In the lord’s gardens at Lincolnshire, Isaac Newton knew of a tree that held the secret to all knowledge. Some said the tree had grown from a seed stolen by Marco Polo during his trip to the Orient. They claimed that Marco Polo had climbed the Himalayas and infiltrated a secretive order of monks who guarded a sacred tree. The leader of their order had the privilege of taking a single bite from its fruit in his lifetime. The monks believed that the fruit was so strong that a second bite would prove fatal, and that even the first bite would open the mind of man to the mysteries of the world which only the strongest of men could perceive and not go mad. And that Marco Polo, knowing these things and fearing for his life, escaped with a single seed from that tree, for which he earned a king’s ransom. Some said that the tree was cursed, that it had grown on a graveyard believed to be fallow before being transplanted to the lord’s gardens. That its fruit was haunted by the dreams of the dead the plant had absorbed, and those who tasted of it were filled with memories and impressions not their own, driven mad by spirits with unsettled business on this earth. And there were those who said that the tree was the original tree from the garden of Eden, for which God had exiled humanity from paradise simply for taking that first bite which extinguished our innocence, and awakened the potential for good and for evil. The tree had been stolen back from the promised land during the crusades and protected by good Christians ever since, who swore never to defy God’s commandment again. The last bite had changed the world. A second might destroy it. Only two things were certain. The tree was the prized possession of the lord of Lincolnshire. And no one was allowed to eat of it. The lord could sometimes be seen admiring it, but even he never succumbed to temptation: any fruit it produced was quickly collected and burned, under his watchful eye. To the undiscerning, it might have appeared to have been an ordinary apple tree. But young Isaac Newton knew better. The lost treasure of the east, the tree that carried the souls of the dead, the tree of the knowledge of good and evil... One of the stories had to be true. Perhaps even all of them. Isaac did not know how he would do it, or what the consequences would be, but he knew he had to eat of its fruit. The tree was sealed behind a gate of iron with bars too firm to bend even if Isaac had been exceptionally strong, which he was not. The gates were topped with a wide row of spikes making climbing them treacherous even if Isaac had been exceptionally agile, which he was not. The path through the castle to the garden was watched by guards too proud of their loyalty to their lord to allow so much as a child to slip through even if Isaac had been exceptionally charming, which he was not. Isaac was of average wit and ability, and had only one advantage on his quest to eat the apple. His mind was filled with dreams of its potential, and nothing, not even what seemed impossible, would deter him from his objective. Anyone who expressed interest in the tree gained the watchful eye of the guards: one of Isaac’s friends had heard the legend and asked one of the gardeners about it, and his trips to the garden quickly gained a chaperone. So Isaac never asked about the tree. To loiter around the gardens was also to gather suspicion, another friend had hovered near the outer gardens as the fruit ripened in the springtime, and had kindly been asked to leave. So Isaac never spent too much time near the gardens. One young lad had tried to rush his way to the tree, and earned a cuff on the ear from the guards and a lecture from his parents. So Isaac vowed to make no attempt on the tree until he could be certain of success. Once a year, come early May, Isaac would take a trip down to the gardens with a blanket in his pack, watching the tree, waiting for one single fruit to fall in the range he needed it to. He would push his luck for an hour, pretending to be admiring the spring air, before returning home empty-handed. A year would pass, the fruit would once again be ripe, and Isaac would return to the tree, staring up at it and hoping for a miracle. It was during what was to be his last year in Lincolnshire that the impossible finally happened. Isaac couldn’t say how, but just looking at the tree’s branches shake with the wind, he knew it was almost time. The miracle he had been waiting for was about to arrive. Sensing his opportunity was near, Isaac unfurled the blanket under the gate, rolling it down to where the edge of the blanket reached to where the farthest branch of the tree stretched out. As if on cue, there was a tiny snap from the tree and a single apple fell onto the edge of the blanket. Exhilarated, and scarcely believing his luck, Isaac carefully pulled the blanket back towards him, keeping the apple balanced on top until it was in grabbing range. Snatching the magical fruit and the blanket up, Isaac tore off in a sprint back to his home. Isaac couldn’t have said if anyone had seen him. His heart felt like it was beating a thousand times a minute as he raced his treasure home. It wasn’t until he reached the privacy of his own room that he trusted himself to look at his prize. A flawless red apple, with a tiny green leaf attached. The food of kings. Of gods, even. The Greeks had told a story of an apple hurled by Eris, the goddess of discord, into a party of the gods which had sparked the Trojan war over who would claim it. And if he believed some of the stories, that same fruit was in his hands. For only a moment, Isaac considered what would happen if he sold the fruit, or tried to plant a tree of his own from the seeds. But he knew what he needed to do. He had waited too long to think of anything else. Isaac took a single bite of the pure red apple and swallowed, waiting for the divine revelation to descend upon him, and the mysteries of the universe to be unraveled. And Isaac Newton felt nothing. Isaac paused, anticipating the moment when he would feel different, for some unexpected sensation to take him over. But the experience had produced nothing mystical in him. It had felt like nothing so much as eating an apple. Sitting in silence, after almost a minute had passed, praying he was not proving too greedy, Isaac took a second bite, chomping down onto the apple and savoring its mix of sweetness and bitterness before swallowing it down. And still Isaac Newton felt nothing. Isaac began to grow concerned. How long were the effects supposed to last? Was he meant to eat the whole thing in a single go? Isaac stared at the walls around him, his hands, and the contents of his room, waiting for his world to overflow with transcendent knowledge that would prove this had all been worth it. Isaac waited nearly an hour, and still feeling nothing, consumed the rest of the apple in a rush. And after all that, still, Isaac Newton felt nothing. Isaac stared down at his sticky hands and the remaining apple core, and felt like he wanted to cry. As best as he could tell, nothing special had happened, there had been no miracle contained in that fruit. He felt as though the scales were finally beginning to fall from his eyes, as the slightly bitter taste in his mouth started to nauseate him. The bright world of magic and mystery he had believed in was beginning to unravel, and be replaced with cold mundanity. There was a far more plausible explanation for everything he knew about the tree. The fruit was not of a variety intended to be eaten: perhaps slightly poisonous, or simply not as sweet as the apples he was used to. The lord must have admired the tree, but was careful not to let any reckless children eat from a plant he wasn’t sure was safe. It felt so obvious now that Isaac had thought of it, a thousand times more plausible than the childish supernatural fancies he had allowed to fill his head. Isaac lay in bed restlessly that night, unable to sleep, a mix of indigestion and disappointment. What a fool he had been. For thinking that all it would take was eating one fruit, and somehow he would be able to do more than anyone who had come before him in unlocking the mysteries of the universe. And then Isaac Newton began down the path that would lead to him doing more than anyone who had come before him in unlocking the mysteries of the universe. Lying in bed, trying to put his mind past the apple that had occupied his thoughts for years, a single nagging thought crept into his mind before he fell asleep that night. Why had the apple fallen? The question