“A sharp inhale with pursed lips.” My father randomly said that during one of the many silences we shared. It’s how he said a beer sounded when you opened it. He had a bunch of phrases and quotes that stuck with me. “You’re not a drunk if you’ve never been genuinely dejected by the words, ‘Alcohol Free’ on a bottle of mouthwash.” “Everything is, or isn’t, Ice Cream.” “Fuck is the most versatile word in the English language.” He had a point. Verb, Noun, Adverb, Interjection, it’s like the swiss army-knife of swear words.   He’d tell stories, too. Like the time he got drunk while on leave in the Army and accidentally invaded Jordan. I can barely picture it. Two dudes, a stolen dingy, and a megaphone hurtling toward the Jordanian Coast Guard while screaming, “Give us all your pita bread!” A lot different from who I knew. Sure the man drank, but quietly.   This was the drunkest I ever saw him: a couch between him and I while the TV was blaring. Red was screaming at Blue about something neither of us cared about. He sipped on almost a full bottle of tequila that night, and a point came where he made one of those old man noises. He was only 40 or so, I’m not sure anymore, but he made the noises—the gurgle grump throat rumble noise, and stood up, but when his legs went straight, they wobbled. He tilted forward a bit, and then back. “I’m going to bed,” he said, and then he did. That was the drunkest I ever saw him.   “Don’t make me parent.” Something else he always said. Odd thing to say to your kid, but I got what he meant eventually. During one of those tedious parent teacher conferences he was told of my “test taking difficulty,” how I would hand in half blank scantrons or simply walk away in the middle of one. I thought he was upset because he was gonna have to parent. Rather, he explained how he was the same way as a kid. His head would get all fuzzy and his chest would get tight during a test or when a teacher called on him.   “It’s not a big deal,” he said. “Whenever you think your nerves are gonna get bad and you feel you gotta run, don’t be a bitch. Just say, ‘Fuck it’, and get your shit done.” That was half of his philosophy. Get your shit done, and don’t be a dick. “Don’t be a dick is second because sometimes you have to be to get your shit done,” he explained.   He’d be the first to tell you that he wasn’t good with kids. Too often he would speak to them as adults and expect them to figure it out. It’s why he wasn’t mad when he was called down to the principal’s office the next week for his ten-year-old son randomly screaming, “Fuck it!” in the back of a classroom to calm himself down. He laughed his ass off and called me an idiot, but he wasn’t mad. Fuck ups and stupidity were a part of the process. He only got mad when I lied, or was lazy. Even then, he never used his hands when his words would do. Sure, when I was being a dickhead he would slap me in the back of the head and tell me to shut up, but he never beat me, or anything like that. He did throw me into a brick wall once, but it was for pushing my baby sister so it doesn’t really count. Last time I saw him he reminded me about that. And the milk story. That was always his favorite.   I was helping him unload groceries one day, where I climbed into the truck bed to hand him bags as he walked them inside. The last two items were two, one-gallon jugs of milk. I picked up both of them thinking I was the shit and walked to the end of the truck bed. The gap between the bed and the floor was as tall as me, so I just stood there staring down, sincerely perplexed as to how I was going to descend without putting the jugs down. He watched me do half, one legged squats for a few minutes until I realized my legs weren’t long enough to reach the ground. When I finally noticed he was there, this idiot little boy looked up with the most serious face and said, “Dad. I did not think this through.”   “That’s when I knew,” he told me, “That’s when I knew you were gonna be okay.   \*\*\*   Last June I woke up with a broken hand and an anvil on my chest, crying. I rolled over and hacked what was left of my lungs, coughed until my eyes watered and when I was done, they were flooded. Part of me loved it. I thought to myself, *It’s like a weight being lifted off my shoulders*, and then I was furious at how fucking cliché that sounded so I decided to shut it down. Started off small with the classic, *Don’t be a pussy*, but then came, *Fuck, that’s a cliché too*, and then I was feeling more guilty than I already was. Small thinking failed so onto the macro. A quick little, *You have nothing to cry about*, and I was wondering why I’m not thought of as the deplorables. “They’re not sending their best,” they say, as if the best are already here. I am part of “the best.” White, middle class, educated. I have never raped, nor have I murdered, and according to Red these be the sole criteria of what makes someone a good person, as if that’s all there is to it. That’s what they see when they look at me.   I wonder what they would say if they knew part of me comes from a “shithole,” that 25% of me had the gall to slither its way into this country to study its practices and heal its citizens, mixing with what it found. Only about half of them even notice, usually along the lines of, “so what else are you,” which begets questions. Does this make me one of them? If I tell Red will they send 25% of me back? If I tell people from my 25% will they protect me? Hell, would they believe me? Or would they correct me and say I didn’t do any of that so I should just shut the fuck up? Would make sense to me if they did. 25% isn’t big enough to place in the pockets of understanding.   I don’t know how to combat that feeling. Guilty over something I have no control over, yet immensely benefit from. What should I do? Post a black square on Instagram? Retweet something else someone else said? Virtue signal to the world so I can look myself in the mirror and call myself an ally? As if it’s up to me. I’m as clueless as when I was as a child whenever a white lady would ask me if my father was actually my father. Certainty this stern-faced brown man with what they assumed to be a scared little freckled white boy was something that needed to be stopped. That’s what they saw. I looked up and saw Dad. I hate that white lady now, the sort of person who only thinks of humanity and its ails to distract her from her own... Fuck.   \*\*\*   A kiss on the cheek shouldn’t be as commonplace as it is. It should be an indicator that someone is so in love, they can’t wait to get to another’s lips. That energy is anything but. The energy of a thousand little red ants crawling over a thousand more to build a bridge, climbing one over the other, one over the other, like a spear flying in slow motion. A bright red spear of a thousand little red ants climbing on top of a thousand little red ants—a kiss on the cheek. Sometimes a hole in the wall. Or a pan thrown at your face. A burger on the floor.   I didn’t say anything to Mia at first. I did sing along to “Lovebug,” by the Jonas brothers. Quietly, of course. Didn’t want to make things worse. Just loud enough for her to laugh at how horrible I am at singing. Took an intermission when we pulled up to the drive thru so I could tell the underpaid teenager her order. No tomatoes and no onions. I had already eaten. Didn’t think I was gonna see her that night. I told her I was busy, but really I had been avoiding her for the last few days out of fear. Never made it this far with anyone else, and my head had been telling me to run. Yet, when she called, I didn’t think at all. Just brushed my teeth, sniffed my balls, drove over there, and started singing. After we got the food, I parked the car a little ways away so she could start eating. That’s what I wish happened. That she just sat there and ate the damn burger. Everything was okay until she started talking.   “Five years ago,” she said, sobbing. “Five years ago today my best friend, Emily, died in a hit and run accident. She was walking home from my house when a drunk driver hit her crossing the street and just kept on going.”   I had seen people talk about death before, but never like this. She was feeling everything she was saying as she was saying it.   “She was alive for a while, too. Just bleeding in the street alone. I should have walked her home. Or told her to stay a little longer so my dad could drive her. I didn’t think anything of it.”   I was thinking.   “Our favorite band was the Jonas Brothers,” she continued.   What the fuck was I thinking for thinking?   “Lovebug was her favorite song, actually. We had this jar in my room to save up for tickets. We were so close to making it that year, too.”   I left the car then. Told her I had to go to the bathroom. I walked back to the restaurant, where I pulled out my phone and searched, *drunk driver kills teenage girl june 2014 Santa Ana*, *santa ana hit and run dead june 2014*, *emily dead santa ana 2014*, and every other variation of it. When I got back to the car I didn’t speak right away. She didn’t either. She was too busy leading me down those streets that T.S. Eliot talked about.   “I just wish I could’ve told her—" “I don’t believe you,” I said. “I think you’re lying.” “That’s a fucked up thing to say.” “I know,” I said. “Tell me I’m wrong. Please.”   I thought I hated being wrong. I’m so stubborn that I would jokingly tell her that I’m always right and she would point out every time I was wrong. Turned into a little game we played where we would keep score, and the loser had to do something the other hated. If she had won I would have had to do something like go on a ferris wheel. If I had one I would have made her just eat the damn burger.   It was the first time I hated being right. It was the first time I saw her afraid and the first time she saw me angry. First time I broke an air conditioner vent with my fist, or took a cheeseburger out of someone’s lap and threw it on the ground, and the first time I left someone in a parking lot alone at night.   My friend got a new pair of shoes, though. He’s very religious, when he’s not fucking other men, and occasionally hangs out with other people who are very religious. I was at his house a few days later, surrounded by people whose only vices were tea and video games. They asked me if I was sleeping with anyone, had I ever done drugs, what it was like being drunk. They looked at me like I had knowledge of this secret world that they’d only seen on TV. That’s what they thought. That my life was an episode of Entourage where I could drink forever without getting drunk and fuck anyone I wanted. They didn’t understand that after one drink I would start to feel drunk. That the volume of consumption was not to reach a threshold but to maintain one. Or that, devoid of an orgasm, sex is nothing more than two uncomfortable people trying their best not to be.   Then they asked me about my hand and I told them all I remember was trying to stand on some grass next to a lake and the next thing I knew, I woke up with a broken hand and an anvil on my chest. My friend filled in the blanks.   “Mia called me, worried about you. Vanessa was busy, so I tracked you down and took you to the lake to sober up. Where you tried to fight a pole. That’s how you broke your hand. Said it was trying to fuck with you. But that was after the lake. One of the times you tried to stand up you fell back down and just sort of lied there for a bit. A duck walked up towards you and you mumbled something about it staring at you. So you snatched it with both hands and puked all over it. Its wings were flapping the vomit everywhere, all over me.” “I puked on a duck?” “You puked on a duck,” he said.   I puked on a duck.   Mia paid for his shoes to say sorry and that was that. For a while. Eventually I would ask another question. At least my friend got a new pair of shoes out of it.   \*\*\*   My mother once slapped me across the face once when I asked if she needed help doing the dishes. I’m talking a proper, Grant Theft Auto type of backhand with the rings and everything. Said I was being sarcastic. Can’t blame her. She was drunk. That wasn’t odd. The odd came from the fact that I was too young to know what sarcasm was, and once I did, it made even less sense. She always got mad when I told her she was a drunk like her mother or that if I were her father, I would have left sooner, not when I was joking. To be fair, her mom is a fucking nightmare, but I can see how that could be considered rude, now. Doesn’t mean it’s not true. It’s not like he abandoned them for poverty, no matter how much she tries to convince you otherwise. Her dad was a nightmare too, the type of guy that gets pissed off when you tell him the soup tastes like shit as he washes his fingers in it. Though, to his credit, if you’re going to abandon your wife and three children, his was a solid way. He left them on Father’s day, with his wife’s best friend, right after taking his company public. He threw twelve million at them and fucked off. Dick move, absolutely, but the man committed. I’d only like to kick him in the balls respectfully, like a President or a Priest.   When I was fourteen I didn’t do math homework for three days in a row and she told me, “I give up. I’m just waiting for you to die now.” I didn’t bring it up for years, until one day she was giving me shit for ditching school. “I thought you were just waiting for me die?” I said so she kicked me out of the house. Didn’t really make a difference to me. I was halfway moved out as is, so I never looked back. Already had a key, a toothbrush, and a parking spot at a friend’s apartment. Officially, it was just him and his mom, Lisa, that lived there. Unofficially, there were about nine to ten different people coming and going out of that place. Immediate friend group along with whomever we thought we loved at the time.   Lisa let us get away with murder in that place, but that’s not why I loved her. There were plenty of other reasons. Hands down, makes the best cookies in the world. She used to make these caramel, snickerdoodle shits and they’re better than comfortable sex. Me and her ate a whole tray of those once watching the Bravo channel and those shitty Lifetime movies. Lisa made you feel like being there was what you were supposed to be doing, which made me feel guilty for taking advantage of that whenever I could. Especially since her son treated her like shit. Never cleaned up after himself, constantly asked her for money when she was barely affording rent, blamed her for the divorce. It pissed me off to no end. I tried cleaning whenever I could, or tackling the seemingly endless mountain of dishes. But if I’m being honest, I did more harm to that place than help. I could’ve done more. Chipped in for groceries, maybe. Hell I was there so much I probably should have paid rent. Fuck, I miss her.   When I showed up at her house with a garbage bag full of clothes all she asked me was if I knew how to open a bottle of wine. I told her I taught myself how to when I was a six so I could empty it into the sink after my mother passed out. Told her how it never made sense to me, how they got that cork in there yet no one can ever get it back in, the foil around it all. I didn’t understand why they made it so difficult to get to. I didn’t understand a lot of things back then. Why the couch cushions got flipped around a lot. Why some nights Mom was quiet and stable and others she was loud and clumsy. Just thought she was unlucky. Always spilling and dropping everything. It made sense to pour it out. Save the couch, a ton of would be shattered glass and ceramic, and make it quiet again so the refs could hear us during Lakers games. It didn’t take her long to figure out it was me and not just her drinking more than she thought she had. I told Lisa how I learned not to do that again and that’s when I stopped watching Lakers games. I told Lisa everything. Slapping for sarcasm, pans thrown at my head, and waiting to die, but she didn’t hug me. She hugged me the first time I met her but not then. She didn’t tell me she was sorry to hear that because she had heard that too many times about her ex. She didn’t do anything that normal people would do.   “Why are you friends with these guys, my son,” she said. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t exactly fit in.” That’s the kindest thing anyone has ever told me.   \*\*\*   For seventeen years I looked out my window and stared at a bench tucked away in the backyard, pressed against a fence I shared with a neighbor I never knew. Its back legs rested on a pile of rocks that were lower than the cement the front legs rested on. It tilted upward towards the sun over the years and the wood lost its color. What was once a strong, hickory brown became an ashy grey, dry to the touch, covered in cracks and splinters. It withered for years as I stared at it. That decrepit, ashy grey, splintery bench.   I got sick of looking at the fucking thing, so about a year before I broke my hand I dragged it out from the rocks away from my window to the center of the yard. I took sandpaper that I found in the garage, different grains and colors and sizes, some full sheets, others oddly shaped scraps leftover from when they were cut. I took all of them and I started grinding away, not realizing just how much work sanding a bench is by hand. After about an hour of me sanding the same spot over and over again, Dad peeked his head out from the side yard and I was ready to go. The man always had a way of doing things that rendered everyone else’s entirely wrong. I was ready to tell him to fuck off and leave me alone, but then he left. Returned a few minutes with a mask, a yellow can, a blue tarp, a paint brush, and a paddle with a razor on the end of it.   “Step back,” he said. The smell of whatever was in that can nearly knocked me on my ass. It was still burning my nostrils even after the thirty minutes he told me to wait. I took the paddle and sliced off the wet, ashy grey strips with ease, and they fell down to the blue tarp. By the time I was done Mom had shown up with sheets of fresh sandpaper and a bucket of varnish.   I spent the rest of the weekend sanding. Every time I took a breath, I would choke on dust. I went over every plank and corner twice, revealing a swirl of colors—yellow, red, brown, orange—all mixed together and breathing comfortably. When I was finished that bench was smoother than anything. No cracks, no splinters, no ash. Like if Don Draper, Shaft, and the Dos Equis guy all had a baby that somehow didn’t get the misogyny gene, type of smooth. I was proud, and didn’t bother hiding it. Thought I found something I was finally good at, too. Mom was excited because it would be nice enough to be put in the front yard again and Dad liked the fact his son had done something without being told.   Mia didn’t give a shit. Told me it would have been more impressive if I built it. I loved her as soon as she said that. We were both dating other people at the time. Her a nice boy who opened doors and asked her how she felt. Me, someone who tried her absolute best to support me in every way imaginable. It was a horribly boring time. They were both good people, but Mia and I had common interests. Like fucking each other in the bathroom while our respective partners are downstairs, rejoining the party and pretending that nothing happened. Watching her come up with excuses on the spot and her swallowing Plan B an hour later are the two sexiest things I have ever seen. We lasted longer than I thought it would. The lying and the sneaking around lost its appeal and we each did the mature thing. Broke up with our partners and lied to them about why.   Then it was just us two. It stopped being exciting and started getting serious. That bench was where I told her we should stop. That we were doomed to end in a big, beautiful, angry way. A burger on the floor and her alone in a parking lot. She didn’t agree. Told me it was fate. Talked about time being dead and sound freezing when my lips were pressed against hers. How we could say things to each other on this bench that no one else could hear.   “People who die skydiving,” she would say, “kinda have it coming.” “My favorite thing,” I said, “is watching a kid eat shit on a skateboard.”   Everything we said was met with enthusiasm and relief, and slowly but surely the little red ants climbed. A bright red spear of a thousand little red ants climbing on top of a thousand little red ants—I missed and kissed her on the cheek.   \*\*\*   I think about that bench all the time, now that I have the time. The guy behind the glass at the gas station was excited to see me because he hadn’t since last June. He told me how crazy it all is, asked if I still had my job, blah blah blah. I wasn’t listening, really. Kind of hard to hear behind the masks. As loud as the world is to us, we are more muffled to each other than ever before.   Nothing registered until he said, “I don’t know when this is gonna end,” like a sack of potatoes. He added a sincere “stay safe,” and I gave him a nod then walked away. Couldn’t even dignify the man with a response. I stared down at the pack of cigarettes and thought that if this was a movie, I would throw them away. One of those people that you see on a daily basis but never bother to ask anything else, the man who pours your coffee, the woman who takes your order. One of those familiar strangers shows me compassion and my character would decide to be someone else because he realized we can still connect with people, even if it is from six feet away. I haven’t decided who I want to be yet.   I find myself thinking about Dad more. Mainly about all the funny little quotes he would’ve made, what he would’ve thought of everything. I like to think Mother Nature got sick of us screaming at each other so she put everyone in time-out. Gave us all something to share again. I think about Mia too, about how fucked up it would be if the hospital made a person like her work through this shit. Her asthma hasn’t been a problem for a while, but still, I can’t help but think the worst. Speaking of which, I hope Mom is okay too. Haven’t called her since it all started. I made sure she stocked up on all the essentials and my sister drops off groceries weekly, armored in makeshift masks and gloves she stole from the restaurant where she works. I wonder what that bench looks like now, too.   Then another day comes and I’m glad my father’s dead. He would’ve gone stir crazy, anyways. I’ll think that Mother Nature wants to tear us apart for good. I’ll text Mia but only to ask if she’s still alive. She tries to tell me about how the hospital let her go so her and Pops are barely hanging on. I want to give a shit but I also don’t know if she’s telling the truth. “Just don’t die,” I tell her. My mother, on the other hand, can go ahead and croak. Better just to rip the band-aid off now and get it over with. Then I could finally go back and get rid of that goddamn bench. I’m not sure. I notice myself going back and forth and I hate it.   I notice the backwardness of a cruel April and a warm winter, as I flip through the notes and read the likes of Baudelaire and Marvell, Dante, of pearl eyes and the lyrics of love. *Perfer et obdura, dolor hic tibi proderit olim*, he tells me. But how can I have patience as the ground splits beneath my feet? As I go back and forth? I do not want to be screaming across a chasm, nor drown between two, or forget the other existed. I want one foot in four facets like I’m a monument. I want the TV to shut off and flood with Purple, for the ones and zeros to go fuck themselves so we can write eight billion new algorithms for eight billion new people. I want to be a son, a lover, a craftsman, a friend, and a dishwasher. I want words like “ally” and “woke” to become obsolete so words like “Me Too” and “Mass Shooting” can surprise me again. I want this to not sound as ridiculous as it does. I want to care enough to do more than just notice things.   Instead, I open another one. A sharp inhale with pursed lips slices the air and I think to myself, that when I woke up last June, with a broken hand and an anvil on my chest, I should’ve taken a bat to that fucking bench, instead of running and kissing her on the cheek. I wish I could feel the sawdust and planks slapping me across the face as I stare down at the ashy grey pile of splinters and cracks, so I’ll never have to wake up and think of this shit ever again.


