# Happy Saturday, serialists! Welcome to Serial Saturday! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ ***New here?*** If you’re brand new to and thinking about participating in Serial Saturday, welcome! Feel free to dip your toes in by writing for this challenge or any others we have listed on the handy dandy ! We appreciate all contributions made to this thread, and all submissions are of course welcomed, whether it addresses a previous challenge or the current one. We hope you enjoy your time in the community! Take a look at our inaugural Serial Saturday post for some helpful tips. You don’t need to catch up by writing for each of the previous assignments, feel free to jump right in wherever fits for you, with whatever assignment or theme fits for you, and post it on the current thread with a link to whichever previously posted challenge you chose to start with. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # This week it’s all about . Sometimes in our lives we all have pain. We all have sorrow. But if we are wise we know that there's always tomorrow. *Everybody, now!* I’m glad we could have together. # “A good friend will help you move, but a true friend will help you move a body.” ― **Steven J. Daniels** Remember when the real treasures we found were the friends we made along the way? Let’s face it: Allies and friends of your main characters can be just as important to your story as your protagonist. “Supporting role” characters can surprise you with how important they are to moving your story along. Sometimes those people can be all the same person, but sometimes the water can be a little murky. An ally of your character doesn’t mean they’re a friend of your MC, or that they even want the same things. A “friend” isn’t necessarily an ally, nor could they really want the best for your protagonist. Look, we all know that the is playing Sansa’s side but doesn’t care about the Starks. *But he does have what the Starks need*, other than a razor. He’s an ally. *But we don’t trust him, do we?* “But James,” you may cry! “What about lovers?” Hmm, good question. *-shifty eyes-* ? Write those people too. Make us love them for the same reasons your MC does. Or don’t. Things to think about for this assignment: As your story develops, consider the actors around your protagonist and their social standing: *Why* are these people friends, allies, or lovers? Does your protagonist \*trust\* them? Would they help each other bury a body? How did they come to know each other and what keeps them together? Maybe a plot situation keeps two allies bumping into each other whilst on their own journeys. Do they have a common enemy? **\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*** **You have until \*next\* Saturday, 9/12, to submit and comment on everyone else's stories here. Make sure to check back on this thread periodically to lay some sweet, sweet crit down on those who don't have any yet!** \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* # Top picks from last week’s assignment, Enemies: **Fan favorite with the most votes:** /u/ajttja/, a This week the **Smoking Hot Challenge Sash** goes to an author that nailed the spirit of the assignment: , And honorable mentions: /u/xdisk, And /u/Ryter99, \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **The Rules:** * In the comments below submit a story that is between **500 - 750** words in your own original universe. * Submissions are limited to ***one*** serial submission from each author per week. * **Each author should comment on at least 2 other stories** during the course of the week. * That comment must include ***at least one*** **detail** about what the author has done well. * Authors who successfully finish a serial lasting longer than 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the sub. * Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule. *Yes, we will check*. * While content rules are more lax here at /r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely family friendly" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ 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 post or to your own subreddit/profile. * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serials Campfire on the main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start on Saturdays at 9AM CST. **Don’t worry about being late, just join!** There’s a *Super Serial* role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! **Join the** **to chat with prompters, authors, and readers!** Previous constraint: Have you seen the ? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule.


“People do anything for the internet,” I said, looking down at my friend, Naldo’s phone. He was showing me a video of two dudes in a store cutting holes into bags of dog food then pouring it all on the floor. People didn’t care about anything these days. “Facts,” he replied, “let’s go, my mama just said the food is ready.” I leaned up from against the wall and began walking. We had been standing in front of Nulo’s for at least 15 minutes. The owner didn’t mind, only because he knew both of our families. If anyone else tried hanging near the building like us, the police would be pulling up before they could blink. “Damn,” Naldo said as he sniffed his shirt. “I hope this smell goes away before we get to my crib. I don’t wanna hear her mouth.” Naldo’s mama didn’t play about her son or any of his friends smoking weed. I really didn’t even wanna go now. Before I could say anything, a black truck stopped beside us. My first instinct was to run, but there was no reason after the window came down. It was my older cousin, Valon. “Aye boy, don’t go that way. I just saw some crazy ass shit!” I laughed because he was short and chubby with a voice like Kevin Hart. Me being high made it even funnier. “Cuzzo, I’m not joking,” Valon replied, sounding like he was trying to make his voice deeper. I knew he wasn’t playing but I couldn’t stop laughing. “Okay, I hear you,” I replied. Everything he said went into one and out the other. All I wanted to do was eat. “Ight, nevermind,” he said, before smashing the gas and taking off down the street. He was pissed. Normally this side of town was packed, but not tonight. Valon was the only person I’d seen riding since we left the store. That was kinda crazy to me. I felt my phone vibrate, I figured it was my sister, but it was a notification from Instagram. Naldo tapped my shoulder, causing me to jump a little bit. “Damn, what?” I asked while scrolling through Instagram. “Bro, am I tripping, or is that dog really floating?” He asked. We both were high as kites so I didn’t bother looking. “Nah, you just tripping.” “LOOK,” he snapped, while repeatedly tapping my shoulder. I glanced up and damn near dropped my phone. “What the hell,” I whispered. The dog was definitely floating. We took a couple steps forward and a small shadow figure appeared. The harder I looked the more the figure looked like a small kid. He giggled while holding the dog in the air with his feet. “Bro, what the fuck!” Naldo shouted, causing the child to turn his head our way so quickly his neck could’ve broken. This had to be from the weed. I closed my eyes and smacked my head repeatedly. Everything went quiet. The smell of cigarettes hit my nostrils hard. I opened my eyes only to see the child standing in my face with Naldo’s head in his hand...


The old woman stood at the glass case, thumbing a folded up five dollar bill in her hand. At last the line had moved forward enough for her to see half-gone trays of pastry delights, all neatly labeled with colorful cards and cheerful designs. So many options to choose from, but she knew what she wanted. She let out a sigh of relief to see there were still a few of her choice left, all pink and red frosting with heart sprinkles. “Hello ma’am, what can I get you?” The cashier barely looked at her, but she didn’t mind. The little shop was packed near to bursting for the grand opening. “I’ll take the romance cookie, please!” It was then that the cashier fully noticed Rose, the little woman bundled up in her threadbare housecoat and silk headscarf. “Ma’am, can I interest you in a Youth Pop?” “No thank you, sir, just the cookie please!” She replied with more grace than she felt. Young people. They always thought old people wanted to feel young again. Maybe some did. Not her. There was only one thing she wished she could feel again. “It’s my anniversary,” she whispered, but the cashier had already taken her money and bustled away to the far case. When he returned she thanked him with more sweetness than he deserved. With the craft paper package in hand, Rose navigated through the throng of incoming customers to the street again. Her feet ached, but the fresh air was a nice change from being cooped up inside like she usually was around this time of year. April was the month Marty had died, five years ago almost to the day. Usually she spent the month in isolation. If she was honest with herself she spent most months in isolation, but this year she felt… different. Instead of turning on Memorial Street, like she usually did every April, Rose paused and looked up at the street sign. A little further down was another street, one she hadn’t visited in a long time. Perhaps she would. With joints that protested every step, she couldn’t decide if haste made her little trip worse or better. Maybe she should have gotten that Youth Pop at the shop after all. With a determined grimace she powered on. Garden Street soon came into view. It’s tall lamp post street sign hadn’t been replaced since the first time she’d seen it, nearly fifty years before. She followed the sidewalk until her destination finally came into view. City Arboretum. Memories rushed back to her in a flood, sweet memories of springs that weren’t as lonely as they were now. White blossoms littered the lush lawns, kites billowed up in the breeze, and young families picnicked on heirloom blankets. It was just as she remembered it. So happy. So full of love. It took some time to find their old bench, but she did. New paths had been paved, and new benches put in, too, but despite years of wear she still found it. Marty’s carved handi work was mostly filled in now with grime and dirt, but it was still there on the back of the slatted bench. *M+R FOREVER.* She ran her fingers over it cautiously, feeling a wave of unexpected emotions as tears sprang to her eyes. For a moment her feet started to point towards the exit again seemingly of their own accord. She stopped. Her knees ached. Her feet protested. Begrudgingly Rose sat down. Despite fighting the aches of her walk, she couldn’t help but smile. So many beautiful memories of the old bench came back to her. It was then she realized she didn’t need to feel young again, nor did she need the little cookie she’d ventured out just especially to get. She could celebrate her wedding anniversary without it. Hours passed. The cookie remained untouched. Rose stayed, happily soaking in the rays of the sun for the first time in what seemed years. She said hello to every passer-by, and pet each cute little doggie that reminded her of dogs long passed. No one noticed when the kindly old lady with the silk headscarf never opened her brown paper bagged treat. “It’s my anniversary,” she told every young couple. They cooed and congratulated her, but never asked what anniversary it was. No one stayed to listen. No one noticed when her eyes shut, a gentle smile on her face. In her daydreaming Marty sat next to her, holding her hand just like the old days. She re-lived the time they snuck through the arboretum at night and canoodled, trading boozy kisses far past curfew. She couldn’t think of this place without remembering taking their wedding photos in the spring blossoms, and bringing their first puppy to play with the other neighborhood dogs at this same bench. This time she didn’t fight tears. She embraced the simple joy of living in those moments for a last time. No one noticed when Rose breathed her final breath of sweet, fresh air, but that was alright. It’d been the best day she’d had in years.


