Madeline’s day started like any other. She rolled out of bed and into the kitchen, practically sleepwalking through her morning routine. Work passed in the usual blur of meetings, emails, and calls – spending so much time satisfying the clients that the project was on track that there was hardly any time left to actually spend working on it. Before she knew it, lunchtime had arrived. Not wishing to spend any longer in the office than necessary, Madeline made the familiar journey to a nearby cafe with her book tucked under her arm. Coffee and sandwich acquired, she huddled up in a quiet corner to eat, drink and read. The stress of the day melted away as she immersed herself in the words on the page. Until a chorus of chimes, buzzes and beeps drew her back to the real world. Looking around, she noticed everyone staring down at their phones, confusion and fear plastered across their faces. She fumbled in her pocket to draw out her own, palms prickling in apprehension. The notification light was flashing. She tapped the side, bringing it to life. Blazoned across the screen was an emergency message from the government. `Several large masses approaching the planet at speed. Find shelter where possible. Await further announcements.` Silenced reigned in the cafe, the usual sounds of steaming and grinding swallowed by the tension in the room. A clattering cut through it all, setting Madeline’s heart pounding. Every head whipped around to find the source – a teaspoon fallen to the ground, rocking gently as it settled. Finally, somebody spoke. The man at the table next to her. “Th-this has to be a hoax, right?” “I don’t think so,” a woman by the window replied, gesturing outside. “Look.” Everyone did just that, shuffling over to peer at the people on the street. Some were frozen in terror, staring at their phones or up into the sky. Others were running, tripping and falling or colliding with each other in their blind panic. But the sight that sent Madeline’s heart plummeting into her stomach was the uniforms. Police. Firefighters. A strange mish-mash of officials hurrying to take control of the situation. If this was a hoax, it was certainly a convincing one. “What do we do?” another customer asked. Gradually, all eyes turned to the barista behind the counter, as if his authority in the cafe made the young man – barely out of childhood – the natural leader. “Err… I suppose this building has a basement,” he murmured. “We could shelter there?” Madeline watched on from the sideline as the customers glanced around at one another, seeking approval. All it took was for one of them to start nodding and soon they all were. Together, they filed down the stairs into the storage room underneath. The walls were lined with metal wire shelf stacks, full of cups and bags and bottles. The only sections empty of stock were the gaps there to make the stairs and doors accessible. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, illuminating the stains that littered the floor, more vibrant than the faded paint. It was a far cry from the cosy cafe above. They huddled there for what felt like hours, though the clock disagreed. Its tick filled the room, accompanied by a slow dripping in an unknown location. Now and then a low muttering between neighbours broke the monotony, but Madeline couldn’t make out any of the words through the blood rushing in her ears. A *thump* from above prompted a collective intake of breath. A series of small, quick steps clacked across the floor above them. Almost like something was scuttling through the cafe. Her eyes tracked across the ceiling, following the sound until it reached the entrance to the basement. Heart hammering against her ribs, it felt like the world was rushing around her as she tried to focus on the door at the top of the stairs. For a second, everything was silent, only to be broken by the creak and crash of splintering wood as a strange pincer-like claw burst through. The crowd erupted into chaos. Some clung to each other, frozen to the spot. Others backed up to the furthest edges of the room, Madeline amongst them. A brave few charged the stairs in an attempt to get past the horrific creature. It knocked them back with a swing of its claw, eliciting gasps and cries of pain. Casting about frantically, Madeline spotted a door to her left. She dived for it, just as others around her did the same. It opened into a small cupboard, stocked with cleaning supplies. Before she could decide what to do, Madeline found herself pushed into it by the crowd. A few people piled in behind her before someone pulled the door shut and started barricading it. “What are you doing?” she whispered. “I don’t want to be crushed by people piling in here,” he replied. “And I *definitely* don’t want that thing getting in here.” She opened her mouth to reply but thought better of it. As the thumps and screams and squelches started drifting through the door, Madeline did the only thing she could think of to shut it all out. She read. She dived into the world of Mary Shelley’s *Frankenstein*, trying to force her focus to remain on the words on the page instead of the world around her. Because of that, she hardly noticed the strange buzzing pressure encroaching on the edge of her senses. She only glanced up when the people around her started unbarricading the door to leave. “Hey,” she whispered, grabbing a woman’s arm. “Where are you going?” The woman didn’t respond, simply pulling free of Madeline’s grip to keep moving. No longer absorbed by the fictional world of her book, the strange sensation engulfing her mind grew. It felt as if it was smothering her thoughts, her feelings, her very self – wrestling control of her body from her. Before it could take hold fully, she plunged herself back into the story, immersing herself in the conversation between creature and creator that was transpiring. Gradually, the buzzing pressure receded, though she could still just about feel it on the edges of her senses. Glancing up, she realised the cupboard was now empty apart from her, the door gaping open. The only sight she registered outside of it was a flash of red before she yanked it shut and barricaded it once more. Huddling in the far corner, she buried herself in her book again, losing all sense of everything else. Eventually, she reached the last page. She stared at the final word for what seemed like an eternity, reluctant to return to the real world – whatever that meant anymore. Soon, she could put it off no longer. Closing the novel, she tucked it under her arm and pressed her ear up against the door. But no matter how much she strained, she could hear nothing. Everything outside seemed calm and quiet. With trembling hands, she lifted the various mops, buckets and bags that blocked the entrance. Then she reached towards the handle. She struggled to get a proper grip, sweaty palm sliding over the cold metal. Taking a deep, shaky breath, she steadied herself before tightening her fingers and pulling. The door swung open onto the basement. It was empty now, save for the two bodies that stared up at her with lifeless eyes. Scarlett splattered the shelves and floor, but the source of the blood seemed to be long gone. Madeline tried to tell herself that they had escaped – overpowered the strange creature, or run away. But she couldn’t forget that strange feeling – as if she was losing control of her body – and the way those people had walked out into the carnage willingly. And what had that *thing* been? Why was it here? And how? As the questions spiralled around her head she felt the world rushing in around her once more. The sensation made her dizzy and she had to steady herself against the wall to avoid sagging to the ground. She shook her head, trying to dispel the thoughts as she breathed deeply. When she felt stable enough, she pushed herself up and started taking slow, shaky steps across the room. Her feet squelched in the sticky, red liquid that littered the ground. She shuddered, trying to hold back the rising bile. When she reached the bottom o the stairs, she peered up into the world above. Through the doorway, all she could see was the cafe above. Tables and chairs lay scattered and broken, but otherwise, the place was empty. She began her careful ascent, wincing at every creak of the steps. As she neared the top, a buzz in her pocket made her flinch. She fumbled for her phone, pulling it out to look down at the screen. Notification after notification flashed across it: official government messages, news articles, and messages from friends and family. Standing on the stairs of the cafe’s basement, Madeline stared down at her mobile. She flicked through the notifications: alerts about unknown objects, alien ships, strange creatures. None of it felt real. Then came the messages from her parents. Text after text pleading with her to let them know she was okay, abruptly stopping around two hours ago. There were similar messages from other friends and family, some continuing longer, but none in the last half hour. Struggling to keep hold of the phone in her trembling hands, she opened her contacts and started trying to ring everyone she could think of. First her mum – no answer. Then her dad – no answer. Ella – no answer. Michael, Becky, James – all no answer. As she went through to voicemail after voicemail she felt tears prick at her eyes. She wiped them away with the back of her sleeve, trying to keep her vision clear as she called number after number. Soon, she gave up the battle, letting the tears stream down her face as she heaved in shaky lungfuls of air tinged with copper. A buzzing in her hands sent a jolt of hope to her heart. She pressed the button to answer the call and held it up to her ear. “Hello?” “Mads?” Ella’s voice cried from the other end of the line. “You’re okay?” “Yes! Well…not really…” “Okay, but you’re alive? And not hurt?” “Yeah. Just about. Are y-you?” “Just about,” Ella replied. Despite everything, Madeline could swear she could hear a smile in her friend’s voice. “Where are you?” Madeline asked. “I’m at the university library. I was working when it all… well, you know. What about you?” “At a cafe in town. Near my office. We got a text – me and the other customers – and we hid. Then there was this thing. And they all just… I don’t even know what happened. But everyone else is gone.” “You mean you actually saw one?” Ella gasped. “And you survived? God Mads, that must have been–” “Yeah.” “Well, I’m glad you’re okay. You should probably try and get out of the city. Apparently, they targeted the most densely populated areas first. Christ, I can’t believe I’m saying this. I can’t believe any of this is even happening.” “I know the feeling,” Madeline replied with a sigh. “So where should I go? Or where should we go? I’d feel better being with you than by myself. Or with some strangers.” “I don’t know. The library isn’t exactly central, but it isn’t quiet here either. Perhaps my house would be best? It isn’t too far to get to but is a bit more out of the way. And maybe some of my family will be there too… I haven’t been able to contact them so far.” “Me neither – with mine I mean.” “So what do you say? Meet at my house and go from there?” “Sounds good. Though to be honest, I’m glad to just have someone tell me what to do. Thank