I’ve never felt a coldness more piercing than the wind at the remote research site in Antarctica. Five days by myself conducting my first solo research expedition. It was my chance to prove that I have what it takes to endure the cold and gather samples of existing, or possibly new, organisms from a frozen lake nearly four-thousand meters under the ice. In fact, there were several worksites currently active alongside me, all with new researchers eager to produce some sort of rare find and be given a permanent position. We were positioned a few miles from one another, extracting samples from the same underground frozen lake. I had 2 days to collect samples, as we expected a white-out blizzard on the third, of which I would then hunker down and analyze my findings thus far. After that, a couple more days of sample gathering and then we’d be evacuated. Excited, doesn’t quite embrace the absolute joy I had for this opportunity. My first day went by smooth enough. I maintained the worksite, only losing a couple tarps when the winds picked up, and I inspected the excavation hole that was drilled by the research center when they deployed me. The hole was drilled by a mechanical boring drill, plunging deep into the glacier crust. Hot water and steel broke past the frozen layers and took quite some time. The greasy contraption that did the hard work lied a few meters away from my worksite. It wreaked a powerful gag inducing stench. The hole in the ground was large enough to fit my whole arm down, luckily there’s no need for that as they provided me with a pulley and sample collector to lower down. All that remained of my worksite was some wire fence to keep the wildlife out, a tent that’s seen its fair share of expeditions, and me. A shivering, kind of know what I’m doing, fake it ‘till I make it; me. The first day was a success. Not successful as in I retrieved any usable samples or anything. I *did* stare far too long at an elephant seal, who was snooping outside the northern perimeter, but I mean a success as in I’m still alive and didn’t lose anymore tarp *and* I had a better idea of how to use the equipment, at least. Once I covered the pulley system, extraction site, and remaining gear I ducked into my tent for the night and began preparing dinner. The first night I had imitation potatoes and, in quotes, “salisbury steak consumable dinner tray”. In fact, every night I was blessed with that meal. If not just the potatoes after the first night. That night I was woken by howling winds. The entire tent was shaking, and the sounds of loose rope were flogging the sides. There wasn’t supposed to be a storm until two nights from now. It was hard to sleep to say the least. The sound conjured all sorts of nightmares from my restless mind. The thoughts of unimaginable things lurking outside my tent. I imagined that elephant seal coming through the wire fence and greeting me through the opening of my tent. Seals are fine and all, until one just, flops into your room. I held my sleeping bag tight and closed my eyes. The next morning, I inspected the perimeter and fastened any loose tarps and rope. It wasn’t until I looked at the worksite that I noticed the tracks in the snow. They had been lightly covered after the wind and were very faint. They were probably mine from yesterday. I shook any doubts- I had work to do and samples to catch up on. I can’t be empty handed when they return to retrieve me and the supplies. I yanked the covering off the hole and pulley system and was immediately taken aback from the smell. The smell that I noticed on the drill had come from the hole. A stench, like decaying flesh. A sweet smell followed by bitter iron and rot. I pulled me scarf tighter around my nose and began to work. I pulled out a few ounces of dirt, water, and small fragments of rock. The pulley’s small engine block struggled a few times, so I was sure to let it warm up once I started it and let it cool after each use. Light flakes swam around the water sample like a snow globe. The dirt was clumpy and black, and the rocks were small and fragmented. Sharp and dense, though few rocks were the size of marbles and granulated on touch. I kept the remainder of the samples contamination free and set them aside for tomorrow, when I would look at each sample under a microscope and record my findings. My hopes were low, and so were my test samples. I needed more. I dropped the pulley a few more times that day but was only able to pull up more water and ice, all the same. My second night of sleep, or lack thereof, will always resonate with me. I was awoken yet again by violent winds. The sides of my tent flailed wildly, and the sounds outside mimicked that of rubbing metal and screeching animals. The sound was unbearable even after hiding under my pillow. I heard a crackling, low pitched splintering growl from the direction of the worksite. I sprung out of bed assuming the worst, that my worksite had been destroyed or something fell onto what samples I did have. But I when I flung open the tent entrance, nothing. Literally nothing. No storm, no wind, only the stars in the sky and a single light from behind the tarp covering the worksite. The silence of the arctic wrapped itself around me. And the horrific stench pierced the freezing air. I secured the flap to my tent and laid back in bed. I grabbed a book to read but only held it closely as I stared at the entrance of the tent, inevitably fell asleep. When I awoke the next day the air was still, and snow fell silently. The storm should have arrived, and perhaps it did, but the high winds were absent. I made my way to the worksite, bumping into the drill now covered in snow. Peeling back the tarp to worksite I started the engine block to the pulley and let it warm up. I wrapped another scarf around my head attempting to block the stench from reaching my frozen nostrils. I should’ve been in my tent looking over what samples I did have, but I needed more. I dropped a clamp and swab down the hole into the ice. It takes roughly 15 minutes for it safely reach the bottom. I paced around for a while trying to keep warm and I noticed the area around the hole. The ice had cracked in three different spots. Little fractures were visible, crackling off the cylindric hole two inches in width. I averted my attention to the pulley which was still dropping. It had been twenty-two minutes. I stared at the remaining line on the spool and there seemed to be plenty to spare, but how far down could this possibly go? I decided to let it run. I thought this was the break I had been waiting for. Maybe I would pull up a new microorganism, a fossil from some long-forgotten ocean dwelling species or- *new* species. When the line ran out, I pulled the joint to snap the collection tray on the other end shut and pushed a button, opening the swab. After a few moments I switched the motor in reverse and began pulling the samples back up, refilling the empty spool with line once again. I began prepping what samples I had collected for transfer back to my tent when the line from the pulley snapped tightly, halting completely. The motor made a god-awful screeching noise as white smoke erupted from the top, then suddenly began pulling normally again. The line must’ve gotten caught on something. I checked the temperature of the motor and placed some snow on top of the block to cool it down. The weather outside had been slowly picking up after my couple hours in the extraction site, and it was zero visibility outside. I placed my hand into the snow outside the opening of the tarp and felt around for the safety line attached to my tent, so I could find my way back. I yanked it above the snow, and it hung fastened in my hand, the other end disappeared into the wind and snow. I turned my head back to the pulley as the motor shut off. The sample had been retrieved and dangled above the open hole. I placed the swab into a sealant and opened the collection tray. From it fell, what seemed like, black straw. Thick strands of black, still wet from water, but bristly and stick-like. I felt like I had something worth investigating and began to get excited; imagining myself being appraised for discovering a new species of seaweed. But Christ, the smell must be from whatever this is. I closed the extraction site and made my way to the tent. Holding the safety line I walked what seemed like hours in the blinding snowstorm. Sure that I grabbed the wrong rope, the tent finally unveiled itself through the white haze. Once I made myself comfortable, I began setting up for sample inspection. I was so excited I nearly dropped it on the ground. I opened the sample container and instantly filled the tent with the smell of decay. If this wasn’t a plant, it might be from a carcass on the ocean floor. The winds from outside began to grow violent again. I placed the sample on the microscope tray, then turned to warm water for a cup of tea. I could hear the noises from outside like the night before. Howling and screeching noises from all around but my excitement for this new find distracted me plenty from worrying about the wind. I peeked into the microscope and saw- movement. Lots of movement. And not one shape of cell, but many. I grasped for air suddenly when the entirety of my tent was lit up from outside and the sides began to unravel slightly. The wind became so violent that I hadn’t even noticed the sound of a helicopter. A member of the response team burst through the opening of the tent and was startled I was even in here. “Hey, are you okay” “Y-yeah, I’m fine but, extraction isn’t for another 2 days what are you-“ “Were leaving. Now! In the chopper-“ He pointed out of the tent with his assault rifle and shouted again. “Now!” I grabbed the remaining sample from off the collection tray and slipped into my snow suit. We ran out of the tent and into bursting spotlights. I was helped into the helicopter and we began lifting off the ground before I could even put on a seat belt. As we lifted, the chopper blew snow off the worksite, and the tarp for the worksite as well. The cracks I seen earlier had grew so big that the machine used to drill the hole had slightly fallen in. I was informed that something had gone wrong. I was the only person alive from the five teams dispatched. One site had broken completely open, swallowing the worksite and scientist entirely. Another had sent a distress signal and when the response team arrived, they couldn’t find her. Instead what they found was a ten-foot trail of blood leading into the excavation hole, the entire inside coated with frozen blood as if she was dragged down. The response team quickly noticed the smell from the sample I had grabbed. It was confiscated immediately and I was told I’d be given credit for the find but would not be informed about any further research on the sample. When asked if I wanted to do another expedition, I declined. I took a cozy desk job instead. And though it’s been years since the incident, I still have dreams about the violent winds and I’m woken to the smell of decay.  Written By C.T.


