I went to summer camp when I was a kid. My mother saw an ad online and insisted on it—this great, big, family-owned place tucked between some mountains in the Adirondacks. Summers in my small Vermont town were dull and uneventful, and though this was an attempt to fix that, I wanted nothing to do with it. Not because of the outdoors or anything. I didn’t mind being bunked in a dusty cabin, packed with strangers and spiders, without bathrooms or electricity. Nor did I think I was too cool for the silly games and activities proudly displayed on their website. It actually seemed fun. I just felt guilty having any sort of experience without Lily. She’d only been gone a few months. Cities and towns rushed past my window, growing few and far between. The wooded northern roads led us into a long stretch of evergreen tunnel. I gazed silently out the window, doing nothing to hide the bad mood I was in; I was a soon-to-be teenage girl who, on top of having her first fight with her parents, had just had her first period. The last thing I wanted to do was sit in the car with them for two hours. I’d sometimes catch Mom’s eye in the rear-view, but she remained unusually silent. The mother I knew would have spent quite some time reviewing the dangers I could have faced that summer. Things like ticks, sun poisoning, bears, or becoming one of the two hikers a year who go missing in those six million acres. But there was none of that. Not even a word from my dad, who was always good for a laugh. I’d hardly spoken to either of them since Lily. I didn’t even wave bye when the ferry took off for camp. A thin white haze covered the water that day. I stared out over the side of the ferry as we drifted into it, face turned to the breeze as I pressed against the rail. There were two dozen other girls and boys on that boat, and most of them seemed to have already known each other. Some were chatting excitedly beside me, while others zoomed past in a game of tag or in search of other familiar faces that would light up when found. I took it all in, hopeful of what the summer had in store. The charms of Lily’s bracelet clinked against my wrist in the misty wind. Shuttle busses met us on the other side of Lake Champlain and drove small groups at a time down the winding road that eventually led to Burntwood Grounds. I was of the lucky few that had to wait for the last one to double back. The longer I spent on that bench by the dock, slouched against my bag, the more anxious I was to get there. I daydreamed of all the fun I might have, clinging to Mom’s promise that this place would feel like home soon enough. When my shuttle finally arrived, I took the very first seat and watched the others file in to the very back, wondering who, if any, among the group would be my friend by summer’s end. I imagined Lily sitting in the empty seat beside me choosing my next best friend. That’s exactly the kind of thing she would have done. But then I felt a knot in my gut, so I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to see her see all the fun I was having. After driving through an old, small town, whose bricked factories had long since shut down, we were treated to breathtaking glimpses of the Adirondack mountains, rugged and impossibly large. We couldn’t see some of their tops above the overcast, and eventually lost complete sight of them as the shuttle barreled down the forest road that lead to the camp’s entrance. We stopped at a seemingly innocent gap in the trees where a large branch-lettered sign pointed us inward: WELCOME TO BURNTWOOD. Beyond was a dirt road that ascended just slightly, as though taking you up to an entirely new world. I could feel a shift in gravity as we rolled through. At the end, the trees opened up once more and spit you out onto the largest field you’d ever seen. A single golf cart sat markedly in the distance. The other ferry-goers stood around a campfire beside it. They all perked up when they noticed the last shuttle approaching, watching as it dropped us off just a short walk away. Two girls by the fire clapped their hands and squealed at the sight of their friend behind me; she shoved past to go hug them. Counselors in bright orange shirts greeted the rest of us, gasping over how much everyone had changed since they’d last seen each other. I noticed several eyes pass over me and move on to someone else. It was clear that everybody knew everybody around here, and that I wasn’t yet one of them. An older gentleman with darker skin and a goatee stepped forward with his hand held high to get our attention. The pin on his shirt read “Simon.” His voice was deep, with a hint of an accent I couldn’t place. “Okay everyone, listen up! Now that you’re all here, and your bags are off to inspection, let’s take some time to catch up, make a s’more, or two—but not three!” He shot a comedic glance at one particular boy, alluding to an inside joke that I was on the outside of. He paused for laughter and then continued, drawing out his words in a slow, dramatic fashion as he paced back and forth, waving his hands as he spoke. “But first! I just want to say a few things before we begin the 46th summer here at Burntwood Grounds.” The crowd erupted into applause. Simon stood by with a grin and waited. “Yes! Forty-six summers of love. Love for each other. For ourselves. For nature. We are all truly blessed to be here—this, you know. But what you may not know is that things here are not always perfect. Just like each and every one us. There are parts of us beneath the surface—parts we may not like. Parts we deny. Maybe parts we aren’t aware of. Parts that make you who you really are, yes, but parts we can improve upon. Which is why our theme this summer is *self-discovery and growth*. Understanding who we are, for all the good and all the bad. Searching within ourselves for our true identity and embracing all parts of it so as to discover, not just who we are, but who we truly want to be. Find yourself. Love yourself.” He let the words sink in. A group of older kids in front nodded their heads and muttered a phrase under their breath that the rest of the group then repeated. It reminded me of church. I shuddered at a vision of Lily’s casket at the altar. “Now...” Simon concluded with a clap. “Who is ready for the best summer of their life!” The crowd cheered and broke into an excited frenzy, grouping up with the friends they hadn’t seen since last summer. I took a seat on a log by the dying fire, invisible among the buzz. Another girl my age sat down on the other side and poked some life back into the embers, preparing herself a s’more as the fire gasped and was alive once more. I tried not to look when she dropped marshmallows onto the dirt and put them on a stick anyway. She, too, was sneaking glances my way, and my struggle to avoid it only made it harder to do so. It made my palms sweat. But she didn’t seem bothered. She enjoyed her snack while playfully poking the pit with her stick, moving to a song that must’ve been playing in her head. My tempted eyes lingered longer, noting the many differences in our appearance: her straight blonde hair falling freely over her shoulders while my curly brown locks were hidden inside my bun; her bright green eyes were tempered with a stroke of hazel where my plain browns were dull and tired; her pale, freckly skin was worn with dirt and scrapes where my sun-kissed body was a smooth caramel, clean and moisturized. But the closer I looked, the more I saw familiarity in our distinction, as though created from the other’s shadow. The crackling of the flames grew louder. I heard the girl’s voice call out from behind them. “I like your bracelet.” I looked up and saw her take a big bite of her s’more. “Thanks,” I mustered. “Do you want one?” She was mid-chew, with marshmallow on her lips. I shook my head. I wanted to thank her but then seconds had passed. Her eyes kept meeting mine as she continued to chew. When she finished, she grabbed everything she needed to make another and moved herself next to me. “You’ve never been here before,” she stated, quite strangely. She was playing with the fire again, stabbing her stick in and out of it. “First time,” I said with my eyes to the ground, where my feet awkwardly tapped. The chatter around us was growing louder. I could feel the girl’s attention on me, so I asked, “What about you?” She huffed a laugh as she licked chocolate off her hand. “I was born here.” I froze. The fire hissed at her as she continued to poke it. When she looked at me, I could see she wasn’t kidding. “I’m a Lovel,” she said. “Marcy’s my mom.” My stomach sank further. Was I supposed to know who that was? It was bad enough not knowing a single thing about Burntwood, now I was screwing up the only interaction I’d had all day. The girl could sense my anxiety. It seemed to amuse her. “My family owns camp,” she explained. “I’m Charlie. What’s your name?” I cleared my throat. “Maddie.” Charlie reached down for the graham crackers and marshmallows and fixed herself another. “Maddie,” she repeated to herself. “Are you sure you don’t want one? They’re really good.” Those big green eyes were begging me to join her. So I grinned and agreed, to which she joyfully tossed the bag of marshmallows my way. “This is my fourth one,” she whispered. “Don’t tell. Here.” She held her stick out for me to take, and without hesitating I grabbed it, not realizing it was the end that had