stuck with him until the next day. It seemed so obvious a point that everyone else must already know the answer, Isaac felt like a simpleton for even considering it. To mention it to his parents would be to admit ignorance. So at the end of his school day, Isaac mustered up the courage to ask one of his teachers in private: why did apples fall to the ground? And Isaac Newton was told that it was simply in the nature of apples to fall. And for a time this answer satisfied him. But after only a day, something about the answer began to rub him the wrong way, like an itch he couldn’t scratch, or a barb stuck in his shoe. Like the answer was glossing over something fundamental, a patch applied over a tear in cloth, or a coat of paint on a rotting house. The next day, Isaac came back to his teacher with another question: why did oranges fall? Or balls? Or any other object? And Isaac Newton was told that it was simply in the nature of all objects to fall. And for a time this answer satisfied him. But the more that he thought about it, the more questions he uncovered. The astronomers claimed that the moon, the stars and the planets floated through space. Why? What force compelled them to circle the earth in their skewed orbits? What caused the tides to change with the year, and be drawn in and out? And Isaac Newton was told that it is simply in the nature of planets to circle the Earth, the stars to float in space, and the tides to go in and out. And this answer did not satisfy him in the slightest. Isaac began to suspect that all of this was wrong. Or not so much wrong, as incomplete. That where his teachers had hundreds of reasons: one for every object, one for every phenomena on the earth, there was a single reason. Some unifying principle that could make sense of all of this, and show why all these things had to be true at the same time. Isaac’s teachers told him that objects fell more quickly based upon their weight. A man named Galileo Galilei claimed to have stood on top of the leaning tower of Pisa, and dropped two weights of identical shape but varying weight, and proved that they fell at equal speed. But Galileo could not explain why. Isaac’s teachers said the Earth was at the center of all creation, orbited by a moon, planets, and the sun in ever greater circles. Galileo alleged that he had seen through a telescope that the planet Jupiter had its own moons, and that the universe was filled with bodies circled by other bodies. But Galileo could not say why this was. Galileo had even argued for a great heresy: that the ground on which they stood was not immoveable, but that the Earth flew through space at unthinkable speeds in the orbit of the sun. But Galileo could not explain why this was true either. A mathematician named Zeno had once claimed that motion was impossible, since any object must first cross half the distance to reach somewhere, then half the distance again, and half the remaining distance, and so on forever. Something as simple as motion and describing the fall of an apple required a description of how the apple would cross an infinite number of intervals. And mathematics was not equipped to handle infinity. At least, not yet. Isaac Newton studied mathematics, and found it lacking. Mathematics could describe aspects of the way the world was, but not how it changed. Isaac Newton studied the philosophies of Aristotle, and found it lacking. Aristotle claimed it was in the nature of objects to fall according to their weight, a principle believed for nearly two thousand years. But if the stories were true, Galileo had shown otherwise. Isaac Newton studied the stories of astrologers who claimed that the stars and planets in heaven were moved by supernatural forces, and found their claims lacking. The planets moved with regularity, not purpose. They were less like men who chose to move, and more like apples. Compelled to move. Isaac imagined an apple, floating in space, that began to accelerate downwards, at two meters per second. Its acceleration would be constant, a flat line. The speed it had picked up could be defined by a line sloping up the graph at the rate of its acceleration. But what about its position? Since the apple picked up distance at every moment, its position had to be the area under the curve defining its velocity. Isaac drew the sides of a triangle that filled in the area under the curve of the sloped line up to a point. That area was a triangle, or half a square, so the position had to grow with the square of time… a parabola. Isaac looked at what he had written for each equation. “Position = X^(2)”. “Velocity = 2X”. “Acceleration= 2”. There was a profound relationship between each of those simple descriptions. Going forward, each equation described the rate of change of the last equation. Going backward, each equation described the area under the curve of the next equation. Given any graph, any pattern of movement, there had to be a similar relationship that could be described: the change taking place, and the impact of a change that took place at that rate. And so Isaac began to develop the mathematics of change. The mathematics of the infinite. It was many years later, after untold hours spent buried in his notes and research that Isaac Newton wrote a book describing the mathematics of infinity, and how it could be used to describe the force of gravity that bound reality. His encoding of gravity in numbers and strange symbols would have looked like witchcraft to the illiterate, trapping the complexity of the universe in arcane runes. He called it The System of the World. The moon circled the Earth, the tides of the Earth shifted with the moon, and apples fell all for the same reason. Because all matter in the universe was drawn together by a force proportional to the product of their masses and inversely proportional to the square of the distance between them. All the motion in the world, from people, to ships, to avalanches were a consequence of Isaac Newton's laws of motion. Objects at rest remained at rest, objects acted on by a force changed their momentum in proportion to that force, and any force acting on an object produced an equal and opposite reaction. These were not simply stories that could be told, like “apples want to fall.” These were mathematical principles that could be used to predict the eclipses of the sun, the trajectory of an arrow, and the future of the world itself. For a brief moment, half a billion humans were alive on planet Earth, but only one of them could look at the world and see the fundamental forces that drove it, the machinery of nature expressed in mathematical equations. Untold trillions of creatures had lived out their lives on Earth watching the sun moon and stars float above them in the sky without understanding what caused the sun to brighten the day and disappear by night, and Isaac Newton became the first able to explain why. The first equipped with the knowledge to predict and change reality. And then Isaac Newton unleashed his science upon the world. The seed of knowledge planted by Isaac Newton would spread across the entire surface of the Earth. Knowledge of his Calculus and physics would allow for the creation of new kinds of machinery, great and terrible in destructive power, powered by energies gathered from deep beneath the Earth’s crust. It would allow the human race to send vessels to the sky to reach celestial bodies they had only glimpsed through telescopes, and reshape the Earth according to the will of mankind, shrinking the boundaries of nature and diminishing the role of magic and mystery. Some of this, Isaac would begin to see in his lifetime. Other parts of this story are still being told. It was many years later that Isaac returned to the gardens of the lord of Lincolnshire as an older and wiser man, to find that the tree had disappeared. A new lord ruled in the castle, and had no interest in an old tree the previous owner was afraid to let anyone eat from. Isaac Newton had been the last to ever eat of its fruit. Isaac stared at the place where the tree had once stood, filled with sadness and gratitude for the journey it had sent him on. When Isaac was asked in public how he had developed such amazing insights into the world, Isaac would modestly shrug, and say that if he had seen further, it was because he had stood on the shoulders of giants. But when asked by his closest friends, his thoughts would turn back to his memories of that garden and the legend of a tree’s fruit. And Isaac would say that all of it, the whole thing, had happened because of an apple.