It was the winter of 2000; I was in my hometown of Anchorage. On this evening, I was relaxing on the couch. Planning on watching another re-run of Seinfeld before turning in for the night. It is worth mentioning that my girlfriend, at the time, happened to be an Alaskan native. She had recently put the kids to bed and was taking a shower. My girlfriend's sister was visiting our home. She was staying in the downstairs spare bedroom. She was in town due to having some medical checkups scheduled for the following week at ANMC. We lived in a subdivision off Arctic Blvd that bordered Chester creek. This area called Midtown; it's not too far from downtown Anchorage. I suppose the time was around 10 or 11 PM; the moon was full that January night. I remember looking out the front room window. Seeing the rooftops of the neighboring houses sharply silhouetted in the glow. My dog lazily snoozed on the floor next to the couch. Eventually, my eyes also started to get heavy. This was due to the background noise of the television. Mixing with the quiet white noise of the shower had a calming effect. The baseboard heater quietly clicked and popped. Wrapping me in relaxing warmth; I soon dozed off. Suddenly I was awoken by a sharp, jolting burst of sound. My eyes immediately snapped open in shock. This tone ripped thru the tranquility of the peaceful night with gravelly croaking. There was no mistaking that sound, especially during the winter months in Alaska. This was the sound of the Raven. I remember thinking, why the hell is a raven making a racket at this time of the night!? I barely had time to finish that thought. When I heard the bedroom door fly open and then the sound of hurrying footsteps. I look up in time to see my girlfriend. Quickly putting on her robe as she runs to each kid's bedroom, anxiously checking on them. I sat up on the couch, still dazed from my interrupted sleep. Trying to get my head around what exactly I was seeing and hearing and why all the commotion. I glanced over to the TV and saw static across the screen; the time on the DVD player displayed 3:00 AM in green light. The dog was up and alert; the hackles stood tall down its back. Suddenly, the sister quickly comes up the stairs. She had a genuine look of wide-eyed concern and alarm deeply etched on her face. Once my girlfriend made sure the kids were safe and asleep, she worriedly looked out each window. For what I had no idea until she stopped dead in her tracks at the window in front of me. What's wrong??... What's wrong?? The sister kept fearfully whispering to herself. Slowly wringing her nightshirt in her hands. Timidly shuffling across the floor towards the living room window next to her sister. I couldn't understand why both the sisters and the dog were having such an intense reaction. The scene was surreal; I found myself in a confused daze as I stood up and approached the window myself. There was the culprit perched on the handrail of our deck. I have always known Ravens to be large birds; yet, this bird seemed utterly massive this close. The bird was so black that its feathers took on a deep purplish hue in the moonlight glow. Its large round inky black eyes assessed each of us individually. It intelligently, eyeing us up and down as it sharply cut its head from side to side. It yet seemed to take a greater interest in the sisters. This bird carried an intense, still, and heavy presence. It showed absolutely no fear of the humans that stood before it. It methodically stretched out its neck and opened its beak wide. A few seconds of silence passed until it made a sound I had never heard from a Raven before or after this bizarre night. The mournful cry it made reminded me of the wail of a small infant. The raven slowly weaved its head in a low figure-eight pattern as it made this continuous cry. The moment that sound filled the night air, a cold chill prickled down my neck and across my back. I was filled with a sense of loneliness I had never felt before. I quickly glanced over at the sisters. They were tightly clinging to each other. Knuckles white, with teary eyes keenly locked on the bird's bizarre display. I immediately thought that I was witnessing something I was not meant to see. I was very much an interloper in a personal exchange. Once the bird finished this almost ritual-like behavior. It quietly eyed both the women for a few more moments before leaping off into the night. An item lay where the bird once perched on the railing. Curiosity getting the best of me. Mixed with the desperate need to escape the strange and awkward atmosphere that overcame the room. I heaved open the half-frozen sliding door to enter the deck to retrieve the item. The weather outside being bitterly cold. I instantly regretted my decision as my body went into an immediate shiver. The skin on my face was tightening while my ears and nose burned painfully. The snow squeaked loudly beneath my bare feet as I gingerly approached the item. The mystery gift left behind soon became clear. A small bundle of needles from a spruce tree lay on the barren rail. Clearly, the women were both shaken to their core that night. A quiet melancholy soon followed and lingered heavily on the sisters. Continuing thru the following days after the bird's departure. The reason why was unknown to each of us. Yet, I had a strong gut feeling that it was not my place to talk about what we each saw. A few days passed. Once I got off work, the three of us decided to take the dog for a walk on a community trail not far behind our subdivision. Heavy cloud cover filled the sky over Anchorage that evening. Large snowflakes slowly fell. The walk was mainly dark. Except for the occasional light pole that sparsely dotted the trail. Washing the path in a fluorescent glow. The sounds of 6 PM city traffic droned in the background. We talked among ourselves when we heard a man's low weak cry for help in the darkness ahead. We immediately stopped and listed. The dog's ears snapped forward, head pointing slightly off the trail. A long whimper-like growl emitted from the animal's core, followed by a concerned huff. Once more, we hear a weak, agonized voice call out, pleading for God’s intervention. The cry drifted thru the snow-laden spruce trees that lined the trail. I glance down and notice a footpath in the snow leading thru the woodland in the directions of the cries. I hand the dog’s leash to the sisters and tell them to stay put. Both women sharply plead for me not to go as I continue into the murk to investigate. As I weave my way thru the tiny trail, my feet bust thru the upper crust of snow, and I sink to thigh depth. I continue to slog my way forward; before long, I come to a clearing in the trail. In the darkness, I can make out the silhouette of a lone tent. I call out as I approach the tent, only to be met with silence. When I am closer, I notice a battered tarp draped over the tent shell haphazardly. An inch of snow lay on the tarp, and the cheap tent bows under the weight. The unzipped tent entrance gave the appearance of a gaping black mouth in the gloom. I strain to look inside and call out a sharp hello?! Not a sound or any movement came from the tent. My concentration was suddenly broken. Irritated and worried calls from the sisters rang out demanding for me comeback. Before making my way back to the main trail, I investigated the campsite. Piles of trash littered the area in dark mounds. I made out some of what appeared to be scattered empty food containers. White trash bags ripped open full of miscellaneous used clothing. Broken children's toys lay beside empty beer and alcohol containers. Piles of empty aerosols labeled canned air peaked thru the snow. Frozen clothing remained hanging from the hacked-up trees that surrounded the site. A deep low sobbing drifted from behind me down the trail from where I came. The women again loudly shouted for my return with urgency. I quickly as possible made my way back to the sisters. They both pointed to the direction from where the cry came from. The focus was down the wide main trail that eventually opened into an empty city park named the valley of the moon. We called out as we cautiously searched the entire park. The only response was the muffled noise of a city in the winter. We made our way to a metal-roofed pavilion. Underneath the structure sat a few graffitied weather-beaten wooden picnic tables. This area was the only spot in the park not covered in snow. We decided at this point that it would be best to call APD and inform them of everything. We did precisely that, APD arrived, performed a search, and found nothing. Being late, we now started for home. We were making our way thru the playground. Passing a tall rocket-shaped jungle gym, when the sister gave a sharp, loud gasp. We glanced over to see she was looking upwards. The city lights reflected a deep red hue on the heavy snow-laden clouds. Revealing a large black silhouette of a raven who sat silently perched. We all felt the familiar heaviness of its gaze. My stomach tightened as we continued forward. Lowering our faces from the pelting snow while picking up our pace in our walk home, Two days later, the morning came for the sister to leave. We were getting ready to drop her off at the airport when my home phone rang. My girlfriend answers the phone. I was loading the sister's bags into the truck when I heard loud shouting and screams coming from the house. I soon found both women crying hysterically for their nephew. Alfred was a quiet boy who grew into an even quieter young man. He was raised in a village in southeast Alaska by his grandparents and aunties. Alfred became heavily addicted to alcohol. So much so his family sent him to Anchorage in hopes of treatment. Unfortunately, the treatment never took hold after many attempts. Eventually, he found himself homeless on the streets of Anchorage. He was ashamed of his situation and refused to return home, ignoring his family's pleas to return. He steadily continued to sink deeper into his addiction. Alfred became a living ghost in the urban landscape. He survived living hand to mouth by panhandling and stealing. Being afraid to sleep at the local homeless shelters at night. Alfred preferred to sleep where he could. One cold night he closed his eyes and never opened them again. The Spenard community patrol found his frozen body early the following day. The police report stated Alfreds' body was found in a fetal position. The man was lying on top of a picnic table underneath the pavilion at the valley of the moon park. When found, it was also mentioned that his body was covered in spruce boughs in a desperate attempt to stay warm. The night Alfred died was the very night we received our visit and gift from the mysterious Raven. Unbeknown to us, three days after Alfred’s death, we heard the sad cries for help in the park. The same park where he died. I had often wondered, looking back. If the Raven kept silent watch over him that bitterly cold night when he passed away. Maybe Alfred was able to catch a glimpse of its dark silhouette in the yellow moonlight, high on up its perch. Perhaps he also felt the heavy gaze upon him during his final moments. We will never know. I like to tell myself the bird was there, and Alfred found comfort in the gaze, knowing he was not alone. He would have a companion during his final walk thru the dark wilderness, to his eternal journey home… The sisters and their family never once referred to this mysterious bird as Raven. They called it by its original ancient name. The name given to it by their people in myths and legends centuries ago. The sacred name of Y'eil.