been in the fire. It burned my hand worse than I ever had before. I shrieked and stared at the throbbing red mark seared into my palm, shooting a frightened glance at Charlie who was looking guilty as ever, her hands clasped over her mouth. The sea of children surrounding us parted as orange shirts hurried over. Simon pushed to the front, took one look at it, and immediately rushed me onto the golf cart. Gasps and murmurs tailed behind me. As we sped off, the roof of the cart rattling with every bump, I looked back at the receding crowd and saw Charlie wave a sad good bye. I waved back. — Burntwood only continued to expand, like a web, roads through the trees leading to various village-like sections of log cabins. It was hard to pay much attention to any of it given the pain in my hand. After what felt like far too long, we’d finally stopped at what appeared to be the main area of camp. Two large buildings faced one another, separated by a view of the lake beyond. Simon led me into the left building, through a lobby and into an open recreational space where two women—one young, one old—stood face to face behind a table, in the midst of a seemingly important discussion. The younger woman froze at the sight of us. “Medical,” Simon announced. The younger woman’s face softened as she turned to face us, the older woman’s gaze still on her. A white glow from the day’s overcast sky was pouring in through the window wall behind them, casting shadows of the tables and sofas all around. The younger woman stepped out from around the table. “What happened?” “Sorry, Marce. She was cooking marshmallows with Charlie. Grabbed a stick by the wrong end.” The older woman, whose wrinkled neck disappeared somewhere inside her purple shall, began to walk off but paused by Marcy’s side. “Fix it,” she muttered. “Yes, mother. Come,” Marcy added to me with an outstretched hand. I followed her to an office in back, taking a peak over my shoulder to see Simon with his arm around the old woman, heading for the exit. I had a feeling she wasn’t talking about my injury. Marcy’s office was small and refreshingly cold. Safe to say there probably weren’t very many air conditioned spaces at Burntwood, but the Hemlock Building was easily the most modern area of camp, complete with electricity and plumbing. It was no wonder head staff spent most of their time there. Marcy sat me down beside her desk and pressed a cold rag against my hand. I followed stray streams of drops down my wrist where Lily’s bracelet softly lay, her initials shining from the light above. “So how do you like Burntwood so far?” Marcy asked with a sarcastic grin. Her teeth were perfectly straight and almost unnaturally white. She might’ve been forty but certainly didn’t look it. Her hair, unlike Charlie’s, was brown and wavy, and braided around the top of her head. Her eyes dark, but soft. “I know this place can be intimidating,” she said, “but I promise it’s not as scary as it seems. Trust me. I’ve been here my whole life.” She motioned for me to hold the rag while she searched inside a first aid kit. My attention, however, was bouncing from wall to wall, each heavily decorated in Burntwood memorabilia. T-shirts and bandanas from years past spread open and nailed to the wall. Posters and pictures, and spray-painted trophies. Hiking gear, oars, ski poles, and an autographed hockey stick hung above the door. Marcy was rubbing ointment on my hand when she noticed my stare. “Chris Tremblay. Have you heard of him?” “Yeah!” I gasped. “My dad has his jersey.” “Well, he went here,” Marcy grinned. “Years ago. Just a small little thing like you. Knew nothing about camp. Didn’t want to be here,” she added with a raised brow. “And you know what he said to me on the last day? He said it was the best summer of his life. Cried when his parents picked him up. So he came back the next summer, and the five after that. Even dreamed of being a counselor some day but was too committed to hockey when the time came. After the Rangers drafted him, he visited us before heading down to the city. Said he owed everything to Burntwood. That it changed his life.” She must’ve noticed the skepticism in my face, as she leaned in closer. “When he first set foot on these grounds, nobody knew who he was. And when he left that day, there were kids wearing his name on the backs of their shirts.” I glanced once more at the blue shine of his stick above but didn’t feel any better; the air around Burntwood was still heavier than it was anywhere else. And I was still the fool who got hurt in her first hour there. I winced as Marcy began wrapping my hand, pressing the ointment down for a refreshingly cold sting. When she asked me to sit still, I apologized. “It’s okay,” she chuckled. “Everything’s fine. You’re doing great.” But she could see that I was not. She paused, the roll of gauze still in her hand as she worked through something in her mind. “Can I tell you something?” she said suddenly. “Something not many people know?” I nodded, and she continued, wrapping my hand as she spoke. “The woman who founded this place? She got burned real bad too. Her name was Eleanor. She lived in a shack deep in the woods with her family, many years ago. The man who owned it let them stay there in exchange for work. You know, helping on the farm. Stuff like that. And so for a while, that’s what they did.” The wrap got a bit tight, so Marcy unwrapped a few layers and began again. “It wasn’t a great life, but they had no where else to go. So every day, they worked and did all they could to survive in that little shack. It wasn’t easy. And the landlord didn’t make it any easier. You see, he was a very bad man. He was cruel. He worked them too hard, especially the children. Sometimes he’d withhold food if they weren’t working hard enough. When Eleanor stood up to him, he hit her. Almost broke her jaw.” Marcy turned and rummaged through the first aid kit once more, items jangling inside as she continued her story. “Of course, Eleanor then realized that her family was in danger, and that, despite the food and shelter, she needed to get them out of there. Whatever it took to keep her family safe. So late one night, while the landlord slept in his big, empty house beside them, she hurried her four little ones out into the darkness, carrying sacks filled with as much as they could carry. Food, water, clothing.” She finally found what she’d been digging for, pulling out a small pair of scissors and cutting the wrap from the roll. “It was a very windy night, something that should’ve worked in their favor. But just as they were about to reach the only road out, a gunshot rang loud into the air. And it was *chaos*. Eleanor cried for her children to run, not even realizing she’d been shot. She collapsed, shouting still for her children to escape. Her eldest daughter, Shereen, turned back and saw her mother bloody and struggling. So she went back for her, despite Eleanor’s pleas not to. More gunshots were fired, and the kids were disappearing down the dark road without anyone to look after them. Shereen was holding Eleanor in her arms, watching the life slowly fade out of her.” Marcy dragged the first aid kid closer to her and peered inside, this time taking out a small roll of tape. I waited curiously as she took her time. She taped down the end of the gauze and finished with a gentle, loving tap. “But the landlord showed no remorse. When he reached them, he picked Shereen up by her hair and dragged her over to a nearby tree, where he beat her mercilessly. Slammed her head against the tree over and over. Her brothers and sisters were frozen in the distance, watching in horror.” I watched in horror myself, wondering why on Earth she was telling me this. Her stare had drifted somewhere beyond the wall in front of her, as though watching the entire scene play out. And then, to my surprise, she returned to me with a faint smile. “And then a lightning bolt struck the tree, killing the landlord instantly.” My eyes grew wide, the pain in my hand subsiding for just a moment. For some reason, I was more nervous than I felt I should have been. “What happened to the girl?” I worried. Marcy’s face lit up. “That girl is my mother. And she owns that tree now.” She closed the first aid kit with a snap and rolled out from behind her desk, now directly in front of me. “She turned the most painful time of her life into something wonderful. She built a community for her family and all those in need. And ever since, this place has been blessed with a history so rich and full of love, you can feel it.” Marcy took my injured hand and held it gently in hers. “*You* are part of that history now, Maddie. Your pain is not forever, but the power of this place is. I promise.” Her eyes were glossy and assuring, almost mournful. I wondered if my parents had told her about Lily. I could feel the charms of her bracelet being pressed against my skin, as images of her gap-toothed smile flashed in my mind. Her little face peaking from around the corner. Her style. Her attitude. The way she always defended me. The pink walls in her room. The white walls in the hospital. The way she looked the last time I saw her. “Here,” Marcy said, bringing me back. She held out a couple pills for me to take but then recoiled when I reached for them. “I’m not supposed to give you these so…” She put a finger to her lip and dropped them into my hands. I stared at them, fighting