you, Ella. Really. If you hadn’t called I don’t know what I’d–” “Thank me in person. Now get moving. I won’t be able to relax until I see you,” Ella said. “And *please* be careful.” Madeline hung up the phone and tucked it away in her pocket before climbing up the last few steps back into the cafe. From here, she could peer through the shattered windows into the world outside. On the street, other shop fronts were similarly damaged. Broken glass littered the pavement, glinting in the light from flames that danced amongst the carnage. Her heart leapt at the sight of people running this way and that. She open her mouth to call out to them, but the cry caught in her throat as she looked closer. The people weren’t running from the strange creature she had seen before. They were running from each other. Some had bats and bags, breaking their way into buildings and carrying away what they could. Some grabbed at each other, taking out their fear and frustrations on whoever was unlucky enough to be close by. Some simply ran, trying to escape the chaos. Madeline shrunk away from the window, reluctant to go out into a world such as this. But what choice did she have? The longer she stayed here the more chance she’d be found – by the looting crowds or the strange creature. And Ella was waiting for her. Clutching her book tightly under her arm, she stepped outside, glass crunching underfoot. She tried to move with confidence and certainty while sticking to the edge of the street in an attempt to draw as little attention as possible. Her eyes flicked back and forth, movement in her peripheries sending jolts of panic through her body. A hand darted out of an opening, grabbing at her arm. She yanked it back with a yelp and ran, feet pounding the pavement the sole focus of her mind. When she finally slowed back down, she struggled to get her bearings. Everything looked so different – so desolate. Her eyes fell on a sign, frazzled brain trying to make sense of the letters. Eventually, they coalesced into a word – a street name she recognised – and she set off at a brisk pace. Until a scuttling sound sent a sweep of cold terror through her. She dived for the nearest doorway, only to be pushed back by a group already huddled there. Her skin prickled and her lungs burned as she sprinted for the next entrance. But once there, she was met with the same sight. The scuttling was getting closer now, along with the *rap rap* of human feet on concrete. Madeline turned to see a man reaching toward her. Scarlett flecked his clothes and a fire raged in his face. In a blind panic, Madeline grabbed at the book tucked under her arm and brought it round to meet the stranger’s head as hard as she could. The following *crack* seemed deafening. The man sagged to the floor. Her stomach churned, like something was writhing inside of her, but she tried to push down the feeling. As she turned away, she caught a glimpse of a blackish-purple creature, slightly larger than a person, rounding the corner on more legs than looked right. She fled, praying the scuttling sound wouldn’t follow. That the *thing* would find something else – *someone* else – to distract it. As she got further out of the city centre, things seemed to calm down slightly. There were more people huddled together instead of fighting and fleeing. Less damage. Less destruction. Eventually, she was nearing her destination. She slowed her pace along the residential street, taking in the sights around her. Families were hurrying out their doors, loading their cars with everything they could carry. Others hid inside, peeking out from behind the curtains with fear in their eyes. Ella’s house was devoid of activity – door shut but curtains open, revealing no one inside. At least not near the windows. Madeline hammered on the door but no answer came. Pulling out her phone, she tried calling Ella over and over, but to no avail. She looked around, wondering what to do. Waiting outside felt exposed – dangerous. Going back into town was out of the question. She thought back to late-night visits, stumbling back to Ella’s place after drinks in the city. Hadn’t there been a key hidden somewhere? Bending down, she fumbled under everything she could think of but found nothing. Then her eyes settled on the key safe mounted on the wall. She fumbled at the small dials on the side, setting them to every combination she could think of, praying the family hadn’t just chosen a random number. As they turned to `0000` a click sounded. She silently thanked their poor security as she retrieved the key inside and let herself into the house. “Hello?” she called out. “Is anyone home? It’s Madeline – Ella’s friend.” No reply came. Closing the door behind her, she made her way toward the living room, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she may not be alone. It was only after a thorough search of the house that she finally felt secure enough to settle on the sofa. While she waited, she tried flicking through the channels on the TV, but all showed the same message in plain text: `Emergency Broadcasting: Shelter in Place and Await Further Broadcasts.` With nothing else to do, Madeline selected a book from the coffee table and started reading, determined not to let herself think too closely about anything. She woke up the next day, slumped on the sofa with a crick in her neck. Cold sweat pricked at her skin as the events of the day before came rushing back. Her head whipped around frantically, searching for signs of danger. Until she realised she was still alone. She grabbed her phone off the sofa next to her. There were no new messages – no signal at all. No way to contact Ella. \ “What happened next?” Liam asked with wide eyes. “Did you find Ella? Or anyone else?” Madeline stared down at the table, tracing the patterns in the wood with her finger. “No. I didn’t.” “Oh… I’m sorry.” Forcing a smile onto her face, she looked up at him. “It’s okay. It was a long time ago now. I’ve had time to process it all.” “So how did you end up here?” “I waited at the house for a while, hiding inside while everything went to shit. Or trying to hide. I learnt to defend myself and what I had pretty quickly.” Madeline paused, trying not to dwell on the things she’d done – things she’d had to do – to survive. “When things died down a little and I was starting to run out of food I packed up everything useful and went looking for people. This was the last place I knew Ella had been but… when I got here it was deserted.” “So you stayed?” “Eventually, yeah.” “What does that mean?” “It means, that’s enough dwelling on the past for one day. Come on, you must be tired. Let’s both get some rest.


She began on the floor. Unfeeling tiles. Cold. Sharp smelling dust. Numb. No, that was not the tiles, that was her cheek, blue and swollen, resting on the tiles. The most comforting caress she had felt in this home was the frigid embrace of the cold tile floor doing what it could to numb the throbbing. Arms, hip, leg, hands, they felt the cold too. They would not respond. They weren’t hurt, she just did not believe moving them would help. He stood there. Fuming. Screaming. Hot, ragged, animalistic in his movements. A contrast so stark she was always surprised to not see fog forming in between them. Though the fog did come. She would find herself in the bath. In pajamas. Under his touch. Under him. Never really remembering how she got there. Always being told he could fix it, she could learn, it was her fault, but he forgave her. How he forgave her. She remembered she was in an office. Paper crinkling underneath. Cold. White walls that almost hurt the eyes. Gaudy posters of children and parents that did. A gloved, purple hand appeared in her peripheral, mimicking and floating toward the bruise on her cheek. She flinched so hard she almost fell off the table. Her bag clattered to the floor. Her heart was beating against her ribs. A heat raced through her veins, so sudden and intense she felt dizzy. The doctor held their hands up. She clenched, wrenched and wove her clammy hands into her sweater. Rubbing and itching her way into her skin, trying to remember what she was doing, what she was supposed to do. She began crying. She returned to that office often. Making excuses to get out of the house. The kids have an appointment. There’s a half day at school. My boss needs me to pick up a shift. Weekly lies building her courage. She began to say she had her own appointments. He fought back. He threw his tantrums. She began to realize that those were his problems. She would cry until her lungs hurt, but her headaches stopped, and she could remember every moment of every day. Taking notes. Filling out reports. Waiting in lines and keeping all of the receipts. She would walk until her feet hurt, but she could feel the blood in her legs and arms. The tension was gone, and she believed it was doing her good. She spoke until her throat was raw. Oh how she spoke. With fury, with purpose. She began to practice. Breathing deeply, control over her core, feeling her lungs. Tensing her fists, stretching her jaw, clenching her toes and rolling her shoulders. She was not in control of everything, but she remembered how to learn. It was never easy. She could not remember getting a good night’s sleep, but they were better. Her heart still beat against her chest when she heard the sound of keys jingling or floorboards shifting, but was able to rock it back to rest. She began to treat herself with the same care she would show a child. It was new to her. Every baby step was beautiful and awkward. She would fall, but she began to get back up. She began by tensing her fist, inhaling deeply, thanking the full feeling in her lungs. She exhaled, her breath mixing in the crisp morning air, as free as the new wind blowing in from the bay. The taste of the air was a little sour; the feeling in her back was a little sore. Though, her arms, hip, legs, hands, felt alive. She knew what she wanted to feel, and chose to begin walking toward the sun.


## Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills, areas in which we excel, and ways we’d like to improve. This is our weekly thread to discuss all things writing and to get to know your fellow writers!! We will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion each week. Feel free to join in the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, and more. You do not have to answer all the questions, but please try to stay on topic! ## This Week’s Roundtable Discussion **If this is your first week joining us, please feel free to introduce yourself! Tell us a little about you and your writing!** > I’m Ali and I’m *obsessed* with baking, particularly cupcakes - as I’m known for on the server. I think I favor reading over writing. My favorite author is probably Neil Gaiman. However, when I do write, I lean toward romance, urban fantasy, and magical realism. **Additional Questions this Week:** - **How do you decide what feedback to use in your drafts?** - **Is it difficult for you to accept praise for your work?** - **How do you offer praise for the work of others in a way they can believe and accept it?** *** ### Reminders **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussions in any form will not be tolerated. **Please try to stay on topic.


