8:45pm  I sit on the sofa, you walk through the door and I look up at you, easing my features into a smile. The first lie. You smile back. The second. You're back late, I don't ask why. Maybe I once would have, maybe once you would just have told me. There is food on the table- pasta again. It's getting cold now and you sit down at your place and I sit at mine. Always the same seats. We'll eat together tonight. We could make conversation, laugh like we once would. We don't. I want too. That's not a lie. I wish I could say that I tried then but that would be the third lie. I ask if you'd like a glass of wine, you say "No, thank you." As if we are still strangers. I want to see you smile but I can't think of anything to say. Not a single thing.  9:04pm  We clear up in silence, the practiced routine marches on. You wash, I dry. The dishes are done quickly, into the cupboard even quicker. I don't flick water at you, and you wipe the bubbles off your own nose, that was once my job- the gentle touches. We have given up on irrelevant affections which once provide a reassurance. I guess we didn't need that anymore- who else could there be. No room for such things in this tedious routine.  9:13pm  There is a dish still lying on the counter and we both reach for it. I catch my fingers against your skin. I shiver- the third lie. You look at me, properly for once. I look back at you. I want to smile and laugh together at the jarring corniness of the situation. A moment passes, you get a little sadder when you realise I will not break this silence. I look away. I should have kissed you then, done anything at all. God, I wish I had, more than almost anything. Yet the silence seems inevitable. In my distraction, I knock the plate from the counter. It breaks. You sigh in exasperation at my clumsiness which you had once found so endearing. You had told me that, years ago. Still, you sigh now, I snap at you. You snap back. Our voices rise to anger, hurling meaningless verbal assaults at each other. I know exactly what to say to push you to fury, I hate that. I stop shouting and apologise- the fourth lie. We never used to argue, we would have laughed and just cleaned up the mess, not phased by such a menial issue. Happy to spend even those few minutes together. We are so tired now, maybe we will take a holiday soon; laugh and dance around the kitchen, maybe I'll remember how to call you 'my love' when 'mine' is the fifth lie.  9:57pm  The argument is long over. You're crying again and I want you to stop. I can hear sobs echo from the bathroom, I'll pretend I don't notice like I always do these days. I used to run to you the second you looked sad, always desperate to be your hero and hated to see you hurt. Some things don't change. I would have done anything for you to just stop, except the only thing I could do. So you continue to cry in the bathroom under the pretence of brushing your teeth and I wonder whether you care that I can hear, I hope you don't. I hope you aren't angry at my cowardice. I am sorry. So fucking sorry. I swore to never make you cry, listening and doing nothing is so much worse. I hate myself every second I sit on the edge of our bed and just listen, I'm crying too I think. Neither fact is of any real consequence. I still sit there motionless.  10:00pm  You open the bathroom door. Your eyes are dry now, mine are too. I walk past you into the bathroom. I pick up my toothbrush from the edge of our sink. I look at the mirror as I brush. Darkness under my eyes, wrinkles beginning to from across my forehead. I look tired. I wonder if the mirror thinks so too and if you looked into it and thought the same.  10:03pm  I get into bed, you are already there. The routine persists as if we are only puppets pulled by some unfeeling puppeteer- moving stiffly. Your head is against your pillow, I mirror your position on mine. We lie there in our bed and we face away, justified by the presence of the books in our hands. I do not reach out to touch you, you don't reach for me either. I would usually try- the sixth lie. I hope you find comfort in the story in your hands, that the characters engage you and make you smile, a little at least. I can't focus on the words. You can't either, I know as much as I wish I didn't. So we lie in silence and pretend that it's because we don't want to talk.  10:34pm  You have put your book down. We lie in the dark now, I can feel the heat from your body seeping into the sheets. It does not know the rules of this ritual, this practiced divide. I think of how I used to pull you towards me and how you would laugh. Maybe I would tickle your ribs, I knew exactly where you were most ticklish. I remember how we used to fill this apartment with laughter and I realise I don't remember the last time I heard you properly laugh. The lovely laugh you have which starts as giggles and ends in gasped breaths. It's a bitter thought. I miss you. Even though you are a mere arm's length away and that seems foolish. I could tell you I love you, it wouldn't be a lie. Maybe that is worse. If I didn't love you this wouldn't be so painful. For the millionth time I wonder how we got to this point. Forever used to seem such a short time with you, now it feels so painfully infinite.  11:47pm  You should be asleep by now, you're tired. I know you are awake. You say my name, I almost think I've imagined it like some reach my brain has made to relieve myself from my own thoughts. It's a half-whisper- unsure instead of playful. This is not part of the routine. We both know that.  You take a deep breath and I feel mine catch at my throat.  "I'm so tired of this." You say, it's not so quiet anymore. You have rolled towards me, we face each other now.  Fear jumps through me.  "Please." It's desperate. I do not know what I am asking for. Anything, I suppose.  "Please, what?" You reply, you sound so exhausted, these whispers are so much worse than the crying or the yelling.  "Don't" I'm crying a little now, you are too. "We can fix it."  The last lie.  You pause, not for as long as I hope, I only wish for a few more seconds of this normality, how we have found comfort in it, despite it's fragility.  It is about to break.  "We can't do this anymore."  "I know." And it's the truth. I do know. We can't keep doing this, tearing ourselves apart. What I don't know how to live without you. It's a habit I will force myself to learn. We're crying harder now, I'm still looking at you, I always looked for you.  All at once we are two strangers lying in the same bed but we have been for so long, really.  "I love you." You say. It's a justification in some strange way.  "I love you." The words feel like they mean nothing, I've failed to prove them true. I remember you making me swear to never add a 'too', you'd say it was too much like an agreement instead of a confession or a promise. One last unbroken promise, a beautiful irony. I scoot towards you and you towards me with a forgotten ease. I kiss you then, too late and we both know it. I savour it still; it feels like relief. It doesn't make me feel butterflies or send electricity through me like it once did but it's still you and that has always been enough. We will fall asleep together for the last time, you run your hands through my hair in patterns which used to be unpredictable and I don't lean in to kiss you again, I simply wrap my arms around you and hope you stop crying. You smile at me, a real smile for once and I'm forced to look away; I still love you and I can only take so much. I smile back, though. I hope it looks real enough. "I'm sorry" and then "I love you", decidedly separate because I will never be sorry for loving you. I repeat the words over and over against your skin as though if I say it enough it will matter whether I'm sorry or not.


Hello! This is an expanded version of a story I posted before. Basically, I took the abstract "story" I had and added an intro and outro to it. It leans more towards traditional fantasy now, I think. While I've gone over the main portion of the story a few times, the segments I bookended it with are very much rough drafts, so it's definitely a work in progress. Hopefully you still enjoy it as it is now, however. ;)  Monster of the Lake By Thomas Bradford The cabin was dark, its smell damp from the rain. But it was warm. The old woman settled herself across from him. The fire was between them, its crackling tongues casting the dwelling’s light. Throngs of shadows danced on the four walls around them, writhing in motion to the fire’s sparks. Beneath the dampness there was another scent, faint but familiar to him. “Rosehip,” the old woman said, when he asked. Her weary voice was thin, like old reeds which have been worn through by wind and time. *Rosehip.* Impossible to find in this icy wilderness. She must have had it for some time. “You’ve been expecting me,” he said. He still wore his wolf cloak; the thick fur gave off a gentle steam as it dried. The old woman nodded. “I keep some for all my visitors, few as they are in these dying days.” He didn’t reply to this. Slowly his gaze fell from the deepened shadows of her wrinkled face to the mesmerizing sway of the flames. His eyes lifted again when she said, “You mean to cross, do you?” Both were silent a moment before he nodded. “Yes,” he answered. “I have little time to spare and no supplies to waste. I must go across and be on my way.” “I see. You are not the first to insist this. My visitors may be rare, but I have heard your words before. You are not unique, nor are you the first to foolishly trust in a sword to keep you from danger.” There was a pause, interrupted only by the distant voice of the wind outside, and the subtle whispers of the fire. The steel hilt at his side reflected the light. “I do not mean to insult you,” the old woman said. She raised a hand as if to placate him and a few of her many bracelets slid down her forearm. “I only wish to warn you off. There is danger in the path you face. Peril, the likes of which cannot be slain with metal, if indeed at all. This lake is like no other. It does not freeze, nor does it allow all who venture across to reach the other side.” He answered the grim look in her eyes with an exasperated stare. “Then warn me,” he said, “so that I may be off again, old one.” The old woman shook her head. She gathered the folds of her heavy robes and drew them tighter at her neck. “Words do not work on their own here,” she said. “This I learned a long time ago. I must show you, as well. Will you see?” Confused, he replied, “What do you mean?” “I burn the rosehip not just for the warm scent,” the old woman said, her thin voice low. She pulled a small pouch from inside her robes. “Should I add to it, you will see and experience my warning for yourself. There was another who was caught in this lake, you see, and through their eyes you will see the graveness of its threat.” He didn’t speak. They stared at each other for a time; looking into her eyes, he saw no signs of treachery. “Will you see?” She asked him again. Finally, he nodded, and loosening the drawstrings of the small pouch, the old woman took a pinch of what was inside and cast it into the fire. As the smoke in the little dwelling gathered, and enveloped him, he began to hear the old woman speak as if from far away. Somewhere across the lake, perhaps . . . \# In a forest of tall trees there is a clearing, and in this clearing is a lake. Upon the surface of this lake, you float. The forest is quiet, the lake still. Your body gently lifts and falls on the water’s surface, divided between the black depths and the cold air. This division is not equal, with your greater half belonging to the depths. Your ears are submerged, the sounds of the world muffled and distant, beyond your reach. The sky is gray, dark, with the threat of a storm that never comes, a promise of rain that is never fulfilled. A perpetual cold has