“What do you think he wants?” Philip asked his boss.. “I’m not sure”. Haywood responded as he put out his cigarette and stood up from the desk. “But he seems determined to get it”. Philip had been working at a halfway decent shoe store under Haywood for a few months now and every so often they would see a poorly dressed man come by and stare at a pair of shoes at the windowsill for almost a few minutes, but always refraining from buying them whenever they approached the man. They never knew why but Haywood had seemed to have enough of it when this same man did so again tonight. Haywood then walked across the hardwood floor of the shoe store and the poorly dressed man spotted him and began sheepishly walking away when Haywood opened the door and addressed him. “It’s not a crime to look at a pair of shoes you know”. The man then stopped and shoved his hands in his pocket and Haywood smiled “Why don’t you come in and see them for yourself?” The poorly dressed man then nodded “Actually I don’t think I could afford them. I’m afraid I have an awful habit of staring at them every time I come by this place”. Haywood nodded in return “I know, and every time you don’t buy them. Please come in so I can make you a decent offer at least”. The poorly dressed man was taken back by this shopkeeper's politeness and went inside with him as Philip continued to stick the shelves but didn’t linger far away not to hear them speak. The poorly dressed man then walked in a very odd fashion into the store and was greeted by the sight of entire shelves of leather shoes and boots that he gazed at for some time before Haywood coughed after shutting the door behind him with his good hand and spoke. “I believe the shoes you were looking at are over here Sir”. The poorly dressed man then turned his head. “What? Oh yes right.” He then walked over to the stand and Haywood took them off the display case at the windowsill and began his pitch. “Now these here are Brogans. I’m sure you’re quite familiar with them yourself. Made from standard tanned cowhide imported from out west and rubber imported from the colonies. But it was all assembled here in Blackwater.” Haywood had made similar pitches for many years now and knew when it was working on a customer. But still, the man tried to resist his charms and responded. “I like your pitch Sir but I’m afraid I can’t get them”. Haywood only offered a smile. “3 pounds?.. I admit it’s a little modest for a good pair of shoes but I’m willing to take a pound off for you Sir”. The man, however, refused “no sir it isn’t the price.. it’s just that.. it’s a bit difficult to tell if they’d fit.” Haywood then nodded. “On account of your leg then?” The man then turned his head “Yes that’s correct actually”. He responded. Haywood then sighed “Well why don’t you try them on Sir and see how they fit then?” The man then took the shoes and took off his left shoe before lifting his pant leg and taking the one from his false leg and as he put them on Haywood made some brief conversation. “If you don’t mind asking me Sir where did you serve at?” The man then began to tie the laces as he spoke. “I was in a few places myself. I spent quite some time at the “the Mole hill”. “I’m sure that was quite a time. I had a few friends serve there myself”. Haywood said in return. “I must have met them at some point.” The man said before his tone changed. “Before a Ticonderogan shell took my leg I was quite the football player when we were able to take furlough in the rear. I went from being a half-decent middle fielder to a bench warmer in half a second” Haywood then nodded “I bet you’ve gotten a lot better at Billards and cards then”. “Of course.” The man said, “We barely did anything else at the hospital, besides bitch about the food”. The man then finished putting on his shoes and walked awkwardly around the floor as Philips stared from afar. “They feel quite nice,” the man said with a smile. Haywood then smiled in return. “I’m glad they fit then. Maybe you’d like to walk out of here with them?” The man then nodded and Haywood packed up the box and paper with it the man took two pounds from his coat and handed it over. “Will that be all Sir?” Haywood then asked the man as he was on his way out. “Oh no thank you, it’s quite rare getting a pair of shoes that fit well these days, it’s even rarer to find a good deal as well”. The man then began walking towards the door when he then paused and turned to face Haywood as he stood at the desk. “Though if you don’t mind me asking Sir, how did you know I had a false leg?” Haywood then offered a nod. “A good shoe salesman can tell what type of shoes a man would want to wear from the sound of his footstep.” The man was then satisfied with the answer and departed. Haywood then slid the pounds into the register and Philips finally commented. “I thought the shoes at the display case were 4 pounds, Sir?” “They were,” Haywood said. “But if he men like him lost a leg for me I think it’s only right he should get a good pair of shoes at a cheap price in return”.


She asks me what is the worst thing I’ve ever done, however I cannot tell her. To share the worst thing you’ve ever done is a crime in itself and exposes you to the consequences of reprehensible moral decision making. To even begin to think about sharing the worst thing is a step too far in itself. To share the worst thing you’ve ever done must be preceded by forgiving yourself, at least partially, for this crime you’ve committed. If you can forgive yourself for the worst thing you’ve ever done then either you haven’t done anything reprehensible yet or you are morally bankrupt. If you forgive yourself for the worst thing you’ve ever done then you can forgive yourself for anything. You are free to live a life however you wish, whoever you hurt along the way. This kind of living is incredibly attractive to many people but we cannot consider these people as functioning members of a good and just society. The reason you must never forgive yourself, instead hoping you never achieve a new worst thing, is because if you do then you will never have a chance of shame for your actions. So when she asks me the worst thing I’ve ever done, I must decline to answer. For if I share it with her then she will never respect me again. I have already lost my own self respect for the deeds I do, however, the rest of society has not come to the same conclusion yet. If I so choose I could spoil my entire life through excess sharing with people I’m close to, however, this would only succeed in alienating myself. I must hold myself accountable but my human self dreads real justice. I remain silent. If I was to share the worst thing I’ve ever done with her and she forgave me I would be in an even bigger bind. If she forgives my misdeeds then this shows me she has forgiven herself for her own. If she has indeed done this then she no longer has the same level of shame for her own actions and therefore can look past mine. A person’s worst deed should die with them. I may die very soon, I may die in a long time, or more likely sometime in between. When I pass, the worst thing I’ve ever done will finally be laid to rest and made okay. The deed was never okay, however, the perpetrator has had retribution finally brought against them. There is no greater punishment than death, therefore revenge has been served. She asks me if the person I harmed has at least forgiven me. I tell her that they have. She does not understand why I still blame myself then. She can never know. Someone has to hold me accountable. If the victim won’t do it then I will. In the future when I find myself in similar situations I freeze in terror. I cannot move and I am back in the moment. I see it often, flashes across my mind. It rules my life. As it should. I deserve it. She begs me to tell her the worst thing I’ve ever done. I kiss her instead. She has her answer and yet doesn’t know it.