40 years from today, less than 2 weeks before I would be 77, life was interrupted a bit earlier than expected.  My husband walks into my office quietly. he looks around at the only room in our home mostly unchanged through our many years. Evidence of our lives together filled every corner of the room in photos, children's drawings, and keepsakes from our adventures. Suddenly so many happy memories in this room flash through his mind.  He imagines me sitting here at the desk the night we found each other. Laughing, drunk, playing video games together from ten thousand miles apart. Neither of us held a clue about the lives we were about to lead together. The night he FINALLY touched down from Australia to the United States, we didn't sleep for days because we were so scared of missing any time. Our years of joy and sorrow and chaos. Our years of nonstop laughter.  He recalls standing quietly in the doorway listening to me sing softly as I rock our baby back to sleep. I never noticed him there because I was entirely wrapped up in the small sleepy breaths of our tiny girl. He chuckles to himself as he remembers this because he knows how much I hate people hearing me sing.  Our children, running in and out around his legs as he brings me coffee because... just one more game. Me, sitting in the chair at my desk. Rummaging through drawers for a bandaid. The tender way I kiss our daughter's booboo. The way I reassure her she's ok, she's strong just like her daddy. The pride he felt in that moment comes flooding back as he remembers the way our little girl wiped her tears through the pain and stood up straight. She's strong like her daddy.  Standing hand in hand, behind the chair of the desk. Both of us, filled with hope and a just little panic. Glancing over at each other while our son anxiously refreshes the computer screen. Silently pleading with the universe to show him he was accepted into the school of his dreams.  The way he would always somehow know from the other end of the house that I was at the desk, worrying about the bills piling up, trying to make the dollars stretch as far as we could. To keep the dream school possible. The way he'd swoop in almost silently and gently move my tense hands from even more tense temples. Hand on my chin he would softly make me look at him and reassure me "We've got this Bubs, yeah? We always have and we always will". The way he felt like he was never ready to let go every time I melted into him to steady me.  Suddenly overcome with emotion he sits down at the desk. He places his hands for just a moment on the cool, worn-out wood, needing to steady himself. A few deep breaths. No tears. He's the strong one. He's always been the strong one. He's ready. He looks around at a picture of us from one of our many beach days, so many years back, and spots what he came in for just behind it. He grabs the car keys. Touches the photo of us in the sunshine for a split second then turns and walks out.  "Ready?" I ask. He grins at me with that wide stupidly boyish for his age grin. "I was waiting on you Bubs, whatdya mean?" he teases back. I poke my tongue out at him and He reaches for my hand like he does every time we're near one another. We head out the door together to meet our strong daughters son. Born today, just a bit earlier than expected.


A golden ray of sunshine streamed through the air. Little Tommy yawned and stretched, blinking his eyes and smacking his lips. He gratefully breathed in the wonderful aroma; he never grew tired of it. Looking out over the scrumptious vista made him happy to be alive. He rested on a large bed of chocolate pudding, the thick skin gently supporting his weight. Nearby he could see some fruit trees, their branches swollen with colored gelatin balls, some with a sour coating. A river of custard wound lazily through them, stirring up eddies of Cool Whip. A waterfall off in the distance shone bright red. He had drunk of it many times; it reminded him of Kool Aid. A nearby field of corn swayed in the wind; inside each cob were rows and rows of candy corn kernels. A moderate wind blew, whipping up clouds of spices, mostly cinnamon. In the far distance, he could see the beach sand made from Pop Rocks, the ocean of blue Hawaiian Punch laying beyond. He smiled as he beheld his paradise. His parents had never let him eat as much dessert as he wanted, but one day, after wishing and wishing he could have more, he found himself here. Although growing fatter, he tried to eat some healthy food, too – almond cookies, apricot crumbles, the bananas from banana splits, and graham crackers plucked fresh from the trees. Fancying himself some breakfast, he stood up, and immediately hit his head on the ceiling. He chuckled to himself; as usual, the gingerbread people had imprisoned him the day before, attempting to punish him for his crimes. But how could he resist eating them, when they were so delicious and crispy? Besides, ginger root was the closest he could find to potatoes on this island. He looked at the bars of his cage; they were nothing more than pirouline cookies. He sidled up to them and prepared to take a bite. A tiny, high-pitched horn blew. "The monster is awake!" screamed a gingerbread guard. Tommy snickered as he bit through the bars; they had tried to reinforce the insides with peanut brittle, but it wasn't strong enough to stop him. A cacophony of agitated cries arose from the populace, but he paid it no mind. He stepped through the gap he had made and stared down at his guard, who looked up at him, shivering. "So?" Tommy asked. "What's it gonna be today, little guy?" The ginger guard trembled. "Uh...well...you're on trial." "Again?" Tommy giggled. "Doesn't the ginger king ever get tired of this?" The guard looked around nervously. "Um...if you'll just follow me, sir." He turned around with military flair and marched away; Tommy smiled and followed. He carefully stepped down the dirt hill, most of it made from chocolate cake, covered with a dusting of Oreo cookie crumbles. He wove around the boulders made from rock candy, slowing himself to keep pace with his adorable jailer. Before him he could see the village, mostly gingerbread houses held together with frosting. The murmuring crowd parted to make way for him; a few brave cookies held candy canes, pointing the sharpened tips in his direction. One of the little brutes tried to charge him; Tommy simply picked him up and bit off his head, gobbling him down in mere seconds, using the pointed candy cane to pick his teeth. The crowd gasped; their muttering became more angry and surly. He paid it no mind as he ambled toward the ginger king's castle. He found the sovereign sitting on his woven pie-crust throne, padded regally with marshmallows. Waving his lollipop scepter menacingly, he tried his best to roar angrily with his squeaky voice. Tommy tried to take him seriously, but let a few snickers escape. "You have massacred our people without mercy or restraint!" the king accused. "For your crimes against us, the penalty is *death*!" A spirited cheer arose from the assembled throng; Tommy scanned the crowd with a bemused expression. "Oh?" he jeered. "And how do you expect to do *that*?" The king stood up, glaring fiercely. "We've got you *this* time, you miserable psychopath!" He paused uncomfortably. "Um...if you'd be so kind as to lay under that tree...?" Tommy followed the king's gesture and saw a nearby pecan-pie tree. Amiably, he trotted over to it, turned around, and lay down as commanded. He saw a handful of soldier squads in the tree's branches, all of them smiling viciously. Behind them, in the shadows, was something dark and indistinct. All of them appeared to be wearing suits made from sticky white pastry dough. What could that mean, he thought to himself. "*Now*!" the king screamed. The soldiers moved in unison, dumping the contents of a large bowl. Tommy watched the indistinct, dark-colored mass plummet toward him, splattering over his face. He took a few bites. He recognized the combination of crumbled brownie, creamy chocolate pudding, whipped topping and toffee bits. His suspicions were confirmed by the king's next words. "Death by chocolate!" he screamed. Tommy smiled as he continued to devour the offering. Finally, he had his fill; he sat up and scooped the rest into his hands. "That hit the spot!" he gushed, flinging the rest into the crowd. The ginger people screamed and collapsed to the ground as it made contact with their flesh; the rest of them fled in terror. Tommy turned to leer at the king, who stared back incredulously. "Really?" he guffawed. "That was our most deadly weapon!" "I think you mean delicious," Tommy mocked. The king stewed angrily, not responding. Tommy stood up and brushed himself off. "If you need me for anything, I'll be at the oak tree, hanging out with the elves." He strode away, turning to speak before disappearing over a low hill. "Maybe next time, you can make the jail out of brownie bricks. That might slow me down.


I could see what she was trying to do from a mile away—simple mirroring techniques to build a rapport. I didn’t have to study psychology to understand her techniques, she wasn’t even trying. “Do you have any siblings?” She asked. She looks quizzical, interested in my reply. It was all an act. “Yeah, I’ve got 3 older brothers” I answered without even thinking. She started moving her pen in erratic strokes across her pad. I bet she wasn’t even making any notes. Probably just drawing pictures and doodling. When her pen stopped moving, she asked another inane question. “I’m the youngest of 4 girls. How was it growing up surrounded by boys?” This was a complete waste of time. I was sent to see this woman to deal with my outbursts. She was just making it worse. I could feel my fingers gripping the armrests of the chair. My nails were digging into the soft padding. I could throw this chair at her, that would shut her up. She didn’t matter, she was useless. She couldn’t help him, no one could. “We used to fight, like most brothers” I answered while imagining what her face might look like after the chair had hit her. Blood pouring down her face. Again, with the notes. What was she even writing about, what was so interesting about my upbringing? So what if I got into fights with my brothers, everyone fought with their siblings. Okay, sure, theirs were probably more violent than the average. Blood was often spilled, but they always made up afterward. Or at least enough to trick our parents. “My sisters and I used to get into fights too, they sometimes got out of hand. Did your fights ever go too far?” She stared at me, unblinking, waiting on a reply. It was as if she was transfixed. Simply following a script. Psychology 101. Time to have some fun then. If she is going to reflect everything I say, let's see how far she'll go. "Oh yeah, all the time. One time they locked me in a shed and left me overnight." She looked shocked, and hastily scribbled more notes. This was probably going to get him in trouble with the principal, but it was worth it. "That reminds me of a time my sisters tied me to a tree. How did it make you feel, being so powerless?" Why was she reflecting such an obvious lie? Maybe it wasn’t obvious enough. He would have to go further. “It wasn’t fun, but I had to accept my place in the food chain. I’m the youngest, the runt of the litter.” I didn’t take my eyes off her, speaking without thinking, studying her motions. I’d work out her game soon. More scribbles. This time I won’t give her a chance to continue with her line of questioning, it was my time to have some fun. “This one time when I was younger, I was annoying my oldest brother. He wanted to stay in his room, but I was insisting he come play with me. I was banging on his door, ignoring his protests to leave him alone. I think I even dented the door at one point. Eventually, his shouts got so loud I could hear him straining his voice. I’d pushed him too far. He barrelled out of his room, grabbed me by the collar, and threw me down the stairs. I don’t remember the fall, just the impact. My head hit first, there was a deep ringing inside my head, then silence. I came to a few minutes later, in a small pool of blood. I cleaned the wound from my head and just ignored it like it never happened.” There was no way she could reflect that much detail. I’m not sure if that event even happened. Was I modifying a memory, or was it completely made up? I was just speaking. The colour drained from her face; her hands had started to slightly shake. Had I gone too far? She was definitely going to report me now. Well, at least I wouldn’t have to see her again. I wouldn’t be subject to this farce anymore. She didn’t reply, just continued with her notes. Was she on to him, had she worked out what he was doing? “Excuse me for one moment.” She got up from her chair and made for the door. She was trying to hide her hurry. It wouldn’t be long until I’d be escorted out of here, given to the next amateur psychologist to try their luck. Looking at her empty chair I spotted her notebook. She’d left it behind by accident. This was my chance to review her notes – more likely just doodles. I looked and listened to the door, making sure no one was coming. Then quickly jumped at her chair, retrieved the notebook, and got back to mine. If someone came in, I could throw the notebook back at her chair. No one would know. It was a simple book, with no distinct logo or patterns on the front. Lined paper on the inside. Flipping through the book I could see records of all her sessions, with other people. She marked each session with the person’s name, age, and a brief profile at the top. I scanned through the pages until I saw my name. *Name: Jonathan Hilcrest* *Age: 15* *Jonathon suffers from outbursts of anger. He grew up as an only child with distant parents. Been bounced around many psychologists, none of them able to help him. He shows above-average levels of intelligence for a child his age…* The profile continued for a few more sentences. I’m more interested in her notes about the session we just had. Why did she leave, what did she think about his latest fabrication? *… I’m not sure how he knows some of the things he is saying. He obviously knows some psychology tricks. Unsurprising, he has seen enough to pick up a few things. He seems to be trying to reflect my experiences back at me…* What was she on about? Me, reflecting her experiences? That’s what she was doing to me. *… But he is doing it before I even tell him about them. He must have researched me before our meeting. Manipulated a few of the other children to give him details about me…* I haven’t even got to her notes about my made-up story yet. These were all the notes, from the beginning of the session, about the real events that had actually happened. How was I mirroring her experiences, when it was all real? Maybe she knew I would read her notes, so she kept the game going even in her notes. This might have been all part of the plan. *… He grew up as an only child…* Why had she written that? I have 4 older brothers. No, 3. I have 3 older brothers. Their names are… Why can’t I remember their names? I haven’t seen them for a while, that’s probably why. I can’t remember exactly the last time I’ve seen them. This isn’t concerning though; I often struggle with recalling events. My memories turn into fog-covered dreams. It was like trying to see through a frosted window. Maybe I don’t have any siblings. Had I started making stuff up, testing her, before I’d even realised? No, don’t be silly. Of course, I’ve got siblings. I’ve got 4 older sisters: Anabelle, Daisy, Polly, and Margaret. We used to fight, just like any sisters. I was the runt of the litter, always the one to receive the beatings. Once they tied me to a tree. Another time I was banging on my oldest sister’s door, trying to convince her to play with me… No! They aren’t his memories, they’re someone else’s. A shadow appeared across the frosted pane of the door. It was her, the woman. I know it. As quickly as the shadow moved away from the door, the memories were gone, drifting back into the fog.