Tobias and Ines, twin siblings, discovered their parents, the King and Queen, had been murdered while they slept. The coronation was to take place the next day, and Ines, who was 15 minutes older, was to become Queen. Tobias thought this was unfair and threatened to make Ines' life a living hell if she didn't make a deal. She did, and they would become separate but equal King and Queen. They would each have a say in decisions, but if they disagreed, they would defer to the military's top commander, Zanzibar, who Ines knew was in love with her. Tobias had been duped, and the coronation was held with a tie-breaker that would never go in his favor. Despite their efforts to ensure equality in appearance, wealth, and decision-making, the residents of their Kingdom preferred Ines and recognized her as the true Queen of the Kingdom. The military also gave Ines greater respect than Tobias, believing that Ines made better decisions than her brother. Finally, Tobias became bitter and earned a reputation as useless, lazy, and just symbolic figurehead. Tobias was consumed by jealousy. He stole half of the Kingdom's wealth and departed one day after being overruled for the hundredth time. Tobias spent ten years traveling the world in search of the most powerful mystics, psychics, and alchemists. If he ever came home, he would do so as the most powerful person in history. Tobias eventually found a witch who wielded the darkest magic. He had nearly spent the entire Kingdom's wealth in order to find this witch. Since he was out of money, he offered his soul to the witch in return for immortality, uncountable wealth, and supreme power. "How will I collect your soul if you are immortal?" The witch asked. Tobias sensed he was getting close, and as he gazed around the witch's cave, he noticed a ladybug climbing up a rock. "Fine, the only element on Earth capable of killing me will be a ladybug." The witch thought about it for a minute before agreeing. "Alright, when you are killed because of a ladybug, I will collect your soul." She cast a spell, and Tobias became all-powerful. He returned directly from the witch's cave to his home Kingdom, marched right into the Palace, and killed Queen Ines with lightning from his hands in a demonstration of supreme might. The Kingdom cowered in fear and lamented the loss of their beloved Queen. Tobias ascended to the throne as the lone and invincible King. He had finally seized control of the Kingdom's money, military, and citizens. Tobias' first act as King was to assign Zanzibar and some of his higher-ranking military operatives the mission of gathering and destroying all ladybugs throughout the Kingdom and beyond. Tobias took up residence within the Palace while his orders were being carried out, refusing to leave or even address his subjects. It took years, but Zanzibar and the Kingdom's troops were eventually able to destroy every ladybug in the Kingdom and beyond. When Zanzibar returned to the Palace to inform the King that they had completed their job successfully, Tobias killed them as well because they were aware of his weakness. However, the King was unaware that Zanzibar carried a grudge against him because he had murdered the love of his life. He wasn't sure why the King was scared of ladybugs, so he trapped one remaining in a metal sphere and buried it beneath the Palace. Before his untimely death, the only person he told about the sealed ladybug was his daughter, whom he told in a bedtime story. The plot revolved around an all-powerful King who was terrified of ladybugs. And how the King murdered all of the ladybugs except one, which an enemy placed under his throne. His daughter, on the other hand, saw it as nothing more than a ridiculous story and never believed it to be true. King Tobias emerged from the Palace, knowing that all of his weaknesses had been eliminated, and ruled his Kingdom with an iron fist. The King was not content with simply dominating over his subjects; he also invaded other Kingdoms, establishing an Empire of terror that stretched beyond the horizon. The King was the most despised man in the Empire, yet he was immortal, all-powerful, and had amassed a tremendous military force to enforce his reign. Despite multiple assassination attempts, his adversaries quickly discovered that no one could kill him. After years of fighting an uphill battle against an insurmountable opponent, a covert resistance had developed, but their numbers began to wane. Zanzibar's daughter would carry on the legacy of the buried ladybug by telling her children, who would then tell their children, and so on for decades. The amusing story of the buried ladybug became widely known. People liked to relate the story of King Tobias, who was scared of ladybugs, because he was so despised in the Kingdom. It was the only way the common man could get even with the merciless King. Years and years later, the resistance had devolved into a grave situation. Only a few resistance fighters remained as King Tobias closed in. Even though they knew it was merely an old wives' story, they wondered if the ladybug sealed beneath the King's throne represented a hidden weakness or a unique allergy. While the King was out tormenting the people of another kingdom, they began to dig beneath the throne using basically their last remaining resources. They dug and dug till they came across a metal sphere. Four of the remaining five resistance fighters were killed getting this metal sphere out of the Palace. The last resistance fighter tried for months to crack open the metal sphere until it finally cracked open like an egg. Inside was a tiny shriveled-up ladybug. He looked back in awe; the story was true. But what would he do with a dead ladybug? In a last-ditch attempt to oust the terrible King, the resistance fighter broke into the Palace and planned to place the ladybug inside the King's food. The resistance fighter, on the other hand, was apprehended and imprisoned with the ladybug in his pocket. Because this was the last resistance fighter in his kingdom, the King personally went down to murder him. As the King entered the cell, the resistance fighter backed up against a wall. "Do you know how long I've been waiting to finally eliminate the resistance?" The King gently raised his hands to shoot lightning from his palms at the fighter. The desperate resistance fighter grabbed the ladybug from his pocket and flung it on the ground in front of the King. As the wind blew, the ladybug looked to move on its own. The King was taken aback! He became terrified and began to back away from the ladybug, as if a ghost had materialized out of thin air. As he began to go backward, the King stumbled over a raised stone and fell against the wall, breaking his neck. Despite the fact that the ladybug was dead and did not touch him, the King died as a result of a ladybug. The King's weakness was ultimately realized. The witch had now taken possession of the King's soul. The King was confronted by all the victims he had killed, including Ines, Zanzibar, several resistance fighters, and his parents, whom he had murdered in the middle of the night in order to seize power. "When you rule with an iron fist, the smallest things are the most difficult to control.


DSCT-4639X **TIME:** 14:49 PST **DATE:** 12/04/2089 **LOCATION:** \[REDACTED\] INTERVIEWER: The time and date is 2:49 pm, March 12, 2089. Hello, \[REDACTED\]. How are you today? \[REDACTED\]: Eh, same as any other day. Just surviving, you know? INTERVIEWER: Do you mind if we record this conversation? \[REDACTED\]: Doesn’t make a difference to me. Y’all would probably record it anyways even if I said no. Just don’t put my name in it, yeah? INTERVIEWER: Alright then. Let’s get started. Why don’t you tell me about the facility you worked in. \[REDACTED\]: What is there to say? We all know what it was. A research centre where the last smart people on earth could study the asteroid that wiped out Asia. Hell if I know why. In my opinion, they should have just left the damn place alone. INTERVIEWER: If you felt this way, then why did you choose to work there? \[REDACTED\]: Choose? Ha! You think I chose to work there? I guess \[REDACTED\] did a good job at covering up what they were doing there, huh? No, I didn’t choose to work at that godforsaken place. No one did, except for maybe the researchers. Everyone else was there because they had to be. INTERVIEWER: What do you mean by that? \[REDACTED\]: I mean that we were all prisoners. The research facility was just another work assignment. The conditions weren’t great, either. When we weren’t working, we were locked in the housing sector or held in cryo. Depends on how well behaved you were. If you were good, you got to sleep in stasis until your next work detail. If you were bad, you spent that time waiting. I wasn’t that great. Spent a lot of time out of cryo. INTERVIEWER: What about the facility itself? Can you describe it? \[REDACTED\]: Sure, though I’ll tell you, I didn’t see very much. Only the housing and mining sectors. That’s the only places we were allowed to go. The researchers were kept in their own private wing. So. The facility. Well, the housing areas weren’t all that bad. You slept in a room with 5 other people. There was a space to sleep, work out, and eat. The living conditions weren’t terrible either. The walls were made of plastacrete, like everything else in the place, and it was warm enough. The cleanliness of the rooms depended on those living in it. If you wanted a clean room, then you had better convince your roommates of that too, cause there sure as hell wasn’t anyone cleaning up for you. Now the mining tunnels? Those were a different story. They were mainly tunnels back through the rock, with metal beams overhead for support. It was hella scary in there, cause there were no lights and you had to use your own flashlights to see. There were different branches of tunnels everywhere that just lead into darkness. It was better for us, though – me and my squad, I mean – cause at least we were allowed to talk. The miners were restricted to silence, probably to stop them from talking up an escape plan. Man, I felt bad for those guys. Nothing we could do for them though. Poor bastards. INTERVIEWER: How would you describe the relationship between the security teams and the prisoners? \[REDACTED\]: During work details? Pretty much nonexistent. We were really only there to prevent them from trying to revolt. But when we were off duty, everyone mingled together. I mean, none of us wanted to be there. We were all in the same boat. INTERVIEWER: I see. Why don’t we go over the events leading up to the shutdown of the facility? \[REDACTED\]: Goddammit. I knew you were going to ask that eventually. Well, no use delaying it now. *Subject is shaking his head.