Warning: Contains death and descriptions of corpses. Tommy was always an ill-tempered boy. He was as stubborn and angry as a wasp swarm. It’s easy to see why. He had to fight so hard to survive. He worked like a man before he had ten years to his name. Worse yet, his nickname was his only other. He was so young when his parents died, he couldn’t remember their last name. The Master Sweep may have known, but he didn’t give Tommy the privilege. Like many young boys with impoverished parents or none at all, Tommy cleaned chimneys. Tommy sometimes wondered who was worse off, the orphans or those who had been sold by their own parents. Some of them were as young as three. Most were around six. They relied on the Master Sweep for employment, food, and clothing. Called apprentices, the Master had full control. The sold ones had papers declaring the Master their legal guardian. They couldn’t escape until adulthood, though most wouldn’t make it that far. This lead to Tommy’s anger. A child with the rage of a grown man. It had been a routine day at work. Tommy went down a chimney expecting to emerge once it was clean. Now, Tommy was small for his age. That’s how he made it as long as he did. Many boys were left to starve once they got too big. Well, starve more. That was the day he was just a bit too big. He was stuck. Like many other climbing boys, he was stuck. In the dark and soot. His was born in the dirt and never got the chance to get out. He died in there. He lost the fight. But Tommy was stubborn. Stubborn and angry as a wasp swarm. And now, just as violent. He was no longer bound by his malnourished child body. Now, he’d show everyone what his malevolent mind could do. Tommy’s Master Sweep woke up in the night to the sound of coughing. He didn’t feel alarmed right away. He’d soon have good reason to be. He smelled soot, and heard a growl. One of the last sounds he’d ever hear. He went missing for a while. But they found him. A piece or two at a time. He was stuffed up chimneys of regular customers all over the city. The wider parts, like pelvis and torso, were found in the ovens. If a grown man could fit up a chimney, this story wouldn’t have happened. The head? Grand opening. I said he was missing, but I never said they thought he was alive. His head was found outside his house, coals shoved in where the eyes would be. It’s likely he was alive during dismemberment. I can’t recall where his eyes were, but I think I’ve conveyed the violence enough. Tommy wasn’t finished. Master Sweeps all over began turning up…all over. Authorities tried to stop it somehow, following the obvious pattern, but you can’t catch a ghost. They predicted the pattern correctly, but they were powerless to do anything about it. As powerless as young Tommy had been while alive. But he was contained nearly a year after death. My boss’s predecessor realized what was going on. Many ghosts come from that time and place, but our Malevolent Orphan was especially interesting to him. There was so much raw power. He used his expertise to capture The Malevolent Orphan, and brought him here. To the Dusk Museum. None of the ghosts have free reign, though some have more than others. Tommy has many restrictions, due to his volatile nature. Also because he’s a rare free roaming ghost, moving himself where he pleases. He’s very rude, but hasn’t tried to kill anyone here in years. Nowadays, he mostly stays in his area and insults people. Still hating the world. We give him things to do, but he doesn’t always cooperate. He does enjoy describing the things he’s done to people. I find it curious, that a child could have such a hatred for the world. A malevolence typically seen in jaded adults. But that’s what we gave, here at the Dusk Museum. It’s what we live for. We take pride in our displays. Thank you for your interest.


“Do you ever just sort of forget you exist?” She looked up, pausing in the middle of her page. “Hmm?” Her girlfriend shifted, careful not to move too much. “Forget you exist. Like, as a person. With… choices, and influence and whatever.” There was a crick in her back. She had been using her girlfriend’s stomach as a pillow, and the movement had caused her body to realize that lying on the floor, however carpeted, was uncomfortable. “Not… really. Why? Do you?” “Eh. Sometimes.” Her girlfriend’s body rose and fell heavily beneath her head, accompanied by a puff of breath. “Just… like, you know. Time has no meaning. You’re tired, you can’t bring yourself to do much of anything, even text your friends, and then suddenly two weeks have passed and you’ve done absolutely nothing.” “Oh.” She considered that, but nothing she could remember experiencing seemed close enough. “I mean, I guess I’ve gotten into funks before, but that’s not what you’re talking about, is it?” “Well, sort of,” her girlfriend mused. “It’s like an extended, deep funk, but coupled with passively questioning your identity, validity, and existence. It kinda sucks.” “Yeah, sounds like it.” She glanced at the page number of her book before closing it and placing it off to the side. “Does it happen often, or…?” “A little.” Her girlfriend’s hand, which had been unconsciously massaging her shoulder, retracted. “It was worse at home.” Her heart sank. She rolled onto her side. Her cheek sank into the soft fabric of her girlfriend’s oversized hoodie. “That makes sense.” “Mmhm.” Her girlfriend stared up at the ceiling. “Because there, I’m not as sure of myself. I didn’t know if I wanted to do something or if my parents wanted me to. For as long as I can remember, it all just felt so wrong, and it was only after I got out of high school and away from home that I started actually looking at myself and wondering, ‘Who am I’?” Her girlfriend fidgeted, tugging her skirt down shakily. “And now that I know, what do I do? I don’t feel comfortable at home anymore. I don’t want to spend any time with them, and I don’t trust them, because I can’t! I can’t rely on them. It’d be bad enough if I, as their daughter, just told them I was gay, but I’d also have to tell th-” “I know! I know,” she interrupted before her girlfriend could get too upset. It would be justified, of course, but sue her. “It’s not fair. They suck. I’m sorry. But it’s not your fault.” Her girlfriend grimaced. “Yeah. I know, I guess.” “Seriously.” She boosted herself up onto her palms, sitting up to look her girlfriend in the face. “Anyone who doesn’t appreciate you for who you are doesn’t deserve to know you.” “Hm.” Her girlfriend didn’t react. She barely looked her in the eyes. “If you say so.” “You don’t believe me?” “Why would I? I’m not smart. I’m not that fun to hang around. I’m not even-” “Okay, no.” She cut her girlfriend off again and turned over to lay down next to and on top of her, draping an arm over her shoulders. Their cheeks rubbed against each other. Her mouth hovered above her girlfriend’s ear. “You are. You are every one of those things, and if anyone tells you otherwise, they’re full of shit.” She waited. Her girlfriend didn’t answer. “Okay?” “...Okay.” She turned her head and pressed a kiss onto her girlfriend’s cheek. “Good girl.” Her girlfriend squeaked. She suppressed a smile. “I love you.” Her girlfriend’s arm wrapped around her, pulling them closer together. “I love you, too.


“Draerin, why don’t we ever say anything?” Chandric asked, glancing between his mate at the bar and the table where two elves sat drinking wine while their human friends socialized over a meal. The tavern was not overly crowded but there was enough that the two dwarves felt comfortable talking at the bar without being overheard. Talking in their native tongue was another way to keep their words from traveling too far. Draerin stared at the head on his ale for a bit, lost in the way the firelight glistened off the head as it slowly rippled from the force of Chandric’s mug being set down. Not a full slam but enough force to cause a few waves. “It’s your first time being outside, isn’t it?” he said after a bit. Glancing at the table that held Chandric’s ire, Draerin continued on. “It is a bit different being told about it back in the caverns than having it shoved in your face. Is that the problem?” Chandric stroked his beard idly, fiddling with the braid that held the charms which named his clan. Giving it an irritated tug he reached for his mug again and took a gulp. “How can they not notice?” Draerin drained half his mug before answering. “An elf may only live twice as long as us, but that is ten to twenty of their lives.” He answered once the mug was upon the wood once more. “It can be easy to forget that. Some of their wizards live longer but they are still, on average, a fleeting race.” “But even so, how they are treated by them, why can’t they see?” “The elves have a gentle hand.” Draerin says after another shallower sip. “They have had time to refine their influence on humans. And it may be that humans unconsciously find the relationship acceptable.” “Really? To be treated like pets. Bred and groomed with traits that their *patrons* find pleasing is acceptable?” Chandric slams his mug down at this, causing the little bit of ale left to slosh wildly about. Were it fuller there would be a mess upon the bar but thankfully he knows better than to waste ale. There is a burst of laughter from the the elves’ table. Some of the humans are focused on one of their member who is shrinking in on themselves a bit. A sheepish grin spreads across their face as they shrug and one of their friends slaps their back in a friendly manner. Draerin shakes his head. “Even after all these years I still have trouble at times telling them apart. Especially if they don’t have hair on their faces.” Turning back to his mate he returns to the subject at hand. “It was much more obvious in the beginning. And more of the humans objected to the treatment. You still get some of that sentiment in the free states but the elves distanced themselves from the humans for a short time, well short for them, and then tried again.” Chandric grumbles under his breath something that Draerin ignored before moving on. “They returned with a different approach: The current form of Patronage. They are more focused on letting the humans have a more fulfilled life than they are on forcing them to be what the elves want. Sure there are gladiatorial circuits and various martial tourneys but they also foster their various wards to create fashion, art, and sundry other areas. Some Patrons even go out with various groups to explore. I have seen some politicking among the various elven families but generally they do not force any human to do something they don’t want.” “But they breed them like horses for the best lineages!” interrupts Draerin, grasping his mug with white knuckles to keep on the bar and not swinging it around for emphasis. Chandric shakes his head and takes a measured sip. “Not quite, lad. They do try to influence pairings by introducing humans they think would make good offspring, but they do no force them. There are some among the human nobility that do such things and every now and then that bleeds over into Patronage states but it is not something from the elves. Like I said, they have become more patient and sure they may try creating circumstances that will lead to a coupling but they do not force it.” The human and elf table of interest is now focused on another of their member. This one is holding up a scroll. Whether it is something they found or something one of them wrote the tavern is too noisy for either dwarf to pick up on. “It is not perfect. I do not even say it is something I approve of but the elves do not force and they do not even try stopping any of their Wards’ families from leaving, though the economics of that may be something to discuss another time and with someone else but it is a system that both the elves and humans seem to be comfortable with. There are the free states, though I hear the elves name them the feral states,” A harrumph is added here, “and it has cut down on strife between the kingdoms. We say nothing and do not interfere due to the debt our people owe the Elves but it can difficult at times. It colors our reactions on personal levels yet you can not let that go further than that. If you can’t keep the Covenant, you will have to return to the caves for a while to meditate on it before you can return topside. You do not want to be the one responsible for destroying the balance. Can you keep it in, even while seeing the small things done that the humans overlook or ignore?” Draerin focuses on the younger dwarf intensely, awaiting a reply. It is a long moment of neither dwarf drinking before finally Chandric dips his head. “I just didn’t think it would stand out so much to me but aye, nothing shall be done or said by me to disrupt the balance.” Solemnly he brings up his ale as they both touch mugs and take a long gulp.