October 10th, 1997 Angie was the head waiter tonight. She asked if any of us wanted to leave early and I volunteered, so it was about 8:30 PM when I walked out the back door with my apron and tie stuffed in my backpack. We put so much work into making the front of the restaurant look like this elegant, understated, classy place — but the space behind the restaurant would shatter that illusion if guests saw it. Rusty dumpsters smell like expired meat. Weird slimy fluid, mostly from decaying salad greens, trickles out from under the dumpsters across the concrete and into the storm grates. Big plastic containers hold used grease from the deep fryers and recycling bins are overfilled with empty glass wine and beer bottles. The back is the shadow of the front. You can’t provide a beautiful dining experience without also having a place to dump the offal. And the same thing is true for the staff — that servility generates a byproduct — us waiters gather in the back to complain about which guests stiffed us on tips and which guests we wanna fuck. Anyhow, I wanted to leave early because in the morning when I was at school, I saw a bunch of fliers tacked up in the college union. They showed a grainy drawing of a giant squid eating sailors. Block letters spelled out “One night only — work by hometown artist F. Mayfield — inspired by the cosmic horror of 19th century weird fiction writer Harry Ludlow. Tonight at Prehistory.” Pretty cool stuff, right? Right? Once I got around the corner of the building, I saw the downtown bus coming down the road. I ran the distance and got there at the same time the driver pulled up. I love that moment. It feels like winning a footrace. The driver grinned at me and yelled over the sound of the bus engine something like “Don’t worry brother… I’m looking out for you” and it warmed my heart. I walked back to an empty seat while the bus bumped down the road. But that good feeling didn’t last. The bus ride to Prehistory takes a while because it’s in that burned out area on the east side of downtown. While I sat in my bus seat, by myself, I remember trying to get Jake to come out with me to this. Before a shift when you’re on the schedule, you can eat at a discount. I like to get to work early and have a bowl of soup and a roll. Today when I got there, I saw Jake in the break room. I’ve known Jake since I started at the restaurant. He trained me a few nights. He and I get along. While we ate, I told him about the show tonight. I dug out the flier that I grabbed at school and showed it to him. “Doesn’t this look fascinating? When are you getting another chance to see something like this?” Jake had no idea who Harry Ludlow was and so I explained how he lived somewhere in New England like a century ago. He was one of the last survivors from some really rich family. He wanted to be a poet but he wasn’t good enough. He had better luck with his short stories. I told Jake how his stories were all pretty much about the same thing too: “Some young aristocrat one day discovers a horrible evil thing right under his nose. Like a monster that only he can see that visits him at night. And then the horrible evil thing usually kills the narrator, or drives him insane, or transforms him into a monster that then devours others.” Jake didn’t look interested. More like he was confused why I was interested in this. “The stories aren’t amazing. And he was real into racial superiority pseudoscience. But the stories — they’re just so dang bizarre, Jake. They’re like reading somebody else’s nightmares.” I went on, “he kind of invented a new genre of horror. Rather than the wolfman or the vampire that hunts us down, the monsters are within us.” “And this guy” — at this point I gestured at the flier — “is drawing pictures based on that. Pretty cool, right?” I could tell Jake wasn’t into it by how he looked at the flier then back at me and back at the flier. While I sat in my seat on the bus and this scene replayed in my head, I felt alone. I looked around the bus. It was the typical bizarre mismatched crew of bus riders. Nobody on this bus looked like they were going to the show. They looked like they were going home maybe after work. Then I realized I was still in my work clothes, and of course they were pretty dirty. Every so often during the bus ride, when the sun would go behind a building, I would see my own reflection in the window for a second or so. Every time it happened, I disliked what I saw a little more. I looked too skinny. Anxious. Not sure of myself. I hated my hair. I was going to stick out when I got there. I imagined walking into a crowded space full of happy cool people and then people would stop talking and look at me. I could hear somebody say “who is that?” and everyone would be morbidly curious about the loner weirdo that showed up. Showed up in clothes spotted with stains. Showed up smelling like french fries and old oysters. Or what if I saw somebody that I knew? They would realize how I have no friends. A voice in my head said how the people there will know how I grew up poor. They’ll see how empty I am. How I nearly ended everything a year ago. They’ll see I’m a fucking ghost. Why couldn’t anyone else come out? Why didn’t I think this through? It is hard to describe what it feels like when I’m in one of these spells. I knew my heart was racing, but I couldn’t slow it down. It almost feels like those schlocky movies when somebody’s own hand tries to strangle them. Except it’s your own mind and this is real life. One waking nightmare after another played out in my head. At some point during this ride, I was hunched over, with my eyes closed, clenching my fists, and whispering SHUT UP over and over. And then I realized what is happening, what I’m doing, how I must appear to others. I unfolded, I sat up, I looked around and checked if other people noticed me. Tonight on that bus ride I felt like that time at the bowling alley this spring, right before when Penny and I broke up. That night, we were there with her friends from out of town, and I realized she was paying more attention to that other guy instead of me. I started breathing fast. My voice shook when I talked. I could barely hold my hands still. And of course every fucking time I bowled, it went straight into the gutter, and her asshole friends thought that was hilarious. Looking back now, it was obvious that she didn’t want me anymore. The resentful part of me says she wanted to end it because I wasn’t good for her image. Another part says she and I only got together in the first place because we were stuck in the same place at the same time and we were both miserable kids in a small town, waiting to get the hell out. We were in prison and I was cheap hobo wine she drank to get through it. Now she’s in another city where she is around lots of other beautiful cool people. I don’t fit in that world. I centered my universe around Penny. But I wasn’t the same thing to her. I sure mattered to her a few years ago. I should be glad that now, she’s not the same hopelessly sad girl she was back then. But I loved those nights we used to spend driving around and listening to our favorite songs. I think those were real moments. I can’t accept that she was killing time with me. I get it. People grow apart. But I still miss her. When I get really down, like tonight on that bus, I think about how P was way, way outta my league. I will never ever be with anyone like her again. It was a fluke, an aberration, that somebody like me got a moment of her attention. Gawd, that Saturday night at the bowling alley sucked. We left early that night and Penny was angry at me for acting so weird. She left the next morning and she told me on the phone that night how it was just too hard to be with me but living so far apart. Tonight I stared out the bus window and watched the city landscape change from my neighborhood, which is mostly nice little houses, antique shops, cafes, and restaurants, to the raunchier / seedier gay neighborhood, studded with leather bars and adult book stores, then to the empty night time downtown district, and then under the raised freeway bridge, and then past the empty train yards and boarded-up warehouses. The east side makes me think about the forgotten commercial ruins of a dead ancient empire. Gloomy. It matched my despair. But then I remembered another reflection I saw tonight. It was at work at the restaurant, when I was on the patio. It was during a conversation I had with a diner in my section. He was out for dinner all by himself on a Saturday night, but he was totally at ease the whole time. He ordered enough food for three people and he was so relaxed and happy that it was infectious. Right after I laughed at something he said, I saw myself in the big glass windows that separate the patio from the main dining room. That reflection was a nice image. I didn’t hate how I looked in the reflection, at that moment, at least. I asked him if tonight was a special occasion. He told me tomorrow morning he gets on a plane to some part of rural Africa and it will be a very long time before he would be anywhere like our restaurant. When I refilled his water I saw how he ate all the capers off the fish right away. Later I brought him a ramekin with extra capers. I put them on the table and we talked for a few more minutes. It was a slow night and at that moment I didn’t have any other tables. He said he was a soil scientist and was going there to work on reforestation. I guess modern agriculture has turned the land into deserts. He said how people there have been farming for at least twenty centuries with no problems. Then aid workers came in and taught the farmers to grow for global export, and now after just a few decades, the land is a dust bowl. He made air quotes when he said “modern” and “taught.” Then he leaned forward and asked if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, he would love a few more capers. I realized how he hadn’t noticed me slide the little ceramic bowl on the table, so I pointed them out. He saw them and it was like watching somebody win the lottery. In general, I don’t love being a waiter. Sure, it pays better than anything else I can do, and it opened my eyes to the artistry in food and wine, and I love cooking on my own now. I’m grateful for that part. But it drains my soul to get dressed up, night after night, in my starched shirt and tie, and smile and nod my head and fake my joy while I serve these aging brats as they get drunk and plow through dinner. We place masterful artwork in front of them, and mostly, they don’t appreciate it. We have dead serious, expert chefs in the kitchen, working with the best ingredients money can buy. But the diners for the most part barely notice it. Sometimes I watch them while they eat. They focus