As I lay motionless in my own pool of blood I finally understood what I am. I am no Hero. Just another fool who got used by the people. When I transmigrated I thought my life would not be that boring after all. But after defeating countless Demons only to find I just killed an entire tribe in their own home. killed the Tyrant King only to realize he was the beloved King that sacrificed his life so that his people may live. After a long and hard battle, I defeated the Demon King. Only to find out she was never my enemy, to begin with. I wish I could've known the truth sooner but I was too wrapped up in my fantasy of being a hero. So when I was betrayed by the same person whom once I called a friend, I understood the fragility of my fantasy. When I was stabbed by the woman to whom once I promised my heart, I felt the reality catching up to me. When the Demon King whom I always considered my enemy show me pity and kindness, I tried desperately to deny such reality. She tried to show me the light, tried to remove the blindfold that kept me in my fantasy. Only to be brutally slain in the name of justice. Only to die in my arm with a smile and sadness. It was then my reality finally hit me. I am not a Hero. My vision was getting darker. Maybe it was my fate after I left my original world. From the corner of my eyes, I could still see the lifeless body of The Demon King. A ruler who was doing her best for her people only to be framed and killed for Human kinds greed. A woman who tried so hard to save a fool only to be slain for that fool's own mistake. As I closed my eyes full of regret I hear a voice. "It seems he is finally abandoned. Hehehe took longer than I thought. Maggots got the short end of the stick. Just like in the past. Poor thing. Such is fate. He trusted others too much. Dying with regret." An erratic voice. It echoed in the empty throne room. I opened my eyes to see. A dark erratic smoke in the shape of a human. "Oh! You're not dead yet. Hehehe truly pathetic. Waiting for death like an insect. At least you're alive. Your will is astonishing. He possesses a greater will than us. Maybe you can change it." It continued to speak in many voices. Until something suddenly held me by the throat. "Wait be gentle. Hehehe not a chance. Maggot get the hell up. Why are you not saying anything? You can do it. He shouldn't have the strength to fight back. Don't die." I was thrown at the wall at the back. ' The dark smoke was not intangible. It grabbed me by the hair and kneed me in the stomach. I have nothing to live for. Suddenly felt my entire body burning and I felt a bit of strength coming back to me. I opened my eyes only to see a rusted blade coming at me. I instinctively dodged it. My entire body was screaming as the muscles burned and bones clashed against each other. I clenched my teeth to bear the pain. "Please bear the pain. Hehehe Good. The little maggot has a bit of fight left in him. Your posture is wrong. I believe in you. Focus or you will lose that strength. Sense it." It launched at me as it stopped talking. It looked like a cloud of black smoke that was welding a rusted sword. I tried to dodge but my body refused to listen. With the last bit of strength, I summon the sword that was lying on the ground. It took three swings at me. I managed to block all three of them. But I can feel the pain course through my body. It attacked me relentlessly. I parried some, blocked some, and some skipped my guard and hit me. But I could never counter or attack. Soon I was in a sword fight with the black smoke. After some time the smoke stopped attacking. I wanted to attack but before I could lunge at it, it spoke again, "Did you notice? Hehehe blind idiot. Maggot do I need to point it to you? Calm your breathing. Give him a break. Try and counter. You're not sensing it." I was confused. Its speech patterns were erratic. The voice was distorted but felt like several people speaking one after another. But suddenly all of them shouted in unison. "Feel and sense it. You can do it." It was then I noticed. My wounds were healing. My fatigue is gone. Although my clothes were tattered I was fine otherwise. Before I could speak it attacked me once again and said in the same unified voice, "Learn, improve and adapt. Never hesitate." I didn't understand. The attack kept getting fiercer and fiercer. Until I finally realised. Each time I cross the blade my moves were becoming sharper and more efficient. The sword technique that I learnt from them was invented by the first hero and used by all the next successors. But it was incomplete. Like it was missing a piece. Yet now I can feel the piece slowly filling up. By the time we crossed blades more than thousands of times, I was already attacking and countering. I also realized that the more we fought the more the back smoke dissipated. By the time it fully dissipates we crossed the sword more than ten thousand times. The sun on the horizon set a long ago. The night was filled with the sound of battle. The sky slowly brighten up as the black figure slowly came into the view. It was then I finally realize what was beneath the smoke. His face was familiar. It was the first hero. He looked at me with a gentle smile for a second I could see his face overlapped with the Second hero. Her hair bit looked like the third. Then it dawned on me I was looking at all of the seven heroes at the same time. "So you have finally noticed." All eight voices came at the same time. They all were my predecessors. They spoke again unified. "Betrayal was the only reward we got after we got to the end of our journey. All we ever wanted was peace, adventure, to go back, to become a hero, to find love, to create a better world, to belong. Yet in the end, we were denied of it by them." I felt a tinge of pain in my chest. They gaze over to the horizon. "We are the heroes of the past, just a mere echo of their existence. We are the malice of the departed. We are their wish, their hope and their regret. We are the proof of their journey, their pain and their suffering." They looked at me with warmth and love and said, "But today we will take that malice including yours, we will take that regret including yours and fade away for eternity. But we will grant you our hope our wishes and our last proof of existence." They extended their hand to reach my face, "So please, avenge us, fulfil our wishes, live your life to the fullest." I watch as the hand crumble before reaching me. The last echo of the heroes of the past fades away with a bright smile full of hope and contentment. A small light was cast on my soul that made the world look a bit brighter. I stare at the rising sun that was bringing a warmth I have never felt. Like waking up from a nightmare, the world looked brighter and much more vibrant. Yet I can feel the loneliness as the silent breeze touched my face. I slowly walked back to the Demon King and gently lifted her body. I found a place that no one should disturb to bury her. I looked at the mangled body with red hair and two small horns came out from the side. I gently moved the hairs from her face. She shouldn't have paid for my mistake. I gently lowered her body down to the grave. I saw a few drops of water fall on her face. I look around but there was no rain. Yet the droplets felt non-stop. She was a foolish woman. She could've killed me when she had the chance. She could have saved herself. Yet she tried to save this worthless fool of a hero. Holding her lifeless body all the memories came rushing in. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry..." I have made a mistake. I weakly left her body in the grave and buried her. I put a gravestone and wrote, "Even if no one ever remembers your name, I shall never forget. I cannot forget. You're the woman who tried to show me the light. The one who until the very end stood by my side. Even if the stars die out I shall never forget your name, Anaesthesia." I looked at the sky. I heard that Miracles exist in this world that are caused by the Universe itself. Not even the Divine itself was powerless against it. So if the Miracles truly exist I wouldn't mind seeing you once again Anaesthesia. Unbeknownst to anyone a change occurred. The scattered light of a soul condensed by itself. It was a miracle that was bought by the wishes of the blessed one. The soul that was dead reformed once again in the world. ... After the Defeat of the 73rd Demon King, The Daughter of King Modus Princess Neila married the Magus Hero Kyrus. After the killing of the Fallen Hero along with the Demon king peace once again regained over the human land. But it only lasted three years. Civil unrest and rebellion caused the Largest Human kingdom to break off. Countless misdeeds of the King, Dukes and Nobel started to surface. Soon it was revealed the history of betrayal of the Royal Family. How they betrayed every hero. How they used Demons for their gain. Rumours of the sightings of the Fallen Hero spread throughout the continent but in the end, none were confirmed. Princess Neila and Magus Kyrus were stripped of their power and exiled. Soon they vanished from the public view and were never to be seen again. In just seven years humankind went from being one of the largest dominating species to one of the most fragile species. Their Kingdoms were either broken from within rebellion or conquered by other races. The battle was bloodless as almost all the novels mysteriously surrendered to the invading forces. What was more surprising was that the Elves or Orcs no matter who conquered, chose peace over bloodshed. The rumour of a man draped in cloaks manipulating everything surfaced many times but everyone scoffed at it. After a few more years, Gods have stopped responding to the prayers. It is revealed that The Statue of the Human God of Light and Justice one day crumbled mid-prayer and the priest lost their power. The summoning circle was obliterated. Fortunately, none was killed. Elves, Orcs and other races have stopped any kind of war. It is rumoured that their God has sent divine intervention to tell them to stop all war. In the end, humans have turned into nomadic species. As the world entered into a new era. An era of peace. ... "Mom tells me a story please." "Yes yes, a Story." A boy and a girl said in unison. Their mother smiled a little and asked, "Which story would you like you to hear?" The boy and girl smiled cheerfully and said, "The story of the 'Hero and the Demon King'." "Haven't you heard it like a hundred times now?" The mother said with a little sigh. "We want to hear it again." Seeing how they were very persistent she decided to tell the story again. The Story of how a human was summoned and became a hero. The kids became excited when Hero beat someone. Sad when Hero was defeated. By the time Demon king came into the story, the kids fell asleep. She smiled a little and tucked them nicely. "Honey I'm home." A sound rang out. Her smile got wider. She almost ran to him and hugged him tightly. The man ran a hand through her red hair and hugged back her tightly. She felt his embrace and snuggled a little in his arm. "We have enough food. You don't need to go out to hunt every single day." She said with a pout. He gently kissed her forehead and said, "I won't go tomorrow then." She hugged him even tighter. She then spoke, "Thank you." Then man shook his head and said in a shaky voice, "It is I who should say that to you. You sacrificed everything for me yet all I did was..." She quickly put her finger on his lips and said, "It's not your fault. Besides am I not with you now at this moment?" The man looked at her. He can never forgive himself for what he did but she forgave him that easily. She wasn't even angry, to begin with. This is why he was more heartbroken. He didn't deserve such kindness. She hugged him tightly. She knew her husband blamed himself for what happened to her. But she wanted him to forgive himself. So she said what she wanted to tell him for a long time in a gentle voice, "I never lived for myself. When I was crowned I was stripped of my free will. I always did what benefitted my race. But you showed me a different world, a different life. You taught me how to laugh. You taught me how to love. You taught me that I have a choice to decide who I want to be." She rested her head on his chest and felt his heartbeat and said in a tender tone, "You saved me. So no matter what I will never leave your side. I will always love you forever and ever. After all..." She rested her head on his chest. "...you're my hero." She can hear his heart beating faster, she could feel his body shivering and his rough breathing. He uttered nothing more than three words. But all his feelings were contained in that one sentence. "Thank you, Anaesthesia." ...