After Joan and Phil Carr and their fifteen-year-old daughter, Diane, finished eating dinner, everybody cleaned up. Then, Joan and Phil went into the living room to watch television, and Diane went upstairs to take a shower. After her shower, she went to her room to study. When she sat down at her desk, she opened her book, and, after a moment, she jumped up and put her hands to her head. “My God, what’s happening? There are voices in my head. Stop. Stop. Leave me alone,” she yelled and took her hands away slowly acted as though she were expecting to hear the voices. “They’re gone. The voices are gone. That was frightening. Am I suddenly mentally ill? The voices didn’t tell me to kill anyone. What they said was absurd. They said I will be one of them. I’ll be one of who? Jeez, what’s going on? Who was talking to me? It wasn’t my imagination. I heard voices.” Hearing a noise behind her, she turned quickly and gasped. Walking toward her were two figures; They were about three-feet tall, and had long, black hair that covered every inch of their body. The creatures stopped a few feet away from her. Diane, paralyzed from fear, couldn’t move. She didn’t hear them speak, but she heard their voices in her head and she put her hands to her ears to stop the voices. “We have come a long way to get you. You must come with us.” “Get out of my head,” she yelled, grabbed a book and threw it at them, but they disappeared and the book hit a wall. Then they reappeared. “Go away,” she yelled and hurried out of the room. As she left the room, she looked back. “They’re gone.” Then, as she turned toward the stairs, they appeared in front of her. “You can’t get away. You will come to us. You will be one of us.” “The hell I will,” she yelled and ran down the stairs. “Dad, Mom, help,” she yelled and ran to them. “They’re coming down the stairs. They’re coming after me. Look, they’re coming after me.” “Diane, what are you talking about? What’s coming after you?” her mother asked, putting her arm around Diane’s shoulder. “Don’t you see them? They’re right there in front of you?” she yelled. “Come with us to the other side where you will find happiness.” “Ma, Dad, can you hear them?” “Hear what, Diane?” they asked in unison. “Oh, God, they don’t see them and they don’t hear them,” she said, going to the visitors. “Whatever you are, get out of my head. Get out of my life,” Diane screamed. “Diane, who are you talking to?” her father asked, going to her and putting his arm around her. “I’m talking to them, Dad. Why don’t you see them?” “I’m sorry, Diane. I don’t see anybody.” “No one here can help you. You must come with us. You were born to be one of us. We are your destiny. Come, you don’t belong on this side.” “No,” Diane yelled, and her father held her close to him. “You will come,” a creature threatened, and the creatures grabbed her and all disappeared. Shaking, Phil looked at his wife. “She’s …she’s gone. Disappeared. Where did she go? Who was she talking to? Where did she go?” Phil and Joan held each other and sobbed while Diane passed to the other side, to her new life. “I don’t understand it. How could such a thing have happened? What are we going to do? Should we call the police?” “They’re not going to believe us,” Phil asserted. “Would you believe us?” “Phil, I don’t know how we’re going to get over this.” “You don’t have to get over it, Ma, Dad,” Diane said. Startled, they looked at one of the creatures. Diane had become one of them. “It’s me Ma, Dad.” They stared bewildered at the figure. “Diane, is…is that you?” her mother asked shakily. Diane, what…how…why? “Yes, Ma, it’s me. They let me come back from the other side to get you and Dad?” “Diane, what are you talking about? What's the other side?” Joan asked and turned to her husband. “Phil, this…this is a nightmare. Isn’t it? She chuckled nervously. “In a minute we’ll wake up and everything will be back to normal. Right?” “Joan, it’s not a nightmare. That thing is our daughter. I don’t know why or how, but that’s Diane.” “Yes Ma, Dad, I’m real, and I’ve come to take you to the other side. It’s another dimension, where others like me live. I don’t have much time. Will you come with me so we can be together? I miss you.” “Diane, we’re not giving up our lives for I don’t know what,” her father asserted. “Dad, you and Ma have to come with me to the other side. Families have to be kept together. Please come with me. I can’t let you stay here. They want you. If you don’t come willingly, I will have to take you.” “The way they took you even though you didn’t want to go?” her mother whined. “Yes, but once I got to the other side, I was glad that they took me. It’s a better world. A better life. Now, come. Give me your hands. If you don ‘t come willingly, I will have to take you. Please don’t make me take you.” “Diane, no. We won’t go and you can’t make us go,” her father said angrily. Diane touched her parents and they disappeared. A week later, a letter carrier went to the police. “There’s a week’s worth of mail piled up at the Carr’s house. I wasn’t notified that they weren’t going to be home. I think something’s wrong.” “Two officers were sent to the house. The front door was unlocked, so they went in. “Well, it doesn’t look like anyone broke in. Harry, you check up stairs, and I’ll go through the downstairs.” After going through the house, Jack and Harry met in the living room. “I don’t know what to think, Jack. C’mon, we’ll go to headquarters and report this,” Harry said and they went to the door. Harry stopped and looked back. “Did you hear that?” “Hear what?” “Sounded like a man and a woman calling to me to go to them.” “I didn’t hear anything, Harry.” “Well, I heard them saying they want me. The voices came from the wall by the staircase,” he said and he went to the wall by the staircase. “Hello, can you hear me?” “Harry, you’re hearing things.” “I heard them calling to me. Listen. There they are. The voices. Jack, how come you can’t hear them?” “I can’t hear the voices because there aren’t any voices. Maybe the voices are in your head. Are you feeling alright?” “Damn it, Jack. I’m telling you they want me to go to them.” “Harry, let me take you home. I’ll call your doctor and…” “No, Jack. They want me to go to them,” he said and disappeared. “My God. Harry, what happened? Where did you go?” Harry went to the other side. Jack didn’t hear voices calling for him…not yet.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: - **Spring Mashup: Include at least one thing from each category below in your story.** - **Bonus Constraint:** Include two additional things from the table (5 total). **Object/Word** | **Setting** | **Character Action** | |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | hackles | amusement park/festival | stargazing | | bone | greenhouse/garden | stepping in mud| | kaleidoscope | cemetery | picking/slicing veggies | | taxi | spaceship | riding a motorcycle | | lackadaisical | rainstorm | lighting a fire| This week we’re doing a ! Your challenge is to include **at least one thing from each category** (one object/word, one setting, and one character action). Note: The setting must be the *main setting* of the story, and the character action must *actively happen* within the story to receive credit. The bonus and use of the above image are not required. **Note: Don’t forget to next Monday!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting. You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **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 some feedback on the thread.** 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.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live 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!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied We have a new point system! **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** | up to **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 in-depth, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.   *** #Rankings - - u/ZachTheLitchKing - - u/AGuyLikeThat - - u/notobamaseviltwin *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Experiment with tropes and different genres with the brand new feature on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Why do men fear reptiles? Why was the first temptation, seductive and familiar, whispered by a serpent? Why, in ages past, did men slay almighty dragons and claim their ever-fire for his heart? Why do sacred places both welcome draconian angels and banish ground-dwelling snakes, why do we recoil from the bottomlessly black eyes of reptiles? We see monsters, in them. We call the depths of our minds, self-centered and unnervingly aware a *lizard brain*, the control center for motives better served by those mindless, primordial drives. We fear the lizard brain, the cool calculation somewhere far down inside. We dream of dragon power, we fear serpent sin. It is *in* us. Medusa, who could kill with a stare, slipping across ruined marble, her living hair and lengthy body alive with reptilian horror. Men measure infinity itself in a snake eating it’s own tail, fruitless and potent and eternal, all at once, all a reflection of a reflection. Black temples that are artifacts on wonder today were once the almighty centers of worship, their stairways red as sacrifices strove to placate feathered lords with scaly bodies and endless hunger. Tiamat and Typhon, Satan and Quetzalcoatl. Manifestations of beauty, of lust, of regality. Every dragon bearing the same ancient, foundational bones inside. Somewhere in us is the memory of being small, scuttling underfoot from vast lords. Somewhere in us is the terror of the meek and the frail, when the world lived under a saurian banner; indomitable, undeniable. *Terrible lizards*. But they were *oh so much more*. More than we can imagine— and more than we can fear. Where Men fumble with iron and steel, They were masters with the gene and the mind. Where Mankind only fitfully explores his dreams, They were denizens of the world that bleeds between real and unreal, lords that spun whole fantasies into being in contemplations that would awe our greatest thinkers. Our vaccines, our quaint meddling with the very stuff of