* We were out on a regular work detail. There were ten of us, four guards and six workers. As usual, they didn’t tell us much about what we were going into. We had heard rumors, though, rumors of something new. Apparently, something had gone wrong with the mining crew before ours. They - they hadn’t made it back out. This was nothing new though, as rumors were commonly circulated among the guards and prisoners. Most of them were usually made up to scare people, so I didn’t pay much attention to them. I guess you can see how well that turned out for me. The expedition started out fairly normally. We entered our descent pods, and we started going down into the asteroid. I did notice, however, that we were descending much lower than usual. Normally we head down to about 600ish meters below the surface, but this time we went quite a bit lower. I think it was about 950 meters, almost a kilometer. I didn’t even know that we could go that deep. When we got to our platform, the doors opened to complete darkness, which was quite unusual. There’s normally some kind of staging area before the tunnel entrances, but I guess the previous group hadn’t – or couldn’t set that up yet. Our briefing cards said we were to head to tunnel L-32, but there were only a handful of tunnels, probably because we were one of the first ones at that level. Some of the older, shallower levels have tunnels all the way around the descent shaft. This one only had three or four, right in front of us. We found the right entrance marker, and headed in. One of the guys in my squad, Rob, had the idea to drop chem lights behind us, just in case. We were in a yet unmapped network, so if the tunnel branched, we’d know which way to go. We were making pretty slow progress, mainly because the tunnel was pretty narrow in some sections, as it hadn’t been widened and refined by hundreds of mining crews, like some of the shallower routes. It took us almost an hour until we reached the first obstacle. There was a pile of rocks blocking off the passage, a cave in probably caused by the asteroid shifting and settling in the earth. Not a problem, we had blasting equipment with us anyways, so it didn’t take long to clear out the route ahead of us. When it was clear, we continued on through the tunnel, until we reached something . . . strange. At first glance, it appeared to be the end of the tunnel where the last group had gotten to before returning, but upon closer inspection we noticed a small hole in the bottom left of the wall, large enough for a man to crawl through on his belly. This was peculiar because mining crews were only sent out with blasting equipment, pickaxes, and an automated jackhammer, none of which would be able to create the vent-sized tunnel we saw. Rob, being the daredevil he was, volunteered to head in to check out where it went. We tied a rope around his leg so we could pull him out if he got stuck, and Rob got on his belly and crawled down the passageway. As we waited for Rob to report back, I looked around at the tunnel around us, and that’s when I saw it. Jammed in a little indent in the rock, out of the way of our lights, was what looked suspiciously like a human foot. Or what was left of it. It was cut off right below the ankle, covered in blood, and with three toes missing. I could even see what appeared to be a scrap of leather on it – the tattered remains of a boot. At that moment, I knew something was horribly wrong. I pointed the foot out to the other guys, and they crowded around me trying to take a look. In their eagerness to get a better look at my discovery, no one was watching the rope, the rope that Rob was attached to. By the time we looked back, the rope was gone. We shouted down the tunnel, but there was no response. Suddenly, there was a shuffling sound coming from the hole. We shouted again, but still, no confirmation that whatever was making that noise was Rob. The sound got louder, getting closer, and we all stood in fear, awaiting whatever was going to emerge from the tunnel. The shuffling was creeping ever closer, closer, closer . . . and then it stopped. We all stood for a moment, waiting for it to start again, but it didn’t. I told the others to get behind me, then took out my penlight and crouched down at the level of the tunnel. Looking inside, I saw nothing at first. Then I clicked on the light. Lying there, not 4 feet away, was Rob. Or, at least, a gruesome approximation of Rob’s face. His skin was pulled to tight across his features, and his mouth was stretched in a too-wide grin. I leaped back with a shout of fear, stumbling back into the other guard behind me. The shuffling started again, but faster this time, and more frantic. The Rob-thing’s face emerged from the tunnel, followed by the rest of its body. It almost looked like Rob, almost, but I knew immediately that whatever that *thing* was, it was not the man I knew. It stood there, hunched over, staring at us with that horrible grin. We were all too scared to move, and we stared at it just as it stared at us, stuck in a stalemate. It all fell apart when one of the workers lost his nerve and tried to run. Just like that, the stalemate was broken, and the thing that was once Rob rushed forwards. I’m telling you, I’ve never seen anything like it. Before I could even react, the thing had pounced on the man next to me. It bit down on his throat, and I heard his agonized scream reach a ringing peak, then gurgle to a stop. Luckily for all of us, one of the miners had more presence of mind than any of us, and he slammed the spike of a pickaxe into the side of the thing’s skull. I – I can’t get the image of what was once my friend lying on the floor. *Subject is cradling his head in his hands.* INTERVIEWER: If you killed it, then why did the facility need to be shut down? \[REDACTED\]: Killed it? Oh no, we didn’t kill it at all. Not even close. Whatever’s down there, it wears the bodies of its victims. We watched this black sludge flow from Rob’s body to the poor guy who got his throat ripped out. I swear to you, that man was dead. I swear it on my life. But he moved! I saw it with my own eyes. And I know they saw it too. That’s why we all started running back down the tunnel towards the descent shaft. We managed to blow the tunnel behind us and cause a cave-in, but the falling rocks killed another three guys. We had to leave them behind, but I don’t regret it. Not one bit. If I stayed, I wouldn’t be talking to ya now, I can tell you that. I’m sure of it. They would have turned me too. Although maybe I should’ve stayed. Perhaps that would have bought the facility more time. Cause what followed us up the shaft, it - it wasn’t human. Not anymore.


The band began to play, the audience began to applaud, and the show announcer stepped to the podium and announced... "Ladies and gentlemen, he's caught more people lying than a scale at weight watchers, he's known as the human lie detector because dogs don't have any money, the host of Late Night Truth, Clarke Wooooooodddddwardddddddd!" Clarke Woodward emerges from behind a curtain as the host of "Late Night Truth," a late-night talk show in which guests answer questions from Clarke, a human lie detector. Clark walks to the center of the stage and began his monologue. "Thank you, thank you, thank you. So, unemployment is at an all-time high; it's gotten so bad that Bob the Builder is now known simply as Bob." The audience erupts in laughter. "Homelessness is also on the rise; however, half of those homeless are only musicians "between bands." The audience erupts in laughter. "Let's talk about President Fitzpatrick; he's gaining a lot of sympathy for the mess he inherited; in fact, people now wave at him with all of their fingers." The audience laughs once again. "Ah, speaking of President Fitzpatrick, since this is the 100th episode, we wanted to do something extra for you. And we definitely will not be a boring show tonight. President Fitzpatrick has offered to participate in five questions from Woodward. If you ask me, he's a brave man, and I'll give him all the credit in the world for coming on, ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States, President Fitzpatrick!" The President of the United States entered the stage, accompanied by secret service agents, and took a seat next to Clarke's desk. "Welcome, Mr. President, and thank you for joining us on our 100th episode." "It's my pleasure; I wanted to show the American people that I have nothing to hide." "Well, we're going to find out." "Fire away." The President says, laughing. "Just so everyone is aware, the administration has vetted these questions to ensure complete transparency." "We don't want to reveal any State Secrets." The President says joking. "I suppose not." Clarke takes out a notecard and starts reading. "First and foremost, do aliens exist?" "As far as I know, the American government has no proof that aliens exist." "Have you seen the New York City subway system?" "Yes, but there's no proof that they're aliens. No one knows what's going on there." "Well, Mr. President, you are telling the… truth!" Clarke presses a button on his desk, causing a "truth" sign to illuminate behind them. The President nods and smiles as the audience applauds. "Question number two: who assassinated John F. Kennedy?" "Of course, it was a plot involving the Soviet Union, the CIA, and the mafia." "Are they also responsible for Jack Ruby's death?" "No, that was the Illuminati." "Sadly, Mr. President, you are... lying!" Clark presses another button on his desk, and a sign that says "lying" appears behind them. "All right, third question: why is unemployment so high?" "That is a good question; it's a combination of many reasons; we've just exited a period of high inflation, the global economy was reeling from the economic crisis last year, and businesses are being cautious with hiring until the fourth-quarter profit results come in. But we are doing a lot to improve things, such as providing rebates on certifications and education, cutting tax rates so that businesses can hire, and establishing trade agreements so that demand for US products can return to normal." "Mr. President, you are telling the... truth!" Clark presses the button that activates the "truth" sign once more. "The fourth question: there has been increased worry about the homelessness rate in the United States; why are the numbers increasing?" "This is a really serious issue; millions of Americans lack a place to live and are forced to live on the streets. Unemployment is a factor in all of this, but it extends beyond just having a job; it includes making a livable wage, single-parent households working two or more jobs, and strengthening our schools, particularly in low-income communities known as dropout factories. We are taking various steps to combat homelessness, including improving mechanisms to assist people battling addiction, reforming the school system to provide for post-graduation jobs, and ultimately, being honest with ourselves about the scope of the problem." "Mr. President, you sir are telling the... truth!" Clark presses the "truth" button on his desk once more. "OK, you're almost out of the hot seat; only one more question to go." As Clarke pulls out the next notecard, he pauses. "And now for the final question..." Clarke hesitated once more before continuing. "Who is Alexandra Guthrie?" Clarke asked in a confused manner. Clarke turned to face his producer, who shrugged. The President's handlers appear to be on the verge of storming the stage, and the President dismisses them. "Folks, I must admit that this was not the question we had planned to ask before the show. I'm not sure what's happening here; there appears to be an error." Clarke said. "This was bound to come out sooner or later. It's alright, I'll answer the question." A handful of stagehands held back the President's chief of staff as he tried to charge the stage as well. "You asked about Alexandra Guthrie, so tonight, live on the air; I will tell you the truth about her. Alexandra Guthrie was an investigative journalist who..." Just as the President was