#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 Brotherhood! This week, let’s take a look at the theme of “Brotherhood”. A sense of brotherhood can be found in many places; family and bloodlines, of course, but also in a community group, an army, or even a job. Think about the type of bond formed between members in these groups, and the sense of belonging and purpose one may find there. Sometimes long-time friends can be more like family than those sharing blood. How do these relationships affect your main (or side) character(s)? How do they shape their goals and desires, and their paths? What happens when a member of the brotherhood makes a choice that goes against the group's ideals or goals? Or, when someone on the outside, maybe an enemy or a foe, practically moves mountains to draw them apart? Will the brotherhood stand strong or crumble at their feet? These are just a few things to get you started. This week, please keep in mind the subreddit rules, and treat the topic of mental health with respect. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. **Please remember to follow all sub and post rules.** You can always modmail us if you’re unsure. |   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I post the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. You can even vote on the upcoming themes on the Nomination form! - July 24 - Brotherhood - July 31 - Control - August 7 - Danger   *** **Recent Themes:** | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 12pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Come back later in the week and leave a feedback comment on at least 2 other stories on the thread.   *** #The Rules: - **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme.** You can interpret the theme any way you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and sub rules. Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. - **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalog. *Do not include anything in the brackets you don’t want in your title.* If you don’t use the correct titling format, your serial will be automatically removed by the bot. (Please note: In order for the bot to recognize your serial, you **must** use the exact same name each week. Titles can not be edited in after the fact. Should you make a mistake or forget, you will need to repost.) - **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt or post is not allowed. - **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. Stories outside the wordcount will be disqualified, so don’t forget to check! **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.** - **Stories must be posted by Saturday 12pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will be disqualified and will not be eligible for rankings or Campfire readings. - **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. - **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread each week (that’s on two different stories).** The feedback must be **actionable** and should include at least one *detail* about what the author has done well. You have until Saturday night at 11:59pm EST to post your feedback. Those who go above and beyond (more than 5 actionable, in-depth crits) will be rewarded with “Crit Credits” that can be used on our sister sub, r/WPCritique. - **Missing your feedback requirement two or more consecutive weeks will disqualify you from rankings and Campfire readings the following week.** If it becomes a habit, you may be asked to move your serial to the sub instead. - **Serials must abide by subreddit content rules.** This includes, but is not limited to, explicit suicide or suicide-note stories, pedophilia, rape, bestiality, necrophilia, incest, explicit sex, and graphic depictions of abuse or torture. You can view a . If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask!   *** #Reminders: - **If you are continuing an in-progress serial (one that you began off of Serial Sunday), please include links to the prior installments on Reddit.** Our bot will not be able to log these. - **On Saturdays, I host a Serial Campfire in our .** Join us to read your story aloud and hear other stories. We provide feedback for all those present. **We now start at 1pm EST.** You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join! - **Nominations for your favorite stories can be submitted .** The form is open on Saturdays from 12pm to 11:59pm EST. You do not have to participate to make nominations! - **Authors who complete their Serial Sunday serials with at least 12 installments, can host a SerialWorm in our Discord’s Voice Lounge, where you read aloud your finished and edited serials.** This is to celebrate your wonderful accomplishment and provide some extra motivation to cross that finish line. Authors are eligible for this only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). Visit us on the Discord for more information. - **There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server!** Be sure to grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news, including new posts and Campfires!   *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap), this does not count toward the required 2. **Nominating Other Stories:** - Submitting nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total) *Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above. Your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points. (“I liked it, great chapter” style comments will not earn you points or credit.)* ***So what is actionable feedback?*** Actionable feedback should be constructive, something that the author can use to improve. A critique not only outlines the issue or weakness, but uses specific examples and explanations to describe why it may be doing, or not doing, what it should. You can or these previous crits from Serial Sunday: | |   *** #Rankings - **First place:** - by u/rainbow\-\-penguin   - **Second place:** - by u/mattswritingaccount   - **Third place:** - by u/katherine_c   - **Honorable Mention:** - - by u/Zetakh   - **Crit Star:** u/FyeNite - **Crit Star:** u/rainbow\-\-penguin *Crit Creds are awarded to users who go above and beyond with critiques (on the thread) and can be used on r/WPCritique. Don’t forget in order to receive them, you also must have made at least one post on WPC or have linked your reddit account to the sub on our .*   *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


\Content Warning Small detail mentions of child abuse, selling people, sex slaves and illegal actions against the human body.  \  In my line of work there is little room for moral rightness. I follow the money and that is all I care for. Objects of unspeakable origins have graced my possession only to be handed off to the highest bidder. The odors of dens and whore houses I have crawled into in order to practice my trade do not linger on my clothes for very long. The trauma of my wares does not bother me in the slightest. It is not honest work and that does not bother me either. I have had many clients in the past and have never failed a delivery. Credits are traded in hushed whispers, as if the patron is shy. The things they buy would lead one to a different impression but that is not something that worries me. Everyone's money is good money. One case I am working on involves something called a “Caged Flytrap”. I had never heard of such a thing. The info brokers I have on retainer could only point me to an auction house that specializes in human goods. I am not new to this type of trade, I have obtained fresh thigh meat and full living people. I have some reservations about children, but there is little I won’t deal in. Everyone is dealt a bad hand from time to time, who am I to waste opportunities like those? There is a knock on my door. I answered it to find my hired driver waiting to take me to the Auction House. I gather my files and head out. On the ride there, I look over the little info I have. A caged flytrap is only referenced once in physical documentation. It indeed involves a living human, but aside from that there are no discernible details regarding what exactly they entail. I arrive at an alley where my driver opens the door and bids me a good time, he’s funny like that. Walking down the length of the alley, the brick walls are lined with chipping white paint that once advertised a cattle exchange yard. Just past a green dumpster sat a large iron door that seemed too well maintained for the area. Such subtleties are lost on the overprotective types. I knock on the door three times followed by a sharp cough. A thin sliding view hole squeaks open, revealing a set of beady blue eyes. “What” an echoed voice calls from behind. “It’s a lovely day for rain, don’t you think?” I responded. The door opens with a hush of air, leading to a small landing that descends into a dimly lit marble staircase. The heels of my shoes click calmly down the smooth surface of the stairs, lending to the vast emptiness of the stairwell. At the bottom, there is a small wooden door. I open the door to lead myself into an amber lit, red velvet lined room. There are already a few bidders waiting in large leather chairs facing a grand stage gilded with angelic motifs not dissimilar to an opera house. A thick black curtain is drawn over the stage. Each fold is exaggerated by bright stage lights burning their circles of yellow and blue into the void-like surface of the material. A wooden podium is silhouetted by the soft shadows cast from the ambient light. I find myself an open chair in the back row and await for the main event to start. Cocktail waitresses and waiters walk along the aisles offering sinful concoctions in scantily clad lingerie. Well mannered and polite, they show little interest in the individual person they are serving, as it should be. Such places are known for not prying too much into the personal affairs of their patrons aside from their bank accounts. I take a small glass offered to me containing an unknown but very well crafted drink and listen to the conversations around me. There is a hum around the room discussing interest in the various goods up for sale. A tall man in a fair suit exclaims his excitement for the upcoming offering of a young boy. Another woman details the last time she was here and bid on a few pounds of rump she served at a dinner party unbeknownst to her party guests. A shrill bell chimed and it was time to start the first auction. Patrons found their way to seats and awaited for the first offering. A dark eyed woman in a tasteful dress walked onto the stage welcoming everyone to tonight's event. She spoke with well chosen words and did not waste time with unnecessary pleasantries. She stood behind the podium as the black curtain opened. Placed on a black pedestal stood a mummified hand encased in glass. The auctioneer explained the piece to be the mummified remains of a well known pharaoh recently unearthed. Looking into the audience she started the bid at 2.5 million dollars. Several numbered paper cards shot up exclaiming offers. The hand sold for 6.2 million dollars. The auctioneer congratulated the woman who won the bid as the crowd clapped. Mummified