Hello, my name is Aiden Mayer. I'm not entirely sure how well this post will work and where this stuff ends up. Blame it on my age. Never mind that; I suppose you'll come to know me soon. My life started unraveling on a mild spring morning. I was in my office working as an assistant physicist at Ametherom Institute of Technology, my Alma Mater. You may have never heard of the city I called home, which would come as no surprise. Ametherom was a quaint, bustling seaside city on the eastern coast of my small but prosperous Island Nation of Igadi. It rose up around the mouth of the Bay of Basir and was divided by the river Manu into the northern densely-packed City Centre and the southern cobblestone streets of Old Town. Ametherom had the heart of a proper city. The streets and buildings sprung up organically around the bay and the river, feeling as natural as the marshes and trees interspersed within and surrounding it. Three large iron bridges crossed over the river connecting the streets of City Centre to Old Town. Beneath the central and most ornate bridge ran a slender white footbridge uniting two halves of a large pedestrian's circle. The circle was paved with a mandala of white and pastel stones and nearly always bustling with street vendors, food stalls, and performers. A city built for community and connection. I love my little city. The older I grow, the more I wish I could visit once again. Unfortunately, I do not believe that is a possibility. I spent my whole life in Ametherom, from the day I was left at an orphanage until the day I was ripped from my comfortable reality and thrust into a war that ravaged everything that made me human. Ametherom was my home—my family. I miss its comfort. I, like most orphans, was raised in a private boarding school. I fit in fine with the other kids with whom I shared dorm rooms and classes. I made it through to graduation with high marks and got accepted into Ametherom Institute of Technology, where, upon graduating, I took a physicist position. This, as you may recall, is where my story really starts. **Broheim McIntosh** Being a researcher conjures the mental image of white lab coats and bubbling beakers, but I am chagrined to say my position wasn't so glamorous. Most of my days were spent poring over abstracts and hacking together lines of code and equations in the modest-sized office I shared with my research partner and long-time friend, Broheim. The morning my world broke started so innocuously, as every other dull, typical day previously had. Bro swung around the door five minutes late, his unruly orange hair bouncing as he ushered in a box of doughnuts. "I got you an eclair, Aiden!" he said melodiously with a bright smile. "Thanks Bro, my favourite!" I chuckled. "Hey, have you checked out the new pub on 11th street yet?" I asked as he dramatically plopped into his chair with a quick spin. "Next month is Cass and my anniversary, and I figured--" "A pub, Aiden? Com'on, this is your third year together. Take her somewhere nice and pop the question already! You do know you aren't getting any younger, right?" he prodded. "Alright then, Mum, sheesh." I rolled my eyes. "And to answer your question, yes. I happened to have met a lovely lass there two nights ago and from what I remember it was a cosy little pub. Not much of an amber selection though..." "Well you know Cass doesn't like going out to fancy places. I'll call them ahead, see if they do flowers." "You're a right lady-killer, eh? Any-who, how are we coming on Project 1183?" "Glad you asked, Mr. McIntosh!" I beamed, "Come and have a look at this." Broheim shot me a quizzical look as he brushed crumbs from his shirt and rolled his chair next to mine to peer at my monitor. "So, I was going over a few results last night, when I stumbled upon this. I think this sheds some light on that photon dilemma, eh?" I grinned unabashedly at my own joke. He didn't say a word as he stared into the black and white text. "Crazy, innit?" I laughed, "Are you at a loss for words, my man?" My laughter faltered and fell as I watched his eyes transfixed to the screen, blank and distant. "Are you OK, mate?" Bro's body stiffened as he fell hard to the floor. I jumped back in shock before crouching down. I carefully grabbed his shoulders. "Bro?" He began to convulse and thrash; his eyes were still distant and blank. "Somebody help!!" I screamed as I raced to my phone, pounding in the emergency line. My stomach dropped as I was greeted with a disconnected signal. I dashed into the hallway, screaming for help and trying doors to my colleagues' offices, but no one answered. For some reason, every door was locked. I started pounding on Professor Mark Stevens' door, yelling that Broheim needed help and the lines were down, pleading for him to answer. I heard a door slam behind me and whipped around to see four stately men carrying a stretcher, dressed in white scrubs and masks. My brief shock at their timely arrival was overwhelmed by relief. "Are you paramedics?" No response. I jogged down the hallway to our office just as they loaded Bro up and started for the exit. "Which hospital are you taking him to?" Not a single one of them acknowledged me, let alone my inquiry. "Hello?!" I followed them out the front doors, still asking them frantic questions, which they still ignored. They loaded Bro up in a white box van that looked like an ambulance without the lights. Tires squealed as they peeled out down the road. I was able to catch the letters "AMM" stencilled in black on the side of the vehicle. Then it careened out of sight. I rushed back inside to confront my boss, and as I burst through the front door, I stopped dead in my tracks and glanced about. Jeananne, who had returned to the front desk, narrowed her eyes at me as she held the phone to her ear as if to say, "quiet down." My other colleagues seemed unfazed. Their doors that were locked tight moments ago now stood open, and the nonchalant discussions I so frequently heard murmur through the walls had resumed. I slowly walked down the hall to Professor Stevens' office, my mouth no doubt agape as I struggled to process this strange event. I rapped sharply upon his door. His voice called "Come in" and shook me out of my shocked trance. I pulled the door closed behind me a bit too hard. "With all due respect, Professor...What the hell? Where were you?! I was calling for help! The phones are down, I couldn't call the emergency services, and you wouldn't even answer your door! Who the hell knows who came and got Broheim! They looked like doctors but they gave me a bad feeling. And--" "Call down, Aiden—take a deep breath and have a seat." I grabbed my composure and calmed my breathing into a steady rhythm. "Start from the top, now...What happened?" "I was going over our progress on 1183 and suddenly Broheim had some sort of seizure. He's been taken away into a van or ambulance. I called for you but--" "Aiden, first of all, who is Broheim?" "Is this some sort of joke, sir? He's my office mate, we started here the same week." "I am positive we have never had a Broheim working here. Also, from what I can recall, due to your outstanding performance you have been entitled to a private office for two years now." My face and chest went cold as a particular type of knot tied up my throat. With barely a croak, I uttered, "Is...Are you playing a joke?" "No Aiden... Are you feeling alright? I know Project 1183 is pretty intense, maybe you need a vacation, that's all." "This isn't funny!" blood flushed my face as I rose to my feet. "Sit back down, Aiden. There is no need to get worked up." I glared at him as I sank back into my seat. "If anyone else had come in swinging like you did just now, I would terminate them on the spot for blatant disrespect. I've known you since you enrolled here at the university and I have seen your exemplary work. I don't want to let you go, but I need you to calm down and get help with whatever...this is." He motioned his hand as if to encompass all of me. I swallowed my protest and pride and cast my eyes to my feet. "Aiden, take this." His tone had softened. I looked up as he passed me a weighty, off-white business card. "Doctor Walsh and I worked together for a number of years. I can certainly attest to her excellence." I examined the elegant golden script embossed into the card. Dr. Alexis Walsh, Psy. Ph.D. "A shrink?" I looked up incredulously. "I would highly recommend you speak with her before returning to work. You are to be placed on paid leave for the next two weeks. Take some time to rest and reset, Aiden." I retreated inward as I walked out of his office. The whispers of my colleagues swirled around as if I was underwater. I walked to my office to gather my things and nearly fell to the floor when I saw that my desk was standing alone. Everything that graced Broheim's cluttered desk and shelves—and the furniture itself—was gone. How did they cover this up so quickly? More importantly...


My past is something that constantly lives in the very back of my mind. A tale that I never dare utter out loud. Even now, 15 years later, I start shaking at the bare thought of what had happened. However, I can not remain silent forever, and I need my voice to be heard, for the sake of younger me. I remember it being a cold, bitter night, as expected from the merciless winter in the desolate state of California. I had just arrived at my local convenience store, for my night shift, and I distinctively recall having a gut wrenching feeling almost as if something totally unexpected was about to occur. The air felt thick, and I could smell the damp earth after a long winter rain and I took it all in, slowly breathing, as if it was going to be my last time smelling it. I’m known for being a rational person, and for that reason alone, I ignored said feeling. In that dark, silent night, only my thoughts were keeping me company. Working from 2a.m-8a.m was usually uneventful, and I only needed to interact with the occasional smoker or drunkard. After dropping out of college, I was doing my best balancing work as a babysitter in the evenings and being a convenience store clerk at dawn. I quite cherished that job, as the pay was generous and the workload was light, despite the shady owner, Jeff. An old guy who has probably seen too much in his lifetime. I’ve heard rumours regarding him as a pedophile and a pervert who has supposedly taken advantage of dozens of middle-school girls and female part-timers. However, I have yet to see evidence of these claims first-hand and I was satisfied with how things were going. The buzzing from the artificial ceiling lights was greatly contributing to my pulsating headache. The door bell jingled a lovely melody and a cold breeze hugged me, forcibly pulling me out of my meaningless thoughts. The first customer of the night walked in and paid for an overpriced pack of Marlboro. The interaction was brief and straightforward, as expected. I will never understand the concept of smoking. I honestly don’t see the appeal of spending money for the purpose of shortening my life expectancy, not as if its any of my business. Sighing a long breath, I looked out of the window to take in the very familiar, yet comforting sight of the empty streets. I directed my gaze towards a parked car that I’ve failed to notice up until now. I guessed it was a sixth generation Honda Civic, although the limited amount of light outside made it hard to tell. The small parking area in front of the store was always empty at that time of the day, so to me, that was unusual. I observed the car for a couple of minutes, waiting for something to happen. Slowly growing impatient, I grabbed my SwissTech keychain (not the prettiest out there, but definitely the most useful in terms of keeping me safe) and I headed outside, walking in a straight line towards the suspicious car. I’m still not sure what I was expecting, but I thought that whatever would happen will most definitely quench my thirst of curiosity. Only a few inches away from the intriguing vehicle, I noticed that it is empty, and that the trunk is slightly open. Despite fully knowing that I am not allowed to touch somebody else’s property, I jerked the trunk open. I immediately knew I had just made a terrible mistake. A mistake that will never be undone. My eyes widened in pure terror and my heart was a train pounding down the tracks. I broke out in a cold sweat, and I could not take my vision away from the tied down stranger in front of me. Their casual clothes were drenched with blood, and they did not move a single inch. I did not want to assume the worst, but frankly, I was definitely looking at nothing other than a fresh corpse. I winced, feeling sick and pained and winded all at once. I could not breath. My mind was foggy. Leave. I knew I had to leave. Before I even had the chance to process what I had just witnessed, rushed footsteps combined with the freezing rain to produce music. Terrifying music that almost sounded like a warning.