seeped into your bones, leaving your soul with the longing for fire, and warmth. There is no one besides you. You are floating alone. Yet that is not entirely the truth, because there is something else. Something down below, at the end of the darkness. Something that lives in the depths of the lake, with its eyes eternally poised, searching for you. There’s something in the lake. It wants you down there with it. And now, when the waters are still and nothing disturbs the mirror of their surface, when your thoughts are content, there appears an object rising beneath you. A coil, unfurling from the black void below you. A coil of metal. A hook, rusted and dull, rising at the end of a serpentine chain cast by a corpulent hand. All is quiet, peaceful, and you never suspect the chain’s presence. Taken unawares, like the prey of a stalking animal, you are hooked by this chain. With no chance to cry out, you are pulled beneath the surface without a sound. The waters are undisturbed by your departure. Gently they ebb and flow, their reflection of the sky unbroken in your absence. More perfect. Spiraling, descending, you watch the daylight recede. First it is at arm’s length, and you can still reach for it, then the moment has passed and it is beyond your grasp. With each tug of the chain, it drifts further and further away, as you sink with the hook that has caught you. Darkness covers you, the Stygian world closing in, smothering your sight, severing your hope. You cannot breathe. The darkness is not empty. Certain things dwell there – misshapen things, not living, but neither dead. Aspects of yourself, the dark reflections that exist in you. Thoughts, memories, once forgotten but now remembered in terrible flashes. Like ghoulish specters they rise from the deep, one by one to greet you like old friends, each with a smile on its face. Smiles which bare many teeth. There is no air to scream, no chance to free yourself. Your only recourse is to cry, the tears flowing into the water around you, joining with the lake, making it stronger as you are pulled down. Down. Your only company the phantoms of time, the things you never wanted to remember, but will never fully forget. The daylight has disappeared, the surface gone from you so completely that you are uncertain it was ever real. The world below becomes your reality, the dark water and grinning faces your nightmare, and your mind is filled with the terrible certainty that you will never get out again. Everything is distorted, all clarity lost. You become convinced that if there ever was a world above, somewhere free of this dark place, that that world is not for you. That you belong out of sight, in the darkness. As you think of giving in, of stopping your struggle to let the chain pulling you take its course, one last flicker of clarity does emerge, and you wonder how many times this has happened, and for what reason it continues to happen. What is the purpose of this lake, and why are you there? The chain pulls and pulls. You’re close to the bottom. With no air to breathe, surely you should be dead by now. And yet you live, trapped in this state of suffocation, desperate and denied the salvation of a single breath. Revolving slowly, your eyes catch a glimpse below of the thing that has ensnared you. Just a glimpse, a vague outline of the monstrous creature. Something that looks human. Eyes searing with hatred, a loathing that can never be undone. It grasps the chain, a murderous intensity in its eyes, in that grip, in every movement it makes. This creature wants you dead. It wants nothing more than for you to end. This thing exists because you exist. Its life is tied undeniably to yours, and yet it wants you to die. It does not care, for its sole purpose in being is for you to suffer, and ultimately cease to be. To meet this creature, to descend to the bottom of this lake and stare into its pale face, is to mean your death. Until then, all your efforts will be distorted, reshaped into ridiculous failures unworthy of note. All your dreams will be taken from you, smothered in their cribs while you watch in silence. Perhaps you will fall to the lake’s bottom one day. Perhaps the monster will win in the end. But today the hook’s hold on you isn’t strong enough, and you slip free. Terror takes hold as you flail, scrambling back to the surface, to pull yourself out of this nightmare. The monster remains where it is, for it is patient and sure that one day it will have you. Your ascent from the terrible deep seems never-ending, and you are afraid the surface might have been something you dreamed a long time ago. Or that perhaps the darkness has irreversibly changed you in some way, spoiled you, and now you can never return. You don’t see the surface appear before you. There is no long and ardent journey towards some far-off light. One moment you’re still mired beneath, with the voices and whispers from the past pressing around your head, each getting its final say in before you pass from their domain. Each phantom grinning and chuckling at your pathetic motions. And then you are out, once again floating at the surface, without a splash or a loud gasp for air. You’re just back, like nothing had happened. The chill air drying your face is the only indication you ever left. No relief at your escape, no thankfulness to still be alive – your mind runs with one terrible certainty: It will happen again. Sooner or later there will be another hook, another chain, and you will be pulled under again. True escape will never be possible. You are trapped in this place, trapped in this cycle without end. No. A cycle with one end. The quiet is broken by your screams, the peaceful air filled with your wretched cries. There are people standing at the edge of the lake. You didn’t notice them before, but you see them now. How can they not see you? How does your screams, your thrashing, not get their attention? But they do see. They are not blind. All around