on each other. They look around, assessing their rank versus other diners. Who laughs the loudest? Who is the best dressed? They drop almost as much money in one night as what I need for a month’s rent. But tonight was all right. It felt really good to make sure that Mr. Africa capers had a nice dinner. And somehow, his enthusiasm rubbed off on me, and it gave me the whimsy to run and catch the bus tonight. And if I hadn’t left early and then jumped on this bus, I would have done what I always do — finish my shift, do my sidework, settle up, clock out, buy two cigarettes off Jake, and then walk home. (I buy singles off Jake because I don’t want to start buying whole packs again. Somehow I don’t feel like a smoker if I just have one or two.) Sure, walkin home while smoking feels pretty nice, but after I get home, and lock the door, it gets lonely real fast. It’s usually past midnight, but I’m too wound up to sleep. I check my voicemail. Then I play records, I study for school, I do push ups, I read, I watch the guppies in my fish tank, I write in this notebook. I check that the phone is plugged in. It isn’t fun. It’s fucking bleak. So, as I see it, my only choices tonight were A: jump on this bus, or B: stay in and wait for the phone to ring, and hope it’s Penny and maybe she’s had too much to drink and she feels alone and wants to know that somebody still thinks about her. That’s what happened two weeks ago. We stayed up all night talking. I felt so good at the end of the phone call. I went to sleep easily. And when I woke up the next morning, I felt so peaceful. Everything was how it should be. But then over the next few days, I didn’t hear anything from her. She didn’t call me back after I left messages. I still feel like trash. Psychic hangover. The bus reached my stop. A voice in my head shouted I should just stay on the bus until it looped back around and I could ride it back home. But I kept reminding myself of Africa capers… he was so relaxed! Why couldn’t I be like that? So I got off the bus. It’s a free country. I go where I want. Acute panic disorder or not. I walked across the street and then along the broken trash-strewn sidewalk. The air was a little colder now and the sun was down. The building had layers and layers of pasted-up advertisements, going back for years, maybe decades. Beer and liquor ads, posters for obsolete blockbuster movies, sports events, fashion lines, car ads, invitations to spiritual revivals. They all promise happiness somehow. They all just want people’s money. Sometimes one layer peeled off in parts, showing the ads underneath. In one funny combination, an enormous bag of fat-free pretzels floated over the head of a preacher with both his hands raised up in fervent prayer. By the time I opened the door and went inside, I didn’t feel so bad. I could walk right back out if I had to. Maybe even catch the same bus when it loops back. Prehistory used to be a hardcore club and then it was closed for a long time. I never went there when it was a punk place. But now, for whatever reason, I’ve been here several times. After you open the door and go into Prehistory, you’re in a big room with cinder block walls and a concrete floor. There’s a bar against one wall and stairs going up to the second floor balcony. Thrift store couches and easy chairs and coffee tables and shabby rugs are scattered around. They keep the lights mostly on and the music is quiet enough to chat. What they play for music is really far out there: the night I was here with Angie, there was a guy on stage playing sounds made from NASA telescope recordings and his own homemade drum machine loops. When Penny was in town, the weekend before we broke up, I brought her here on Friday night after I finished work. I thought she was gonna be impressed that I found this place. But she wasn’t impressed. She looked around and said this place went too far, past the ironic, into the realm of the bizarre, and that’s why I loved it and she didn’t. She said this wasn’t a diamond in the rough. It was all rough and no diamond. The next night, when we were out at the bowling alley with her friends, she told them how the place looked like a dingy waiting room in a Russian psychiatric hospital. And I realized she meant it in a mean-spirited way. Where Penny lives now, in MacArthur, there are no places like this. And nobody would go if there were. Everyone in Mac is too trendy and gorgeous and rich. But here, there’s a fat old guy sitting at the bar, eating who knows what out of a paper bag, while reading a paperback, and he looks like he might live in his truck. This was exactly the kind of place where nobody would notice if I still had on waiter clothes stained with wine and cheese sauce. In Mac, no matter who you are, there are a hundred other people that do whatever you do, but better. Everyone you meet is writing screenplays or dissertations or doing activism or negotiating record deals. You don’t make friends there — when you meet somebody, they scan you and then calculate where you fit in the social hierarchy. If you outrank them, they become sycophants. I never outrank anyone so I become invisible. I never met anybody in MacArthur that was just trying to scrape together rent and not kill themselves. Here though, standing in the middle of the room and looking around for where the Ludlow paintings might be, I felt a little like I was among people kinda like me. Not social climbers. Scavengers. I bought a coffee and the guy behind the bar said the paintings were on the balcony. The balcony is a cool spot. You walk up two flights of old rickety wood stairs and then you’re in a dark loft. Or maybe it’s a balcony. From up here, big dirty windows let you see the vacant parking lots and boarded up buildings nearby, and further away, the lights from downtown. The two elements in the view from those windows — a burned out and blighted section of town nearby, and the gleaming steel and glass skyscrapers a mile away — show two different cities, with two different kinds of people, somehow occupying the same physical space. The haves and the have-nots. The diners at my restaurant and the souls that sleep in their cars. I looked around and saw cheap metal easels holding a few paintings. Smaller illustrations were taped on the walls. I noticed somebody sitting behind a folding table behind plastic tubs of drawings. I guessed he was the artist. In the first painting I looked at, I recognized the story it was based on immediately. A guy travels to this dying seaside town to research his great grandfather and discovers his ancestors practiced a secret religion. And another painting showed a scene from the same story where the narrator spies on a beachside blood sacrifice. A curvy woman is tied up to a wooden post on a pier and cultists are all lined along the beach, watching the sacrifice. These two were pretty much illustrations… like what I might find in a Ludlow anthology at the start of each story. In other words, there was nothing unconventional. He drew what the text described. I didn’t recognize the scene that was in the third painting. While the other ones were just pen and black ink line drawings, and only about 18 inches across, this was huge. It was maybe six feet across and four feet wide. The artist had started with a photograph, enlarged it, and then painted on top. The smeared paint across parts almost looked like vandalism. I recognized the photo; it was taken after a lynching in the 1930s. Just the photo itself is really disturbing — white youth smile and casually chat almost as if they’re at a party, while two murdered black men hang from a tree over them. On top of the photo there were big green smears of paint across the sky, and red splatters all over, almost randomly. That was what I noticed first. But under that, what looked like wrathful graffiti, the artist did something powerful and clever by subtly altering the photo. Above the tree line, in really muted colors, almost too faint to notice because it was nearly the same color as the night, I noticed a vague outline of a hideous gigantic beast hovering over the crowd, above the tree line. Pale translucent tentacles, like the stingers on a Portuguese man o’ war, reached down into the people below. The green paint and red splatters on top looked like it was applied quickly and angrily, but altering the photo to splice in this giant translucent ancient evil ghost in the sky — this picture was so subtle, and so detailed. I imagine it required patience and focus. And mixed in with the people, he had spliced in butchers wearing bloodstained aprons, holding cleavers, and the ground was littered with dismembered body parts. And then I saw how some people’s clothes and faces had been altered to look like alien monsters. The more I studied the painting, the more detail I noticed, and the more I loved it. I looked at the price. Way out of my league! Between looking at the art and sipping this mediocre coffee out of a styrofoam cup, I studied the guy behind the table. I was pretty dang curious. He didn’t match what I had expected. He was black, first of all. I imagined that the artist would look like Harry Ludlow the author and Harry Ludlow was a sickly aristocrat that rarely left his house. This guy looked tough. He looked more like a carpenter than some anemic old money snob. The fact that this artist was black jumped out at me. It doesn’t take a literary critic to see how Ludlow’s stories about swarms of monsters were really about eastern European slavic immigrants changing the culture of New England. And Ludlow wrote hateful racist stuff in his personal letters. I walked up to his table. He barely looked up at me. I asked him “Is this your work?” and he kind of shrugged. He had a cardboard box with prints mounted on cardboard and the sign said they were $20 each. I could afford that. I started going through them. I wanted to talk to this guy. Heck — he drew pictures of sea monsters for a living — in any other context, we would be best friends! After I flipped through a dozen prints, I held up one. I asked if this was the story about the stage magician that gets kidnapped by the people that think he can do actual magic, and they want him to resurrect their mummified Pharaoh. I said I always liked that story. No reply. I paid him for the print, and then I asked if he wouldn’t mind signing the back. I said, “So you’re F. Mayfield?” He nodded. “All this stuff is really good; but that one” — I pointed to the one that I was so hung up on — “that one is amazing.” I wanted to talk about that painting but I didn’t know how to make that happen. An awkward silence began. He asked me how the coffee was. I said it was pretty good… maybe not quite as good as a church basement AA meeting, but still not bad. He smiled and I