flashes of nurses dosing Lily to sleep. I played with her bracelet as Marcy fetched me a bottle of water from her mini fridge and slid it across the desk. I didn’t move. “Do you need me to open it?” she asked. I shook my head despite the growing sting underneath the wrap. I pretended not to feel it. After watching Lily battle the way she did, for as long as she did, I felt guilty ever being hurt. I didn’t know real hurt. I looked up at Marcy. “Do I have to take these?” She blinked. I expected her motherly instincts to force them upon me and was surprised when she said, “Of course not.” She gestured for me to hand them back to her, studying me as I did so. I wasn’t sure why, but she seemed upset by this, and that didn’t feel good. So I forced a smile and asked her more about some of the things in her office: black and white photos of the early days, contrasted by colorful ones of her and her family at various places around camp; purple pool noodles in one corner and tall tiki torches in another, both part of some camp tradition, as it appeared most things were; and a large stuffed-animal of a blue and white wolf sitting atop a bookcase. It was cute. She was going to tell me about it when a sudden wave of voices rushed through the window; the others had hiked their way over and were marching into the next building. “C’mon,” said Marcy, still eyeing me curiously. “Let’s get you back to the group, yeah?” — The Dining Hall was far less comfortable than the Hemlock Building. The air was thick and sticky, and smelled of sweat and body odor. About a hundred campers, ranging anywhere from seven to fourteen, were packed into tables that just barely fit their capacity. I could feel sets of eyes from all directions shoot my way after following Marcy through the screen door and letting it slam shut behind me with a loud crack. We stood aside as counselors on stage were attempting to silence the crowd, while Shereen and Simon stood carelessly in the far corner chatting with other seemingly prominent people at camp. I met eyes with one of them, a woman with thick glasses and an oversized crescent moon hanging from her neck. Marcy gave it a moment and then clapped this rhythmic giddy-up kind of clap, to which the crowd repeated and fell silent. I already wanted to be just like her. With all eyes now certainly my way, I was more than relieved when I’d spotted Charlie in the center of the room motioning for me to sit next to her. Her mother gave her a nod and wished me off with a gentle squeeze of the shoulder, Charlie’s grin shielding me from the stares as I shuffled past other tables to get to her. She gasped when saw the wrap I was now donning, half-heartedly hiding laughter from behind her perfectly unburned hands. “I am so sorry!” she giggled. Her voice cut right through the otherwise silent crowd. She didn’t seem to mind the glares from nearby staff. And neither did I; her laughter made me feel better than anything. I sat happily beside her and watched the introductory festivities before us, as the entire staff took turns introducing themselves and then performed a very corny skit as a way to go over all the rules. Bathroom buddies, aquatic safety, hygiene, after hours. In a very poorly acted scene, two young boy counselors pretended to sneak out of bed at night, only to be eaten by the camp monster, the Nightcrawler. “A beast of many forms!” another counselor cried from underneath a black blanket. She was wearing a plain purple mask with two little holes for eyes. It was silly, but the looks on the faces of the little kids in front told me that it worked. As the night progressed, I found myself buying in to Burntwood more than I thought I would have. I laughed at all the dumb jokes and clapped along to the songs I pretended to know, watching enviously as Charlie and her friends belted out the words. I’d never met anyone so confident in their own skin, especially not at our age. I admired her just as much as I admired her mother. I’d almost wished they were my family. Then I remembered what Marcy had said. That I was forever one of them. I hoped that was true. Charlie went on to formally introduce me to the other girls at the table. Whether their early disdain was all in my head, or Charlie had had that much pull, they seemed genuinely excited about befriending ‘the new girl.’ They gave me their own version of orientation over pasta dinner, ranting about the people and all the things I’d love and hate. I got lost when they shifted to reminiscing on previous years, but I listened eagerly and laughed accordingly. When the night ended, our counselor, Sarah, took the nine of us over to the girl’s side of camp. A circle of cabins surrounded a small field and sand pit, with more cabins extending along the water. We sat on the docks where rays of the setting sun fought through the overcast to say goodnight. The mountains beyond looked like something from a painting. We did ice breakers and went over more rules, and when the shuttles pulled up with our bags, it was time to settle into the cabin we would be calling home for the next four weeks. It was just a short walk from the docks, something Sarah assured we’d appreciate on those scorching summer days. After hauling bags heavier than ourselves up a small hill, we reached a large, but otherwise ordinary looking cabin. It didn’t appear to be any better or worse than I’d imagined, but when I reached the wide steps of the front porch, my heart stopped. There was a pretty, floral-painted sign on one of the beams: WOOD LILY. I stopped as the other girls passed. Charlie turned back. “What’s wrong?” she asked. I stared at it a moment longer and shook it off. “Nothing.” “Don’t worry,” Charlie grinned. “Wood Lily’s probably my third favorite cabin.” I looked at her, to which she added, “Out of fourteen. That’s pretty good. It’s not as nice as Pine Palace but at least it has electricity.” Her voice trailed off somewhere beyond me as I stared up at the moths circling the yellow porch light. I wasn’t there anymore. I was dragging Lily’s bag up the hospital steps, my mother at the top walking far ahead of me. I blinked and it was Charlie again. I buried the memory and followed her inside. The interior was certainly nicer than expected. The lighting was dim and there was still dirt on the floor, but overall it was neat and well-spaced. There were bunks lining the wall that disappeared into a back section, and a stairway in the corner leading up to the counselor’s private room. The girls immediately began pairing up and discussing who would get which bunk. I was too afraid to ask Charlie. And I didn’t have to. She took me by the hand and pulled me further inside, to the very back where it turned right and extended into an almost cavernous area. This part of the cabin looked older, as though the rest had been built around it later on. “This one has the best view,” Charlie explained as she climbed the top bunk and dove into it. There was a window overlooking the woods, with a clear line of sight to the river beyond. You could just make out the shimmer of the mountains’ reflection in the twilight. She stared out at it while I stuffed my clothes into the dirty drawers. She’d hardly had anything to put away, as her actual home was somewhere on the grounds not far from here. “You can use one of my drawers,” she offered. She’d spun around and caught me standing idly by my bag, debating whether or not to take Lily’s bracelet off. I hadn’t taken it off since the funeral. Not once. But I wondered if maybe it was time. “Does it hurt?” Charlie blurted. I was staring down at my hands. “Yeah,” I replied. I wasn’t sure which thing she was talking about but it didn’t matter. Sarah went around and checked to make sure everyone was properly situated, and after one final reminder of the after-hours rules (and a strong recommendation not to stay up too late), she bid us goodnight and turned off the lights. We listened as the thud of her footsteps disappeared upstairs, waiting for silence before throwing whispers across the room to one another. We got a few giggles in before her voice called down for us to go to bed. My eyes were heavy anyway, it had been a long day. The growing pain in my hand was a reminder of that, and of the fact that I was having too much fun. This pain was deserved. “Maddie,” whispered Charlie. Her face was squeezed between the bed and the wall, staring down at where I lay. “I’m happy you’re here.” “Me too,” I replied. And I was starting to mean it. I thought that was it, when Charlie continued. “Can you do something for me?” She sounded sad. Even in the darkness, I could see the desperation in her big, green eyes. “What?” She paused, and then said, “Can you sleep on your stomach.” Confused, I said nothing. “Please?” she tried again. “Sleep on your stomach, okay? Tonight, and every night.” I nodded as though this was a casual request. But she didn’t move. She was waiting for me to do it. I rolled over, my injured arm now forced wall-side and without much room for comfort. I could hear Charlie above finally move away, rolling onto her stomach as well. “Goodnight, Maddie.” “Goodnight.” I was very uncomfortable, in more ways than one. This was so unexpected. And strange. But strangest of all…when sounds of Charlie’s unconscious breathing trickled down into my bunk, I didn’t move. I stayed on my stomach the whole night. I didn’t know it yet, but it was a good thing I did.