the lake’s perimeter the people stand in silence, watching as you struggle, listening as you wail and cry, unable to save yourself. Some of the people have never swam these dark waters; others know the dangers. None can help. They’re consumed, all of them. Concerned with their own problems, their own dreams. They don’t have time for yours. Some of the people leave, disappearing into the fog and the trees, perhaps to wander into lakes of their own one day. The others look away, and hope that your cries will end soon. \# The fire had died. No sounds came from outside, be it rain or wind, and when he turned his head he could see daylight peeking around the hanging hides of the cabin’s entrance. “The night has passed,” the old woman confirmed. She still sat across from him, her legs folded beneath her. Her eyes were closed, and her voice sounded more fragile and timeworn than ever. “The lake beyond this cabin is not quite the same as the one you saw, and felt. Nor is it entirely different. You will not find anyone floating in its center. But I believe, if you were to swim into its depths, you would find a creature that should not exist in this world. One that exists, instead, in many. “Thus my warning to you is given, and thus you may be on your way.” The cabin was cold. No trace of warmth lingered in the air, nor remained in the lining of his cloak. Rather than inquire further, he simply rose from the floor, feeling the slowness of his joints – awakening after hours of dormancy – as he did. He made to leave. “Do you still mean to cross?” the old woman asked from behind him. Turning his head, his hand resting on the heavy hides, he said, “I’ll go around.” With that, he pulled the flaps aside and left the cabin.


Link to the prologue - Link to Part II - She sat stunned, looking at the readout on the monitor. She was not willing to, unable to accept the implication of the data. But Cassandra Alexander had rechecked her findings three times. She had read the notes. She had done the calculations. There could be no mistaking. "This explains the failure at the particle accelerator lab," she thought to herself. "And at the *Lovell Museum*. And, dear God, the *Sea of Tranquility Observation Dome*." But why? Professor Faith Carr was one of the most respected researchers not just at *Zenith*, but probably on the entire moon. Was she capable of going to such lengths to cover her tracks? Did she really hate Nick that much? "*Why*?" She opened another document on the data chip and read. "'*Hestia-3*.' She actually gave the damn thing a name," she whispered to herself. Cassie thought the name sounded like something from Greek mythology. She did a quick search on her PDA. *Hestia* as it turned out was the Greek Goddess of hearth and domestic life. How sickly ironic, she thought. Hestia-3 works at the molecular level. It slowly weakened a standard, five-inch thick haloplex window or container over 5 to 10 hours. Then, sudden failure. "This could be an assassin's wet dream for God's sake," she said aloud. The entire base had been on edge after the S.O.T.O. Dome failure. Everyone believed there was a logical explanation. Sure, there was loose talk about sabotage or a serial killer. However, such ideas were relegated to some obscure forums on the base network. The very idea of an off world serial killer, a first, was too farfetched to take seriously. But a jealous wife? "Why not?" Cassie asked herself as she mulled over the idea. Professor Carr has been intimating for months that she thought Nick was having an affair hasn't she? Cassie recalled dinner at the Carr's the month before. It had started out pleasant. The Carr's had very nice quarters. They were cavernous compared to her three-room hovel. It was one of the benefits of being a highly regarded, senior researcher. Cassie always appreciated being invited there. Things were fine until Faith made that remark about the "leggy brunet" she thought she saw leaving their quarters earlier in the day. Nick seemed amused and took it for a joke. "Not *her* again" he had said with a chuckle. He gave the impression this was not the first time the subject had come up. Professor Carr however showed genuine irritation at his dismissive attitude. For her part, Cassie had let the uncomfortable moment pass and immediately tried to forget about it. However, even if Faith was right. Even if Nick had become a lecherous, cheating, scumbag, she didn't have the right to kill him and his mistress. Nor the ten people who were victims of her "field tests." Under different circumstances, Carr's research and creation would easily have won her a Nobel at the least. She had meticulously documented her research like she was going to make a grant proposal. This brilliant woman had found a unique way to improve haloplex. Then, she turned it into a tool for murder. Safety protocols at *Zenith* and nearby bases had been strengthened since the decompression at *Tranquility* that cost those seven lives. Consensus seemed to be building that a flawed lot of haloplex windows had been produced and installed around *Zenith*. With the recently completed base expansion and renovations, it seemed plausible. Base authorities were assuring the populous that if true, any other windows or containers could be identified via serial numbers and replaced. Haloplex production was tightly monitored and controlled. Everyone knew that. Moreover, the fact two of the three failures had been at interior locations kept people from walking around in vac suits. The death of three people in lab accidents, while tragic did not hold the same terror as death in vacuum. Now, as she sat there alone in the Structural Analysis Lab, Cassie could not see an easy way forward. She could not just make a wild accusation. Carr was head of a major department. She was good friends with several of the base senior administrative staff. And she was her mentor. She wouldn't even be at *Zenith* if it were not for her.