felt kinda proud that I pulled that out of nowhere. I wondered though… should I tell him how I quit drinking? Does he already know? Is it weird to drink coffee at a bar or do normal people drink coffee in bars? In other words, me drinking coffee right now… does it telegraph how I’m a mess and trying to get my life together? The dizziness started and then F’s voice interrupted it. “I’m getting a coffee. You want another? I got free stuff cuz of this show.” “And F is the name I use for art. I’m Freddie.” I followed Freddie downstairs. We went to the bar and he ordered two coffees. I felt cool hanging out with this artist and getting a free drink. Then on our way out, I walked right into Freddie because I was looking backwards at an absolutely gorgeous woman at the bar. Luckily didn’t spill the coffee. He smirked at me and shook his head. We walked outside, out onto the sidewalk in front of the bar, and I watched Freddie fish cigarettes from his jacket. It was now completely dark and much colder outside. I shivered. Then I remembered I might have my sweater deep in my backpack. I dug around in my backpack and lucky for me I still had my sweater; the brown pullover. After I put it on, I wondered why I didn’t wear this earlier, when I was so dang nervous about sticking out. I asked him how long he has been drawing. Freddie explained how when he was a teenager, he made his own comic and tried selling it at this one comics shop. The comic shop owner liked how Freddie had also drawn scenes from a Ludlow short story anthology. The owner encouraged him put his pictures up on the wall with a price tag. He sold more of the Ludlow illustrations than he did of the comic. Then I thought about that one big expensive painting. I said something like “what I don’t get — how the hell are you not famous?” I said how that painting upstairs was brilliant. He was doing something really new. He smiled at that. More quiet and then I said to Freddie how there was something on the wall that he might like and I pointed to where I saw the pretzel preacher ad mashup on the wall. He walked down with me and I showed him the weird accidental collage. I gestured at the spot, and Freddie looked at it for a minute and then laughed out loud. “That’s great! This is amazing!” I was gleeful. “Right? I saw it when I walked in tonight.” We went back inside and back upstairs. While we walked back, I felt like I was floating. Like the exact opposite of how unhappy I was, earlier on the bus. We leaned on the balcony rail and watched the people at the bar. From up there, I kept watching that woman downstairs. She didn’t match the crowd here whatsoever. She looked more like the women that go to my restaurant than the people that come here after putting together ironic outfits from used clothes. I don’t know shit about women’s fashion but I know what brands correlate with big spenders and she dressed like a very big spender. I watched her finish one drink and order another. She acted like nobody else was here. Like she was here all alone. She didn’t glance around as people came in. We were all ghosts. There was something in her face, in that weird stare, her lack of movement. Lost in her thoughts, except when she realized her glass was empty, when she became aware of the room again. I asked Freddie where the idea came from. Like where did he get this idea of taking Harry Ludlow monsters and remixing them. Freddie told me how he escaped from the stress of growing up through obsessive reading. A librarian said he might like Ludlow stories and he got hooked. It was after he became a fan, and after he was selling his illustrations at the comic book store, when he discovered how Ludlow was a white supremacist. He explained how the experience was bewildering. He found a book of Ludlow’s letters to his friends and that’s when he realized how Ludlow would not have been happy this kid was drawing his own versions of Ludlow’s stories. He said something like he didn’t fit in at home or in his neighborhood, so he escaped into reading. And he loved reading, but he found out he wasn’t welcome there either. He said he felt hurt, heartbroken even, when he read letters between Ludlow and other writers and he read his own hero say such awful things. Just listening to him talk about it, tonight, I felt angry. He said he realized that his affection remained despite this slap in the face. He said something like, “I was hooked on him, even though I knew it was bad for me.” He sighed and said, “I loved something that didn’t love me back. I stopped drawing after that.” Freddie said he joined the Navy and In southeast Asia, he toured some old temples and then Freddie realized these were the ruins of the pagan temples that Ludlow only read about. Freddie said that night he started drawing again. Thats when he decided to reverse the heroes and the monsters. Now, colonizers would be the cultists worshipping the evil gods. We stood quietly for a few minutes. I was grateful for the coffee because it gave me something to concentrate on. Then Freddie pointed to somebody that just walked in. Right away, I felt like I knew him, or at least recognized him. Older, long, stringy gray hair, holding court with several admirers orbiting him. You could tell he was a big shot. He had an invisible aura that you could detect. Watching from up on the balcony, I saw other people in the room seemed to notice him. He magnetized the room somehow. I watched heads turn and strangers drifted toward him. At one point everyone near him laughed out loud. Except for the woman. She was a few stools down but also very far away. She was ignoring him. And I could tell he hated it. He said something to her and she ignored him. Then he said it again louder, and still no reply. Then he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her close to him. We couldn’t hear what he was saying, but she looked uncomfortable and he looked like he was enjoying himself. Almost maybe because she was so upset. But I know I sometimes imagine motivations that aren’t actually there. The next part happened so fast I barely followed, but it looked like she struggled to twist out of his arms. And he gripped her tight. Then she either pushed against his face or slapped him. Then he smacked her in the mouth. Everyone started screaming and pushing away. Next somehow she tripped him, they both fell to the floor, but she landed on top and started punching his face in. The guy from behind the bar pulled her off by grabbing around her waist. She looked tiny in his arms. She ran out the door while he helped up the guy. His nose was gushing blood. I turned to look at Freddie. He was holding his hands on top of his head and looked as stunned as I was. I checked my watch and the last bus was coming any minute. I wanted to stay and figure out what the hell just happened. And also keep talking with Freddie. This whole night was so fuckin vivid. But I hate waiting for the bus late at night. It is absolutely no fun when cars pull up to the bus stop and I have to explain that I’m not playing hard to get — I’m just not a prostitute. So I told Freddie how Ludlow is gonna be a footnote in F Mayfield’s story and then I ran outside and for the second time in a row, just barely made it to the stop in time.


After several decades in development hell, the sequel to the all time classic, The Emoji Movie, was released to theatres. Originally conceptualized by Disney in 2035 as a live action remake of the classic Minion’s Eleven: Revenge of Gru, the project traded hands several times before landing in the lap of soothseer Dax Shepard. Many say that Dax had a prophetic revelation and decided to scrap the entire project, reimagining it instead as a live action remake of the critically acclaimed “The Emoji Movie”. After this proclamation, not a single soul saw him for years, there were whispers of his death, or worse yet, that the project had been canceled. But finally in the year 2065, he emerged, not with his promised live-action remake, but of something even more wonderful. May 5th 2065, The Emoji Movie 2: Escape 2 Africa is released to theatres. Initial viewers going into the film were skeptical, given its prolonged development, but their skeptical thoughts were soon sandblasted from their minds at a speed nearing the international space station. It is the perfect movie. “I didn’t want this movie, but god damn was I wrong, I needed this movie. In fact I’ve already bought tickets so I can see it daily for the next three weeks.” wrote William Alcott of the New York Times before resigning so that he could have more free time to devote to seeing the emoji movie. “The scene where Spuds Makenzie and the ‘black Santa on a pogo stick doing a backflip’ emoji teamed up to hunt down and destroy social media was not only inspirational, but indeed inspiring. We should all aspire to be more like the ‘black Santa on a pogo stick doing a backflip’ emoji.” wrote Marry Seacole of the Huffington post, also before resigning for more “free time”. During the mania of the original release period, the cracks of insubordination went unnoticed, one critic, whose name would later be redacted from history books, dared to write “It was pretty good, I just don’t get why the entire soundtrack was just Dax Sheppard sensually whispering the lyrics to several Europop songs. Overall a 9.9/10”. It wasn’t until months after the release of the film where dangerous opinions like this were realized to have been said, and the appropriate sensible action was taken in order to make sure there would be none like it in the future. Australia was partitioned off, and the people who held opinions on The Emoji Movie 2: Escape 2 Africa that weren’t up to par were sent there, where they could play amongst themselves and their shitty, terrible opinions. The rest of the world flourished in their faith in the film, their technology improved, all wars ended, quality of life increased exponentially, all disease was cured. Despite this, they remained humble, and offered periodical olive branches to the new citizens of Australia, if only they explained why The Emoji Movie 2 was indeed the single most perfect creation of mankind. To this day, Australia’s official position remains: “We just don’t get it”. Dax Shepard, who originally reveled in his newly found fame and fortune, has since denounced the lifestyle and has donated the vast majority of his wealth to the Australian relief fund, whose official slogan is “An Australian in need, is an Australian indeed”. These days a sighting of him is rare, as he claims to be at home working on his next feature film; a spinoff Emoji Movie prequel, set in the 90’s starring everyone’s favorite: ‘black Santa on a pogo stick doing a backflip’ emoji. All one can do is wait in anticipation until the day it arrives.