#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 Quandary! This week we’re going to explore the theme of ‘Quandary’. Life is full of uncertainties, whether about our futures, our jobs, our friends and family, or things as simple as what we’ll have for dinner. Some of these things don’t cause much of a stir, but others can leave us worried about real/perceived dangers and unsure about what we should do next. What obstacles are your characters facing? Who do they turn to in this time of perplexity? How do they cope with this difficult problem? They could be making the problem out to be bigger than it is, or maybe this one decision will cause a ripple that will affect everyone. What happens when another character challenges their choices? Maybe this is where we find an unlikely hero ready to step up to the plate. 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 22 - Quandary (this week) - May 29 - Respite - June 5 - Sanity   *** **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 - **First place:** - by u/rainbow\-\-penguin   - **Second place:** - by u/katherine_c   - **Third place:** - by u/Zetakh   - **Honorable Mention:** - - by u/MeganBessel   ###Crit Credits 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 . - **Crit Star** - u/rainbow\-\-penguin   *** ###Subreddit News - Looking for feedback and critique on a story? You can post for **free this week** on r/WPCritque through May 28th! - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


the words moved through her from years past. Memories of her parents as they knelt next to her and helped her say her goodnight prayers with her before tucking her into bed surfaced, and a lone tear escaped the corner of her eye. And now? She still said them. She felt she *needed* to say them, fearing him the way she did. Yet at the same time, like a malignant tumor ready to burst, she knew deep within her that it really wasn't her that needed to pray. It was him. Wasn't it? All the abuse she'd taken from him since they'd been together, and when was enough supposed to be enough? How many times had she heard, *"I"m sorry, baby.... I swear by all that I hold holy, I'll never do that again..."* she'd lost count. Just as she'd lost count with the numerous times she'd run away from him, only to have him find her and bring her back. And then all hell would break loose. It would literally be DAYS before she'd venture outside, allowing the bruises to heal. This night had been like all the others from before. She became jumpy and paranoid with each passing hour. More so when the time she could usually expect him home came and went... hours ago now. Night had settled comfortably, like a well worn jacket, and she began to prepare herself for the worse for when he *did* finally come home. It was a homecoming that she wasn't looking forward to, but knew it to be inevitable at the same time. Pacing the living room with movements that were quite agitated, her arms would move to cross over her chest only to fling themselves away and to her sides. The prickling began to tear itself piece by piece away from her a little at a time, what little coherency she had been able to cling to was now slipping away from her. Leaving her with a thought that no one could help her. No one would help her. She had only herself to rely on. As it had been since the death of her parents. Clouded hazel eyes roamed frantically over the living room, searching for some sort of weapon to protect herself. She knew how it would start, it was always the same. He would come stumbling in through the front door and bellow her name. The rage could be heard in his tone, the intensity of it deafening and drowning out the soft pleadings for him to *Please... don't do this... you promised... you promised that you wouldn't...* She found it better to not run from him, the pain that he would cause when she did run, that much more intense and hurtful.. spiteful even. Yet somehow she knew that tonight would be different. She wouldn't allow him to do this to her anymore. She couldn't. Her peace of mind, her very sanity as she knew it to be, was slipping over an edge where she would never be able to find herself once she fell. She remembered the gun at one point, hearing his truck pull into the driveway, she quickly made her way to the hall closet and retrieved it. Checking to see if it were loaded, she breathed a sigh of relief, her hands shaking as she closed the door and made her way back into the living room. To wait for her "punishment" as he called it. She never understood what she did wrong, and to him it never mattered. Everything about her was wrong, though he said he loved her. She felt her heart begin to thump loudly in her chest... beating wildly to the point where she thought she might swoon. Her breathing became more ragged, her cheeks flushed... excitement or fear? She didn't know, perhaps a combination of both. Or maybe it was because she knew, deep down, that tonight she would suffer no more. *"Abigail!"* his voice boomed and echoed as soon as he entered the house, slamming the door behind him with a bang, turning from the foyer and into the living room where he stops, seeing her standing there with her hands behind her back, merely looking at him with those hazel eyes of hers. Saying nothing, as usual. Shy little meek mouse that she was. *"Come here,"* he said softly. Abby shook her head, accenting the motion with one word, *"No."* Coal black eyes seemed to burn as he looked at her, his anger already surfaced on the ride home, the fury brimming and then spilling over at seeing her, moving out of control at her disobedience. The amount of alcohol he had consumed seemed to not hinder his movements, for he was right there before her before she knew it, breathing his fetid breath into her face, glaring at her, whispering in an ominous tone, *"Looks like you really deserve to be punished tonight, doesn't it Abigail?"* his hands moved from his sides to wrap around her slender throat. His thumbs pressing into her windpipe. Her eyes bulged and she gasped what she though would be her last breath. She felt her strength ebbing, and her eyes fluttered only to open and gaze back into his own. Her own arms moved from behind her, the sound of the gun being removed from it's safety position lost in his anger, his concentration only what he was doing to her, a smirk played over his features and he grinned at her with malevolence. Her lips began to move as both hands gripped tightly the butt of the gun, bringing the barrel of the weapon directly into his stomach. Soft words and tears began to spill from her lips and eyes as she pulled the trigger once... ...twice... ...a third time... a fourth time... ...a fifth and then final time... *Now I lay you down to sleep, I pray the Lord your soul to keep. Should you die before you wake, I pray the Lord your soul to take...