I love winter. I do social commentary occasionally, on a site built by my friends. Sometimes we go to protests, talk to activists and listen to speeches made. These speeches are usually reflective of a movement, as it appeals to a certain audience. Their speeches were not made to speak to those who are not listening, but to a specific selection of preferences and beliefs. It is not likely that I could understand these speeches completely, as my only purpose in this country is to study here. Yet it does not stop me from enjoying my stay. I enjoyed when the gust crushes my spine, when the coldness wets my socks. These rallies are hours long. Do their speeches mean anything to me? As you can see, the coldness distracts one from the speeches made. I adore bald trees and frosty mornings. I met her at one of these mornings, on a field trip held by a local left-wing group. The harshness of winter drives excitement into my otherwise uneventful life.  “How’s your friends and family back home?” “My fiance is seeking asylum.” “Is he okay?” “...”, “I hope he will.”  It was a numbing night. She reminds me that I could be very alive, she shares my appreciation of freezing winters. It was when we talked about the mystical, and were realised right in front of our eyes. Men are cursed by their own being, such as belief. In my opinion it is not truth that we care about, but of what we choose to believe. Worship becomes understandable when one looks at the sublime, stars and silent forests. They are infinitely far away. Yet it could be seen. If we can conceive the heavens, how could God not be real? Despite our own mortality, our imagination of the sublime provides agency. My love of winter came from my desire for agency. I wrote her a poem shortly after the trip. To be honest, it was a piece of shit. It was something about Greek mythology and Bruegel’s paintings. Speaking as the minotaur, as he looks onto Icarus’ fall, while he rots at his own labyrinth. I spoke as I watched her wings burn, but no one really cares about the minotaur, nor do the moth who flew into the fire. Another reason why I love winters is because I hate my sweat. Cold weathers are therefore perfect to eliminate these beads of embarrassment. I have a high metabolic rate, my discomfort shows through my sweat. Of all the signs that allow one to read me, my sweat tells the most obvious stories. My sweat melted away any sort of facade I had, melting into the sheets while my ego disappeared in her warmth.  “Let me give you what you want.” “What do I want? Why are you asking that?” “Because I love you?”  Her partner came to the country in September, not an event I am totally fond of. The winter grew harsher, I am not necessarily in love with the pain, but the thought that I might come out of this unscathed. Winter was not an exception for me to skip swimming back when I was in high school. The unheated pool water always pinched and gnawed at me until I was finally awake.  “Are you leaving?” “Yes, I told you I have to leave by 10.” “Please don’t?” “You know I cannot stay.”  I would always tell myself the water is lukewarm, and that I am comfortable suffering the unbearable cold. Swimming usually heats one up, as I was jumping up and down underneath her dormitory on one of the chillier nights. I called her to come down for a cigarette.  “Do you want to grab a cig?” “Yes sure, let me ask him first.”  This is probably the reason why I like winter, because I can tell myself that this cold might not be unbearable after all. I was telling myself the streets were not too cold, that my ultimate goal is to see her, the rest are irrelevant. Who she is with, who she wants to be with, nothing is important compared to seeing her. Despite my confidence in maintaining temperatures, my body never obliges. I would willfully heat up myself to bear this bleeding cold. My nose would irritate from temperature changes and sneezing would become a recurring theme for the day. I detest the bitterness of winter. There are unchangeable things. The pool water would always be at 12 degrees, the breeze would always sting my dried up skin, the nights would always dim at 5 pm. Despite how I tell myself how I enjoy winters, the coldness still remains and there is nothing I could do about it. She is always going to leave by 10, despite how much love she has for you.  This is denial, my naive rejection of determinism. I remember being asked why I like to suffer, it is because of my sheer confidence that I believe that “I” will not suffer despite the circumstances.