about to answer the question the power suddenly went out in the studio. Everyone was sitting in the dark. The Secret Service stormed the stage and whisked the President away to safety. "What exactly is going on here?" "What caused the power outage?" Clarke asked of his producer. "We need to talk backstage." Clarke addressed the audience before exiting the stage. "Sorry, guys; we'll get to the bottom of this, and then we'll resume the show shortly; we apologize for the inconvenience." Clarke dashed backstage to see his producer. "I guess the last question was switched out. This was huge; the President was going to broadcast breaking news live on the air, but then the power was cut." "Can you tell me where the President is now?" "He was taken to an undisclosed location by the Secret Service." "OK, keep me updated." Clarke dashed down the hallway in the dark in search of answers. He promptly took out his phone and searched for Alexandra Guthrie. She was a Washington Post investigative reporter who died of a heart attack two weeks before the election. As he got back to his dressing room, a Secret Service Agent was heard yelling from down the hall. "The president has been shot!" Clarke returned to the commotion when he was stopped by the President's chief of staff, who pulled him into his dressing room. "It doesn't look like the president will make it." "Does this have anything to do with Alexandra Guthrie? She had a story about the President, didn't she?" "That's none of your concern; the President was mistaken when he recognized her name live on air tonight." "You're lying. Was it a mistress, misappropriation of funds, or something worse?" "If I were you, I would let this go; television shows, even popular ones, get canceled all the time." "Oh, it's far worse than I thought. I can see it in your eyes: this is a story that would bring your entire political party to its knees." "Consider yourself canceled. This will be your last show." The chief of staff exited the dressing room and continued down the hallway, and Clarke followed him and shouted at him from ten feet away. "People have the name Alexandra Guthrie now; they're not going to let this go, I'm not going to let this go!" The chief of staff continued down the hallway without glancing back even once.


##“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.” -Ralph Waldo Emerson #Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join. Each week you are required to provide feedback for at least 2 other writers on the thread. Please be sure to read the entire post for a full list of rules.   *** #This week's theme is Identity! This week we’re going to explore the theme of identity. Identity is something we all struggle with at one point or another. Who are we? What is our purpose? How do others see us? Will they accept us for who we really are? This can be an important moment for your characters, whether discovering their true selves, their destiny, or learning how others view them. What affects our identity more: genes and nature or environment and experiences?How do events change when a character denies their identity or purpose? What happens when the things they try to hide about themselves comes out, when the mask comes off? What about when they let go off of their fears and take a leap? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. | |   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I release the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. You can even vote on the upcoming themes on the Nomination form! - March 27 - Identity (this week) - April 3 - Justice - April 10 - Kindling   *** **Previous Themes:** | | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Come back later in the week and leave a feedback comment on at least 2 other stories on the thread.   *** #The Rules: - **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme.** You can interpret the theme any way you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and sub rules. Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. - **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalog. If you don’t use the correct titling format, your serial will be automatically removed by the bot. (Please note: In order for the bot to recognize your serial, you **must** use the exact same name each week. Titles can not be edited in after the fact. Should you make a mistake or forget, you will need to repost.) - **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt or post is not allowed. - **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. Stories outside the wordcount will be disqualified, so don’t forget to check! **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.** - **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will be disqualified and not be eligible for rankings or Campfire readings. - **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. - **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread each week (that’s on two different stories).** The feedback must be **actionable** and should include at least one *detail* about what the author has done well. You have until Sunday at 1pm EST to post your feedback. Those who go above and beyond (more than 5 actionable, in-depth crits) will be rewarded with “Crit Credits” that can be used on our sister sub, r/WPCritique. ***So what is actionable feedback?*** Actionable feedback should be constructive, something that the author can use to improve. A critique not only outlines the issue or weakness, but uses specific examples and explanations to describe why it may be doing, or not doing, what it should. for tips on providing feedback. - **Missing your feedback requirement two or more consecutive weeks will disqualify you from rankings and Campfire readings the following week.** If it becomes a habit, you may be asked to move your serial to the sub instead. - **Serials must abide by subreddit content rules.** This includes, but is not limited to, explicit suicide or suicide-note stories, pedophilia, rape, bestiality, necrophilia, incest, explicit sex, and graphic depictions of abuse or torture. You can view a . If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask!   *** #Reminders: - **If you are continuing an in-progress serial (one that you began off of Serial Sunday), please include links to the prior installments on Reddit.** - **Saturdays I host a Serial Campfire in our .** Join us to read your story aloud and hear other stories. We provide feedback for all those present. We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join! - **Nominations for your favorite stories can be submitted .** The form is open Saturday at 7pm EST until Sunday at 1pm EST. You do not have to participate to make nominations! - **Authors who complete their Serial Sunday serials with at least 12 installments, can host a SerialWorm in our Discord’s Voice Lounge, where you read aloud your finished and edited serials.** This is to celebrate your wonderful accomplishment and provide some extra motivation to cross that finish line. Authors are eligible for this only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). Visit us on the Discord for more information. - **There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server**, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news, including posts and Campfires!   *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap), this does not count toward the required 2. **Nominating Other Stories:** - Submitting nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total) *Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above. Your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points. (“I liked it, great chapter” style comments will not earn you points or credit.)*   *** #Rankings ###A few notes on feedback Before we jump into this week’s rankings, I’d like to take a moment to talk about feedback. I love seeing the extensive feedback that so many of you exchange on the thread every single week. It’s warms my little crab heart. So starting this week, I will be awarding “Crit Creds” (to be used on r/WPCritique) to users who go *above and beyond* providing feedback for others. This applies specifically to several in-depth, actionable critiques on the thread (more than 5). **Wondering what makes an actionable crit? Check out these crits from last week:** - - - ###Last Week - - by u/Zetakh   - - by u/rainbow\-\-penguin   - - by u/nobodysgeese   - - by u/gdbessemer   *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Most of my installations have been polarizing to say the least, spurring critique that says I trivialize trauma while on the other hand garnering praise for pointing at the dark heart of America: “A Candle in the Wind” was an eternal flame placed underneath a flame-retardant portrait of Marilyn Monroe; “Notes from the Underground” were pages of writings from escaped slaves that light up to the tune of the Hollywood Undead album of the same name; and “Fast Five” were obituaries of car crash victims written using rubber from burst tires. I’ll let you make your own assumptions about each piece’s meaning. Despite the expected ramblings of negativity that usually appear after one of my showings, nothing could have prepared me for the universal praise I received after my latest work “The Manhattan Project.” Nothing in the world draws in a crowd like art. And nothing in the art world draws in a crowd like interactive art. People can sit and ogle a Rembrandt painting all day; people can stare at the thick brush strokes of a Rothko until they make their own meaning in the nothingness; people can walk around a Jeff Koons dog and add their voice to the thousands who have accused him of plagiarism. But to actually touch a piece of art? Now there’s an event. There’s another photo opportunity. In their very nature, people enjoy interacting with things. It makes them feel as if they are part of something they have no right to be a part of. “Step right up! Now you too can leave your handprints on the testicles of the Wall Street bull!” In actuality, no one would ever want to touch the testicles of a real bull, but to take photos with your head mere inches from the anus of a landmark while clutching the hardest sack you’ve ever felt? Well, not to be crass, but even children find that amusing. Friends, families, scholars, all walks of life can easily have a quick chuckle when posing with a brass member, and for some reason, there is barely any pompous criticism like you would hear in a museum. None of those freshmen artists who think they know more than everyone around them. None of those stuffy professors with their circular glasses giving their twenty minute speech about how they used to know the photographer. None of the jaded attendees (who at one time were those freshmen artists who just could’t break into the industry due to “unfairness”) saying “that’s art? My kid could do that.” Just a moment of… being. I do feel lucky to have progressed from one of those optimistic students. And yes, I am jaded, but I’m one of the jaded ones who’ve made it. The curators in the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) in Manhattan (trust me there is more to my installation’s title than just relating to the location) expected me to bring in a crowd based on my name alone, but these days, name recognition isn’t enough. Too much time could be spent playing a video game, watching a movie, scrolling through blog posts of your favorite