She was just sitting up there. If it weren’t for the picture of her, no one would’ve known she would be here at all, but the people nicknamed her as the girl on the edge of the crane. Her feet dangling below her, her right hand positioned behind her back on the stainless steel and her left, stretched out in front of her. That’s how this girl was sitting on the edge of the crane, hundreds of metres above the ground. Judging from her outfit, you would assume that she was a schoolgirl. At least when taken into consideration, her plaid skirt and her uniform style shirt. If a closer look was taken, you would realise that she is in fact a young woman, no younger than 18. Her ironed skirt and white-ish shirt, was just a part of her outfit. Her twin pony tails, were flying all around her body, bending to the force of the wind. The altitude was high enough for the wind to pick up speed and yet high enough for the wind to loose its power. Otherwise her hair wouldn’t have been the only thing flying around. Normally people would assume anyone sitting that close on the edge of death, would have the intention of jumping. And yet she had this look, in her eyes, of childlike interest. Her left arm reaching out into the dark sky, towards something only she could see. It was a clear night and the stars could be seen, perhaps she too saw them behind her spread out fingers. Perhaps she was reaching out, to form the illusion that she was holding a star, pinched in between her fingertips. Below her, you could see the city, as it shimmered under the cover of darkness. You could see the apartment lights with tenants living inside them, the cars slowly whizzing by, leaving either red or white stripes depending on their direction and the shops still open at that time, luring in customers with their colourful signs and displays. She hadn't come to die, no. But perhaps she had come seeking for comfort in a place where no other rational human would sit. She knew one misstep was all it took for her to end her life prematurely. But she wasn't nervous about that at all, in fact there weren’t any signs of fear or even anxiety in her eyes. Perhaps she had already made up her mind that she wasn't going to fall, or she had some tricks up her sleeves. Speaking of, they were too long and too dark and yet it was obvious that they were trying to conceal something. Perhaps some wounds or some scars, maybe even her thin fragile body itself. No matter what it was, she never uncovered them, granted that the only time we saw her, was in this still picture. It must have been freezing up there but apart from that, no one knew how this woman got up there. Some think she must have climbed the crane, without anyone else knowing or seeing. And yet nobody saw or reported her and prior to the photos discovery, no one had even known she had existed at all. It’s likely she didn’t make any rash movements or loud sounds, but to be seen or heard at this height would’ve had taken a tremendous amount of effort. Too much for random passerbys to spot her. People below her weren’t interested in the night sky, like she was. They were much more interested in getting to their destination, too busy to appreciate their surroundings or their achievements they already amassed. Perhaps she was the embodiment of all that people have lost over the years, all that people have longed for in this world, that was taken too soon by a world too focused on money and survival. If this photo was taken at the wrong time or the camera had never been placed there and if no one ever knew she was there, would she have existed at all? Why would she, out of all places, sit at the edge of the crane in utter silence, with no light source other than the dim shimmer of the stars? Adding to the mystery, no one knows how she got down there. The only evidence that she had existed at all, came from a still frame shot of a camera, which had been increasingly forgotten over the years, mounted to the top of the crane. It was one of many cameras mounted to the absurdly costly piece of equipment. Initially meant to record any evidence of malpractice but was deemed useless, since all it took, were shots of the sky and the city from the back of the crane. Furthermore, it was one of those really old cameras, which by some miracle still took a shot every minute after all these years. One still frame shot of a girl who mysteriously appeared and disappeared, sitting at the edge of the crane. One, was all it took for the world to be piqued in interest, as to who the woman was. Interestingly, the camera had enough quality to capture the girls expressions and clothes, but other than that, it was too dark to make out anything else, except the glowing lights of a city succumbing to the night. She could have been some otherworldly being, visiting us for a short amount of time, or perhaps she did this on a dare and had some way to climb up and down without being noticed, or the camera was so old that it was suddenly mixing up its records with previous shots. No one knew who the girl was, her picture was published in all the newspapers and media outlets, everyone trying to figure out who and where she was. But no answers were found. Anything that did turn up, was proven to be fake, made up by others searching for attention and validation. After a while everything died down and most people forgot the existence of the mysterious girl on the crane. Perhaps it would have been for the best. After all something this mysterious, maybe would be better off staying mysterious. But some people theorize that she wasn't pinching the stars with her fingers, as some people would do, some claim that she was reaching out to something. Something that was the reason why she and her body was illuminated, while the rest of the crane wasn't. Some had even saturated the photo to show the existence of a glowing orb, which apparently was floating just a bit away from her hand. But no one ever took those claims seriously. After all, glowing orbs, flying thousands of metres above the ground didn't exist. And with that, the woman couldn’t have existed at all. After all if no one is there to witness her existing, in the world we’re in, she would cease to exist. So this mysterious girl, at the edge of the crane, was forgotten about, from the rest of the world. And those who did remember her, nicknamed her: The girl on the edge of the crane.


#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: **Prompt: The sky was no longer red.** **Bonus Constraint (worth 5 extra pts.)** - Something is stolen. This week’s challenge is to use this simple writing prompt as **inspiration** for your story. You may interpret the prompt *any way you like*, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules. The sentence does not need to appear in your story (but you are more than welcome to, if you like). You may use for additional inspiration. The bonus constraint is not required.   *** #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 as an example.   *** #Rankings - **First:** - Submitted by u/katpoker666 - **Second:** - Submitted by u/TrickOfLight113 - **Third:** - Submitted by u/wileycourage - **Bay’s Spotlight:** - Submitted by u/katherine_c - **Crit Star** - u/FyeNite - **Crit Star** - u/merbaum *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 - Looking for feedback on a story? You can **post for free this week** on r/WPCritique, through May 28th! - 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.


The Callotians are a proud and intelligent race. Although it's widely accepted in their society that intelligence is not a simple linear progression, the Callotians as a species are well-read and well-traveled, to the point that many feel they've seen all the universe has to offer. This is why grrrr-pop-pop-click (translated to English as Kevin) was so perturbed that he could not make sense of the human's simple response. Years of prior research had shown that the standard human greeting when meeting a new intelligent species was "Take me to your leader". And yet, when Kevin knocked on the first front door he found and made the request, the answer was just "no". Instead, the human invited Kevin in and asked him to sit on a soft uncomfortable mass which his suckers couldn't seem to grip properly. Kevin was pretty sure the translator was working. Even though the humans had over 7000 languages, the Callotians' AI had studied millions of hours of their media for its database, and there had never been a problem with the translator before. Kevin was pretty sure the human knew he was an alien. Standing three feet tall with four tentacles, the closest looking thing on Earth to a Callotian was a sea urchin, but surely a human would know the difference, right? Then why had this human casually invited him in, instead of calling the military or the news or something more typical of a level 4 species' first contact? The human came in from the kitchen and sat down across from Kevin, handing him a glass of water. Kevin gratefully took the beverage, looking at it carefully before pouring it on himself. "At least their cups are normal" he thought to himself as he tried to find a comfortable position in his seat. Then the human spoke. "So, how can I help you?" This did nothing to alleviate Kevin's confusion. The human spoke like Kevin was a friend and not an entirely new species that this human alone knew about. "We uhhh, we come in peace" Kevin tried again to use the standard Earth greetings. The human laughed "Well that's good, I come in peace too". Kevin noticed the singular I. Behind his confusion, concern began to creep into Kevin's mind. "Why will you not take me to your leader?" Kevin asked, attempting to make any sense of the situation. "Oh uhh I umm... well I just don't think you'd like them very much. They're not very reasonable." the human replied, looking to the floor in embarassment. Now kevin was really lost. The humans' leaders were unreasonable? It was his understanding that leaders on Earth were elected. Why would you elect an unreasonable leader? It would be like making a flammable fire extinguisher. He could understand that differences in physiology could make this chair comfortable to sit in for a human, but what could possibly make someone elect a leader that they themselves called unreasonable? Kevin asked the human. "Well uhh everyones opinion is important y'know? Like we may not agree on everything but at least everyone's voice is heard so it's fair to everyone." This actually made some sense to Kevin. He knew the Callotians had tried a pure democracy long ago, but the extreme developmental differences between their twelve genders made it an unstable form of government compared to a meritocracy. Still, he had been sent here to establish relations with the local planetary government and he wasn't about to be scared off by some level 4 monkeys. Plus, this human seemed nice, and Kevin knew that due to a recent evolutionary bottleneck humans were pretty much all the same. How bad could an elected official be? "I see," Kevin began. "In any case I must establish contact with the leaders of this planet". The human seemed disappointed, but understanding. "Alright," he said "at least let me drive you there, I don't think the Whitehouse has spaceship parking". Kevin climbed into the front seat of the human's pickup truck into the more firm -but still uncomfortable- seat. As the human buckled him in he introduced himself. "I'm David, by the way". "My name is Kevin, nice to meet you" Kevin responded. David chuckled as he buckled himself in. "Nice to meet you, Kevin the alien". As they drove they began to talk. David of course wanted to