I once had this bud from high school, his name was Brandon. He was a tall, muscular football player, he was handsome and had a pretty average personality. I was also on the football team with him and had driven him home when he didn't have a ride so we were kind of friends. I moved though, and I didn't see him at-all until I came back to town for my mothers funeral. It was a sad journey and me my wife and 4 year old twin girls Anna and Anne and baby son called Liam planned to stay there a few days so I could show my family my hometown and just mourn for a bit. The town was small, so no hotels. So I rented a place to stay from some username called 'SulkyBoy34' who had pretty good reviews except some high hippies saying they saw someone moving in the dark. I didn't belivie those kind of things though, and when we got there I was very suprised to see my old pal, Brandon. "Oh, Heya Mark. Didn't know that you were staying here." He smiled, and brought me into a hug. He hugged my family and I joked, "Heya bud. How ya doing SulkyBoy34?". He laughed and said "Brandonfootballgod was taken". We had a nice chat inside the normal home. I learnt he had a girlfriend in France who he was visiting and he was a little low on cash so he was renting out his house. He also told me his girlfriend who he didn't mention the name of was expecting very soon that's why he was going in such a rush. I told him about my family, and we drank coffee together while the twins played and my wife unpacked our bags while dealing with our youngest. I felt bad leaving her to do the work but she assured me it was fine, and wanted to let me catch up with my mate. He had to leave soon though and quickly grabbed his bag and told me he left me a gift for the kids in the basement of his one floor house. I thanked him and my wife told me she would get it so I started to make some food for the twins while preparing formula for Liam. Ten minutes later, I called out for my wife. "Lila..are you alright? need some help?". After she didn't answer I put the girls down but my son refused and started waling so I held onto him and went down into the basement. I took each step carefully not wanting to drop Liam, or alarm Anna or Anne. "Lila this ain't funny anymore." I said again, nearly slipping on some dismantled mop. "What the hell?!" I whisper-shouted. I pushed open the heavy metal door and I could barely see my hand infront of my face it was so dark. I could hear a low hum and I assumed it was the generator or the heating, something like that. I went out a bit further ignoring the pounding of my heart. "Lila?!" I shouted, my voice cracking a bit. I was scared now, but what was I supposed to do?. I sighed, maybe she had left the basement ages ago and I just didn't hear her. "LILA IF YOUR IN HERE TELL ME IM LEAVING NOW." I yelled, and with no response, I turned to leave. Until something grabbed my foot! I turned horrified and frantic to see a slimy and oozing hand latched onto my shin, by now my son was crying sensing my fear and the danger. I felt powerless as I uselessly kicked the hand away while yelling for my wife. I didn't want to leave her in with the..creature but what could I do?. I kicked the hand with my other foot, almsot losing my balance. theres a pained howl from the monster and It lets go, It's now or never. I dash up the stairs, I do look back though. My wife is gone though, the love of my life. The twins are oblivious playing with their dollhouse. "Girls, Daddy has to do something. Look after your little brother please." I told them, grabbing some locks I had packed. I can't renember the reason now but I'm sure as hell glad I did. "Ok!" Anne and Anna said at the same time, not the freakiest thing I had seen that day. "Ok your'e so good." I smiled, my voice shacking and I kissed all my kids foreheads tenderly. Not like me atall, the burly strong football player but I could never see my kids again and I loved them. I locked the basement door, wanting to make sure whatever that hell monster was could never get out. I ran out the house like a crazy person and got straight into my car and made my way to the airport. I know it was irresponsible to leave infants alone but the airport was five minutes away and I needed to kill that son of a bitch. The next flight to France...Leaves in 5 minutes I read. And with red blurring my vision I found Brandon, waiting calmy. I pounced, furious at his peace. I scratched at his eyes, right hooked his face, ripped his hair out did anything I could. I was being torn off him by secruity and exhausted, I stopped resiting. "WHAT WAS THAT FOR?" Brandon yelled at me, his face red and disfigured paramedics trying to help him, Brandon refusing. "Brandon what have you done....?" I choke, my eyes welling up with tears. He has just killed my wife and now my kids are probably dead because of my stupidity and anger. "What?" he spat at me. "BRANDON MY WIFE WENT DOWN TO GET THE 'GIFT' YOU LEFT US WHICH IS SOME MONSTER WHO ALMOST KILLED ME AND HAS PROBABLY KILLED MY WIFE AND WILL PROBABLY KILL MY CHILDREN. I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIENDS AND NOW YOU HAVE RUINED MY LIFE YOUR A FUCKING MONSTER THATS WHAT YOU ARE YOU DISGUSTING PHYSCO!!!!" I screamed, my voice red and sore. He stared at me and smirked. He had the nerve to smirk at me...after what he did??. I opened my mouth to yell at him some more but he laughed, cold and cruel. "I don't know what your talking about." He said, eyes so innocent but filled with lies. I collapsed, on the dirty airport floor, I ended up in police custody and my kids were taken to be put in the system, because they needed a 'stable' family. And I wasn't even allowed to go to my own mothers funeral or my wife's. Brandon ruined my life.  Thank you for reading, sorry if there are a-lot of spelling mistakes and rookie errors.