A hissing voice. Rustling in the bushes. Something that seemed to slide into the tent. "HELP!" I woke up with a start and immediately sat up. There was water everywhere. The tent was open, probably because of the strong wind, a parrot sat on my stomach. Sanne's scream still echoed in my ears. "What? You said you knew what you were getting into?" I glared at her as I chased the bird away from my stomach and crawled out of my sleeping bag. The air mattress creaked under my weight. "That doesn't mean I expected this!" Sanne looked around with wide eyes. When I followed her gaze I saw that there was more in the tent than just the parrot. I just saw a tail disappear from probably a snake. That explained the hissing. "What scared you again?" I stretched, unzipped the tent and looked out. It was indeed a snake. "That sound, didn't you hear that? It looked like a huge snake!" Sanne pulled her legs in, the sleeping bag was tight around her. When I saw her start to shake, I turned to her and sat on the edge of her air mattress. I had to reassure her. I needed her a little longer. "There's nothing to be afraid of. Believe me." I brushed a strand of hair from her face. "Otherwise I would never have taken you." She sighed deeply and looked at me. I saw deep in her eyes that she wanted to believe me, but that she was still too shocked. "Wasn't it a snake then?" "Yes, that was a snake. But it is already gone." I took the map to distract her. "Since we are already awake, shall we clean up and move on? With any luck we will make it to the temple today." Sanne took the card from me. I rummaged in my backpack and passed her a sandwich. "Here, eat and drink something and then get dressed. Okay?" She paused, put the card on her knees and took the sandwich. The leaves still felt moist under my feet as we continued our route. It had been ten years since I had been here, but it still felt like coming home. I did not expect that I could have gotten Sanne with me. We had trained a lot to prepare ourselves, or especially Sanne. It just started with a walk from home, three kilometers, five kilometers, then eight kilometers on a Sunday morning. Until a month ago we made it forty kilometers in the countryside. Both with a large backpack, with about the weight that we now also carried with us. After half a day of walking we found a good place to rest. Sanne brushed some leaves off a rock and then plopped down on the rock. "Where are we now?" Her backpack ended up in an anthill in front of the boulder. The ants immediately crawled in all directions and I got distracted for a moment by the movements they made. When Sanne motioned to see if I had heard her, I looked up quickly. "I'll have a look. Don't forget to have a drink. I'll walk a little further, then I'll see where we are and where we have to go." I kept looking at the ground when I said that, put my backpack down next to a tree and walked through the trees with the map. The chirping of the many birds would never bore me. In the distance I saw a snake moving slowly between the leaves of a huge tree. I heard a small stream flowing and decided to walk there first. The map was already wrinkled, making it more and more difficult to see exactly where we were. Was the left line a path or did it just look that way? Where was the stream? My despair seemed to grow. The ten years would end today, we had to find the temple. Today. "Martin? MARTIN!" Another scream from Sanne. I turned quickly to see her running through the bushes. "Where are you?" Without a bag, she ran straight past me. "By the stream to your right!" I called after her. She came to a stop and I saw her looking to the right. "Wait, I'll come your way." As I walked up to Sanne, I folded the map. What if I got lost? How long would we search without clue? It is almost impossible that we have not yet seen the temple. As soon as Sanne saw me, she grabbed my wrist and pulled me along. "What are you doing? Let me go!" "Come on, quickly!" Surprised, I hobbled behind her, first towards the backpacks, but then a little further on. "I thought I heard something behind me and went to have a look..." she begins, "and then suddenly I saw this!" She lets go of me and points towards a point in the distance. "What are you talking about? I don't see anything." "Wait, then we'll change places." As soon as I got to her spot, she pointed in the same direction again. There in the distance stood the temple. The temple I had visited with a friend ten years before. At least, back then I thought it was a friend. Sanne had found the temple. And without knowing it, she had taken over the curse. In ten years time she would have to make the same trip again, with a new person. So that at all times someone was under the influence of the curse. I relaxed my shoulders and looked carefully to the right. Sanne had turned white. Her eyes were red. "What have you done?" She had fear in her eyes. "Sorry," I whispered as I slowly walked back, "I had no choice." But she was already gone.


Continued from:  “Was it worth it?” he thought. He had just given away his only means of escape to someone he had just met. “Classic. An attractive girl gives me five minutes of attention, and all reason goes out the window. What was I expecting to get out of this? A date? A kiss? What an idiot.” The dark blotches beyond the lamplight were inching closer. Should he run? He could see the edge of town. No, he would never outrun orcs. Physically, they were far superior to humans. If he called out for help, would anyone hear him? Could they reach him in time? Would that just provoke the orcs to attack sooner? He laughed at the hopelessness of his situation, then unholstered the dagger from his thigh. At least he could take a few with him. About thirty feet ahead, a massive orc stepped into the light of the next road lamp. Redge figured he must have been eight feet tall and built of muscle. He wore nothing but the standard orcish loin cloth. Nearly all of his exposed skin was covered in scars and tattoos. “Must be someone important,” Redge thought to himself. “Where’s da girl? Is no fun witout ‘er,” the orc said as he crossed his huge arms. “Gone. I can’t bring her back. Looks like you’re out of luck.” “Guess yuh’ll jus’ ‘ave ta squirm ‘nuff fur da both of ya, eh?” he said as laughter came from the darkness. A flash of inspiration lit up Redge’s mind. This guy was some kind of leader. Too young to be an elder, but maybe one of their sons. If Redge challenged him to single combat, he would be obliged to accept or lose face in front of his followers. In a one-on-one fight, he at least stood some chance of survival. He just had to last long enough for help to arrive. Surely Rose would have alerted the town guard by now. “How many orcs does it take to kill a human?” Redge taunted, “By the looks of it, I’d say about twenty orcs to one human. Sound right to you?” “Jus’ one,” the big orc said with a grin. He bent down to pick something up. Redge activated his dagger which caused it to emit a dim purple light. What started as a low hum rose to a high-pitch whine. The blade was vibrating with increasing frequency. This drastically increased its cutting power, but the dagger only had enough stored magical energy to maintain this effect for two to three minutes. The orc stood back up so Redge could see what was in his hand. It was a rock, about the size of a human fist. Again, laughter came from the darkness beyond the lamplight. The orc wound his arm back and launched the rock forward with incredible speed. Redge couldn’t consciously perceive the projectile, but his arms reflexively moved to protect his face. The rock smashed into his forearms, breaking bone and knocking him backwards onto the ground. The dagger flew out of his hand and landed several feet behind him. He lay there dazed and semi-conscious, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Looking up at the stars, he could hear footsteps getting louder. They were coming. This was the end, he thought. To his right, an orc howled in pain. The footsteps stopped, and the howling abruptly gave way to gurgling. A scuffle broke out. Redge could hear the chopping of flesh and more howling. He was too weak to lift his head. The orc leader let out an ear-splitting warcy, and Redge heard footsteps charging past him toward the source of disturbance. A loud blast lit up the sky, and he felt a strong, hot gust of wind from his right. Finally he heard multiple footsteps running away and then nothing. Redge closed his eyes. The pain in his arms was getting sharper, almost unbearable. When he opened them up again, he caught a glimpse of a man in a helmet staggering past. Draped over his shoulders were the tattered remnants of a smoldering cloak. What remained of his armor was modern, mostly leather with a few strategically placed steel inserts. But his helmet was an antique, once part of a set of plate armor. Plate armor had been phased out of non-ceremonial use hundreds of years ago. The visor, with its narrow slits, concealed his face. Various metal components of his armor were still faintly glowing with heat. He stopped for a moment, looked down at Redge, and then staggered on. Not long after, Redge fell unconscious.