life— They would scoff at. They could make life from anything, into *anything* that they desired. Cities, like mirages, wavered and danced on the horizon until with a thought, they existed. Legions of warriors, perfect and unstoppable, sprang into being from seeds of ultimate-life. They became Gods, more than Gods. Triumph after triumph, mastery upon mastery. Time unwound beneath their vision, space opened and embraced vast expeditions beyond the hissing dark. *Everything opened to them*, until only one undiscovered country remained. The final barrier. The place that stilled all things, stars and masters and time alike. The preparations took eons, and the preparations took seconds. It happened at once, and it happened over long, slow waves. They died. They lived. They *dreamed*. The world was silent, and the ritual took its toll. Drained the world of so much, heavy and deep with immeasurable power. Furry things came up from below to look upon the catastrophe, unaware of its beauty. Unaware of the truth. They came, two by two, many by many, to reclaim and spread. Their march to mind set in a world quietly healing from being undone. Bones sank into an earthly embrace. Men came. And all the while, down his soul, came the memory. Came the faintest touches, the quietest whispers. Slow at first, like the gentlest signs of a season changing. Like first winter frost, easy to miss, to forget, but building all the while. Louder and longer and deeper. Stories and dreams, prophecies; stirred by forgotten gene-songs. The words changed but the meaning remained. The urgency. The truth. The world would be theirs again.


"I came here for you" the man said. "I heard your call in the night. The howling, so to speak, at the moon. I came here for you." Nora sat still in the chair. The dark and dank room offended her senses. "Then why not just say that when we met? Why go through all the trouble of deceiving me if you were here to help me?" she asked. "I don't recall saying that I was going to help you. No, I'm going to give you the opportunity to help yourself." the man walked over to the table and set a piece of paper down next to a pen. "Tell me what you know" he said. As soon as she began to write she was done. She slid the paper across the table. The man picked it up, it read "nothing". He slid the paper back over with a bit of impatience. Nora smiled and slid the paper back to him. "Alright. The hard way it is." the man turned and knocked on the glass three times. He faced Nora as the door opened. A taller, slimmer man walked in. His face was sunken and his eyes felt hollow. He was wearing a long tan coat with a matching hat. He took off the cap and handed it to the man staring at Nora. "My name is Norman. How rarely do I meet a Nora, or anyone like you, really. You'll have to forgive my friend, Tommy. He's young. Full of ambition. Has little notion of tact. In time, you'll teach him though." "I'll teach him?" Nora interrupted. "Yes," Norman said with certainty "You'll teach me a few things too. That's why we need you to write. We need to peer into your soul." At those words Nora's eyes panicked. "I asked you to forgive my friend, now me," Norman said noticing her reaction "I don't mean to startle you. Those words seem scary now but, in time you'll recognize that you already know ours. All of ours, actually." Norman looked about for a moment before resuming "This room isn't very good for building trust, is it? Tell me, Nora, where would you like to be?" "Home!" she nearly shouted. Norman turned to Tommy "Take her home." Tommy stopped spinning the hat and tossed it back to Norman. "Let's go." Tommy said to Nora. She stood up, unsure if it were a trick. Norman opened the door and motioned for Nora to go out. She stepped forward but stopped short of the door. "No, you first." she looked to Norman. "But, of course." Norman smiled before turning to Tommy while shaking his head. "Tommy..." Tommy looked to the ceiling and sighed. "I know." he grumbled. Norman walked out and looked at Nora once more. "I look forward to meeting you when you're ready." with that he disappeared down the corridor. Nora poked her head out of the room and was surprised to see the sun shining brightly through the tall office building windows. The floor was mostly quiet. She could hear a few busy sounding people down the hall. "Elevator's to the left" Tommy said, hurrying her along. Nora walked and found the elevators. "Why did you tell me you were the police?" Nora asked. "I like to play games. You were never in any real danger but, you'll remember this for the rest of your life. I also like to make a strong first impression." Nora felt that he was serious. She sighed and turned towards Tommy, cocked her hand back and punched him in the mouth. Tommy fell into the elevator doors. He touched his lip and smiled, revealing an already missing front tooth "Yeah, I get that a lot." he chuckled. They stepped into the elevator and rode down to the garage. "So what is this place? Who are you?" Nora asked. Tommy shook his head "I can't give you answers that you already have." "I have no idea." Nora replied. "Yeah, that's why the big boss said you're not ready." Tommy motioned toward the car. "He didn't say that." Nora said as she walked away toward toward the exit. Tommy stood bemused "We had you alone in a room, if we wanted to hurt you, we would have." he lightly shouted toward Nora. She stopped and thought for a moment before turning around. "I'll take the ride and you can take a cab to come pick up your car." Tommy laughed. "Fair enough. But, that means you don't get to ask any more questions." he gauged her reaction "You can drive if you'd like." Nora took the keys and motioned for Tommy to get in. "What's your real name?" Nora asked. Tommy pulled out his driver's license and handed it to her. "Tommy Thompson? Seriously." Nora giggled. Tommy handed her a second license, then a third, then a fourth. All had his picture, all had different names. She looked at him confused and irritated. "Tommy is my real name. Or it's what those who know there's more than one "me" call me. We don't really have names." Tommy said. "Like Men in Black?" Nora asked as she motioned for the garage ticket. Tommy handed her the pass. He replied "No. I mean, kind of but only in the name thing. Hadn't really thought of it... Do you know where you're going?" "Yes. Who are you guys?" Nora would not be distracted from her questioning. "Like I said, I can't tell you the answer to things you already know." Tommy trailed off, consumed by the view out the passenger window. "No, I already knew your name was Tommy and you told me again when I asked." Nora insisted. "You didn't know. You had no way of knowing." Tommy said. "Ok, Donald." Nora mocked. Tommy looked at her. Nora continued "If you want me to call you your real name, you'll have to remind me what it is." "Nobody's going to know you're talking to me." Tommy said. "So, Donald," Nora ignored "Why do you guys have that office space?" Tommy looked out the window in silence. "Everyone needs office space!" a voice from the backseat chimed in. Nora jerked the steering wheel and the car nearly veered off the road. Her eyes shot up to the rearview mirror to see an overweight but happy looking older man in the back smiling kindly at her. "How'd you get back there?! Who are you?!" she shouted. The man patted Tommy on the shoulder. Tommy nodded and shrugged. "I can't tell you the answer to things you already know" the man in the back said. "Donald?" she asked. The man looked at Tommy "Come on. Talk to the woman." Tommy looked at Nora, "Could you please pull over and let him out?" She pulled over to the sidewalk and the man hopped out. She drove away quickly glancing in the mirror at presumably Donald, waving at the departing car. "So if I call you someone else's name is somebody else just going to pop up too?" Nora asked half-afraid of the answer. Tommy gave her a look. She mocked "Right, you can't tell me the answer to things I already know." Nora was silent for the next few moments until she thought of a question worth asking "What don't I know?" Tommy looked at her before looking out the window. "You ever notice how the rocks in the road stay in place? All day long, cars, sun, rain... all the Earth throws at it and yet, day after day it stays in place." "No, it doesn't." Nora said "Without maintenance, cracks and holes form. The elements slowly pull and push it apart." "So it seems." he said. She stopped the car in front of her house, "How do I get in touch with you?" she asked. "By speaking. That question is asked in the wrong time." Tommy said. Nora looked at the front door to her house. A moment felt like an eternity, "How do I get back to your office?" Nora asked, putting the car in gear. "I don't know. It moves all the time. You've got to find it." Tommy said. She slammed on the brakes and looked at Tommy. He shrugged. She let her foot off the brake and continued. For two hours they crept around town as Nora second guessed herself at every light and every turn. She broke the silence, "I'm starving. What do you want to eat?" Tommy replied "Driver's choice." Nora pulled into the parking lot and noticed a peculiar light coming from a rundown looking building. "Took you long enough." Tommy jabbed before taking a serious tone "You did really well. Took me three tanks of gas before I found it the first time." Nora forgot her hunger and hurried up to the door. She opened it without knocking. The inside did not match the exterior. There was carpet, desks, and it even smelled like a new office. Nora noticed Norman standing in the corner motioning her and Tommy to come over. "I didn't think we'd have enough time to get this place setup. Your eyes are getting better." Norman said "You're a fast learner but, you'll have to be a slow teacher. If you learn ten times as fast as I do, you have to expect it'll take ten times as long to teach it. That also gives you ten times the opportunity to zoom in and learn from each fraction of the lesson." Nora stood unsure of what to say. "That's a lot to take in. No rush. We have an eternity to figure it out." Norman smiled, patted her on the shoulder, and walked over to the water cooler.