#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 and areas in which we excel, as well as places we’d like to improve. So I’d like to present a brand new weekly feature. This will be a weekly thread to discuss all things writing! And… to get to know your fellow writers a bit! Each week I will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion. Feel free to chime into the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, etc. You do not have to answer all the questions, but try to stay on-topic! *** #This Week’s Roundtable Discussion - **For this first week, let’s get to know each other a bit. Introduce yourself! Tell us a little about yourself and the things you enjoy writing!** I’ll start us off. I’m Bay and I *love love love* all things horror, thriller and suspense, whether I’m reading it or writing it! I also really enjoy dabbling in lit-fic. I enjoy exploring atmosphere, mood, and (especially) emotions in my writing and how they affect character behavior. **Additional Questions this Week:** - **What are your preferred genres to write in?** - **Are there genres you’d like to try but haven’t? Why haven’t you?** *** #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/discussion in any form will not be tolerated. - **Please try to stay on-topic.** If you have suggestions for future questions and topics, you can add them to the stickied comment or send them to me via DM or modmail! *** ###Subreddit News and Happenings - Come practice your micro skills on or experiment with long-form writing on - You can also post serials directly to the sub! Check out for more information.


It was a cold and wet afternoon, typical of January. The whole of her observation was washed out, gray and drab. As she walked down the street in her teal rain slicker, she kept her head down and studied her shoes. The way the water puddles splashed and rippled with her passing was pleasing to eye and ear, and it got her thinking about volumes and object displacement in water. She moved instinctively along, minding no street signs but instead strolling by an internal map of the town that was her whole life. She was born there, eighteen years and three hundred and sixty days to the day, and she knew that innately, too. Her parents were biblical folks and her name came from the Bible, though she herself had concluded the Christian God to be a lie by the age of eight. That was kept a secret, as well as the ritual in which she now partook, for they always insisted she not leave home unattended. Her name is Magdalene Pitcher. The town is New Canterbury, Illinois. The date is January the fifth, nineteen fifty. In five days she will be eighteen and in one hundred and eighty two days she will graduate high school at the top of her class. These were all dry facts that buzzed around her brain like flies, trapped and incessant. Knowing the numbers and the dates and the times unsettled most people she knew, and so she was left alone most days. That was fine, by her reckoning; It’s not that she couldn’t or wouldn’t like people, but all things considered she preferred solitude. She also despised ignorance, more specifically the willful kind, of which there was an abundance in her little world, and that made it easy to not open up too much. She came to her destination, a neat brick building of two stories that sat on a grassy incline. As she raised her head up to take to the concrete steps, her mind was inexplicably pulled to something well behind her. She turned, looking across the street, where there was a little place where her dad liked the coffee and a barbershop that he hated. It was just starting to rain, again. There was a gap between the two, a narrow little alley, and she got the unshakeable feeling of being watched from it. Of course, nobody could be seen and after a few long intense moments the feeling abated, and up the steps she went, not so much gripping the iron railing as she was running her hands down it to wipe off the rainwater. The town library was her castle, her paradise and her shelter, and the librarian Miss Ghariff silently greeted her with a nod as someone who knew Magdalene best. She returned the gesture with one of her own before strolling on, past the desk, into the rows, eager to get lost once again. The smell of stale paper was her perfume, the weathered spines of shelved books her rainbows. It was something of a personal quest to read every single book there, and she took it quite seriously. She was in the midst of Hemingway now, and reached gingerly for “Farewell to Arms”, when that feeling of eyes on her person crept in again. She was alone in the aisle, and nearly alone in the whole of the building, yet there it was, something wandering on the fringes of her peripherals. Was someone following her? Perhaps her parents were right, not that there was much to do about it now. She turned her head first left, then right, then twice more both ways. Nothing once again. It was at that time she spied something curious and unfamiliar. Atop the bookshelf poked the corner of a hardcover, just so that it could be seen only by an attentive eye. Someone had left a book up there, through carelessness or jest, most likely. That upset her, that choice to be rude to a woman that had done nothing to them by giving her extra work. It had to be corrected, and Magdalene quickly decided to do so herself. Thankfully, the shelves came with ladders, and she ascended up, already priming to read the title and author and determine its home through memory. When her eyes met the cover, however, she was suddenly transfixed. It was no book she’d ever spied before, not in the library or anywhere. It was a decently weighted tome, about nine hundred pages or so, by eye. The skin was thick and leather bound, tanned dark brown and rugged. The spine had bands of illuminated gold that ran around to the front, and the latter was like a thing onto itself. The cover was studded with little silver colored points like the heads of