Hey! I'm Harry Matthews, I'm a student writer from the UK. This is a story I wrote recently. I wanted to create a subtle sense of the supernatural without being too blatant and to try and write with a better balance between dialogue (which I often struggle with) and description (which comes more naturally). I hope you enjoy it! I'm not sure it's worth marking this story as "NSFW", although there is some violence/gore. ***SOOTHSLAYER*** “This is the place where I was killed”. His brow furrowed, dark eyes piercing the arid gloom of midnight. Strong, tan hands gripped a leather-bound scimitar at his waist. He gave the ancient soothsayer a grimace. “Finally, you decide to speak. Finally, and it is babble. Whatever value you possess to my Lord is beyond me.” She gave no reply. The creaking, decrepit woman gently toyed with a necklace of dyed beads, bones, and charms. She muttered almost silently, chapped lips barely moving. Zu’kuma sighed, broad shoulders slumping. He moved his gaze away from the deranged hag, out over the barren landscape before him. A few small dunes, dotted with gnarled bushes and great rocks worn smooth by wind-cast sand, sheltered Zu’kuma and the woman from the open desert. Luna’s facsimile half-light cast an exposing glare over the long expanses, but in the shadow of the dunes, Zu’kuma and his whispering partner sat, and took rest. The moon passed mutely above them. Nothing moved within Zu’kuma’s sight. He began to fidget. He stood, taking gentle steps in a wide circle around the woman. As his rested muscles started moving comfortably, his pace quickened to a brisk walk. He looked at the hag again. She hadn’t moved, but for her fiddling hands. “You are an intolerable presence; I must inform you.” Zu’kuma stopped walking, turning to face the woman as he spoke. “How is it that someone so silent, so still, can cause me such irritation? You make no sense, Oracle. I suspect many of the tales I was told of you are fantasy. Stealing you was little effort. Killing your guards was a pleasure.” He knelt, looking her in the eye. She did not return his gaze, still staring at the necklace that snaked between her fingers. “I cannot insult my master’s intelligence, but I believe you are a charlatan. The people of your country are maddened by hashish, yet somehow their fervor has spread into my Lord’s kingdom. I have seen the look in my master’s eye when he considers how he would use you.” The warrior’s head dropped slightly. His voice was flat. “I fear. I fear for him. I wonder what this madness you bring will inspire. He has such vision, and such damning ambitions.” He looked up at her. Her hair was a wild mess of thick braids and matted locks. Lice crawled visibly over her head, like ticks on a rancid dog. She was unbelievably frail. Zu’kuma had seen men starved to death who looked healthier than the Oracle. Zu’kuma sat down, legs folded in front of him, his sword laid flat on his lap. “How did you get to be this? What makes a woman into an Oracle? Was it the fumes? Were you struck as a child? Kicked by a horse? Are you simply insane?” Zu’kuma picked a small piece of wood from the sand by his feet. He eyed the finger-length piece of withered root. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the root towards the Oracle. It crossed the empty space between them and bounced silently off the soothsayers’ forehead. She did not flinch. She gave no reaction, and the imperceptible whispers that snuck between her lips did not stutter. Zu’kuma frowned. Then, aloud, the Oracle spoke again. “It won’t hurt.” Zu’kuma shuffled and got to his feet. “It *didn’t* hurt, you senseless witch. How should any master seek to find reason in the fetid babble of your mewling tongue?” The warrior fastened his sword to his waist and took several heavy steps away from the woman. “You enrage me.” The words seethed like boiling mist running through teeth set as row of spears. “I shall count myself lucky if you do not survive our journey, though I am sure to be – “ Zu’kuma froze for a moment, his hunter’s eyes seeking movement in the dark. A flicker of shadow, a displacement of sand with no wind. Zu’kuma dropped, his legs bent beneath him. He curled his head into his chest as an arrow passed above him. He extended his legs fast and threw himself forwards, rolling over one shoulder, trailing the arrow’s path back to its archer. As Zu’kuma came to his feet, he drew his scimitar in a long sweep. Moonlight struck the blade and it flared bright. A grunt of displeasure trembled behind a nest of frail bushes atop one of the dunes. Zu’kuma threw himself forwards, covering the distance in moments. As he crested the peak, he dove over his right shoulder, narrowly avoiding a second arrow. As he rose, Zu’kuma laid eyes on the first of his attackers. The man was taller than Zu’kuma, though not as broad. He was garbed in the same rough array of skins and fabrics that covered the Oracle’s rotting husk. Zu’kuma took two long strides, closing the distance between himself and the archer. The other man fumbled for a knife at his waist, but Zu’kuma was faster. He sliced open the archer’s belly in a single strike, already moving through him. The Oracle’s archer hit the ground and the stretched flesh holding his body together split. Gurgling cries were all that escaped his lips as his two halves tumbled bloodily down the dune. Zu’kuma moved on instinct, every muscle in his body attuned in perfect balance. Two men appeared from the rocks, long, wicked knives clasped in malnourished hands. They died fast. The striding warrior lunged into the first man, dropping his weight low in a deep crouch, his scimitar passing clean through the man’s knee. The fanatic hit the ground; his left leg separated completely. Zu’kuma rose and stepped over him, driving his sword into the wounded madman’s belly as he passed. He swore in his native tongue, blood rushing from his open mouth. The second threw himself towards Zu’kuma, his knife held high above him, carving down towards the warrior in a broad arc. Zu’kuma avoided the blow easily, moving behind his opponent and bringing his sword down directly onto the man’s head. Zu’kuma withdrew his sword as the man dropped. The warrior ran quickly back to the base of the dune, his sword still grasped in his fist. The Oracle had not moved. She still sat, murmuring silently. Zu’kuma marched towards her, coming to stand a few feet in front of the haggard seer. He spat at her. It hit her cheek, but she did not react. “You are beyond description. I cannot tell you of the hate that is stoked in my heart. Those men – “, he gestured towards the ravaged bodies, “ – were starved, and deranged. They stank of hashish. How can you inspire such madness?” Zu’kuma swelled before the woman. “You must not be allowed to infect my homeland. I care not what punishment awaits me. My master deserves better than you.” Zu’kuma brought his scimitar high. The gleaming blade cut back down through the air, passing without sound through the Oracle’s crooked neck. Zu’kuma watched her head fall to the ground, bounce once, and roll over. Her eyes were open, looking directly into his. She laughed, and then she spoke. “This is the place where I was killed.” Zu’kuma dropped his sword. The Oracle closed her eyes, and the future fell silent.


How many different ways do you want me to say the same damn thing? You've listened to me, you've recorded me in a video, you had me speak with a psychiatrist, you even recorded me on tape for Christ's sake! I can't tell you the truth any clearer than I already have. But fine. I'll humor you. If I play along with your stupid games, will you please help me? Look, I know I'm not the best person. I know I've made mistakes. I realize that it doesn't make me look any better for me to tell you that I've been sleeping with his wife, but I need you to understand that I'm not lying to you. He doesn't know it's been me. We've been really careful so he doesn't find out. And it's not like I made the first move. *She* came on to *me*. I can't be held responsible for that! It's his fault he spends all his time at the office. Look, it's better if it's me rather than some stranger, right? She has *needs,* and it's not my fault that he can't meet those needs! I shouldn't be punished for that! I know how this sounds, okay? I really have been a good friend to him for the most part. I convinced Jeremy to go to that "exhibition" thing at Progenitor Labs so he would be out of the house for a few hours. He enjoys that science shit. I was thinking of *him*. I was his best man at his wedding! I'm the reason he even met her. I listen to his bullshit problems all the time, and maybe I deserve something for that, right? Whatever. This stormtrooper you left in here with me seems upset that I'm taking so long to write it down. I'll humor you one more time. Then I need you to protect me. I need you to put him in a cell or put me in a cell or get a goddamn SWAT team to get me out of here or put me in witness protection or something. You have to help me. It's your *job,* right? I know what my taxes go toward. I took Katy to the hospital to see him after Progenitor's meltdown three weeks ago. Jeremy seemed *fine*. A little beat up around the edges, but he *seemed* fine. He just looked happy to see her. He was there for two weeks. I visited him with her every single day. Jeremy got out of the hospital after those two weeks, and I knew right away that something was wrong. He's my best friend; it would be hard to miss if something wasn't right with him. He kept talking about how Katy had been distant for a long time. I asked him to elaborate, and he said he could tell that she was pulling away from him and he was going to find out why. I knew how upset he would be if he found out it was me, so I offered to help him. I could steer him away from any evidence of it being me. I was confident... but with hindsight... maybe I was a little too confident. His little "investigation" lasted for a week. I had told Katy that he thought something was up, and we were taking extra steps to be sure he wouldn't know. He tried every trick in the book, and I "helped" him because I'm his *best* friend. I know I am. We hired the private investigator, that skeevy guy on Blake and West if you know him. We did the stakeout. We tried checking who she was calling in their phone records. Obviously, none of that turned up anything. I'm not stupid. I know you want me to tell you why you found me standing over that... that mess. I'm getting to that. Fine. You want to know something I haven't told you yet? She went to that suburb to buy drugs. We like to smoke a little something before we "do the deed". It gives the climax this extra boost that I just can't explain. I know that admitting to a crime like this would seem like a bad idea, but that's how serious I am. It's not like weed is illegal in our state anymore. I know that it's illegal to buy on the street, but it's cheaper, and the lines are awful and... Look... it doesn't matter anymore. He was desperate for proof. He had been following her around town for a while, and I just didn't know. I realize that's stalking, but that should show you that *he's* the problem, not me. She called me... told me she saw his car behind her. She was *scared*, okay? Not the "I'm gonna be caught" scared, but the "I'm going to die" scared. I had to stop him from making a mistake he would regret. I knew where she was going. Our dealer was always, *always* on Pine when we met him. I left home, I got in my car, and I floored it. I kept her on the phone. I tried to keep her calm. She told me she lost him. She told me that she had turned without signaling, and she lost him. I knew we couldn't head straight back to her house or my place, but she was scared. I had to do something. I did the wrong thing, though. I thought it would help. A familiar face, a place she'd seen a few times, decent lighting? I told her to meet me at the gas station near where our dealer was. I was going to be there soon. I could make it. I could meet her there. I stopped in the park across the street, where you found my car. I got out and walked just that little bit farther to get to her. I should have just driven to the gas station. If I just did that, I might not be sitting here. I thought I was being smart. I'd been so