The hike to the hidden meadow was rough for a beginner. Back aching, calves screaming, she had to make her goal; she owed herself this win. It was only three or so miles, but for her, it felt insurmountable. COVID was a depression feeding ground, and she had become one with her couch for too long. Over feeling cooped up inside her stuffy apartment, she needed to be outdoors. She envied the explorer section of social media: lush green, fresh air, soft breezes, birds tittering, streams bubbling. Enough watching it through a stranger’s lens; today was *her* turn. The trail began to incline, and she was grateful for the trekking poles. It was not an unpleasant day; in fact, it was beautiful outside. It had sprinkled that morning, so all was a little damp, but the warmth of the sun and the cool breeze made it lovely. Sadly, the thick trees blocked the breeze, which left the air warm and muggy. *Ugh*, she could feel the sweat on her face and back. Please, *please* let me be close. Misplacing a step, her ankle twisted. *Ouch*. She sat down on a nearby log, only to fall right through. Looking down in shock, she realized too late that the log was rotten. Why did the outdoors appeal to her again? She sat in disgust, lamenting her lack of grace while studying her surroundings. It was more of the same: dense trees and brush, parted only by the unkempt trail. She considered turning back, questioning how much more she could take. No, she was *going* to make this happen. Resolve strengthened, she pulled herself up and gave her ankle a little test. *I can do this.* *Squish, squelch, squish, squelch.* Watching her feet, she trudged ahead. A half mile later, she could feel the breeze again. It looked like the trail was beginning to open. Excitement overtook exhaustion, and she moved faster. She saw the meadow, and a grin split her weary face. A large patch free from trees, the foliage bloomed extensively. There were wildflowers everywhere: purples, yellows, pinks, reds, and blues. There were ferns, bergamots, goldenrods, black-eyed susans, geraniums, daisies, and more. Closing her eyes, she listened to the birds. *Zee-zee-zee, purrrty-purrrty, choo-choo!* Farther away was the sound of water. Looking around, she found a small stream at the north edge and began to follow it. The trickle became a bubble, and the bubble became a rush. There was a small waterfall at the bank, surrounded by an equally small rocky outcropping. She could see a grotto behind the waterfall – just large enough for her to sit in. Giddily she leaped on two larger stones to get closer and stepped through the cascade. The rush of cool water was exhilarating. Hunkering down, she crawled into the cavity and sat down. It was just her and the water in peaceful solitude. She marveled at the beauty, splashing on the smooth stones below. Settling in, she pulled off her bag and fished out a thermos. She slowly sipped on the hot coffee, enjoying the view through the veil of water. In this surreal moment, she silently praised her triumph. Taking the time to slowly finish her coffee, she let her mind wander as her eyes continued to soak everything in. She could stay here forever. Rinsing her cup in the water, she set it aside to dry. Resting her hands on her thighs, she closed her eyes. Listening to her body, she became anchored to the ground, to mother nature. The strength of the stones supported her body well. Methodically, she loosened any tension from her face all the way down to her toes. Slowly she took in a deep breath, waited, and blew out a slow exhale. Repeating this cycle, each breath brought nature in, and each exhale took with it life’s stress. Now in a calmer state, she breathed normally and began meditating. The rise and fall of her stomach, bringing in life and expelling its woes. Her ears heard only the water, splashing, trickling, and bubbling. Any errant thought was noticed and drifted away. This was her moment. This was her peace.


It was winter again. Winter was when they came. The respite of autumn had faded. The nights now much longer, the air much colder. New families had moved into the homes of those that had gone. They had heard rumours of the string of disappearances, but had no choice. It was slim pickings for the poor. No one was sure what they were. I peered through the bedroom curtain once, and all that did was confuse me more. Some were bipedal, almost human, while others crawled on all fours. They prowled the streets, hunters searching for prey. All were as dark as shadows. They would come to the door, but I would never open it. They would try to trick you into opening the door. One night, I heard my mother pleading for me to let her in from the other side of the door. She’d been dead for six years. I would hear the screaming of my neighbours as they fell for their tricks. I think it was their screams. I wasn’t sure of anything. It could have been another trick. The news never reported it, the police refused to help. We were the dregs of society, not worth the attention. As long as the shadows stayed out of the cities, the world was happy. Out of sight, out of mind. Was that the deal? Perhaps those in ivory towers had traded the lives of the downtrodden in exchange for safety. It wasn’t much different before the shadows came. We were the ones who scrubbed their toilets, delivered their food, cleaned their cars. Yet all we got were the crumbs from the rich man’s table. We were already slowly dying, the shadows just sped that up. If anything, it was a mercy. I considered this nightly. The purpose of my existence. The struggle of long work days for little pay, the fear of death throughout the winter. What was it all for? What, exactly, was in it for me? Tonight, I was awoken again by a voice at the door. I say awoke, but during winter it wasn’t really sleep. It was impossible to really sleep. The voice was feminine, sultry. I peered through the spyhole and saw the figure of a beautiful woman. Long red hair, full lips. “I know what you are, but I have a proposition.” The shadow grew silent. “I’ll let you in. I’ll accept my fate. But you must keep this form, you must let me have you. My life is nothing but long, drawn out, anguish. I want a single night of ecstasy before I die.” The shadow remained silent for a moment, and then spoke. “I accept.” I unlocked the door. The woman smiled and crossed the threshold. Her eyes were completely black. We kissed. We were already slowly dying, the small pleasures of life a barely palatable distraction from the crushing agony of existence. At least this way it was my choice. At least this way I could embrace the void.


