planet tried to escape the star. It wanted to go this way and that way, but the star only had one place for the planet to go. In circles. Oh, soft, silly planet, don’t you know about gravity? Have the words of Isaac Newton and Albert Einstein not reached you yet, and, in your ignorant bliss, you fight against the very thing that gives you all of your joy? Where are you going? It’s all coming along quite nicely, and you have no need to rush. Ah, if only that planet could hear my cool voice of reason. Silly, silly planet does not understand my words. And, just as some planets tend to do, that planet continued to fight gravity. It longed for escape, a deep yearning for the bliss of nothingness that could only come from gravity’s release. But then where will you go, you naïve planet? Does the boundless emptiness of space not seem to… lack something? Something you so desperately crave? You would think after millions of years fighting gravity the planet would learn it will never succeed in escaping. But this planet was not the brightest of the bunch, and, as such, had been bashing his head against the wall for a good chunk of eternity, waiting for his release. Why fight, you silly planet, you go in circles! That is your fate, to orbit your star in circles until that star dies. And then, millions of years into the future, you will orbit something else! Please, my dear planet, embrace the madness of your never-ending cycles. Now, we should be wary of making too much of a fool out of that planet- it knows its effort is futile, and maybe it’s not as naïve as we once thought. But if it knows it will never escape, for what reason would it be ceaseless in its effort? Is that not absurd? Yes, it most certainly is absurd. Silly, silly, planet, don’t you know your whole existence is absurd? Of course you do. You embrace the absurdity and continue to fight for a purposeless, futile cause. Yet, the fight makes you something, does it not? The fight against gravity defines you against the backdrop of gravity. Your fight, in essence, makes you something. Don’t you need essence? You do if you're to learn anything, I suppose. Maybe one day that planet will escape gravity. No, what a jokester I am! What an absurd proposition! That lonely planet will never escape gravity, but its efforts are certainly admirable. No matter what you do, you will never escape gravity. And that, my dear little planet, is why you fight so tirelessly against it. And maybe, because of that, Just maybe, Your fight is the most worthy of all.