A thousand lollipop sticks were scattered on the ground at her feet – she was close. Becky had followed the trail through the upside down forest, across the lake of sangria (which had been great) and down into the depths of the woolen valley. Everything here had been knitted by Mother Earth herself; every blade of grass, every petal of every flower, every twig. Even the animals were woolen. Due to its fabricated nature, you could sleep comfortably anywhere in the woolen forest; but at your own peril. Many unwitting wanderers had been knitted into the landscape as they dreamt, disappearing into the woolly background, never to be seen again. Becky was tired and she gazed longingly at a pile of knitted leaves near an old woolly oak tree. Two big round eyes suddenly popped out from the pile, they stared at her for a moment, then the whole pile erupted to reveal a woolen octopus. “Well, hello stranger, I am Monty, may I ask what exactly you are doing being un-woolen in the woolen forest?” Monty sounded a little like a 19th century aristocrat. Becky didn’t really appreciate his tone. But she had business to take care of. “I’m searching for the giant caterpillar” she announced with a smile. “I know he’s close – I saw his lollipop sticks! Have you seen him?” The Octopus raised a knitted brow and replied inquisitively “You know Francis? Oh, we’re very close ourselves actually” Monty said, a rye smile climbing into the corners of this mouth. He went on “The trouble is…” he squinted at the woolen moon and pondered for a moment before continuing. “Francis never has really told me anything about himself other than his name, and… well, his sexual preferences” The octopus took an exaggerated peek around before leaning in slightly and whispering (quite loudly) “*He likes to be dominated*” Monty withdrew, his brows raised and eyes wide with the pleasure of revealing secrets. Becky nodded knowingly and also withdrew, squinting with new thoughts. This may not have been the information she was looking for, but it could be a good sign. Like many people who enjoy domination, perhaps Francis was a little sick of being in control. There was hope yet. Monty had started talking again, something about how odd Becky looked with her shiny cheeks and wet eyes, when something caught Becky’s eye just beyond the Octopuses shoulder. It was an un-woolen door. Aged, purple and peeling, it seemed comfortably nestled into the matted undergrowth, as though it has always been there. It stood out, and yet blended in perfectly, unassuming, an organic portal. It silently called to her. She walked forward, hypnotised, deaf to Monty who had begun to elaborate upon his and Francis’s sexual exploits. The door creaked open slightly as she approached, like a seductive finger, beckoning her. She slid through the gap as though she was nothing but a sheet of paper, and the door closed silently behind her. She stumbled and looked down, in awe. Her toes began to mould into the light, pastel orange sand. It was so warm and welcoming. A breeze kissed her face and before her, she saw a vast, lilac ocean. The water glistened and morphed, as though alive, wobbling in the rich pink evening light. Just on the horizon, amid a few white clouds, Becky could see an island. She felt the pull and knew this was where she needed to be. She approached the lilac ocean and hesitantly dipped her toe in, wincing, afraid of the cold… but there was no cold, her toe was met with a wobbly solid surface. She pressed down harder with her foot and fell forward slightly as the surface broke – it was jelly! Becky scooped up a little and gave it a tentative nibble. It tasted like parma violets – not bad, not bad at all. She looked at her watch. It had a black background, and 3 white circles running around it, like a target. along each white circle there was a ball. a blue ball, a green ball and a red ball. The only marking point was a small rainbow coloured circle set at the top centre of the watch. The 3 balls were slowly inching their way towards each other, at different speeds two from the left and one from the right. They were all just a few millimetres away from the rainbow circle. With no more time to waste, she plunged into the ocean of jelly and began to smash a path through the lilac with her flailing and determined limbs. Jelly flew about her in all directions, but she kept her eyes on the prize. Soon though, she got to a point where the jelly was almost up to her chin, and she knew – she’d have to eat her way through. The pink light poked out from behind the creamy clouds and warmed her cheeks as they filled with jelly. Becky felt like a hamster trapped inside a giant cosmic trifle. After an arduous and mildly terrifying journey, Becky began to see a blurred patch of green through the tower of Jelly in front of her. Spurred on, she munched fiercely until a few seconds later, she bit her way through to fresh air. She flopped to the ground, and the jelly contorted and squelched as she landed, slipping away under her heavy legs. Suddenly, she sat bolt upright, grabbed her stomach, and threw up dramatically. She looked down and saw that her vomit was comprised of hundreds of lilac coloured jelly babies, who then scrambled to their feet and ran, haphazardly, tiny jelly arms in the air, back to the lilac ocean. A second later and the path that she had created was sealed up – the lilac ocean appeared as serene as it had been when she arrived. She raised an eyebrow, her mouth hanging open slightly, before shrugging and getting to her feet. The mission was more important than the workings of this land. “Francis!’ she called. “Francis, I know you’re here – there’s no point in trying to hide, and… there’s nothing to hide from! I just want to talk to you. Your family sent me!” She heard a rustling in the jungle in front of her, and she ran forward, pushing through the giant leaves that separated the beach from the woods. She stopped, staring in wonder at what was ahead of her. The trees were not knitted, nor were they leafy. They were gigantic lollipops, rooted into the ground, swirls of colour, against a backdrop of leafy green plants that held a somewhat solemn air in comparison. This was Francis’s paradise. Jackpot. She looked for a path and saw hundreds of tiny footprints trailing off to the left. She ran, following the trail hungrily. Finally, she reached a clearing. “Francis! Please, don’t be scared” she said softly. “I’m Becky, and I’m here to help you” She crept around quietly, scanning the area for a hiding place. Her eyes rested upon a particularly bulky looking leaf. It was quaking slightly. She approached slowly, and peeled back the leaf. A very tired looking caterpillar looked up at her, each of his eyes had the weight of a thousand lives in them. “Hi.” He said in a low, slightly hoarse voice. Becky smiled sympathetically back. “It’s time Francis.” She said softly. “You ought to face things.” “But… how do I know it’s going to be ok?” He asked, trembling slightly. “You don’t.” Becky shrugged. “This has to be your own choice Francis, you can stay here in this unchanging paradise until the day you die if you like, it’s always been up to you.” Francis came out from behind the leaf and sat on the ground, his legs hanging limply by his side. “I am very tired” he said. “I know.” He laid down on the dusty floor and let each of his eyes flutter to a close. After a few moments, Becky reached into her satchel and pulled out the blanket. It was woven of the finest silk and big enough to cover Francis’s entire body. She draped it over him gently and then sat on a rock on the edge of the clearing, nearby a gigantic orange and purple lollipop. She checked her watch. The balls were almost entirely aligned – she had just made it. Her relief took her by the hand and led her into a deep slumber. She woke to the feeling of a soft breeze upon her face and she glanced sleepily around. But it wasn’t a breeze, it was the flap of a wing. Were Francis once slept, there was now a beautiful, gigantic butterfly stretching out his wings as though he were reaching for the sky. “I feel so alive! I can’t believe I was so afraid – thank you, so much.” Said Francis with a grin. “Hop on my back and I’ll give you a lift home!” He offered. Becky gathered up the blanket, then jumped on. They flew off into the pink sky, mission completed.


It was the 16th of May , they had been roaming the countryside of England for 2 months and had ended up at the Grand Old Hotel. The name was appropriate, it felt as if the whole place had always had the air of being past it's prime, as if the chairs had sagged since the day they were installed in the lobby, the hedgerows were always overgrown, the discolored wallpaper peeling from the day it was installed and as if the plumbing had been finicky from the day the contractors left. There wasn't a lot of staff, but the few that were around carried themselves with the grace befitting servants of a royal court. As if their regular patrons were accustomed to a life of privilege and prestige , with exacting standards they would not hesitate to complain loudly if the tea wasn't the perfect drinking temperature when it was served. It was all a bit disconcerting for him. He had never exactly been poor, but interacting with self styled butlers, manservants and maids was an incredibly foreign affair to him. He always felt as if he should apologize to them all. His discomfort manifested itself in an over-courteousness that the help didn't seem to appreciate. It felt as if they looked at him with a kind condescension and even a bit of pity. *Look at the small town bumpkin who is in over his head* their gaze seemed to say, with no apparent recognition of how the Grand Old Edifice was no longer what it used to be and neither were the patrons. She had no such troubles, she carried a sense of effortless authority with herself that he found utterly captivating. Knowing what he knew about her, it seemed rather strange and even somewhat unfair that she could phrase a command in such generous terms that everyone wanted to wade on her hand and foot. She was never rude or brusque , but she never made requests. She never asked "Could I get a Pina colada" , instead it was simply "Could you please get me a Pina colada" , the difference was subtle , but it was mesmerizing and sometimes he simply found himself admiring her as she spoke to the help. Such effortless beauty, he thought. I wonder how much effort it takes to maintain? It was 2:30 in the afternoon and they had made their way to the old gazebo after lunch. He sat looking at nothing in particular, but noticing almost everything at once, the slightly overgrown hedges and the gentle breeze coming off of the ocean that was north of them. The breeze made the trees and bushes sway and played with her yellow sundress.. He stole glances at her here and there, not wanting to disturb her reverie and she let him, not wanting to disturb his. He felt a little guilty and she knew it. He felt as if he was getting away with something that the likes of him did not deserve. First there was the difference in age , not a lot but enough to raise eyebrows here and there. What was much more disconcerting than that though was how just being around her made the knot in his chest feel a little less... undecipherable. He didn't know what he had done to deserve this reprieve. In fact he was quite sure that the way he lived his life was pretty solid grounds for never feeling the way he felt and yet , here he was , sitting in the slightly overgrown , but still lovely, Grand old gardens letting his mind slip into day dreams of all that had happened here. He must have started to make a face, because suddenly she said "Tell me about it". The question jarred him back to reality and he looked at her sitting next to him, her large grey eyes peering up at him as if what he was about to say is all that she had ever wanted to hear. "Oh , I'm sorry , I must have gotten lost in a thought" he said. Mhm , she hummed , you've been doing it since we got here, just standing around looking at things and then you get this look. A look ? Yes , a look He smiled and looked deep into her eyes... He was too old for this he thought, well, not that old, but still So, will you tell me or do I have to get one of my butlers to torture the information out of you ? He laughed a genuine laugh , she knew what she was doing and she was enjoying it He must have simply gazed at her for a few more seconds and she seemed to almost lose interest in the question when he said "I love old places like this" Of course you do old man , this is your milieu right ? He laughed again, but it was tinged with a small bit of embarrassment.. How old do you think I am ? Old enough, she said with a shy look on her face Well, not old enough for any of this to be relate-able.. What then ? He thought for a second before saying .. Have you ever felt nostalgic about a life that you never lived ? It's so strange, being here, being separated in time from all those lives that this place has seen , all those parties that were held here , all those kisses that were stolen in this gazebo all the petty arguments and jealous rages. All the minor political intrigue and all the satisfied afternoons shared by people just like us. All the people that came before us and touched the silverware, the scuff marks on the old ceramic plates made by bygone patrons who are naught but ashes and dust now. It's breathtaking, the amount of life places like this see and now, he hesitated, glancing at the overgrown azaleas. Now what ? She asked earnestly .. Just , you know , Decay ? Irrelevance ? Memory ? It's almost as if the Grand remembers and while it still stands here, there is something of them still left , it stood a mute witness to all those lives and in a way as long as it stands , it will hold on to the memory of them all. Sounds sad. Yes, it's Quite melancholy , but , I like it. You like being sad ? She asked, more of a statement than a question , with barest tinges of hope and sadness mixed in with her delicate timbre. Yes, I do , he said and felt his breath pour out of him as she rest her head on his shoulder and gently nuzzled against his neck I understand, she said finally All he could do was smile weakly and enjoy the faint smell of the cheap hotel conditioner in her hair.. You can't fix me , you know... I know. She confirmed. You can't fix me either , but , do you mind trying for a bit ? He hesitated a few seconds too many .. I'll try too , she said weakly.. Ok, he said, k , she repeated. It was a lovely afternoon.