careful up until then. But it just takes one goddamn mistake to ruin it all. I thought I'd built a fortress with my lies. I'd just built a house of cards. She'd seen someone with the same red jacket I wear, and she went up and hugged him from behind. That poor bastard. I was across the street when Jeremy pulled into the gas station. I swear I don't know what he said. I don't know what they were screaming at each other. I tried to listen, I really did. They just weren't loud enough. She looked horrified when she saw that the guy she had hugged wasn't me, and she started crying when Jeremy started walking toward her. Look, I've been in fights. I know what it looks like when someone is walking toward someone with intent to hit them. I couldn't let him hit her. He might have been angry, but he would have felt awful afterward. I tried to run across the street. I tried to make it, okay? I tried to do the right thing! But when I got close enough to see... I couldn't move my legs anymore. Jeremy's skin was *melting*, dripping from his body like *jelly*. His arms stretched too far. His face sagged down his body. His bones bent through his skin and *bent* like they had no structure. His eyes... I don't want to remember his eyes. His clothing slipped through his body as he turned into a brackish black. The sound that came from his throat was an unnatural, shrieking, gurgling noise. He grew larger. I... I know I had to convince myself that his bones still existed... but I couldn't see any of them. His body bent and twisted until that *thing* looked like something from a nightmare. I couldn't feel anything. My body wouldn't move. I tried to move. I tried to scream. I tried to run. I couldn't do it. I couldn't get out of there. I could only watch while his gelatinous form enveloped that poor man. I hope I forget the sound of his screams as his body dissolved. I will *never* forget the sound of that sick, muffled *pop.* Katy screamed. It was the last noise I'd ever hear her make. That thing that used to be Jeremy moved toward her. It forced what I think used to be his arm into her mouth and nose. His whole translucent form flowed down her throat. Do you know what it looks like when someone's stomach, chest, throat, and head expand like they're elastic? Have you ever seen a person *burst* like a balloon? I see it every time I close my eyes. His body compressed. His color returned to normal. He dressed himself and just walked back toward his car. He stopped when he saw me and just... *smiled*. I'm still trying to convince myself that the thing sticking out of his face wasn't Katy's jawbone. I don't think I moved until your officers arrived. Look... I get it. I saw what happened in the hospital after Progenitor's meltdown. I know what you assholes are trying to cover up. All that freaky shit that you tried to pretend didn't happen? I saw *all* of it. I saw the wings. I saw that... that *thing* in that writhing mass of "flesh". I saw that woman that lit her room on fire when she screamed. I know that Jeremy had to be one of those *things*. He's still out there. I don't know where he is. I can't help you with that. Please, though... you have to believe me. I'm on your side. I want those things exterminated. I didn't kill Katy or that guy. How would it be possible for me to do that in broad daylight? The gas station has to have CCTV. There has to be a recording of what happened. You can prove that I'm innocent! Look, I haven't told anyone, if that's what you're worried about. Put me in a polygraph, I'll prove I'm not lying about that. That's how you know I'm on your side in this. The world isn't ready for the shit that happened in that hospital. I know it started with Progenitor... that's the only thing that makes sense. That's where all of this unexplained shit started. I'm getting off-track, I know, but I just need you to know that I trust you to do the right thing. I've never heard of a police force having a "Special Operations Unit". Your uniforms don't look very official, especially not with the Progenitor logo, but I guess it would make sense for them to sponsor your efforts to clean up their mess. I would like to see a badge at some point, though. Other people have to be seeing all the weird shit that's been going on, right? I can't be the only one. I won't tell anyone. Just take me where you've taken everyone else that's come forward. It's just a matter of time before that thing that used to be Jeremy learns that I was the one sleeping with his wife. That *thing* is going to be coming for me. You have an obligation to protect me. It's your job! What have you done for the others who have come forward? It's been three weeks since your building exploded on that crowd of people. There *have* to be others. The idiot you left in here with me is checking his watch for the umpteenth time. He's working on loading his gun. I hope you have weapons that will actually work on a giant gelatinous monster. I wonder where you'll take me to be safe. What place is safe for me? I thought I saw other people telling you people about this stuff in rooms off the hallway.


It’s quiet this morning. It’s been quiet for weeks. Or maybe it’s been months? The calendar on the wall has been used more in the last seven months than probably any calendar we’ve owned. It hangs next to the fridge with a little post-it note that hovered over the twenty first that read in all caps “Dr. Theisen, 8AM!” From my spot at the kitchen table I squinted to find the date. The smell of coffee wafted through but it hadn’t quite kicked in for me. *Today’s the tenth.* It’s been exactly nine months. I’ve never been a good judge of the passage of time, especially without all of my automatic synced calendar alerts from before The Crash. At first it was a crisis. Not to me, but to my wife Vanessa. I’ve always had a healthy aversion to the internet but to her the panic from the sudden loss of the invisible network that wove us all together was palpable. In the hours following The Crash it seemed easy for her to distract herself with shopping and admiring herself in the mirror but after the twentieth hour her efforts were something more…. Desperate. She asked me to take her phone so she wouldn’t obsessively check it, then took a melatonin and lain in bed, staring at the ceiling. She dreamt about hitting 3 million followers on Instagram. When she woke to the still-same status of The Crash she was crushed. I remember how she put on that fake high voice she uses when she’s not okay. “Oh! Well, I’ll just… go for a run I guess”. She hadn’t actually ‘gone for a run’ since senior year for P.E. exams, though her feed would tell a different story. So many photos of her in running gear. So many hours meticulously feigning a runner’s sweat with glycerin and posing in athleisure for the camera. Her announcement to go on a run was cautious, and almost nervous. I didn’t laugh at her. I simply nodded and tried to keep my eyebrows from betraying my surprise. *Be cool. Don’t make it a thing.* “Okay, babe. Don’t forget your water bottle.” For a moment she perked up. She was cheered by the reminder of the branded posh water bottle, an item she’d received only the week before as a PR package. I went back to my book as I heard her fill the bottle in the kitchen and left out the front door. She came back in a better mood to proudly show off the most genuine selfies I’d ever seen from her, but her overall antsiness continued. Those small pick-me-ups as reminders of her importance grew fewer and more distant as The Crash became a greater reality. Vanessa Moore is the beautiful woman I have called my wife these past seven years. I don’t remember quite how or when she became fully attached to her fame or phone, but it happened slowly. First she Marie Kondo’d all her favorite souvenir national park t-shirts, then the spare room became a filming room, then she went blonde, and then one day I found myself picking her up an outpatient clinic for a procedure she swore would make her happy. It all seemed so linear to me now, how I lost my wife to the internet personality she’d rather be. The word they use for someone with that great of a following is ‘influencer’ but I cringe to think of my Nessa like that. She used to be so different. I didn’t used to be an Instagram Husband. I couldn’t have been more relieved that The Crash happened, to be honest it probably saved my marriage. My wife wouldn’t share my opinion. I held that secret thought as bitterly as my coffee tasted in my cooling mug. The first six months were rocky for us. I couldn’t conceal my annoyance at being constantly asked to take photos for an audience that was lost in the ether. More importantly, Nessa discovered something that rocked her world-- her sudden loss of connection to the sycophants she called fans and community left her lonely and depressed. Somewhere along the way her self confidence had been replaced by relying on validation from faceless interactions. I bet that even that some of those interactions came from bots, but she missed them all the same. It’s been hard. She still has dreams about hitting 3 mil. Her therapist says she has PTSD and FOMO, the second of which I cannot help but doubt is a technical term. As baffling as it was, we’re still coming to terms with what that means. For Vanessa that means she has to find meaningful things to do, and learn new skills. She’s enrolled in school for a real degree…. .. this is where I have to stop myself. *Reframe.* She has a real degree-- Online Influence Marketing. *She’s just getting one that is more relevant to the post-Crash economy now.* I can hear Dr Theisen’s voice in my head correcting me. “*Mr. Moore, despite benefiting for your wife’s influence you don’t really respect her, do you?”* That question still felt like a punch to the gut, followed by deep and immediate shame. I benefited from the free vacations, home that YouTube bought, the brand spokesperson discounts, the random PR boxes that arrived on our doorstep. I couldn’t deny that my wife had worked hard to paint a picture on her social media of a… ‘bossbabe’. That word still makes me *shudder*. It all seemed so vapid and empty to me. If The Crash hadn’t happened, would I still be here? I constantly asked myself that question, steeped in guilt. Nessa’s voice in the hall broke me out of my shudder. “Babe?” “Yeah, hon?” I raised my head to look her direction. Morning rays from my nook window played on her face. Her eyes were heavily lidded, her blonde hair and dark roots a mess, but still a welcome sight after all these months. She wore a long tee with GLACIER emblazoned across the front in faded letters. I could’ve sworn that used to be my shirt, though I hadn’t seen it in years. Her voice came again, this time softer. “I had a dream.” Dr. Theisen said that was common after devastating loss. Recurring dreams that haunted the broken. I stretched out my hand to her and she took my hand, folding herself into my arms to perch on my lap and curl into me. Her heart beat felt unsteady through my shirt. “The three million again?” That’s the only dream she ever had. Her head shook slightly against my shoulder. Her voice was so quiet I strained to hear her before the silence of the kitchen swallowed it up. “You left me.” The guilt came back to me again with a roaring vengeance. “Oh, Nessa. No, honey. I’m right here”. I held her tight. The pain in my gut was visceral, twisting and searing up a rebuke at me. The smell of coffee drifted through the kitchen but was completely forgotten. The wetness from her cheeks smeared against my shoulder and that twisting deep in my chest amplified. “No, no, no. Sssshh. You’re ok,” I whispered. Now I could hardly get the words out. *You bastard. You coward. You would have.* I croaked out another reassurance, a tear falling, breath caught on the lump in my throat. *She dreamt of you.* I lifted her chin to look her in the eyes. With a thumb I wiped away her tears. *I nearly lost you.* “Vanessa Moore, I have not left you. Shhhh baby, I’m right here.” I hugged her tight again. *You’re still in there. I’m still here. I nearly lost you, but I’m still here.* The Crash ruined so many lives but it saved mine. I couldn’t ever tell her. I couldn’t ever tell her that The Crash may have left her nothing... but it had given me back *everything*.