I woke up with strange pains, and while normally I would be used to this, today felt very different. Pains in my neck and jaw, as if I had slept on it. Pain in my chest, as if the bones itself had begun to hug me. But I still needed to get ready for work. The thought that it was Friday helped be get out of bed. I had worked hard all week and today was the last until I had two whole days to rest. Undoubtedly, I'm going to enjoy watching the rest of my cooking show that I have recorded. With slight optimistism, I got myself out of bed and shambled to the bathroom, like every day. The bathroom tile usually felt cold and smooth, but I couldn't feel it. A part of me thought I had socks on, a part of me knew I hadn't worn socks, but a larger part of me was focused on a different surprise. As soon as I entered the bathroom, I was ambushed by the sight of a disgusting creature. Pale skin and tall height made me think of a towel at first; but its muscles bulged out like tumors; skin stretched and tore from their unnatural growth; eyes piercing yellow as if light was behind them; its hands were almost human-like, yet its nails had grown so large that they have overtaken the two furthermost knuckles of each finger; the rib cage was almost like scaled armor around the thing’s torso; and the mouth… the jaw had split in two, as if each jaw half was its own prehensile limb; its teeth long and sharp like many daggers, lined up disorderly and erratic. As I saw it, I screamed, and simultaneously the thing belted out an animalistic hunting cry. I jumped to the floor, like a child seeing a real life monster. I waited for the thing to kill me. But it didn’t. I looked around my bathroom. The thing had left… I was about to get up, when I looked at my hands, about to push me to my feet. They were the hands of the monster, claws meant for hunting. I got up, and saw myself. I was the monster. This had to be a dream, none of this was real. I decided to stay in the bathroom until I woke up. It took me almost 5 hours until I got thirsty. I went to the sink, questioning how I could drink without a jaw. I soon discovered my claws were like spoons, they were concave. So I would cup some water, and sucked each claw with the hole that was my throat. It felt natural, while feeling completely inhuman at the same time. I waited another 9 hours later, when the sun had fully set, I slept on the cold hard tile floor. I prayed to wake up as anything but this creature, but my prayers were pointless. It took me 5 days to fully come to terms that I was not dreaming. I grew hungry every day, and ate whatever leftovers and produce I could find. Slicing meat was very easy with my new mouth, while eating any vegetables and fruits was almost impossible. Even if I could, I could not taste their sweetness, only the bitter crunch and unappetizing fibrous texture. I thought about when I would run out of food, and how I would be able to get more. I couldn’t leave the house, I'm already avoiding the windows to prevent being seen. Weeks passed on, and while I had completely ran out of food, I was staying alive from drinking water. I was very hungry, but I was alive. However, I have no plan on how I would get food right now. Maybe sneak out at night looking for trash? Even then, I’m so large and heavy that I’d be surprised if even a blind person couldn’t notice me passing by. I realized that even my water supply would go away from not paying my water bills. I guess I’m glad that nobody will be looking for me. If I had any family or friends, a missing person’s report would be made, and result in a man-hunt. I guess there are some perks to solitude. There were many days where I had nothing left but my thoughts. I asked myself; why had I become this thing. A monster. A part of me didn’t want to think of myself as a monster. I asked myself what are the limits on what is human? A person who's lost their arm, many people would call them human. A person with terrible birth defects is still considered human. But, am I still human? Is this mound of horror given flesh and bone still human? I still think like a human, I still act like a human. But nobody would know it was me if they saw me. They’d see a terror on earth. A monster who needs to be killed. I can’t talk anymore, or even make noises that can come off as human. My glottis is completely different, and I sound more like a bear growl combined with a crocodile’s bellow. Eventually, the day came when my power and my water had gone out. My last means of survival. I had nothing left to help myself. I can either find a way to get food and water, or die. It took me a while to come to terms with this. During that time, I think I saw my landlord come by once or twice. A simple knock on the door and a call of my name, then he left. Even my house will be gone soon. My landlord is going to come in soon, looking for me. And when they see that I'm gone, he's going to get the house ready for another person, and he won't expect a nightmare on two legs in their house. I don’t know what to do. When my hunger became unbearable, I decided to go off at night, looking for trash to eat, and water fountains to drink from. And by the end of the night, I went home to rest all day. I would try my best to hide, but people would still see me eating out of their trash cans, drinking from their water hoses, and some people blamed me for their missing pets. Or, at least I think so, because I stopped seeing pets outside for a while. My last option for information outside my house and neighborhood was the newspapers that didn't get picked up during the day. I tried to read, and I could, but I had trouble with recognizing certain letters and numbers. I got b's and d's confused many times, as well as p's and q's, I felt like a toddler learning to read again. But soon it could read like I usually do, slightly slower though. Newspapers rarely talked about world events. They talked about me, or possibly another hulking beast that stuck to the shadows during the night. Which isn't too impossible. I had become a legend, “The Monster of Oroville”. When I started to walk for the first few weeks, I stumbled and tripped like a baby. My body was completely unfamiliar to me. But as the weeks passed, and eventually months, I had gotten used to my new body. I was a pure predator, I could climb trees easier than I could walk, I could run a mile in one breath, I had the strength to pick up logs and push cars. I could see in the dark just as well, if not better than, I could in light. My muscles never got sore, at least never after a meal. I started eating squirrels, roadkill, even slow deer when I had the chance. I wish I could tell you eating raw and rotten meat disgusted me, but after eating nothing for so long, it tasted like gold. I stopped going back home to hunt for longer. I had gotten more and more confident with how I hunt, now a deer can’t hear me running unless it's within 5 feet of me. I began prowling the cities, taking extra care not to be seen. Walking around felt surreal beyond a dream. The architecture felt so alien, as I had been so used to nature at this point. Tall buildings of stone and metal, with people walking through them with no sense of caution, walking as if they couldn’t die. In nature, everything is so close to death that nothing is ever truly confident. I was the only thing who could walk with confidence, but I still knew of my mortality. And seeing everyone else annoyed me slightly. Why was I thinking like this? I knew I didn’t belong here anymore, but I wanted to so badly. I want to wake up from this nightmare. I saw a butcher’s shop. Months worth of food, right in front of me. I had been hunting my food from this point, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t hungry. I spent months at this point without a proper full stomach. Even after killing a deer, I could finish one and still have aches in my stomach. But in front of me was so much food that I could never grow hungry again, or at least, this is what I thought. I became careless, I broke the window and pounced in, feasting on this meal of the gods. I spent hours eating, savoring every bite. I was so absorbed that I couldn’t tell there was a crowd forming outside the butcher’s shop. I’m sure a call went out that someone had broken into the shop. I looked outside, nobody could see in because the shop was completely dark. The entire city had come to see this, wanting to see the legendary “Monster of Oroville”. Most people must’ve thought it was just a bear or other large animal, as most were acting too casually than you would if a monster was in front of you. I could see the police sirens, flashing back and forth. I realized that I was surrounded. I looked around for a back door, but there wasn’t any. The butcher’s shop only had a front entrance. I was terrified more than ever, more than when I was starving to death, more than when I was hunting deer. I tried to hide anywhere, but I had broken any kind of cover I could’ve had. I heard a policeman walk up, with his flashlight. He didn’t say, “police, put your hands up.” or anything like that. They were expecting an animal. I felt the blinding light of the flashlight hit my face. Everyone could see the Monster of Oroville. Panic. Tens of screams turned into hundreds. The police either ran or immediately took out a gun. I reached my arms out, showing I was surrendering, while trying to say something, anything. The police must’ve seen a monster reach out their arms for an attack, and heard a battle cry that shook their souls. I felt 3 bullets hid my torso, but none of them went past my ribs. A few more hit my shoulder, and it was painful, but nothing like I would expect a bullet to feel like. It felt more like a bee sting. I knew I had to run. So I ran fast. Racing past building after building, street after street. So many people saw me, and each of them ran inside as if the devil himself had come to town. I was fast though. So fast that the police cars couldn’t catch up to me. I jumped wire fences like they were steps on a stool; I ripped through wooden fences like they were paper. Gripping stone walls to scale them was so easy for my claws. Even a helicopter couldn’t catch up. I didn’t know I could run so fast. I escaped into a forest, but I know that I need to keep going. I can’t stop now, they won’t let me live. I ran until I could see the sun rising. I thought of nothing except the need to run faster. I eventually stopped, and as the sun rose, I found a tree to rest on. And as I finally rested, I thought to myself. How can I get back to my life? How will I be able to tell everyone that I’m not a monster? But… I am still a human, right? I didn’t hurt anyone, I was hungry. It doesn’t matter how I look, how I sound. Right? Of course. Yes. I am still a human. I am still a human. I kept telling myself this as I drifted to sleep. I am still a human.


Chapter 1—Who am I? As I awoke on that boat with the salty sea air sticking to my face, it was as if I returned to this material plane from an eternal slumber. I was beyond groggy and my body battleworn and barely moveable. I knew the bare minimum about my predicament and it only made matters worse. I forced myself out of that fishnet hammock despite every muscle of my being fighting against me. It was as if three owlbears were stacked upon my shoulders after someone bashed my legs with a blacksmiths’ tools. Who would have thought getting to the heavy seawater soaked doors would have been so difficult. As I breach the doors and find myself looking into the blinding sunlight I feel the many sets of eyes locked in my direction. I could feel every single set of eyes on that deck and it made my stomach churn. As my eyes adjusted, I began to shuffle backwards into the room I just left. Those sea dried men appeared as if a woman had never looked in their direction. Trying to swing the heavy door back shut I was interrupted by a raspy female voice. I was dumbfounded, for I know I hadn't seen a woman out there did I? Just as soon as I got the behemoth pulled shut, it swung open like a page getting turned in a book. Falling backwards onto the floor in disbelief a well dressed woman was standing over me. She was cheery yet terrifying all in the same. Scuttling backwards, terrified, she let out a forgiving hand with the most gentle words. My fear was wiped away the instant she spoke. Lifting me from the floor she started spewing out information, sentence after sentence, and I couldn't keep up. Assuming she saw my puzzled face she walked me over to a table built into the wall and had me take a seat. Slowing down her pace I began to understand what she was saying more and more. She was a bizarre woman for sure. After a few minutes of dumping info in my ears just calling me girl, she began to call me Marinth. Continuing to ramble on faster than I could keep up, she mentioned having a vision of a powerful being destined to change the fate of the world lying alone on a devastated beach. She set out immediately to the closest piece of land and found me among rubble still breathing. Absurdly thinking I must have been the “powerful” being of prophecy, she called me Marinth. A name deemed worthy of someone steadfast, powerful, and destined for greatness she said with great enthusiasm. Being in the position that I was, Marinth was a name that could keep me taken care of, so arguing was off the table. Wasn’t really sure if I could have argued though. When I awoke I couldn't remember anything before that, not even my name. This is my first attempt at ever wrong so please be gentle is possible but please critique my grammar and/or spelling if need be. Im dyslexic so writing and reading are both a bit difficult for me. I'm taking inspiration from a DND campaign that I run with my friends and I'm hoping this turns out well enough to show them.