remains in this market are usually ground into paint pigment and used in over the top portraits for the sole purpose to brag that it contains authentic mummy brown. Many other items were auctioned and sold including human meat, a taxidermized conjoined fetus, several sex slaves of various ages and other objects of immoral value. As the auction was winding down and the black curtains found their way back to a closed position, I got the feeling that I had come to the wrong place. I have not heard a single mention of a caged flytrap or anything related to them. As I stand up, the auctioneer announces that there was one final object up for bidding. The curtains open back up and reveal a figure covered in a white sheet. Before I could sit back down, the auctioneer pulled the sheet back. What I was seeing was not like anything I had ever seen before. My mind could not comprehend what was on that stage. The auctioneer backed up to her podium and my eyes finally adjusted to the monstrosity before me. The figure for sale resembled a young woman. She wore a tattered white garb stained with dried blood and what looked like soot. Her hands were held stiffly at shoulder height by a rough plank of wood like a pillory. Around her neck and head was a large iron cage adorned with copper snakes and butterflies. She stood motionless, gasping behind the device she was woven into. The auctioneer stated that this was a caged flytrap and bids start at 145.5 million dollars. My card shot up without thought. My client placed no limitations on this object, money was no object. “150 million” I shouted a little too loudly. The crowd looked back at me with murmured whispers. It seems they had no idea what this Caged Flytrap was. I guess we are all in the same boat. No other offers were given and I won the bid. The curtains closed over the monster and the auctioneer congratulated me on winning the bid. I walked over to the ticket kiosk to fill out the paperwork and turn in the paper card I was using. Money is never exchanged in hand at these places. Far too much to deal with in person. Bookies and brokers will deal with the cash later. I beckoned my driver to pull around to the loading bay. As I waited, two burly men walked over to me with the Flytrap covered in the same cloth as on stage. They informed me not to remove the cloth until she was delivered. They placed a heavy importance on that request. I took hold of the Flytrap’s arm from under the cover and guided her over to the car. Her skin was much warmer than I had anticipated. This was a living human after all, why had her warmth shocked me so much? I sat in the back with the product and rode in silence to my clients rendezvous point. We arrived first. It was a peaceful, railed cliff overlooking a lake. The moon hung so plumply in the sky, it seemed to drip into the water with every gentle wave. I saw headlights cast a shadow over the inside of the car and I stepped out, placing a mask over my face. Although I am entwined in the underground lives of my clients, I must keep some modesty. “Oh good God, you actually found one.” My client exclaimed. “Please, remove the cloth. I must see it.” I informed him of the strict instructions not to remove the cover until it was secured at a residence. My client agreed and admitted to being a little excited over the whole ordeal. My client's men placed the Flytrap gently in the back of their vehicle. Both me and him were looking past the horizon as the situation was being secured. “Do you know much about them? The Caged Flytraps?” My client asked. “No, sir. there isn’t much information on them in our files. I had almost thought it was a myth.” I responded. He looked over to the car with his newly acquired thing then looked back at me. “They are orphans who are taken at birth. Stripped of all humanity, dignity, touch, interaction and any other comforts you can think of.” He said. “They are abused and neglected until the point of death. This process makes it impossible for them to form personalities. They are essentially mindless shells.” I held back a gulp. Even in my field of work, this was a little too much for my stomach. “They usually die-” He continued. “The process is so hard on the body. How do you remove a soul without killing the flesh? That’s what makes them so rare. Well, someone figured it out a long time ago. The Caged Flytraps are feral but very obedient. They do whatever you ask them to. Do you know why they gave them the name Caged Flytraps?” “I couldn’t begin to wonder, sir.” “If given, they will eat humans alive. Like an animal.” He said flatly. We stood there for a while longer. He turned to his car and got in. As they backed out to drive away, he rolled down his window. “Your payment will be much higher for finding this one, olé boy. My thanks.” He said before they sped off. I waited a moment after I couldn't hear the car anymore. I retched over the railing and vomited through my mask. My driver came over with a handkerchief to help clean me up. He helped me up and to the car. I sank back into the seat and closed my eyes. “Are you okay, sir?” My driver asked me. “Yes, I’m fine.” I responded. “Just a little sea sick from watching the water.


5 June 1995 The psychiatrist walked nervously back and forth in his office, his eyes darting to the clock on the wall every few seconds. 'Where the hell is Caroline?' he muttered under his breath. Caroline Byrd, the model, was late for her appointment. Gordon Wood, Caroline's boyfriend, was asleep at home when he woke up with a start. It was then that he realized Caroline had not come home last night. He had a feeling she might be at Watsons Bay, at a rock formation called The Gap, so he headed there. At first, he didn't see anything suspicious, but then he noticed Caroline's white car. He started shouting and calling her name. His presence at the scene was later confirmed by two fishermen who were at The Gap. Gordon drove back to Sydney to pick up Carolina's father Tony Byrne and her brother Peter Byrne and they all started searching for her. The darkness was so thick that it felt like a physical presence, weighing down on the men as they carefully made their way along the cliff edge. The woman had been missing for hours, and their hope of finding her alive was strong enough to keep them going. Then, suddenly, one of the men shouted: 'Hey, I can see her at the bottom! Look!' Interestingly, neither his fellow searchers nor the police torchlight had been able to spot her before. She had been seen in the afternoon at Watson Bay by three witnesses, Carl Martin and Lance Melbourne, who claimed to have seen her at different times. Three years later, another man, John Doherty, said he had also seen her in the area from his apartment window. She had been arguing with a man while another man was standing not far from them. The identity of these people has never been found. The primary suspect became her boyfriend, Gordon Wood. However, he was having lunch with two of his friends who confirmed his presence. After that, he got a call from a businessman Rene Rivkin who asked Gordon to drive politician Graham Richardson to an appointment and to do some errands for him after that. When Gordon was done with the job, he got home at about 7 in the evening. The problem was however that Gordon's alibi was discredited later, in 2001. 'No, I wasn't with Gordon Wood, I was having lunch with Peter Moore, rugby administrator.' - he said. Still, Gordon claimed that it was he who gave a lift to Peter from a meeting with Rene to the lunch but this claim was ignored by the public. Later on, the news of her death was presented as a suicide in the media. In spite of this, her father had second thoughts about the suicide theory. Something was speaking against it but he wasn't sure what. Caroline's death was connected to Rene Rivkin's financial activities, pointed out by her father: that both Gordon and Rene might have been involved in insurance fraud and Caroline might have known about the case. Perhaps his accusations were not baseless: Rene was convicted of insider trading in 2003 which mentally crushed him leading to his suicide in 2005. Sadly, Moore was not able to confirm Gordon's story in the following years because he also died in July 2000. While Gordon claimed she had committed suicide, her father pressed the police to continue the investigation and the case was even mentioned in the parliament. In 2004, professor Rod Cross conducted a scientific investigation about the physical aspects of the falling of the body. The conclusions provided new evidence which was enough to hold a trial and the police could charge Gordon with murder. The theory of suicide also had a big emphasis in this case: it became known during the trial, that Caroline's mother, Andrea Byrne had committed suicide after a breast operation that went wrong. It was theorised that Caroline could have inherited the same tendency to commit suicide too. However, Tony denied that his sister would have killed herself. Even if she wanted to, she would not have chosen to jump from a cliff. During the trial, Caroline's psychologist, Cindy Pan also talked about her client: 'The thing is, she was suffering from depression the weeks preceding her death. She could never determine the reason for her depression though.' - she said. Rod Cross physicist spent a lot of time examining the falling based on the location of the body. At first, he stated that she could have jumped on her own but his further examinations contradicted this supposition as the distance between her body and the cliff was further than it was initially stated. According to these further developments with the involvement of testing jumps with swimmers, there was not enough running distance on the top of the cliff to get so far from the cliff. As a result, it was more probably that someone threw her. During the second trial, the location of the body became more crucial. However, it could not be established where the body was located exactly but media reports implied that Caroline could not have jumped. Gordon was caught in London and was deported back to Australia in 2006 but was released on bail. The first trial took place in 2008 but the judge announced a mistrial because of the rumour that the jury was too biased towards Gordon being guilty. A few months later there was a second trial but that did not lead anywhere as the question remained: did she commit suicide or not? After several considerations, the jury found Gordon guilty and sentenced him to 13 years in prison. During the appeal hearing, Gordon's barrister Tim Game came up with a lot of counter-arguments surrounding the theory that Gordon was the murderer. Firstly, he objected Rod Cross' explanation according to which it was impossible for Caroline to run and jump because of the lack of space. It is true that the space on the top of the cliff was limited by a fence based on the examinations conducted by Rod in 2003 but Tim proved that the same fence was not there back in 1996 yet providing more space for the jump. Secondly, Tim also raised attention to the changing police views regarding the location of the body. The inconsistency of these opinions could not provide hard evidence for the real location. In February 2012, the court acquitted Gordon. The court did not think that the evidence was manipulated and did not rule out the possibility of suicide. As for the motive, that Caroline might have known illegal procedures concerning Rene's business and Gordon killed her, was not found consistent enough either. After setting free, Gordon left Australia and moved to the US and Britain. In 2014, he sued a radio station in Sydnes and the Daily Telegraph for defamation and the court ruled unrevealed amount to Gordon. In 2016, Gordon also sued the state of New South Wales for vicious prosecution, for making false and humiliating statements by the police and for the torture he got in prison both mentally and physically. His case was dismissed.