know all about alien civilization and the technological advancements they'd made, while Kevin had a few questions about human society that years of observing TV broadcasts could not answer. David told Kevin about the many societies of Earth and their unique cultures, about the diverse animal life and beautiful views the planet had to offer. Kevin told David about the utopian society he came from, where disease and crime were practically nonexistant, and the incredible planets and stars he'd seen while traveling the galaxy. They even found a shared sense of humor in one of the few jokes that translates properly between English and Callotian: Why did the chicken (or Callotian slug) cross the road? Finally after over an hour of driving, they reached their destination. David parked across the street and together they walked down Pennsylvania Ave until they stood in front of the Whitehouse. David was pretty sure this wasn't where you were supposed to report an alien sighting to, but he was also pretty sure this was an exception. Plus, he always liked to make an entrance, and he couldn't help but smile at the passersby as they wondered what sort of weird prank this was. At first, nothing happened. "Try waving" David suggested. Kevin waved at the Whitehouse. Still nothing. "Hmmm, maybe they think you're in a costume or something...try dancing". While this translated to Callotian as "mating dance" it actually had the desired effect. Kevin began shaking his spines and waving his tentacles in a methodical, seductive manner. He was starting to feel silly when he heard a quiet hum, which grew into a roar as two windowless black vans raced down either side of the street, nearly hitting a tourist and trapping David and Kevin in between them. As the vans swerved to a halt, six men dressed in all black military gear hopped out of each of them, forming a circle and pointing their weapons at Kevin and David. Kevin was starting to see what David meant by "unreasonable". Surely the leadership of this planet did not think that the Callotians had begun an assault on an unsuspecting planet by sending a single unarmed soldier to stand in their capitol. In fact, the Callotians need not send anyone at all, Earth could easily be destroyed by a blast from a Callotian solar cannon. Still, he reasoned, they were probably right to be suspicious. This was, after all, only their first contact. David interrupted his train of thought. "Uhh, so Kevin, it looks like I'm not gonna see you again for a while. I just wanted to say it was really nice meeting you and uhh, I'm sorry. About them." "Thank you for your hospitality-" was all Kevin was able to get out before they were each roughly tossed into the back of their respective vans. As the doors slammed shut and the vans sped off, Kevin decided now would be a good time to take a nap. Kevin awoke in a featureless white room, with walls and floors of smooth tile. "Finally a decent place to sit" he thought to himself. A camera in the corner of the room watched as Kevin made himself comfortable, suctioning firmly to the ground while his spines shook in relief. A speaker in the ceiling crackled to life as a voice spoke through it. "Can you understand me?" it said. "Yup" replied Kevin. It was silent for a moment and then the voice spoke again. "What do you want from us?" it asked. This was a bit more hostile than how David greeted Kevin, but David had said to expect that. He also said Kevin might be able to get them to relax if he told a joke. "Why did the Earth slug cross the road?" Kevin replied. There was a long period of silence, as though they had to think hard for the answer, then the voice came back nervously over the speaker. "Uhhh t- to get to the other side?". Kevin laughed at the delightfully simple humor, hissing and shaking his spines like he hadn't in years. For some reason this seemed to upset the voice. "We are the most powerful military force on this planet. We are willing and capable of defending ourselves- even if that means destroying you." Kevin started to get annoyed. He had just told a funny joke and in return they were threatening him? He instructed his translator to make him sound smarter. "Foul politician, you dare make empty threats against me and my people? And yet in the same breath you reveal your own ignorance- you know not the capabilities or intent of my species, else we would not be here. Even if your primitive weapons could harm me it would be of no consequence, our medical technology outstrips yours just as much as our military technology! You would be weak and foolish to make an enemy of us". It was not his finest diplomatic work, but Kevin was pretty sure he had put that dumb voice in its place. Suddenly, one of the walls in the room began to slide down. The light behind it was too bright to see through, but Kevin could make out the silhouettes of a few dozen men with guns, all pointed at him. "Maybe their leaders are not so reasonable after all" Kevin thought to himself. Still desperate to salvage the situation and complete his mission, he tried one last time to establish peaceful contact. "Uhhh... we do come in peace though" he said nervously. Walking into the room from behind the light, a man replied. Kevin recognised his voice as the voice from the speaker. "Nice try, xeno" the man said, chuckling to himself, "But you're gonna have to do better than that to outsmart us. Now, since you're so tough maybe you wouldn't mind staying a while for us to... observe you." The way he said it made Kevin very nervous. Callotian medical technology was good, but he would still rather not go through whatever barbaric experiments these level 4's had thought up. In his mind Kevin summoned the rescue pod, now all he had to do was stall. "Actually I would like to invoke my right under Article 4 of the Callotian Rights Agreement to leave now please". This response went about as well as expected as the man burst into laughter "Ahahahahaha, well unfortunately for you, xeno, Earth has not signed onto that agreement, so you're coming with me." he said as he grabbed one of Kevin's tentacles. "NO!" Kevin yelled, yanking his tentacle back so hard it caused the man to fall. Suddenly there was a loud pop, then a smack as Kevin felt a painful punch in his side. Looking down he saw where the bullet had hit him, breaking two of his spines before penetrating his skin. A dark purple goo slowly leaked from the wound. "Hold your fire!" the rude man shouted from the floor "We don't know how quickly it'll decompose when we kill it!". "When you kill me?" Kevin thought to himself, the anger building through every spine in his body. What kind of a primitive backwater world was this that they couldn't even handle diplomatic relations? What kind of people interrogate their first contact? This species didn't even deserve to be visited by the Callotians, he thought as he began to tremble with rage. Kevin was nearly ready to let loose on the ignorant beasts when a tremendous crash shook the building, as the rescue pod slammed through the reinforced concrete floors like a stone through wet toilet paper. When it finally came to a rest in between Kevin and the armed guards, the door popped open and Kevin hurried inside, all too eager to leave. As the engines began to hum and the ship took off, kevin could hear the pings of weak human armaments bouncing off the side of the ship. He grimaced to himself as he sat in the autodoc and pulled up a communications channel. For all their posturing they really were a primitive species. Kevin's boss appeared onscreen. "Well, how did it go?" she asked, checking her notes on the species he had just investigated. "They shot me." Kevin replied nonchalantly as the autodoc began to patch him up. "They SHOT you!?" she nearly screamed "So they're a hostile level 4 species?? Not good, very not good. Do you know what happened to the last hostile level 4 that reached level 5? I'll order an exterminatus immediately" she said, quickly reaching for a nearby terminal. "Wait, " Kevin interrupted, not fully believing what he was about to say "maybe there's a better way." "Like what?" his boss snapped back, anxiously studying her paperwork for any weaknesses she had overlooked "Well uhh I think maybe the problem is with their leadership. Maybe if they had a better influence to follow they wouldn't be so mean." His boss snorted. Knowing as well as Kevin did that it was illegal for a Callotian to rule over another species, she replied "And I suppose you have someone in mind?" "I do" Kevin said, pulling a single strand of hair from between his spines and putting it into a slot in the autodoc. A map appeared on his screen showing a positive molecular match close to where he had been rescued.


You’re being threatened by a goose. You have no idea what you’ve done to make this bird so angry, but it’s been getting very scary lately. It’s been sending you notes, slid under your door, so you know it knows where you live. The notes don’t say anything except ‘honk,’ but from the handwriting you can tell that it’s an angry honk. It calls you on the phone, late at night and early morning, and ignoring it won’t work. The goose just lets it ring and ring and ring and ring until eventually someone picks up and the goose honks loudly into the receiver then hangs up. If you’re lucky, that’s all that happens, but usually the goose calls again, sometimes a few hours later, sometimes a few minutes, sometimes immediately. Soon, you spot the goose standing outside your house, next to a big sign that just says “HONK!” Your parents call the police, but they eventually say that because the goose is on a public sidewalk and not their property, they can’t make it go away. The goose honks in your direction and fluffs its wings as the police drive off. Things get worse. One of your parents is driving when they realize their brakes don’t work. They’re able to jump out of their car before it runs into the highway. The police come by again and tell you they’ve taken in the goose for questioning, but had to let it go because it wouldn’t answer any questions–it had already called a lawyer. They suggested, in the meantime, getting a restraining order. That’s what you do. The goose, legally, cannot be within 500 feet of you. You don’t see the goose for a few days after that. You feel calm for the first time in a while. You go to bed and sleep soundly. When you wake up, though, there’s a goose feather on your pillow. Your blood chills. You look around your room and see everything has been moved, like someone was going through it when you slept. Then there’s a loud knock on the door. It’s the police. You ask whether it’s the goose, but they say no, it’s you. They tell you the goose was killed last night, and that they found your backpack near the body, covered in goose blood. You tell them no, that you were home asleep the whole time and bring them to your room to show them, but then they spot the goose feather. They ask where you got it, why you have it. You say you don’t know. They compare the feather to another one they have on them and find it’s a match. The cops arrest you and you’re marched to their car in your pajamas. You keep saying you’re innocent, that you didn’t kill the goose, but they don’t listen. You can’t believe this is happening. They shove you in the back seat and lock the door. Then, as the car pulls away, you see it: the goose. Standing on the roof of the house across the street. It lifts its wing and waves at you. You scream for the cops to turn around, that the goose is right there, but they just laugh as you get further and further away, the goose growing small until fading from view completely.