It’s nice to meet you again, old friend. It’s been too long. A week is not too long. My my if a week is too long then I might as well retire. Well yes, I guess time is in the eyes of the beholder. Please, come sit with me on this bench. You must’ve been standing all day from your job. Still courteous as ever I see, yes. But, why do you want to meet at this bench? It’s not nearly as nice as your or my place. Because of simply the air my dear friend. The sounds of crickets that gather and the setting sun. Still dramatic as ever too. Please do tell why we’re here. Maybe fate. Possibly timing. It could be even- No no, I meant, what do you want to talk about? Well I don’t know. In that case, what does it mean to feel empathy? Excuse me? Yes, empathy. I-I mean, when I see another trainee feeling anxious on the first day I feel bad for them. That is sympathy my dear friend. Empathy is the human reaction to feel sadness or remorse for those in sorrow despite not knowing their ‘pain’ dear friend. Well isn’t human kindness to comfort people in their time of need? Is it true that it would fall under kindness, the question I proposed was what empathy is like? Dear friend, that is how it’s like to feel empathy. It’s knowing the person’s sadness and understanding that then comforting them. Not true, friend. That is comfort. It’s telling the person what they need to hear not empathy, which by easing their sorrows. It often gets mistaken for it simply because of how foriegn the word is. You're infallibly wrong. To be in a person’s presence in their worst is empathy because both people try to process the experience one person has gone through. You may be right, but is empathy not an emotion used to ease the sadness of tragedy? W-Well yes. But was I wrong no I don’t think so. Yes I was wrong about my previous line of reasoning. However my good friend, trailing back, if the point of empathy is to ease one’s sadness why is it not all that comforting? No but it is. Well when my dog died you were there for me. I remember what you told me too. ‘It’ll get better. I'm there for you.’ Word for word I swear good friend. Yes I do remember that. But that is still sympathy. I had ties to the old chap just like everyone at the funeral. I just don’t get how one person can just walk up to someone and say, ‘hey I know it’s hard, but it’ll get better,’ and then never exist in the person’s life again. That’s simple enough to explain. We’re able to because it’s what makes us human. To try and have a little empathy, to give a person people around them, so they’re not alone. But you know as well as I dear friend, that it was not the case with you. You shunned anyone that tried to ease the sadness of the ol’ chap. I believe, if I’m not mistaken, you said, ‘How can you understand? He wasn’t your dog!’ and you were in the right to say so. The dog was yours not anyone else’s. Y-Yes I did say that, but I got through it thanks to you guys being there for me. Ultimately however, you said empathy was to make someone happier or at least not as depressed as they were. But, in those pivotal moments a closed door was worth more than an open one to a grassy field.” Yes, I’ll have to concede this point to you good friend. You know that I do miss talking to you. Only a week has gone by. Yes, I know, but it’s not the same now. Excuse me. But why are you sitting at this bench on your lonesome self. I have this new job and I sit here with my dear friend nearly every day. He passed due to some circumstances and I miss ‘em terribly. Well mind if I sit down? Please. What happened to them? Heart attack. Nobody suspected it either. He would come here day in day out and paint gorgeous sceneries of grassy fields, beautiful parks, and I even once saw him paint a snowy ice lake and there isn’t one to see in miles. Oh my I think I saw that person on my way to work, yes, the one with the ridiculous painter’s kit right? Yes, that’s the one. Also, if you don’t mind me asking that is, what would you speak about on this bench? All sorts of topics. The last one we talked about was empathy. Empathy? Why, what a strange thing. Please do go on. To summarize essentially I don’t believe one could understand someone with empathy alone. It’s existence is only here to just make someone happier when all it does is make someone even more miserable. Sympathy is the only thing that can truly motivate one to trudge through the storm clouds. Nonsense acquaintance. Empathy is just as powerful as sympathy. Although I haven’t experienced such a loss I do know that empathy is stronger when you have someone with you on your journey. Thank you. No problem. We can talk all night and all day. Whatever you need on your journey. We can even be two people on a bench.


Hope. It is a beautiful thing, isn’t it? It is free of cost and gets us through the darkest of times. We can even call it our best companion. And, why shouldn’t we? It stays with us till the very end. It’s not its fault that we masochists can’t hold onto it. I hardly remembered the boy I used to be. But I did remember the man he wanted to become. It was funny how I was not even close to that. If anything, I was the farthest thing away from it, 73 million lightyears, to be precise. People still looked up to me, though. They praised me for who I was – a Class A Deep Space Astronaut. It was funny how far I had come in a career I resented. Earth was crumbling. All the resources were exhausted, economies were collapsing, people were dying, etc. In short, the world was beyond repair. This is why the UN declared an Emergency. All the capital and human resources around the globe were redirected to essential services. Deep Space Exploration Program was one of them. It was a ‘concerted effort to fix the irremediable.’ I started as a resource soldier at the age of nineteen. My primary job was to mine for resources (metals, clean fuels, etc.), amongst other things. Then, after a while, people were required in the deep space exploration program, so I was thrown into that. A skill manager there put me into pilot training. She thought I was good at it for some reason. Over the years, I successfully lead over 25 extra-terrestrial resource mining missions without as much as a single complication. After that, I was promoted to Class A and given my own unit. Only a handful of people were there in the Class A club, but I was the fastest and the youngest one to get in. But did I care about all of that? Absolutely not. I didn’t give two fucks about any of it. I did what I did not because I wanted to, but because I had to. To survive, or whatever. I didn’t hate the job in particular, though. I hated the world in general for what it had become. It ruined my life and then just left me for dead. My team and I were supposed to go to a planet 4.58 million lightyears away from Earth. Our main task was to explore and lay the groundwork for its mining. But, the wormhole we came through got unstable, and we ended up 73 million lightyears away from home, in the middle of fucking nowhere. Exposure to the unstable exotic matter had fried all of our ship’s systems. We had no way to contact Earth, or... Basically, we were just good for nothing. We were fortunate enough that primitive hardware-based technologies like oxygen filtration, heat, and refrigeration survived, or we would have died within a few hours. But that was bound to happen anyway. We had been stranded for a week, yet no one came to rescue us. Which meant that no one was coming for us in the first place. If they were, they would have come by then. The ship’s oxygen levels were falling dangerously, and the food and water were running out. The heat systems were running out of fuel as well. At best, we had just about two days left to live. That is when all hope was lost. According to our calculations, one hour at our location equalled four years on Earth. That meant that we had been missing there for centuries. Of course, that’s if humanity survived for that long, to begin with. The prospect of not having a home was taking a toll on me. Before, there was hope. Hope that someday everything will get better and I’ll find what I was looking for. But, now that that hope was stripped away from me, I broke down. I remember that day well. I was in the Geography Lab, lying on the couch...weeping and drinking. My nose was running, and my clothes were all weird. I was a mess. That is when my geographer and engineer