Ah, I really need to pee. I stare at my mother's tear stained face and wonder if this is the appropriate situation to excuse myself to go empty my bladder. I felt bad having to leave her for such a menial reason, but as I watched her tears streaming down her face, I came to the epiphany that my urine would be streaming down my clothes if I didn’t use the restroom soon. “Go, go,” an auntie gently patted my shoulder, looking at me with a face of empathy. “It’s okay, the rest of us are here for your mother. You need some time too, the death of a loved one is a difficult thing to process.” I guess I looked uncomfortable, which I was, but not for the reason she thought I was. But instead of telling her that I just needed to go pee, I tried my best to return her kind words with a grateful smile but I’m sure it turned out crooked. She stroked my head lovingly, giving me a sympathetic smile before leaving me to go be with my mother among the other dozens of the women who flocked to her side during the funeral. She had cried all her tears to the point where she had vomited, literally letting everything out. Now she simply sat still next to the casket, looking numb and broken. All I could do was watch. She didn’t feel like my mother anymore, as if her soul had left with him and she left me with her shell. She always loved him so dearly. I heaved myself to the restroom, leaving behind my mother and the rest of the funeral behind me for a brief moment. Finally being able to empty out your bladder always feels great, even after someone dies. The fluorescent light flickers ever so lightly as I lather my hands in some type of ambiguously-floral scented soap before rinsing off the suds of soap with cold water, watching bubbles disappear down the drain. As I turn off the water, my eyes flicker to the mirror and. I looked awfully put together for someone who’s supposedly grieving. Should I have been hysterically crying? It’s not like the deceased was a stranger, he was my best friend. But why didn’t I feel sad? My lack of sadness was balanced by the uncomfortable feeling in my chest. It didn’t hurt, it was just uncomfortable. I stared deeper into my reflection, I looked blank. I felt blank. All I could do was stare like an idiot. Was grief always like this? I watched as my reflection opened its mouth, “Do you blame yourself?” The words were as light as the wind, but reverberated in my ears. "What?" I mutter, disturbed. It was a face that looked so much like me, a voice that sounded so much like me, but it just wasn't me. I stared at the mirror, whatever that thing was, it wasn't simply my reflection anymore. It stared at me expectantly, urging me to answer its question. Was I going insane? Is this psychosis? Or are ghosts real? "Do you blame yourself?" The entity in the mirror repeated. There was no malicious intent in its voice, or maybe I was just oblivious. “I do,” I answer. Maybe this is a dumb decision, this always how people die in the movies but I didn’t care. “I really do.” I tear my eyes away from the mirror and stare at the sink, the uncomfortable feeling in my chest magnifying. I look back at the mirror and whatever was there is gone, my own eyes stare back at me. I clutched my chest, not knowing what the hell was going on but the uncomfortable feeling in my chest was getting worse. 𝌀 “I was afraid you fell into the toilet or some shit,” my brother bumped his shoulder into mine, chuckling as he watched me stumble into a tall vase of flowers. “Why so pale? Run into a ghost?” I look back at him with a sigh, “Maybe.” I say as I try to make sure the expensive-looking porcelain vase wasn’t chipped. “It’s so weird.” “What is?” “Being at a funeral for someone you love.” “Really?” “Really,” I took a good look at my brother, the uncomfortable feeling in my chest coming back. He was still wearing that yellow shirt, contrasting from the black swarm of funeral attendees. He smiled before grabbing my hand and leading me back to everyone, “Come on, the prayers are starting soon. Mom’s looking for you.” I walked behind him, like a duckling following their mother. All I could do was stare at the back of his head, only then did the uncomfort morph into pain. “I’m sorry,” I muttered as we walked. He said nothing. 𝌀 Parents not having favorites is bullshit, and kids know. My mother always loved him more, who wouldn’t have? My golden brother, a boy as bright as the sun. I was always in his shadow but that was okay, his light was bright enough for the both of us. His shadow was a comfortable place, he always took care of me. If I had no one, I had my brother. I stared at the smiling portrait of my brother on top of his casket then turned to see him staring at it as well with a scowl. “Why’d they choose this photo, my forehead looks huge!” He clicks his tongue in distaste as he turns to me. “How could you let them, my beloved sister? You should’ve chosen a better picture!” My brother has always been overdramatic, I guess some things don’t change even after death. I turn my head down to not meet anyone’s eyes. It’s a bad look to be laughing at your older brother’s funeral, especially when no one else can see his spirit. Whether this ghost was really my brother or my imagination, I couldn’t find it in myself to care. I just missed my brother. I look away from my dead brother’s whining and stare at my alive mother, she was the one who truly looked dead. My mother and I had a somewhat strained relationship, partially due to her favoritism but I still loved her. Her anguish left a bitter taste in my mouth, the pain clawing at my ribs. Maybe if I was the one in the casket, she wouldn’t be in this state. I tried to sit through the prayers quietly, but that pain within my chest wouldn’t subside. My face was wet, I was crying. No matter how many times I dabbed my face dry they’d keep falling. It should’ve been me. That’s all I could think about, the short sentence reverberating in my mind. “Man, being at your own funeral is weird.” My brother commented as he sat next to me. I looked once more at my dead brother then at my mourning mother, I felt something break. “I’m sorry,” the word spilled out. “It should have been me.” I clutched my chest, the pain, it wouldn’t stop. All I could do was sob and repeat the sentence. “Stop!” My mother screamed, I looked up at her, her eyes were wide with horror. “How could you say- no, how could you even think that?” Before I knew it, her hands enveloped my face, her thumbs desperately wiping my tears. “Do you honestly think I’d be doing better if that was you instead of your brother?” Her voice broke mid-sentence. I stare at my mother, my mind feels numb and confused. How is it possible that she looks more heartbroken now? “Mom I’m-” “Stop apologizing!” She looked at me and I could see tears well up in her eyes. “My son is already dead, I don’t need my daughter wishing she was dead!” Her arms embrace me as she sobs, holding on to me as if she’s scared I might disappear. My vision blurs and next thing I know is I’m sobbing too. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my brother walk toward his casket. His yellow shirt gleams in the light. He turns back to me and smiles. I return it, even though my face is tearstained and smeared with snot. I close my eyes, and when I open them he’s gone.


It was dark, cold, and empty. She didn't know how long she had lain there; wounded and bound like an animal about to be slaughtered. She who was once the most powerful queen on earth, now lay battered, silently praying for death. It wasn't an incident that happened through luck. Her enemies couldn't get her with that alone. So they used what would most likely cause her to surrender, her people. She tried opening her eyes, but it was useless. She couldn't see anything. No sound was heard, which caused her ears to tingle strangely, almost making her seem like she was deaf. Her eyes closed, and then she forced them open again. She didn't know how long she had been unconscious, but it would do her right to be wide awake, especially while in her enemy's lair. "You are finally awake." A voice called out from the still silence, causing her heart to jump in fear. She looked around, her eyes widened, trying to know where the sound came from. "There is no need to try to see." The voice said, this time much closer. "Your sight has been taken from you." Pain like she had never known tore through her chest. Her eyesight, the one thing that aided her powers, had been taken away from her. She had expected to be jailed, beaten. She accepted it. But removing her eyesight was never part of the deal. "Damn you." She whispered, her voice hoarse. "You really can't blame me for this, darling." The voice called out. "All these wouldn't have happened, had you just accepted to be my bride." "I would rather die than be eternally tied to you." She spat. "I do not know what's so wrong about that." The voice said, slowly getting angry. "I love you. Can't you see that?!" She knew the voice perfectly. Could recognize it even in her sleep. To that day, she still couldn't get over the fact that someone she was very close to, could become so devoured by the hate he once fought against while he was young. She never knew if she had loved him then, but she was very sure that she would never feel anything for him, apart from the very hate that was slowly growing in her. "That is not love." She whispered. "Whatever you have for me, is not love. It's greed, obsession. To take power away from my hands, and rule my land. Sadly, as long as I live, I would never allow my people to be under your tyrannical reign." "Don't you dare dictate my feelings!" The voice shouted, causing her to wince. "You fight for the same people that would betray you in a blink of an eye." "Whether they do or not, doesn't matter to me. My kingdom is now in safe hands, free from your greedy ones." "Admit it. Just admit it." The voice said, eerily quiet this time. "You surrendered yourself to me because deep down, you still feel something for me. You wish to change me, is it not?" "I wear these chains, so that my people may live a life without knowing how it feels to have steel tied around their wrists and hanging from their bones. Not because of some perverse love for you." She said, her voice though hoarse, dripping with determination. "And if I have to do it a hundred times," she continued, "you can be rest assured that I would do it again without hesitation.