Eliza lay awake in bed. She couldn’t fall asleep. Tomorrow was her Silencing ceremony, and she was beyond excited, but, well, also nervous. Once she returned from the clinic, she would have lost the power of speech. Of course, it was partially symbolic, she would still be able to communicate through writing and typing, obviously. And she would still go to school, become educated and have a career- in fact her occupation profile was finalized- she would become a software engineer, and as of next term, she would be studying programming almost exclusively. Occupational profiles had to be finalized before the Silencing, in case there were women with exceptional singing voices who would be allowed to keep their vocal chords and join the entertainment industry. All the others were Silenced. Today had been full of celebrations and joy. Her mom and older sisters had spent months planning it. She had the most beautiful dress – everybody had been dressed beautifully, as a matter of fact, the food had been amazing, and a special group of Singers had been hired for live entertainment. It had been a truly incredible experience. What with Dad’s high-paid job as Teacher, money had never been an issue for them. Eliza had wanted to become a Teacher, like her Dad. She had grown up watching him prepare lesson plans, grade assignments with his thick chunky red pens, discussing course content and pedagogy with his colleagues loudly and passionately. She was enthralled by it all and knew, as indeed her Dad told her, there was actually nothing more noble and worthwhile than teaching and shaping the mind of the young. No wonder only men were entrusted to be Teachers. She remembered her mom laughing until the tears ran down her face when she had first mentioned wanting to become like Teacher “Just like Daddy”. Then mom had gathered her in her arms and sobbed as if her heart had broken. Eliza was told about the Silencing a short while after that. She was ready for it. She understood why it was necessary. Dad had explained it all carefully: the history, the benefits to society, the evolution from a symbolic tattoo along the throat, to an actual, painless clinical procedure which disabled the vocal chords of women permanently. She was lucky she had a Teacher Dad who took the time to explain things so beautifully to her- others would usually just get an official brochure with the date and time of their Silencing appointment, although schools sometimes included educational material on Silencing. However, as Dad said, it was very important that it was taught correctly, with proper context, otherwise it wouldn’t be understood properly. That’s why Teaching was such an important job. It didn’t used to be like that, in the bad old days, when women jabbered, chattered, gossiped, wheedled, manipulated men and told stories and yammered and protested and wanted this and that and the other- society had been always in chaos then. Eliza was so happy she lived now, and not in those old days.


She never went out without a book under her arm. It helped block out the world – and made a half-decent weapon if the need arose. That was what had saved her the day the Poiloogs came, and every day since. \ Madeline blinked her eyes, shielding them from the ray of sunlight that had dragged her from her slumber. She glanced over at the window and was relieved to see the purples and pinks of dawn still hung in the air. As she pushed herself up, the mattress shifted slightly against the hardwood flooring, making her world lurch. Once she’d steadied herself, she climbed to her feet and surveyed the office-cum-bedroom. Everything seemed to be as she’d left it the previous night, with no signs of intrusion or imminent danger, just as it had yesterday morning, and the morning before that, and the morning before that… With a heavy sigh, she bent down to pick up a bucket and a set of keys, before heading out into her library. Her fingers traced along the wall as she padded down the windowless corridor. When she reached the fire escape, she felt along the ridges of the keys, selecting the correct one to fit into the bike lock that sealed the entrance. As the door swung open, crisp air hit her face. She stepped outside into the library’s garden, revelling in the feeling of the cold damp ground on her bare feet. While she appreciated the safety of her small, inside world, here, if she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, she could regain some semblance of freedom. She crossed the garden in a few strides and stopped at one of the large water butts to fill her bucket. Then, she set about the task of cleaning herself. The water was bracing against her skin, causing her pulse to quicken in a welcome reminder that she was, in fact, still alive. When she was finished, she emptied the bucket and refilled it once more, before heading back inside to the small kitchen. There, she slowly poured the water through a clean coffee filter to clear it of any sediment. As she watched the steady trickle she willed it to speed up. The gnawing pit in her stomach demanded filling, even if not completely – never completely. But she had to follow the routine. The routine was what kept her safe. What kept her sane. Once the water had been filtered and sealed in a hodge-podge collection of bottles, she started on breakfast, heating a tin of baked beans on her camping stove. The sweet, tomatoey scent that floated out made her mouth water. When they were ready, she practically inhaled them, burning her tongue in the process. After rinsing the pan and utensils, she took stock of her supplies: a dozen gas canisters, seven tins containing soups, beans, and vegetables, and around a kilogram of rice. While she knew that could last her a while yet, she also knew how long it could take her to find more. She needed to go out today, no matter how much she wanted to delay. She had the store picked out and the route plotted, all she had to do was pack a bag. But for all her yearning for the freedom of the outside world, the idea of going filled her with dread. \ Madeline hoisted her rucksack up a little, adjusting the position until it nestled comfortably on her hips as she walked among the stacks of her library. Holding her lantern in one hand, she ran the fingertips of the other along the neatly aligned spines. Though the towering shelves cast long, dark shadows, she hardly needed the light from her lantern, only pausing to wind it up when she leant in to examine a particular book. Here, she always knew exactly where she was. After careful consideration, evaluating the various volumes on the grounds of interest and heft, she selected a hard-cover copy of *Emma*. While a new story might have been more captivating, there was something comforting about the old favourites. Book safely tucked under her arm, she stuffed the lantern into her bag and headed into the garden, locking the door behind her. She scaled the garden wall with ease, hardly paying attention as her hands and feet found the familiar holds. As she peeked over the top, her eyes darted around, surveying the outside world for any sign of movement. But everything was still. The same empty buildings with the same broken windows stared down at her as always. Her feet barely made a sound as she jumped down, but it seemed deafening in the silence. After a brief pause, waiting to see if anyone had heard, she started walking. She took care to slink along the edge of the street, clinging to the shadows and softening her footsteps as best she could. As she darted across an alleyway, a cacophony of clanging and crashing assaulted her senses. She whipped around, planting her back firmly against the wall as she sought the source of the sound. A sigh of relief escaped her lips when she saw it – a family of foxes rummaging through some of the junk that lined the streets. Her mouth twitched upwards in a wry smile at the persistence of the urban wildlife. The hum of an approaching ship wiped that smile off her face. She dived into the alleyway and clambered through an empty window frame, slicing her palm on a fragment of left-over glass. Gritting her teeth, she managed to subdue the hiss of pain that threatened to escape her lips as she hauled herself through. Safely hidden inside the building, she inspected the wound. Scarlet flowed from the gash, falling to the floor in a steady *drip drip*, but at least the cut looked clean. She clenched her fist in an attempt to slow the bleeding and turned to peek out of the window. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she caught sight of the Poiloog, straddling the craft with its eight angular legs, its pincers working the strange controls as its bulbous head swept from side to side. Ducking out of sight, she leant back against the wall and took the book out from under her arm, fumbling with her good hand in an attempt to keep the volume free of bloodstains. In her hurry, she opened it to a random page and started reading – focussing on the words and nothing else. When she reached the end of the scene, she sidled up to the window once more. There was no sign of the Poiloog, the hum of its ship a distant memory. Madeline let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. She closed her eyes and took a moment to collect herself before turning her attention back to the cut on her hand. It was still bleeding, sweat stinging in the wound. She placed her book down and clenched her left fist while she fished around in her bag with her other hand for a bottle of water. Tilting it ever so gently, she allowed a thin trickle to fall onto the gash. With the cut looking clean enough, she just had to bandage it somehow. She couldn’t abide the thought of tearing a strip of fabric off of any of her clothes, or the bags she carried, having no idea if she would be able to replace them. And there wasn’t going to be anything clean enough here. Eventually, her eyes settled on her feet. A minute, and some awkward scrabbling later, she had one foot slightly colder than the other, and a sock wrapped firmly around her hand. It would have to do for now. Makeshift first-aid taken care of, she paused to listen to the outside world. Silence reigned once more. It was time to get moving again. She considered the window frame she had climbed through, the edge littered with shards of glass, glinting with the red of the blood they’d taken. The only other way out was the door, which led onto the main street – a bit too exposed for her liking, but it was better than risking further injury. She climbed to her feet and slowly eased herself across the old floorboards, wincing at the creak each step caused until she reached a window on the adjacent wall. She peered through. Everything looked clear. She tried the door handle. It swung open with a long, subdued *squeak*. But thankfully, there was no one around to hear it. Madeline resumed her careful journey through the streets, head swivelling as she kept her eyes and ears open for signs of danger. She didn’t like being outside for this long, the exposed feeling heightened by every passing minute. But as she exhausted the supplies of more and more stores near her, it was only going to get worse. Unless she moved on from the library of course… but that didn’t bear thinking about. As the tension wound its way into her muscles, she found her pace increasing. She reached her destination a couple of hours later, sweaty and slightly out of breath. After taking a few seconds to survey her surroundings she slipped inside. It seemed she hadn't been the first to visit this particular shop. Most of the shelves were bare, though a few items lay scattered across the floor, and a heavy musk permeated the air. Hoping this wouldn't prove to be a wasted trip, she started scouring the store for anything that might be of use when a voice from the shadows startled her from her task. "Y-you shouldn't be here.