author; but to actually get people to leave the comfort of their chairs is a harder task than ever. The time for planning was running out. When panicking about your future, you’ll do just about anything. When picking two out of the “cheap, fast, and good triangle”, quality is always the first to go. When pleading to a higher being for some inspiration, sometimes the devil answers. So in the age of Instagram and TikTok influencers, I decided to sell my soul. I made something interactive. The description in the gallery pamphlet is as follows: “Remy Lazarus’ “The Manhattan Project” is a new, interactive, singular experience from the divisive artist. You are now at the Trinity Site of New Mexico. Step into the year 1945 as you press the button that launched the first nuclear missile and changed the world forever. To mark this occasion, stand still for one minute as the camera exposes your complimentary photo while a mushroom cloud grows behind you.” In the opening day, hundreds came through to get their hands on the button that would put generations to come on edge. Children, adults, elders who were alive during that moment, all seemed to have a strange sort of glee on their face as they brought about destruction to the Jornada del Muerto desert. Behind each one of them, a projector played footage of a warhead explosion, yet they never face it, instead opting to look ahead at the camera capturing their image. Out of sight, out of mind, one might say. And when they were done, they collected the image of their time traveling as if it were any other photo booth attraction. So many hands on that button. So many minutes passing. Standing just at the entrance for the reception, I noticed a few going in again for a second, even a third time. Phones out, taking their own pictures, making videos of themselves in black and white. The joy of ultimate power in their hands was tangible, and yet the irony of it all was lost on each one of them. Days went by, weeks went by, hundreds visited, and it was soon the most frequented exhibit in the MoMA. When picking the options of cheap and fast, certain corners must be cut, but sometimes rash decisions what stand the test of time. The unexpected can be the most impactful. Think of your favorite movie lines: “Hey I’m walkin’ here” from Midnight Cowboy, or “Heeere’s Johnny” from the Shining, or “You’re gonna need a bigger boat” from Jaws, or “But why male models” from Zoolander, or “Like tears in rain” from Blade Runner, or “You talkin’ to me” from Taxi Driver, or “You hit me in the ear! Why the ear?” from Fight Club. All were unscripted, improvised moments. The unexpected can be the most impactful. So when people of New York started slowly experiencing strange feelings of nausea and vomiting, not much note was taken. But the dizziness, fatigue, and hair loss caught much more attention. No one could understand how it was happening. Something in the water? Something in the air? A chemical attack? Some accounts were shared of those in other states experiencing similar symptoms, even progressing to internal bleeding. A wave of panic swept across the city, eventually the nation, as more and more cases were discovered. What could be causing this? Where were these unidentifiable boils coming from? Children died. Adults died. Elders who lived through the first test of the nuclear bomb died. All of them having a photo of perfect happiness while playing with an art installation. When picking the options of cheap and fast, certain corners must be cut. All the pieces of my “Manhattan Project” were in place, save for the countertop that the button of doom would sit on. Materials are expensive and after blowing my wad on loads of paper, a projector, automated film camera, and a printer, a simple stand that was sturdy enough to maintain the pressure of thousands of visitors was all I needed. After too many calls and websites to count, I happened upon a story of radioactive countertops that caused more than a few problems in Europe. Unsurprisingly, the first I heard of this came from an article written by similarly divisive artist, Chuck Palahniuk. The connection was too perfect. An unsuspecting radioactive material in an art piece about the unrecognized cost of nuclear destruction that would simultaneously destroy the audience without them realizing? It was too good to be true. And yet, the truth was there. Is HERE. Amongst the rest of my materials in storage after the closing of a three-month show. The number of attendees declined, but the number of those alive in the city also declined, so the ratio was maintained. No one would ever point to my piece as being the cause of so much death, and there should be no reason for a Geiger counter to ever come across the radioactive countertop. Finally, the reviews associated with my name were overwhelmingly positive, and the fallout was overwhelmingly negative. Yet, everyone was at least happy for a moment. So please, touch the art.


I’m not sure how I got here nor when because I think I’ve always been here. I recall no beginning but I’m just now getting used to the brightness so maybe this is new. Everything seems to have a constant glow so that no shadow is ever cast. The hallway I notice myself walking in is made of small white bath tiles that clack and echo with each step I take. I come across two branching halls, both perpendicular to the first. Down the right hall I see nothing but the infinitely stretching bright tiles and from the left hall faint whispers of arguing can be heard. I choose the left hall and the voices grow louder as I continue. When the volume seems to approach its apex I reach the end of the hall where a room full of people shouting meets me. They all look too busy arguing over something to notice me enter so I spend time analyzing the room. The room is different from the halls in that it doesn’t contain a ceiling and the walls are much higher. The sky above is perfectly blue without a sun while still looking and feeling like noontime. Listening now to the people, they are arguing about religion or something of the sort. Someone calls out, “When will they arrive to save us?” and another, “We can’t wait forever.” A man walks out to the front of the room and everyone quiets down. He bleakly looks at the crowd of people before him and begins, “My people. Our wait has gone on for far too long and I feel I must say-” his eyes meet mine for a second and he wakes from his sorrowful slump. “My people, I must say that our God has arrived.” The audience follows his gaze back to me and they all uproariously cheer. They surrounded me as they had to the preacher who was now making his way to me through the crowd. Upon doing so he grabbed my hand and raised it high in the air. “They will free us from this hell of infinite corridors and hallways,” he exclaims loudly to the crowd. Unsure of what the preacher was talking about and not wanting to upset the audience, I decided to follow what they were saying. The preacher shouts, “As I had said so long ago, God would appear to us and set us free.” The crowd cheers. I’m not sure how I would manage that for them but the preacher continues. “My prophecy spoke of a soul who would arrive and then climb the slick walls with their bare hands and let down the clouds to lift us out.” The crowd's cheering reaches an unbearable holler as the realization of what I would have to attempt settles. I look behind me to the wall that looks to stand around twenty-five feet high. The cries from the people froze me still, facing the wall. I wouldn’t dare turn around and have to face the disappointment and anger of such a mob so I stick my palms to the wall and push downwards as if I expected any sort of a lift. My hands slide down the wall producing a light squeak that I’m sure the people heard. Their cheering quiets a little and I can feel their eyes piercing the back of my head. I step closer to the wall as if to get farther from them and raise my hands to try again, this time I point my fingernails into the mortar between the tiles to try and get some footing but as I push downwards again the tile chips one of my nails causing my finger to bleed. I don’t take notice of it though because the silence of the expecting crowd behind me is far worse than any pain I’d have to endure trying to please them. In my peripheral vision, the preacher is smiling ear to ear at me but his eyes carry an intense anger that I fear might just be a fraction of the anger of the room watching me ruin their prophecy. My face is now pushed against the wall stained red from the blood oozing out of my fingers. I punch at the wall to try and chip away room to grip but, as the room’s silence turns back into the angry shouting I had heard upon my first arrival, I start biting at the wall as well. My bloodied fingers and mouth both smash at the wall as a pathetic attempt to break it away. To my surprise, however, I began to rise higher. I whip my hand higher up into the wall causing chips of tile and mortar to fall into my hair. My face is stuck against the wall like the piercing eyes of the crowd had pinned me to it. I slowly pull myself another arm’s length up, my arms shaking the whole while. My feet feel like they are being pulled down by tons of weight so I kick my shoes off. I hear them hit the floor after only a second and the crowd roars louder. Their screaming is so loud it physically aches me; if there was anything I most needed now it would be a way to silence them. My fingernails have all been cut off and my fingers are bloodied and sliced up so I rip off a tile from the wall and stab it into the mortar. The tile managed to break through the concrete and stick but it also sliced my palm in the process. I lifted my foot up to the gap left by the removed tile and slowly lifted myself higher. The ledge doesn’t seem so far away now so I quickly rip the tile back out of the wall and jump up from my footing. My foot slips off the gap and my mangle of fingers is only inches away from the top. I swiftly lift the tile up and hook it over the top of the wall and quickly grab the peak. I hoist myself up all the way then just lie there. Through the ringing in my ears and the pulsing of my head, I can make out the cheering of the crowd beneath me. I stand up shaking and still grasping the broken tile and look down at my bloody trail on the wall and them jumping and hollering. I throw the tile back down and it shatters by my fallen shoes. “Now, lend down the clouds for us to get out of here!” shouts the preacher. I look up at the once-clear sky and see it full of clouds. Perhaps I am the God spoken of in their prophecy I think. How else could I have scaled that wall and the skies filled with clouds at my arrival? Of course, I’m God, what other explanation could there be. Their ovation sounds like an angel’s symphony just for me. I look back up to the clouds wisping gracefully in the sky and reach for them. On the tip of my toes, I strain to reach the heavens smiling a wide half-toothed smile. My hand is almost to the clouds but they move away as if repelled by my hand revealing the bright sun I’d once thought was gone. My vision was now blinded by the light but I kept trying in some vain attempt to reach the clouds. I leap with all my might to reach the skies but at the peak of my jump, as the clouds conceal the sun again, I realize the fate I’ve befallen. The crowd’s cheering I had thought I’d once heard was then revealed to be screams.