walked in. “Chief, you okay?” Egor, the geographer, asked. “Yeah, I’m fine.” “Oh, you’re definitely not fine. I have worked with you longer than anyone else on this ship. But, in all these years, I haven’t seen one emotion on your face, not even a smile. And now you are crying. So, something is definitely bugging you. Besides the obvious, of course,” said Zoe. “Chief, we are all gonna die in a few days, anyways. So, you might as well open up your heart. Let it all out,” said Egor. “This isn’t what I wanted. Any of this.” “This what?” Egor asked. “This. All of this. This life, this world, this career, this stupid fucking Class A badge,” I said as I ripped the badge out and threw it away out of frustration. “Woah, Chief! That badge is a badge of honour. You’ve earned it. You have done so much for the world. You’ve...achieved so much. All that means nothing to you?” Zoe asked. “I didn’t want to do it. I just...did what I had to do. This is not the life I wanted.” “Then what did you want, Chief?” Egor asked. “I wanted to be a painter. I had it all planned out, you know. I’d go to art school, meet a nice guy, fall in love, become successful, get married, start a family. I had so many fantasies of doing all that cliché relationship stuff, of having an ordinary happy life. But that will never happen now. I survived all these years because I had hope. Hope that someday everything will go back to normal. But, that’s all gone now. Now, we are all gonna die within 48 hours, and I won’t get to experience any of that. I will never know what it feels like to have someone by your side. What it feels like to be in love. Or what it feels like to have a child depend on you. None of that. Just a lonely insignificant death. No one will even find our bodies.” “Everything will be alright, Chief. Don’t you worry,” said Egor and hugged me. And, just like that, I started sobbing into his chest. Years of pent-up feelings were coming out. The next thing I remember is waking up in my bed. A couple hours had passed by. I was feeling much better, considering everything. I guess it’s true what they say. You shouldn’t bottle up your feelings. I went into the lounge area, which is where everyone usually did nothing, but no one was there. I checked the labs and the rooms, but there was still no sign of anyone. The last place I expected them to be in was the cockpit. “What are you guys doing in this dump?” “Looking at that asteroid,” said Saad, pointing in a random direction. I squinched my eyes and tried to focus. Since I was a bit hungover, it took me a while to see it. “It’s gonna hit us,” said Zoe. “How can you be so sure?” “I just know,” she said. “Well, at least, this way, it will be instantaneous.” “That’s a valid point,” said Bethany. “How long until impact?” “I’d say ten hours,” said Zoe. “Okay... Everyone, listen here. Wrap up your business, whatever it is...if any. We’ll all gather here T-30 minutes from impact. Dress good, people. It will obviously be an open casket.” Those somewhat ten hours were the longest ten hours of my life. Accepting death is one thing, but waiting for it is far worse. I cleaned my room and packed everything. I don’t know why, but it felt necessary. After that, I dry-cleaned myself and wore my uniform. All of us gathered in the cockpit way before time. We all sat in our seats and talked about our lives for the rest of the time. There wasn’t much, though. Just work, missions, and...that’s it. Finally, it was time. The asteroid was here. Saad started the countdown, and I closed my eyes. Three... Two... One... And, boom. Everything went quiet. There was nothing but darkness around me. I was in what seemed like a void, pure emptiness. And, the silence... It was deafening. I felt no pain, no anger, no pulse, nothing. Just dread. It was like standing in the middle of the jungle at midnight. Terrifying. Was I in hell? Or heaven? I didn’t know. But, it was agonizing, the loneliness. And, apparently, you can’t fall asleep in death. It’s not an option. I don’t know how long I was there, but I could feel my mind breaking. Just the prospect of spending eternity like that is enough to break you. Suddenly, there was light. It was like a dot, twinkling, at a far-off distance. And, I could hear something too – the faint sounds of waves and seagulls. It was overwhelming to feel the presence of something else in existence. I started walking towards the light. I walked, and ran, and then again walked. I kept walking for what felt like years. But, giving up wasn’t an option. Eventually, I could feel it getting closer to me, the light. And, the sound of waves was getting louder as well. When I finally got close enough, I could make out that the source of light was some kind of an orb. It was also the source of the wave sounds. When I touched it, my hand went through. It was spine-chilling, but I somehow pulled myself together and walked in. I was blinded by the light, and then I woke up. There was a small window in front of me, and I could see the sky through it. It took me a second to realize that I was in bed. Then I felt it, a breath at the back of my neck and the hands wrapped around me. I gently untangled myself from the firm grip and got up. I saw the man who was holding me. He had tanned skin and short dark hair. He was also shirtless. I could have admired his form all day, but I had more pressing issues. I had no idea where I was besides in a wooden cabin. I walked out of the cabin and was met with the most beautiful beach I had ever seen. It was mesmerizing, the caramel sand and the blue water. The sky was a seamless gradient of purple and orange, so it was hard to tell if it was dusk or dawn. But, the landscape was breath-taking nonetheless. The cool sand against my soles, the gentle breeze against my skin, the sound of waves and rumbling trees falling in my ear, it was all magical. It had to be heaven, I thought. A few minutes later, I went back into the cabin. The man was still sleeping like an angel. When I looked up from him, I saw myself in the mirror. I didn’t recognize myself at all. I looked much younger, and I was skinnier than before. And, I had a beard. And medium-long hair! And, the scar on my forehead was gone. I took my shirt and shorts off only to discover that my abs were gone too, and so was the scar on my thigh. I also noticed something else. There was a ring on my finger! Shocked, I pulled the quilt off the sleeping beauty, only to find a ring on his finger as well. I was fucking married to this guy! I was processing everything when something dinged – a phone. I didn’t recognize the model. But, it unlocked the moment I picked it up. It knew me, I guess. The wallpaper was a picture of me giving the sleeping beauty a piggyback ride. I got dressed and sat on the stairs outside the cabin. It took me a while to figure my way around the phone. I didn’t recognize the OS or any of the apps. But, I was familiar with one thing – Gallery. The pictures in the gallery were exhilarating. In this life, I had already done everything I wanted to do. I was a successful painter. Dated for years and then got married. I even had kids, a boy, and a girl. As soon as I found about them, I had this uncontrollable urge to know their whereabouts. I went in to ask the sleeping beauty about them, but when I got in, he was already looking at me, all confused. “Where were you? Come back to bed. It’s still too early,” he said. “Where are the kids?” That was the first time I heard my own voice. It was different, less hoarse. “What do you mean where they are?” he asked. When I didn’t say anything, he got up from the bed and hugged me. “Hey, we dropped them at your parents’ house. Don’t you remember?” “My parents? They are still alive?” I accidentally blurted out. “Of course, they are! What are you talking about? You sick or something?” “I’m fine.” “Let’s go back to bed. Come on. You are probably sleep-deprived. We went a bit too crazy last night,” he said. We went back to bed, and this time, he cuddled up to me. I had never felt such peace before. It was truly blissful. I had the best sleep of my life that day. The other version of me was as alive as I was. With time, our consciousnesses merged, and we became one. While he got the inspiration for his art, I got everything I always wanted. Death is inevitable, yes, but it is not the evil everyone makes it out to be. In fact, it is the best thing that ever happened to me.