From a distance, I watched them making jokes, laughing at each other. I felt nothing but an ever-increasing emptiness. In the past, I tried to save them, each one. I really did my best, but it was never enough. In the end they all died, it was just a matter of time. All my efforts, all my struggles were not enough to keep them alive, to keep them from dying. This timeline will not be different, the outsider will come, there will be no war. There just needs to be no war. It will be a massacre. I'm just a single person who is completely powerless against them, and what's worse, the people from this world - who I'm desperately trying to protect - don't even take my concerns seriously. They laugh like it's a joke or act like I'm crazy. There really are days when I doubt my own sanity, but it would be strange if that weren't the case, wouldn't it? How many times have I died? How many times have I tried to convince them to get ready? How many times have I just begged for it all to end? I stopped counting. Countless times I tried to save them, put myself in danger, used my own body as a shield to protect them. The end was always the same. I feel like I hit a wall. Whatever I did, it was in vain. I couldn't save even one person, let alone the whole world. The chance is gone for me. I just wanted to die, and I did. And woke up again. Even if I wanted to die, I couldn't. It felt like a curse. It didn't matter what I wanted, I had no choice but to live, and I hated every second of it. Over the course of the different timelines, I found that I had changed. I used to be desperate, there were times when I literally begged them to hear me out. Sometimes they felt sorry for me, pretended to believe me, but when the disaster came, they were shocked. What I said was true. They didn't believe me for a second, in the end they wasted all my time. They gave me hope even though there was none. That's why I don't try to talk to them. It's all pointless anyway. And that's why I'm choosing a different path, one I've never considered before. I will rise above each and every one of them, like a star I will descend into heaven, but instead of an angel I will take the form of a demon. Straight out of hell. I will not beg them to trust me, to believe my words - it is too late for that. I will show them how powerless they really are, I will show them fear and force them to prepare - even if it means that I will be their enemy. I will kill innocent people. It's too late to regret it now, to back down just because I'm afraid of the blood that will be on my hands very soon. Perhaps it is my fate to be hated by the very people I have always tried to protect - what a truly cruel fate. But I don't have the power to go against fate itself, even if I wanted to. I am just a human being forced to relive the end of our world again and again - unable to change it, unable to prevent it. I'm tired, exhausted by it all, and frankly I don't have the will to go on anymore. I have died countless times, each time in such a cruel way that I want to die. To put an end to it all. A person should not experience death more than once. There are reasons why they die, and they never come back - at least that's what I believe. Death is not something that can be glossed over to make it more attractive - it destroys the lives of countless people, but it is necessary. There is no one who knows better, it is better to die than to go on living. Repeat the same life over and over again. Trust me, because once a certain point is passed, a person begins to change. They become twisted, question their own sanity, and feel themselves slowly losing control - unable to die, they are forced to stay, forced to endure. I'm not saying they are weak because they are collapsing under the pressure - it's just a matter of time. The burden will not disappear even for a second, will remind them every time to give everything, not to give up - because if they do, they don't know if they can get up again. They won't. Please believe me, you keep forgetting that they are human too. Mortals. So are their bodies and minds - they can't last forever. They will fall. They will break. It's just a matter of time. That's not an insult, I'm not trying to downplay their efforts - it's the harsh reality. Even the hardest metal can be bent if you put enough pressure on it, and it will break if it refuses to do so. That is the law. The unwritten law of this world. You can shake your head all you want, it doesn't change anything. My words have changed nothing, neither my honesty nor my warnings - about what will happen. They denied the truth until the very last second, shaking their heads in complete disbelief when their time was up. It was the same as always. They died, one by one. As always, there were some who blamed me for not warning them sooner, they yelled at me to save them, to do something - I couldn't help but laugh. I should save them? What do they think I've been doing all this time? Why do they think I was begging them, desperately hoping they would understand - do they think I'm doing it because it's fun? Being laughed at? Looked down upon? Swallowing your pride, asking for help, for their trust? Who do they think I am? I had an urgent need to yell at them, to grab them, to shake them - to force them to understand. But I was interrupted. They were killed literally seconds before I could do anything. They were cut in half. I felt like the world was laughing at me, mocking my tireless efforts. I heard the sound of something crumbling, but before I could look for the source, I was killed. Like an innocent bystander, I watched my torso rise until it was swallowed by it. In one piece. I couldn't run away, couldn't even turn my head away - because that's all I have left. Wasn't I supposed to be dead by now? As if my wish had come true, I too was eaten. Devoured by the nameless enemy. I called them the Outsiders, which in my humble opinion was a pretty good title for these invaders. But here I am again, at the very beginning of my "journey." Here I am in this depraved place. Unpleasant memories flashed through my mind, reminding me of the person I once was. Of the person I once used to be. Why does nothing change? Why is all my struggle in vain? Why don't they understand that I am as powerless as they are? As helpless as they are? Or maybe I'm even more desperate than they are, they at least have someone to back them up, someone to believe them, maybe even money or people on their side - I'm alone. There is not a single person who will miss me, who will even notice that I am gone. That is the hard truth. I am all alone - yet I am forced to stay in this cursed world. Since I cannot die, they force me to relive it's very last moments. They demand that I save the world, empty-handed. So here I am, shaking my head in disbelief. I will save them; I will save every one of these fools - by killing them. I will force them - as this world forced me - to be strong, to persevere in the face of crisis. There will be no doubt, they will not have the time. They will rise from the ashes and try to beat me, their enemy - maybe they will win, but I personally don't care - what matters is what happens afterwards. Will they finally be able to defend themselves? To prevent their downfall - but I will never know. My life has lost any meaning ages ago, here I am just barely hanging on a single thread. Dangeling above an endless darkness, but I have yet to give up this last hope. Desperately I am clinging onto it, refusing to let go - hoping 'wanting' something is enough to archieve it. I should have known better, should have faced reality sooner. Maybe it wouldn't be so harsh if I did it, braised myself, instead of running away. It's too late. Even if I have the 'power' to change the past, have the 'power' to overcome death itself - it doesn't save me from myself. I can feel it, how I am slowly losing the grip, slowly losing my sanity...