my Joints ached, the apocalypse had not been kind to me or my wife. I cast a glance at my wife of thirty years, her eyes starry as she gazed around at the huge abandoned buildings. "Oh Hubert isn't it just so beautiful, mom would take me here on sunny days to see the rainbows cast by the glass." she exclaimed. she was stuck in the old world, I wish I was as lucky as her. I gently took her hand and said "maybe we'll rent a car and go see your mother" her mother was long gone, even before the war, but I loved seeing her smile, it made this bleak world a little brighter. She smiled and said "that would be nice" I allowed myself a smile and adjusted my grip on my walking stick, listening to the quiet birdsong in the dead city. We walked until we came across a small suburb, we found a small house that looked like ours and sat on the steps to rest. I pulled one of our cans of food and two plastic forks. "Hungry sweetie?" I asked as I pulled the top open. she smiled and said "yes dear." I handed her a fork and set the can between us taking small bites to let her have the most of it. The bang and whizz of a round just past my head sent me to my feet as I pulled my wife up. "whats wrong!?" she squealed as I pitched back to kick the houses door in. another round screaming into the doorframe. The door crashed open and I pushed her inside, getting in myself and slamming the door shut as yet another round smashed through it above my head. I grabbed a dusty chair and slammed it under the door knob before backing away and reaching into my courier bag. I pulled the snub nose .38 out and shakily pointed it at the door. I could hear someone outside. "D-Dont come in here, I-I'll shoot." I stammered as I pulled the hammer back. I was greeted with laughter... insane laughter. my heart fell, cannibals. I took a deep breath as my wife mumbled "Hubert, why are you pointing a gun at the jehovah's witnesses?" There was a Thud! against the door and pleading before a high pitched squeal, then silence. I was shaking so bad I couldn't see the gun's sights. "Are Y'all okay?" a young man's voice came through the door, he sounded like I knew him. "Jay! Is that you Dear? I haven't seen you in ages!" My wife exclaimed. there was a pause "Mrs.Ronson!? is Hubert there!?" I almost dropped my gun... It was my grand sons friend, the one he was withwhen the war started. "I'm, I'm here too son" I said in disbelief. there was an audible sigh of relief and then "Can, can you guys come out? I need to get my eyes on ya." I almost broke my hip getting the chair away from the door and opening it. I stared in disbelief at the blue haired teenager cradling an assault rifle in front of me. Armor made from license plates synched down to his torso. "My god old man..." he started with a grin, propping the gun against his shoulder "I can't believe a crusty old grunt like yourself made it this far." I gave an awkward startled laugh and nodded. but one question burned in my mind. "my grandson?" I asked hesitantly. His face fell and he peeked past me at my wife. "I think its best if we get back to the apc first." He quietly said, turning around and waving for me to follow.


I'm posting this here so my friends can read it. AUGUST 13th, 2013 Signing off from the training service, he rotated in his chair and stepped out of the secluded office. “Finally done”, he thought to himself begrudgingly. Mathew Hedbottom made his way back into the front of house and found the General Manager cleaning up after a long day of work. “I finished all of my online training and just clocked out, I’ll see you on Tuesday for my first delivery shift!” Hedbottom exclaimed. His GM’s eyes shifted back and forth, scanning the store for any patrons who had not finished their pizza yet. “Why don’t ya follow me to the basement, I have another shirt for you, it never hurts to have an extra you know!” Matt did not see anything weird about this, his Manager was right, it never hurts to have an extra shirt lying around. Descending into the basement, the air that had smelled dank just one day prior had a strong scent of oregano. This struck Hedbottom as odd, but since it is a Pizza Hut there was bound to be some extra lying about. As the pair finished their walk in the bottom of the restaurant, the sight they were beholden to was something out of a satanic ritual. 5 other employees were standing around a runic symbol on the ground, with a grotesque looking pizza in the center. Matt heard the door slam shut and lock behind him, and the GM walked and joined the others. “Come here, Mathew.” he beckoned. Quivering with fear and reluctance, he joined the circle. The GM forcibly grabbed Matt’s hand, and brandished a pizza slicer seemingly out of nowhere. “Pizza the Hut.” he muttered as he carved a PH into his arm. Feeling a surge of malevolent energy begin to surge through him, Mathew Hedbottom collapsed into a heap and lost consciousness. JANUARY 6th, 2021 2020 had been a bad year for all. Between the pandemic and economies imminent collapse, people were suffering emotionally and physically. But no one suffered, as much as Pizza Hut. Pizza Hut had been implicated in a sex trafficing ring that targeted Virgin’s, and were being forced to close the majority of their restaurants. Pizza Hut had also been implicated in some weird sort of cult, that all of the shareholders claimed to have no idea of. This strange cult is reported to have been practicing some sort of human sacrifice and other strange rituals. The police were outside and slowly surrounding the building. What started with one officer and a property owner trying to force the employees out of the building, turned into a bloodbath. One employee lay dead in the doorway, and the initial officer and proprietor of the building lay dead 10 yards from the entryway. Hedbottom descended into the basement behind his coworkers. He had no idea what was about to happen, but he knew the situation was grave. He joined his employees in a circle and stood before a nightmarish pizza, and a young girl. “Hand her the pizza slicer, Mathew.” his General Manager ordered. Matt did as he was told, and the girl took the slicer into her hands sobbing. All 7 employees held their hands out. “Run the blade across our hands, and draw our blood.” the GM said softly to the girl. Whimpering, she did as she was directed. The blood flowing out of their wounds was thick, and as she connected to the last hand it became pizza sauce. “Goodbye, everyone.” the GM said solemnly as his lifeforce was drained. A rift opened where all of them stood, and an amalgamation of human flesh, sauce, and dough formed and began growing. From outside all the Police could see was the building collapsing from the inside out. “What in the fuck is that.” An officer stated. An absolutely abhorrent sight was seen by these brave men and women, this ungodly creature that had been summoned by the sacrifice of these individuals was an oozing colossus of processed meat and dough. As it took its first step, the officer standing at the front dropped his gun and wept, as he was about to be consumed by Pizza, The Hut.


My dorm wasn't as small as I thought it would be. 540 square feet. There was a small private bathroom included in the space. It was now filled with boxes. The only furniture was a full sized bed, a cafe table with three wire chairs, two bookshelves and a television stand. "Its actually too bad that your first day of class is tomorrow. It doesn't give you much time to get settled." Mum sighed, looking around. I nodded. "I had thought about petitioning the dean to give me permission to come early, but I was already worried about standing out. I didn't need to make it worse." I replied, dropping into one of the wire cafe chairs. She shrugged. Before she could say anything, there was a knock on the open door. We both turned and saw a pretty young female satyr standing in the door way. She was about the same height I was with a long caramel side braid, deep brown skin and bright jade green eyes. The fur on her legs was the same as her braid. "H-hello, My name is Margaret. I-I'm your neighbor. I've just moved in next door this morning, so I'm pretty new too." She announced nervously, shuffling on black hooves. She twisted the hem of her bright orange tunic. I waved from my seat "Its a pleasure. My name is Kiska Thatcher and this is my Mum, Deliverance. You don't have to be nervous, we won't bite." I added jokingly. Mum gave me a dirty look before turning back to Margaret. "Are you the only one here, Margaret?" She asked gently. Margaret nodded slowly. "My papa was supposed to come help me move in but he was called into work. He works for the Department of Natural Resources as a park ranger." She explained. Mum went over and pulled Margaret into the room. "I know that both rooms are probably a mess but I was thinking about getting a pizza or something for lunch, then we could start unpacking. Margaret, if you'd like we could help you unpack too. Would you like some pizza?" She asked as she sat the young satyr in one of the chairs next to me. Margaret nearly burst into tears. "Y-yes please." She mumbled, her chin trembling. "It's settled. I'll go get the pizza and you guys can start unpacking. why don't you start in Margaret's room." Mum advised as she strode from the room. I nodded and stood up, grabbing Margaret's hand. "Lets go, it'll take less time if there's the two of us working on it." I dragged the protesting satyr into the hall. She reluctantly showed me which side was hers and we opened the door to find very little in the way of her stuff. Her face suddenly disappeared behind her hands and she shuffled quickly on her hooves, giving the impression that she was doing a very awkward dance. "Margaret, you're gonna scuff holes in the floor if you keep that up." I entered the room and surveyed the small pile of bags, blankets, pillows and beanbag chairs. Everything that she owned, it seemed, was hand made with natural fiber fabric. I picked up one of the thick blankets and marveled at the softness of it. "Did you make all of your stuff?" I asked, turning to her. Still covering her face, she nodded. ***I couldn't tell why she was so embarrassed. The stuff that she owned, despite being small in quantity, was beautiful. The colors were so vibrant and vivid. The fabric was so soft yet so strong. I couldn't imagine making anything of the same caliber.*** "Margaret, I can understand being in a new environment, but you don't need to be shy with me. I'm not going to judge you or anything. Promise." I coaxed, putting the blanket aside. Slowly she uncovered her face. "I'm sorry, the humans in my neighborhood at home weren't always the kindest." She confessed quietly. I gave her a quizzical look but didn't pry. "Well, I'm not like them. Promise." I assured her, turning my curiosity into a beaming smile. Her demeanor seemed to open up a little as she smiled shyly back. "S-Shall we get started?" She offered, picking up one of the bags on the top of her pile.