Authors Note: So this was originally a small story I wrote for a writing prompt, but I felt like posting it here because its a way to force myself to take my writing seriously, as I'm just starting out and can't seem to silence the voice in my head that tells me to stop trying. Regardless, no one's here to read an authors note, so enjoy the story. Prompt: A lost traveler who works with locals in the villages they pass by to help solve their problems, becoming a reluctant hero in the process, but all they want to do is to find their way home. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ It was well into the evening, with the sun still in the sky, chasing away the brisk chill that clung to the air, but quickly fading over the horizon. After exiting the village far later than planned, Jackson Veeres walked into the forest to escape whatever other responsibilities the villagers would thrust upon him without warning. Exhaustion wrapped itself around his limbs, making them heavier and more sluggish as he trudged into brush. Healing took far more out of him than any of his other gifts, but it seemed the one everyone always needed the most. He arrived at the clearing where he had been sleeping these past few weeks, with his tent pitched and fire pit cold but ready for use. This village was another dead end it seemed. Jack was hardly optimistic that he would find what he was looking for in a village this small, only holding about six dozen people, but he looked regardless, because where there were people, there was always a chance. It always came with expectations though. The villagers took one look at him and immediately knew who he was. The slightly tanned skin, the neat blonde hair and the nearly luminous golden eyes always set him apart before he even spoke to anyone, and by now enough stories have spread about the fabled “golden hero” that recognition was always inevitable in a town this small, no matter how much he tried to disguise himself. Jack supposed this wasn’t the worst village he’d been asked to help. Those were usually the ones that wanted him to slay the local wolf or bear populations, to which he adamantly refused whenever possible, and carried out regretfully when the villagers “motivated” him. That was probably the worst part. You’re either a noble hero or a dangerous outsider. They’re always so quick to shuffle the title if you do what they want. He thought bitterly, as he began to make a fire by snapping his fingers, causing sparks to leap from his fingertips and onto the kindling. Jack would be lying if he claimed it was all bad though. He still did enjoy helping people, especially those who were earnest and kind. Another reason he still assisted in the villages he found seemed to be tearing through the brush behind him at that very moment. A small boy who appeared to be around eight years old wearing clothing that had seen better days, entered the clearing with a bundle in his arms and quick, excited steps. “Jack!” he called, sprinting over and thrusting the large bundle forwards into Jack's lap, before placing himself on the ground beside him. “Mom made extra dinner earlier, and she wanted to thank you for fixing her hand. She hadn’t been able to properly sew for a while now, so we haven’t had a lot of clothes, and with winter approaching she was getting really worried. But now she can sew again, and she’s already making me a new cloak! I wanted a black and gold cloak like yours, but Mom says that it would be really expensive so I'm getting a green one instead. She also sai-” “Woah Max slow down.” Jackson said with a smile. He unwrapped the bundle and discovered a whole salmon, already cut and still warm. He dug in gratefully before turning to Max again after a few bites. “So what are you doing out here Max? Does your mom know you’re in the woods right now?” “Yeah she does,” He answered excitedly “When I told her I was coming to see you she said it was ok because I’d always be safe with you. She also asked me to bring you food because she saw you healed a lot of people today and thought you might be tired.” This was one of the reasons Jackson continued to help wherever he went. When others would take it upon themselves to help others as well, not because they were obligated to, but because they wanted to make others around them happier. Because they wanted to see the best in others first. It reminded Jack of home. “Tell Anna that I said thanks then. The fish is excellent.” he said through a mouthful. He offered a piece to Max, who accepted and began to nibble slowly on it. “But you didn’t answer my first question. Why’d you want to run out here?” Max looked up and seemed sadder as he met Jackson's eyes. “Because I’m pretty sure you’re leaving soon, and I wanted to be able to say goodbye before you did,” He explained sadly. “You had a look in your eye after the baron asked for another favor again. I didn’t hear what it was, but I know you’re a traveler and you didn’t seem like you wanted to stay much longer. You’ve been one of my only friends since you came here a few weeks ago, and I wanted to spend more time with you before you left. But it’s ok if you’re leaving, because Mom is better now that you fixed her hand! She was dancing with my sister when I left so I’m happy,” He said, face split by a smile. It would have been convincing if there weren’t tears threatening to fall from his eyes. Jackson adjusted his seat until he was right beside Max and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. The tears fell freely by now but Jack didn’t mind. “It’s ok to be sad too. One of the hardest things about making friends is saying goodbye. But every goodbye is a gift, because not everyone has the chance to say it.” he said sadly “So you are leaving,” Max said through sniffles. “Tha- that's ok. Mom is better now because of you.” He collected himself and spoke again” So where are you trying to go now?” “Home.” Jack said resolutely. “Where’s that?” “Well I wouldn’t be traveling very far if I knew.” Jackson answered with a sigh, “It definitely doesn’t help that I think my home is on the move as well.” Max tilted his head towards him with creased brows. “That doesn’t make much sense,” Max said “How can your house be moving? Houses don’t move.” “Well that’s probably because we’re talking about different things. I don’t have a house or a village, but I used to have a home, before Fate got in the way at least,” Jack said. “Then what was your home like?” Max asked tentatively Jack began by taking a deep breath. “Well, he was always up early for starters. Would rise right as the sun came up, and usually drag me with him, regardless of my protests. He was an absolute mess as well. He would always lose anything he put down unless it was tied to him. He also loved animals and was crazy good with them. One time he made friends with a bear and I nearly had a heart attack seeing him show up with seven hundred pounds of fur.” Jack said with a smile “We would travel together, never anywhere specific but always some kind of town, and he would brighten the whole place as soon as he showed up. He’d help anyone he thought needed it, never asking for anything in return and was always being far too generous just because he wanted to be. He was always better than me at that.” It was true. Jack never got the hang of wanting to be generous. Even while completing feats of wonder for those around him, he did so because it was what he would have done. Jack wanted to be like him, but could never fully grasp how he did it. At this point, Jack could feel the tears well up in his eyes, but he pressed on despite them. “He was always kind. It's funny, no one ever really knows what that means until they see it. He only ever wanted to help others because he thought the best version of himself was helping others find the best version of themself. And the best part,” He paused, ”He was always right about that.” After a long pause, Max finally asked “So your home is a person? “Yes,” Jack said, “It doesn’t matter where I live or where I go, he will always be home.” “So why aren’t you with him?” Max asked hesitantly. “Because Fate likes to play tricks on those who are born that special,” Jackson answered, “It was a while ago, but we were forced to go different directions. We each had a job to do, and we couldn’t do it together. We just didn’t know where either of us would be going, or when we would be done. So I don’t know where he is, but I’m going to keep going till I find him.