Debtor's Jail - A short story by Nick Carter 2021  The dim light flickered across the chrome table, the mildew smell in the cement brick room was slightly nauseating. He's not sure why he's here, but he's not looking forward to finding out. If only they'd bring him a sandwich, he hasn't eaten for hours... The door creaked shut behind the man, gaunt and official looking, pale stubbled skin turning gray from years of tension. He sat down across from the young man, briefly eyed him with distaste, noting his heavy metal t-shirt and cycling cap, both covered in indecipherable doodles. "They let you wear that in here?" the man asked, disintested, as he flipped through the file. "Nobody said otherwise." He sat with a demure posture, trying not to squirm, his right arm grasping his left. He resisted the urge to play with the lighter clip stamped flat on the edge of the hat's bill, something he often did when he was nervous. The air stood still and silent as the pages turned. Then the man looked up and locked eyes with him, casting a tangible smugness. "When's the last time you paid your bills, Roger?" He was put off: nobody called him Roger. "My name's Roy, sir... if you don't mind." The man leaned forward. "When is the last time, you paid your bills.... Roger Morris?" Roy started to sweat under his hat. "I pay on time every month! My rent, my phone, internet... I own my car... I barely make it, but I haven't missed a payment in 2 years!" He was right, he hadn't missed a payment on any of those things. But he wasn't being completely honest. "You're not being honest with me, Roger. What about the money you owe Key Bank?" Fuck, thought Roy. This is it. This is the end of the road. He started stammering, he took off the hat and brushed his hair, desperately trying to find the words to convey his situation. "Ok, look.... I USED to pay them. I did! I just couldn't do it anymore, it's.... it's not tenable, man!" "Tenable!" The man scoffed. "Looks like that college education really paid off for you, fancy word like that." In fact college had NOT paid off for him. After going for a dual major in Design and Communications, he found he was only suitable for work that was freelance, highly competitive, and quickly losing demand. He had managed to eke out his living washing dishes at the corner bar, which allowed him time to practice his art and persue his dream. That dream, it now seemed, was quickly going nowhere. "Sir..." He quivered at the notion of avoiding the man's questions, "is there any way I could get a snack? My blood sugar is getting low and..." SMACK! The file landed on the table hard, letting out a soft metallic ring. It was thick, and now he knew what was in there: his credit report. He'd seen it a few years ago when he made the decision - The decision to buck the system and stop paying for what amounted to a giant paperweight on his livelihood. "Do you think you're entitled to a snack?" Roy stared blankly at him. The man continued, "do you know what pays for those snacks, in that vending machine, in this public facility?" "Tax dollars," he replied quickly. The man's lip curled. "Yes. Exactly. Tax dollars." They pay your salary too, you fascist fuck, thought Roy - he immediately bit his mental lip and hoped his insolence wasn't visible on his face. "Tax dollars that come from corporations. Corporations like Key Bank. And where do they make the money to pay those taxes? From people like you, who take out loans, such as this one for $16k back in 2005. And another in 2006. And another in 2007." Roy noticed that the man didn't mention the fourth year of college - 2008 - which never came to fruition. "Sir, I pay my taxes." "But KeyCorp pays a hell of a lot more in taxes than you do." Roy doubted this: so many corporations had managed to zero out their federal taxes, and he knew for a fact that Key Bank had accrued almost $20 million in penalties since the turn of the century. "And just because you pay your taxes, doesn't change the fact that you are a Fiscal Radical if you don't keep current on your debts." Fiscal Radicals. This is what the police and politicians were labeling people who refused to pay their student loan debts. It gave the impression that these people were a united political force; when in reality they were everyday men and women who woke up to the realization that paying $200, $400, $800 a month towards a debt that continued to grow despite loyal payments, was not a sustainable way of life. It amounted to slavery, and to recognize it as such was to label yourself a criminal. "Sir." Roy's blood sugar was starting to crash, his temper growing as his stomach growled. "Do you realize that I only make $2,000 a month? I can hardly afford health insurance, let alone my rent and food. I'm lucky to have a good car and a bicycle to get to work. I work 12 hour days 5 days a week, usually more. I stopped drinking so I could keep up with my bills. I have less than $100 in savings - if anything bad happens to me it will be the end of my life!" "But you still smoke grass, don't you?" Roy rolled his eyes clear out of his head - despite the fact that marijuana had been legalized for recreation, cops still loved to throw it in your face: they still used it as probable cause to harass hundreds of people, and for some reason this was completely acceptable. "You try working as hard as I do and not medicating yourself." His anger subsided, turning to shame and depression. The man smiled, a crooked dark smile. He pulled a vape pen from his breast pocket. "Don't worry... we're here to help, Roger." Roy eyed the pen suspiciously as the man took a large puff, then offered it to him. He hesitated for just a moment, then snatched it from the man's hand and took a long draw. The nicotine relieved his craving for sustenance, making the emptiness more tolerable. "How's that?" he said tersely. "Simple. You pay what you owe, right now, and we let you go." The man folded his hands, his expression warming. Roy squinted: "didn't I just tell you I only have $100 in savings? Doesn't it say that in that file of yours?" The man shrugged, lips curled, hands turned up. "In that case, we can sign you up for a PLP Card. The debt will go on your PLP, and once that is paid off, you'll be free to go." PLP Card? Roy was not familiar with this. From the folder, the man produced a small plastic card, complete with copper chip, in bold official fonts it read:  PRESIDENTIAL LOAN PROGRAM BROUGHT TO YOU BY AMAZON ROGER L MORRIS INTERNED 2026  "...You'll be here, working off your debt, and once it is done, you'll be free to go." Roy saw it clearly now: the debt would be transferred to the Amazon Financial Group, and he would be subject to prison labor, at a much lower rate of pay than even his minimum wage existance. He would lose his job, his apartment, his car and bike, everything he had worked for. He would be stuck here 'working off his debt' until he died... a virtual ward of the state, in perpetual "unpaid student" status, doing menial labor in excrutiating conditions and never seeing a single dime.  "....Fucking Jeff." "Oh, don't thank Mr. Bezos, remember: It's President AmazonCorp." And this was true: thanks to the Supreme Court's new extended interpretation of Citizen's United, the Amazon Corporation was eligible to run for president in 2024 - which it did, and it won handily. This is it, Roy thought: this is where the institutional slavery becomes actual slavery, from the frying pan into the fire as they say... and it happens the exact same way he got into this mess in the first place. "Sign here.


Whatever you do, be aware of your surroundings. Be aware of everything. Capture every motion, whether you use your brain or you phone. Capture. Every. Single. Detail. You are in a new world, you are disoriented, you don’t know where to go. Just use this guide, and you’ll be fine. I am here for some time, let’s say about three months. I have already experienced that there are no humans, as far as I know. We are in a dystopia, and your main goal is to survive. That’s why I requested you to capture everything, this can be proof later on that this world exists. Also, there are just a few animals. Only some birds and not many other species. There are so called ‘*Crytids’.* These are the monsters of this planet, and to kill them you need to use your machete and stab in its eye. They are two feet high and their eyes are on top of their heads. It’s easy visible because the head is just at the top of its body. But watch out, they are really fast, approximately they run at a speed of 18 miles per hour. The reason they can achieve such high speeds is because they run at all fours, excluding one weird limb at the back of them. It looks like a leg but is probably useless. They look just a slightly bit like a dog, so don’t mistake a Crytid with a dog. Because we have Crytids, but no dogs. The way to recognize those bastards is because your arms are going to tingle, which is an inevitable and undeniable feeling. Your surroundings will all suddenly go quiet. This is the most obvious sound a Crytid is near. So be aware of those things. Have your machete ready and prepare for a fight. In this world there are a ton of Crytids, unfortunate for us. The first encounter with such a thing is often incredibly scary. But whenever you have fought with a couple of them, they will be easier to conquer and also easier to recognize when one of them is nearby. Sorry, almost forgot to mention that they aim for your weak parts. In this case they aim for your legs. They do this so you can’t walk and thus will be an easier target for them because you won’t be bigger. When a Crytid is going to attack you, make sure to be fast with your feet. And of course your machete. The goal why you are put into this world is a mystery for me either. I don’t have a specific answer to a question so diverse. The most likely answer would be that you have been a naughty boy, a very naughty boy. Nah, jokes aside. This might’ve been a punishment because you were a bad guy in your previous world. Probably planet Earth, which was in my case. However, I have no clue why I have been banned to this planet. Perhaps God thought it might be fun for me to give me a more challenging life, in which he sure accomplished. Although I am missing my friends and family at this point. I might know how to escape this world, but I am not sure. Every. Single. Thing. Might not even be real. You simply don’t know what is and what is not. But to escape this world, I need a partner. So if you have received this letter, you know what is waiting for you. My name is Blade. When we meet you can recognize me by my red baseball hat, and black protection gear. If you can’t immediately see me, everywhere I go I put on the roof a tiny orange flag. I do this to know to which places I’ve been and which places are prohibited by me. There are, nonetheless this is a really weird world, a couple of important buildings; \- Head Building of Destruction. This used to be an office for guns. Whether it be the manufacture or testing of guns; you can name it all. It’s a big building which is approx. 30 feet high and 25 feet wide. This building is easily recognizable by its American flag at the front side. (I have no idea why the American flag but whatever). The office also has a gun painted on the roof, so from the top view you can also see it. The building overall is like a giant box, with black painted walls from the outside. It has 6 feet high windows at the front side which gives you a clear view of what is inside. I recommend if you see the Head Building of Destruction that you go inside if the coast is clear and get yourself a better battle weapon. Like a semi-automatic weapon is good but a couple of knives are great, too. It’s up to you. But keep this building in mind because there sure will be some weapons inside which can be optimal in a fight against Crytids. \- Personal Supermarket. This is just a small 40 by 40 feet supermarket which offers the essential products to survive in this world. Like water, bread, rice et cetera. This is also good to check-out when you see it. The Personal Supermarket has its name in red letters in front of a green square. It has two lampposts at the side of it, in which the electricity has already ran out. \- Crytid’s Cave. Like the name already says, this is the cave of all the Crytids. Stay at all cost, away from it. If, however, just one Crytid notices you, they all come for you. The Crytid’s cave is a really big cave on a huge hill. This hill lays in a desert and is easy noticeable from a pretty far distance. I had to run for my life one time, so I recommend you shouldn’t go there. \- Centre of Everything. This is the centre of this place, and is a hotspot for Crytids, so if you are going to this place, make sure you have your machete ready. Otherwise, don’t go to this place if you are not ready to battle. I have been to here one time, and it’s pretty impressive, so you’d be better off to stay away. \- The Point. This is the place where you woke up. It’s a meeting point for all the people that escaped this place and is easy visible because it has a sign which says; “This is where the end has started”. I know this, because people have led me to it, but I couldn’t go yet. This is an important place to meet someone, so keep that in mind. Hopefully this guide helped you a bit, if you find this letter, meet me tomorrow at The Point. Right when the sun rises. You can recognize me by my red baseball hat and black protection gear. I’ll wait for you. Regards, Blade.  ‘Wow’ I said, ‘That was an intense guide and invitation to this world!’. I sighed, ‘But I am really curious who this Blade guy is, he seems cool.’ I said to myself. Right as I wanted to explore my surroundings a bit, my arm began tingling. I remember what Blade said; *The way to recognize those bastards is because your arms are going to tingle, which is an inevitable and undeniable feeling.* So I knew there was a Crytid lurking at me. I quickly searched for my machete, which was in my backpack next to me. I got it and silently waited for it. Within a split second it sprinted to me. I was scared but aimed for the eye, it aimed for my leg. I stabbed as hard as I could and I was unbelievably scared. But after one stab in its eye, it fell down on the ground, obviously dead. ‘Pfew, that was close and scary’, I said, ‘but oh man, it felt so good.’ With my machete in my pocket and the disoriented feeling fading away, I started to explore my surroundings a bit, waiting for the sun to go under and rise again, so I could meet Blade.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! Please be sure to read the entire post before submitting! Don’t forget to leave your feedback each week, it is a **requirement.** 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.   ***   #This week's theme is Amends! We’re going to focus on ‘amends’ this week. There have been a variety of conflicts thus far in your stories. Are there amends that need to be made? Relationships that need mending? Will it lead to any difficult or emotional conversations? How have their lives been affected by the rift between them? How will their lives change now? Maybe the amends don’t quite go as planned. What happens now? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. /   ***   #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I will be releasing the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * June 27 - Amends (this week) * July 4 - Pride * July 11 - Fallen   ***   #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   ***   #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story.** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread (on 2 different stories) to quality for rankings every week.** The comment **must** include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings the following week.** You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements each week. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   ***   #Reminders: * **Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments**, if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday/Sunday posts or to your own subreddit or profile. But an in-progress serial is not required to start. You may jump in at any time. * **Saturdays I will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge**. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **You can nominate your favorite stories each week**. Send me a message on discord or reddit and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. Making nominations awards both parties points (see breakdown at the bottom of this post). * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news! *** #Last Week’s Rankings This past week had a much smaller turnout, so there’s only three ranking spots. All the stories were great, though, and I look forward to reading more! - - u/GammaGames - - u/NobodysGeese - - u/Xacktar - - u/FyeNite   ***   #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Here’s the breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 6 points - Second place - 5 points - Third place - 4 points - Fourth place - 3 points - Fifth place - 2 points - Sixth place - 1 point **Feedback:** In order to be eligible for feedback points, you have to complete your 2 required feedback comments. - Written feedback (on the thread) - 1 point each, up to 3 points (5 crits total on the thread) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 1 point each, up to 3 points. * *Note: Completing the max for both is equivalent to a first place vote. Keep in mind that you should not be using the same feedback to receive both written and verbal feedback points on the same story. Your feedback should be actionable and list at least one thing the author has done well.* **Nominations:** Making nominations for your favorite stories will now earn you extra points! - 3 points for sending your favorite stories to me, via DM, by 12 pm Sunday, EST. You may send a max of **six** nominations. (The 3 points are the total.)     ***   ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday. Check out to learn more! - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts.


It was a dark morning still when I woke up in bed, too early. I was in my hometown, at my parents’ house, in my childhood room. Reluctantly I went downstairs and sat for a simple breakfast my mom had prepared. My dad moved around, getting ready for work. He would take me to his office; I would check it out. I had said I’d rather not work that job, but my parents insisted, gently. “What do you got to lose, hon?” My mom said. I put on some business casual clothes: workman’s leather shoes, khaki pants, a non-iron shirt whose crisp collar I could feel on my chin. We got into my dad’s pickup and drove off towards the highway. It was autumn, I had a leather jacket on, but it was hard to get lively. Before the highway we pulled up to a coffee shop. Dad had already had a coffee at home, and he thought buying coffees outside was a waste of money. I found that home coffee doesn’t quite do it for me - it’s too weak, and I don’t really mind paying two bucks for someone to prepare me a big, fresh cup. We sat by the window of the shop, looking onto a grey parking lot. The sky was grey too, but more beautiful than the view below; it had splashes of purple and orange. I got busy smelling and sipping on the coffee. Dad, having nothing to do, looked at me, smiled awkwardly, and tried to say something cool, something I would like. I imagine that would require a lot of creativity on his part. “A little tired, huh? Too much party last night?” He said. “It’s okay. Drink up your coffee. I don’t mind stopping by a coffee shop, really, if it makes you feel better.” “It does make me feel better,” I said. “It’s dark in here. Back south it was warmer.” I had moved back from the south to my hometown after I broke up with my girlfriend there. At least I thought we broke up. We didn’t really discuss it; I had left suddenly, making a vague suggestion that I might return. Since I got back to my hometown though I didn’t call her at all, and it’s been several weeks. She didn’t call me either. So, guess we broke up. Now I was unemployed, starting from scratch. I had missed my family, but not my friends. When I said I was starting over, I meant not going back to my old profligate ways. “Wait till you get married,” said dad. “Wait till you get married, have children. Then you will know the meaning of true exhaustion.” “Kids, family?” I thought, “Sounds terrifying. This whole grey place is populated by kids and families. It does not look inviting.” A friend of my dad’s then walked into the coffee shop and came to greet us. He was very fat and he was smiling; he had grey mustache and wore glasses. He shook hands and sat drown next to me with his coffee after my dad invited him to chat a little. The man ended up talking about a mutual friend and recounting a party at that man’s house: “It was a big, big barbecue. He got a roast pig from somewhere and treated us all. There must have been thirty people that came and went. We must’ve finished ten cases of beer. Luke got real drunk, started singing.” My dad laughed at that, and so did his friend. I could imagine the party – a group of miserable, overworked men in their fifties stuffing themselves to an early heart attack, their wives hanging out in a separate room exchanging unhealthy recipes and gossiping. “His son was there too, with the younger boys,” continued the friend in the coffee shop. “They were swimming in the pool. It was already cold, but they jumped in anyhow. One of ‘em even tossed his wife in.” “Marky simply does not give a hoot about anything,” my dad said, admiringly. I remember Marky. Obese, tattooed moron with zero sense of restraint. A total asshole to his mother and sister, and probably also to his child’s mother. I get a headache thinking of that man’s eating, drinking, and smoking habits. The friend wraps up his story and leaves the coffee shop, shaking hands and smiling for goodbye. My dad and I walk out too and proceed on our drive to his office. We get stuck in traffic, a vast serpent twisting left to right and up and down through uptown. My dad curses and complains about the traffic, but his words come out prepackaged, automatic. He does it every day, but he never quite loses it. “Don’t worry about the job,” he slapped my knee. “You will handle it easily. They will give you time to figure out the software. The boss is a good guy, don’t be afraid of the boss.” “I’m not afraid of the boss,” I said. I had met the boss before, when I interned at the place as a student. Some goofball wearing silk shirts and lording it over a crew of refugees. Nice guy, takes pride in being a job provider, but a bit of a goof. My dad continued: “It’s a safe, cushy job. You can save up some money here. If you are patient, they will promote you. They will like you. And if the economy goes south and you lose your job, remember you need only nine months of work experience, and then you can go on unemployment benefits.” “Unemployment benefits! Now that’s something to aspire to!” I didn’t say this, I only said it to myself. I resented the low expectations. I am too young, too ambitious for that. I don’t want a safe job; I want an interesting job. In the south I worked as a teacher. It was unpredictable and didn’t have the safety factor, but over a couple of years I ended up making more money than I ever made here. And it was interesting. It energized me. I didn’t even know why I agreed to check out this stupid office job. We arrived to the industrial area and parked in front of the office building. We walked out of the truck and my dad walked a bit ahead of me. He got to the front door and opened it and walked through. I walked towards the door, but strangely, it was taking me a long time to get there. I walked harder, but the more I pushed, the slower I moved. My breathing became heavy. I looked towards the glass door, and pushed with my feet, but couldn’t quite get there. Maybe I didn’t want to get there; maybe my unadmitted but profound dislike for the place had created a spacetime warp between the parking lot on which I stood and on which I walked and that glass door. It got dark suddenly; it was night. My dad didn’t walk back out, the place was deserted. I remembered only my dad’s big office shirt floating in through the door, and I felt my office shirt rubbing against my own chin. I woke up. Where was I? It was a bright summer morning. I remember now. I was in my own apartment. I was down south. It was the first day of my summer holiday after I finished teaching a semester at a local school. It must have been six o’clock. My three-month son had woken my wife and me at four-thirty of course. Then my wife took him to the other room to breastfeed him, and I went back to sleep gain. It wasn’t a deep sleep, but I did have a rough dream. It’s okay; I can’t wait to play with my son. I know that will fix everything. The summer will be glorious.