Sunlight filtered through Madeline’s eyelids, dragging her from her sleep. She blinked a few times to clear her vision and glanced over at the window, confirming that the sky was still painted in the pinks and purples of dawn. The mattress scooted across the floor as she clambered out of bed. She stretched the stiffness from her muscles as she checked all was as she’d left it in the office-cum-bedroom. After grabbing her bucket, she made the familiar journey to the library garden, tracing her fingers along the wall as she went. “Morning,” Liam greeted her in the corridor before falling into step a couple of metres behind. “How’d you sleep?” “Same as usual. You?” “Okay.” “No nightmares?” He paused for a moment before answering. “Not the bad ones. Haven’t had one of them since a week or so after getting here.” “That’s good. Do let me know if they come back.” Madeline glanced over her shoulder to fix him with a teasingly stern look. “I know what you’re like when it comes to putting on a brave face.” “I will,” Liam chuckled. She paused to remove the bike lock that sealed the garden entrance. As the door swung open, crisp air flooded inside. She took in a deep breath and stepped through, wiggling her toes in the grass that glittered with morning dew. She crossed the garden in a couple of steps and began filling her bucket from one of the water butts. “So what did you want to do today?” she asked over the steady trickle. “What are our supplies like?” “We’re good for now.” “Then I guess it would be a good day to be productive in another way.” He scratched his head as he considered the possibilities, his eyes lighting up as inspiration struck. “Maybe you could teach me the next taekwondo pattern?” Madeline couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. “Sounds good to me. As long as we fit some reading in there too.” “Of course,” Liam said with a grin. With the bucket full, she gestured for Liam to turn his back and started the process of washing herself. Her breath caught at the first splash of the cold water, but soon she was used to it. When she was done she called out, “Okay, your turn.” Respecting Liam’s continual need for space, she padded over to the furthest edge of the garden and turned her back. The rhythmic slosh of water filled the air as she studied the flowers growing out of the wall. It always impressed her how hardy some plants were, pushing their way through the smallest cracks and into the sunlight. Liam’s voice interrupted her musings. “All done!” “Great,” said Madeline, turning back around to see Liam refilling the bucket. She let him go first as she locked the door behind them, before following him to the small kitchen. While Liam started passing the water through a filter she fetched a box of cereal and the tub of powdered milk to prepare. “Ready for breakfast?” she asked when she was done. “Sure,” Liam replied, setting down the bucket. After pouring herself a bowl, she passed the cereal and milk to him and headed out of the kitchen and over to their usual table. He joined her moments later, taking his seat at the far end. Together they crunched their way through the meal, chatting and teasing and laughing as they did. \ “Alright, so this one starts just like the previous two,” Madeline said, positioning herself in the centre of the large open space in the library lobby. “You turn left into a walking stance and do a low block.” She executed the move and waited for Liam to copy. “Good. Now, you do a front kick, land in a long stance and double punch.” They went through the full set of moves together a few times. Madeline was careful not to look at him too much. She’d learnt early on in their lessons that he could concentrate better when he thought nobody was watching. But you could only get so far that way. When she was confident he at least had a basic grasp of the routine, she stopped. “Okay, you know the drill. This time I won’t do it myself so I can watch you, to make sure you’re doing it correctly.” Liam nodded, eyes resolutely fixed forward as if not looking at her helped him pretend she wasn’t looking at him. He performed the first steps well, requiring only minor adjustments to his stance, but as they came to the later, less familiar moves he started to struggle. “Okay, pause there,” she said. “With the knife hand, you’ve got to position it a little higher – like you’re aiming for someone’s neck. And try and straighten out your forearm a bit.” She waited for him to follow the instructions. “Better. But make sure to keep the thumb tucked in… Good, carry on.” It wasn’t long before she had to stop him again, and she could see the flush of frustration rising in his face. “Don’t worry,” she said. “This one is harder than the first two. And it’s always difficult at first. You’re doing well.” “Doesn’t feel like it,” he murmured. “Well, there’s only one way to get better. Now, this stance is meant to be a back stance remember, so more weight should be on your back leg… Okay, bend the knee a little more.” “Like this?” “That’s definitely better. I know it feels a bit unnatural, but you should get used to it eventually.” “A bit?” he said, lip quirking up in a teasing smile. “Hey, no sassing your teacher. Now, about that knife hand block...” As she tried to guide him through the process of correcting his position, she felt a familiar irritation at how much more difficult this was without being able to touch him. After numerous failed attempts, struggling to hide her exasperation, she finally gave up. “Look, this will go so much quicker if you just let me come over and position you myself. I know you have this thing about your space, and I haven’t pushed you on it because I’m fairly certain everyone left alive has some issues at this point, but do you think you could cope with me being a bit closer just for a short time?” She watched the conflict twist his face as he came to his decision. Not wishing to increase the pressure, she fought to keep her impatience from showing. Finally, he spoke, voice halting in a way she hadn’t heard since she’d first met him. “I think that will b-be okay. As long as it… Just not for too long.” “Thank you,” she said as she crossed the distance between them. Though Liam was tense at first, he slowly seemed to become used to her closeness. The trembling in his hands finally subsided after the fourth run-through of the pattern. After that, the rest of the lesson went much more smoothly. “Okay, one more time with no input from me. In your own time,” Madeline said, taking a step back. Pride swelled in her chest, forcing a smile to spread across her face as Liam went through the moves. Just as he let out a shout to announce the end of the pattern, a crash echoed from somewhere else in the library. Madeline whipped around, knees bending and weight shifting to the balls of her feet as every muscle in her body tensed. “Get behind me,” she whispered. Liam complied, both of them straining to hear anything out of the ordinary. A scuttling sound broke the silence.


Your cat just starts talking to you one day and you’re amazed at that fact, but after a few minutes you realize your cat is kind of boring and doesn’t have many interesting things to say, which really disappoints you because you’d think a talking cat would have lots of cool things to share. Instead, he spends an hour and a half talking to you about a piece a cheese he found on the floor one day, and the difference between cheese you find on the floor and cheese you find on the rug, and how it took him a while to eat it because he wasn’t sure if it would be good but then decided that it would be but then wasn’t sure but then decided that, yeah, he should eat the cheese and so he does and the point of the story turns out to be that the cheese was kind of stuck to the floor when he did go and eat it but he got it loose. That’s it. And before you can leave the room to do something else, the cat says that he’s working on a screenplay, well not exactly working on it but thinking about working on it one of these days, and before you know it you’ve spent another two hours listening to him talk about how sometimes he likes thinking about it and sometimes he doesn’t and the best times of the day for thinking about it, and how he wishes he had fingers because then he could type it out. Nowhere in any of what he says does he even mention what the screenplay is about. After a while you just stop him in the middle of his sentence and say it’s been really great talking to him but you have to go to the kitchen and eat lunch, but then the cat says he’ll join you, and on the way there he tells you about a dream he had last night where there was a grape but the grape was kind of someone’s house but only a few times and how he kept on eating things in it but it never tasted like grapes like he thought it would, it always tasted like wood. As you put the sandwich together, the cat is telling you about how this one time he thought he saw someone through the window and how he looked out the window and saw that actually no one was there and he had just seen some sort of trick of the light or something. As you eat the sandwich, the cat talks about the different kinds of dust in the house, like carpet dust and under-the-couch dust and corner dust and top-of-high-things dust and how all of them are different but none of them taste very good because he’s tried and no matter what you just can’t make it tasty even though you’d think it would taste great because it really smells great too, but it doesn’t. You have no idea what he’s talking about but once you finish the sandwich you take it to sink and say that it was great having lunch with him but you have to do some homework, and the cat says that it’s summer vacation, and you say you want to get a head start on it, and before he can say anything back you run to your room and close the door. A few minutes later, you hear the cat outside. Through the door he asks how the homework is going and before you can even say anything back he starts going on and on about how cats don’t have homework but that they still learn a lot just being around the house, like how one time he found a cashew and thought it was one big thing but then he swatted it with his paw and it split into two smaller things and how this completely surprised him, and then went into how he began seeing if other things split like that and began swatting things to see. As you rock back and forth on the bed hugging your knees, you have to hear the cat go through a list of everything he tried to split, from flowers to pillows to almonds to chicken bones to piles of dust, and it takes three hours to go over every last thing and you’re just so sick of this cat. Finally you yell through the door for him to please shut up. He’s quiet for a moment. And then he starts to cry. Big, loud, sobs. He says he never wanted to hurt anyone, and that all he wanted was a friend, and that he thought you were his friend but he can see he’s not wanted and that’s really sad. In fact, he spends about an hour talking about how sad that really is, repeating himself often. Eventually you feel bad and say you’re sorry you hurt his feelings and he perks up and starts a story about a bridge and you just kind of go 'uh-huh, uh-huh, right, uh-huh’ as he talks. He never, ever, ever stops.