It was the silence that I hated the most. I missed talking to people or just hearing them speak. I don’t mean the screams and yelling from the woods and alleyways. I’ve decided that those are something else I would rather not find. On that Tuesday everyone vanished I was home in Shadewood. I decided quickly that I needed to move on. There are many curious wonders in the world that most were not privileged to see. Initially, I decided to go to the theme park, but it turns out the controls are more complicated than I had thought. I spent a week next to the river on a private estate. That’s when I first heard the screams. I swear I heard a man shouting and then someone scream. I went to investigate the next morning but found nothing. On my way back I heard someone calling my name from the direction of my camp which sent chills up my spine. I have not camped outdoors since. Sometime early in the second month, I had the idea to go to restricted places. Area 51 type areas to see if I could gain entry and answer some questions people have had for years. I did not expect that I would find much. Worst case scenario I would get to see some interesting aircraft. I set off to Stanica. It is said that the mountains there contain a vault where the government keeps its most closely guarded secrets. Not to mention that it’s a massive bomb shelter and should have a lifetime’s worth of food and supplies for a single person. I still heard the voices some nights. But I made sure to stay indoors after dark with the doors barred. The house I was in during the last week of the third month, was at the edge of a valley I would have to cross to get to Stanica. There would be no houses to spend the nights in for three days. I had to keep reminding myself that the voices were just a symptom of being so alone. I was cooking dinner the night before my journey. Canned something or other with canned something or other on top. My meals were functional yet not entirely bad. While cooking there was a knock on the door. I very nearly knocked the pan off the stovetop. Not thinking I rushed to the door to see who it was but froze just beyond the reach of the door. My hair was standing on end and my stomach dropped. I had been alone for months. What are the odds of the only other people in the world finding me in this random house? I had left no trail for others to follow. I wanted to ask who was at the door. I wanted to peek through the window but held fast. Then another knock, harder this time. This was followed by a scream that sounded far closer than it ever did previously. I think whoever or whatever it was, was telling me they know tomorrow I would have no house to hide in. A voice came from beyond the door. It was soft and feminine. It was too indistinct to make out individual words except for my name. I could feel the blood drain from my face. I was starting to doubt my theory about it being my imagination. I stood there for what felt like hours. But it had gone quiet. The presence had left but the encounter stayed with me the whole night. I couldn’t sleep and poured over the maps to find an alternative route to the vault. The next morning as the sun rose, I had prepared myself. I had fashioned a makeshift weapon from a chair leg and some knives. I had also found a new route that would take an extra day but would let me take shelter in houses along the way. The vault that started as a curiosity now became a means of escape and permanent shelter from whatever was out there. The first two days went by without incident. Even the nights were quiet. Something that I never thought I would enjoy so much again. I started thinking that I had perhaps thrown off the weirdness from the previous town. On the third day, my hopes were dashed. The whole way I kept spotting what I thought were people on hills and in the trees. I reached the final house a few hours before sunset and fortified it as best I could. I even locked myself in the upstairs bedroom. Strangely, I guess, that night there were no sounds. The next day’s trip would be the last. Whatever was after me would have to try pretty hard to get into a bunker if wooden doors kept them out. On the first day of the fourth month, I set out with nothing but my weapon and the clothes on my back. I kept my pace high and made a beeline for the vault. I arrived around 4 pm at a great steel door. The sun was going down, and I could see no way of entering. I looked for alternative routes and entries but found none. Finally, as the sun was setting, I had run out of options. As my last hope, I decided to knock. I rapped on the massive steel door twice. As ridiculous as it may sound, that worked. The door swung open with a heavy groan and I entered. There was no one on the other side, but that was to be expected. I saw the door controls and hit the “close” button. The great door swung closed and latched after trickling in the last of the sun’s rays. I had made it. I walked down the long corridor to the interior of my new mountain home. The air was musty and stale but it would suffice. At least I was safe from whatever was outside and the relief was immense. I thought about how ridiculous it was that knocking worked when a familiar chill came over me. There was nobody else here. Who opened the door? I spotted an evacuation planner and sprinted over. There was indeed another foot entrance to the vault. Only a small way down from the blast door, nestled away out of sight. I tightened my grip on the weapon and rushed to the door. I found the secondary door wide open. Beyond it, a night as dark as tar. The voices started almost immediately. I slammed the door shut and bolted away. I would have to find another spot for the night. They must have come in ahead of me. The calling started, from within the vault this time. It was someone calling my name. It sounded close, spurring me on deeper into the vault. At last, I found the archive room. This door was open. I stepped through and slammed the door closed. It latched with a chunk that rang with finality. There was no way out from here, but also no way in. The inside was lined with row upon row of filing cabinets. Each shelved box had “Top Secret” or “Classified” stamped on it. I had found the jackpot. Perhaps the solution to all my problems would be here. I grabbed a box at random. The tag read “Subject L. Male. Project Darkpath.” This sounded ominous enough, yet stranger still is that my name was printed right below. I hastily opened the box to read what Project Darkpath was. The pages inside were blank. I checked another box. This one was labeled “Subject 0532. Male. Project Brimstone Road.” Again, with my name. All the pages were blank also. By the time I had reached the fifth box, “Subject Orion. Male. Operation Lightbringer.” The knocking on the door started. The steel door was designed to handle a rocket blast, but it was visibly shaking in its frame. Outside a feminine voice was now screaming my name. I had to get out of that room. I was clearly going mad yet refused to be cornered so easily. In a back corner, I found a plain wooden door. I threw it open and ran through without a second thought. As I stepped through there was a crack behind me like thunder. I looked back to find a circular structure a few meters tall. In its center a swirl of what looked like water flowing down a drain. It faded and the world was quiet once more. My breathing was heavy inside my suit. I felt around my head. I was indeed wearing some form of spacesuit. I took off the helmet with a practiced motion and lost my lunch on the floor. A few people were gathering now. I was so happy to see them but lacked the strength to act. “Am I safe?” I asked but was met with confused expressions. I tried to stand. Instead, the world went black. Someone was calling my name. This time it sounded right. I opened my eyes and found myself lying in a bed. A light breeze was coming in through the window. By my feet sat a woman. She looked concerned. I was sure she must have been an angel. “Tommy? Are you with me?” She said in a soft voice. “Tommy?” I asked. Realizing that must be my name. It was different than what the voices called those long nights. “I’m ok I think.” I replied then asked, “Am I safe?” “You’re safe here, I guess. The jump was a bit dangerous, but we never expected casualties.” It was slowly coming to me again. The jump gate. I had walked through it. “How long was I gone?” I asked her. “Gone. Well, the transit was a complete success, so you weren’t gone long. Perhaps a second or so.” She put her hand on mine. Caroline was her name. She was my wife, I think. Or would be next Saturday. She was the lead researcher and I was her loving guinea pig. Project Starshot. The Wormhole. I was remembering. “What happened Tom?” She asked. Her face showed concern. She would know me well enough to know if I was off. I was starting to remember it all. I had walked through the first gate at Shadewood base and was supposed to exit almost instantly through the Stanica bunker gate. “Caroline,” I said “I don’t think it worked. Something went wrong.” I told her about my three months, the voices, and how I was alone. I told her everything. She listened patiently and nodded where appropriate. When I was done, she smiled and took my hand. “Tom, I will see what I can find out ok?” She pat my leg and left. I was alone again. The silence once more hung like a fog in the room. It was finally broken with a knock on the door. “Come in,” I replied best I could. On the other side of the door, something called my name. My skin crawled and my breath refused to come. The knocking increased and the door shook. I was trapped in the room. Just me, the silence, and the knocking. “Leave me alone!” I yelled. The knocking stopped. The silence settled in once more. I got up and looked out of the window, shaking. I was a few floors up, in what must be a hospital. Below the streets looked empty. It was happening again. I was alone. Then the knock on the door returned. I rushed over and swung it open. “Take this, you bastard!” I screamed. I had it by the throat and kept squeezing harder and harder and harder until I could feel the bones snap as I put all my weight into the attack. I kept at it until this thing stopped moving. It was scratching and kicking me but I did not subside my attack. I wanted it to stop tormenting me. I wanted it to die. A weight knocked me off my prey. Wrestling me to the ground. It was an MP. He cuffed my hands, but it did not matter. I was free. I looked back at the thing that had been haunting me for months. Instead, there was Caroline. Eyes bulging, face a grim mask of death. Around her gruesome expression blood. Her eyes were staring at me. The MP lifted me to my feet. Then I saw her entire face. I swear she was smiling. While starting to lead me away, the MP said my name. I tried to turn to face him but could not get a view of his face. Someone saw the body and screamed. All the while somewhere out of sight a knocking. So loud. Never-ending. And all I wanted was to be alone.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them using the new form!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Image: ** **Bonus Constraint (not required; worth 5 pts.) - Use at least three of the following words in your story:** - metal - canopy - keelhauling - telltale - liar - fixated This week’s challenge is to use the above image as *inspiration* for your story. You may interpret the image any way you like, as long as the **connection is clear** and you follow all sub and post rules. You do not have to use the entire image. You can use any part you like (i.e. the colors, the subject, the setting, etc.). The bonus constraint is not required.   *** #How It Works - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until Sunday at 11:59pm EST. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** You have until 2pm EST Monday to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. Do not downvote other stories on the thread. Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until 2pm EST next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.** Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions. - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire & Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide verbal feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome! - Nominations are made . (See the Rules section of the post for more information.)   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown: - **Use of Constraint:** 10 points (required) - **Upvotes:** 5 points each - ***Actionable* Feedback** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Submitting user nominations:** 5 points (total) - **Bonus Constraint:** 5+ points (sometimes more) **Note on feedback:** - Points will only be awarded for **actionable** feedback. So what is actionable feedback? It is feedback that is constructive, something that the author can use to improve. An actionable critique not only outlines the issue or weakness, but uses specific examples and explanations to describe why it may be doing, or not doing, what it should. Check out by u/FyeNite as an example.   *** #Rankings Before we jump into the rankings, let’s talk about feedback. I’ve noticed that there are quite a few writers who go *above and beyond* each week providing in-depth crits to the other writers. You are so appreciated! So starting this week, I will be awarding “Crit Creds” to those users, which can be redeemed on r/WPCritique. Okay, back to your regularly scheduled rankings… - - Submitted by u/Tomorrow_Is_Today1   - - Submitted by u/katherine_c   - - Submitted by u/merbaum   - - Submitted by u/wileycourage *** ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.