nails, forming the impressions of several dotted rectangular borders in a motley pattern. In these borders, at the center of that mystifying surface, was what looked to her a theater mask. It was alabaster white and milky in luster and the size of a large jeweled pendant, like the sort she’d seen in her mother’s catalogues. It had no eyes, a long slender nose and stout full lips, and when she curiously reached out with her fingers she found it raised like a bas reliefs few inches from everything else. It felt smooth like porcelain and absent of dust, and the latter fact intrigued her perhaps most of all. Reason dictated it to be some manner of artwork, personal and handcrafted, and to leave such a thing would be quite the personal coup. There was no lock or clasp to imply a private recollection like a journal or diary, and when she picked it up carefully to study it further, no mark of ownership or hint of a title could be found. Eagerly, she opened the cover, hoping perhaps to find a name stenciled in the margins. There was none, not even a dedication or foreword. Magdalene took the work down in her arms and weighed options. Such a thing had to be precious to whoever idly forgot it. She briskly made her way to the librarian, reasoning the best course of action would be to leave it to Miss Ghariff, but as she strode out of the aisle, she slowly froze. She looked the thing over, thumbing its surface. It was about the prettiest thing she had ever seen, a true work of art that set her mind ablaze with its craftsmanship. To leave such a masterpiece was criminal. Perhaps, at least, she might peer inside? Surely there was nothing wrong about just a peek. Satisfied with her own reasoning, she went to the nearest reading table and gently laid it down, sitting in front of it. She took a breath of anticipation, and, with one last look in both directions, opened it to a random page. A bitter confusion welled up as her eyes studied the contents. The paper was neatly handwritten in a script that was assuredly not English, or even of the alphabet. Approximately thirty or so crisp lines of black text, or what certainly seemed to be text, sat at the top of the page, and from the middle to the bottom was an illustration equally puzzling. It was an incomplete circle, basically full save for the very top. In the center of this non-circle was a dot and through the dot was a straight line segment that came to rest just outside the confines of the unfinished circle. The whole scrawling was done up in a deep red that evoked fresh ichor and the longer she looked the more it seemed to hypnotize with its inscrutable simplicity. Shakily, a hand reached up and the lead finger gently touched that central line and traced it. What pushed her mind to this act she couldn’t say, but something extraordinary occured when she did: The paper seemed to shift and brighten, like embers in a fire! So startling was this impossibility that she pushed the thing straight off the tabletop. The silence that followed was so palpable that she didn’t notice at first that she was trembling like a leaf. She blinked, broken from a trance, and slowly looked down. The book was on the floor, and seemed for all intents and purposes to be fine and ordinary.. Almost staggering, she knelt to scoop it up, and in that instant, she felt it again. That haunting, invisible gaze, and without thinking, she grabbed up the book, and ran, harder and faster than she ever had before. The journey home was a rainy blur. Her lungs felt stabbed and her heart pounded faster than thought. She was soaked too, with the book tucked up to her chest, and her first instinct upon entering her bedroom was to check it well. No obvious tears or water damage, but looking it over reminded her of what she’d just done to have it, and that made her put it down ever so slowly on the bed. Social ineptitude aside, she’d always been extremely well behaved; She spoke when obliged, opened doors for others, and avoided reckless behavior like the plague. Now she’d stolen, and more than likely had been noticed while doing so! This was of course compounded by whatever it was that the book had done, that impossible phenomenon when she instinctively traced the lines of that emblem. Magic was a thing of fiction, like the lands of Oz she’d been read about in her earliest recollections. It had to be a trick, some optical illusion, sparked perhaps by some trick of the ink used, and the sensation of fear naught but compounding bad luck. The deed was done, and she now had the ill-gotten prize, so why not take another look? Magdalene reached a hand down and gripped that fine cover and pulled it open. The pages were jaundiced and softened on the edges and corners. She leafed through the paper, seeing more inscrutable symbols and incomprehensible characters, and it struck her that the ink was inexplicably fresh-looking despite the apparent age of the medium on which it was printed. In places, whole pages were given to illustrations equally puzzling and disturbing. One in particular had her breathless and wide-eyed. It was illuminated in borders of that shiny fresh red flecked with a lustrous metallic she couldn’t name, and in its borders was a thing in the vague shape of a man’s torso. It was black as night, so tall it seemed constrained by the borders, and anorexic in build. Out of its abdomen sprouted no arms or legs, but long black tendrils that whipped in flailing shapes at the confines of the piece, like the latter was a cage. The head, too, had those strange appendages, but they were fewer and evoked the image of the Gorgons of Odyssey. It had no facial features, just a void where a face logically ought to be, and the whole of it was so black it reflected no light shined on it. The strike of thunder outside snapped her from viewing, and she quickly turned the page while her wits were freed. Nothing was right about the book, and it seemed the most logical course of action would be to return, apologize to Miss Ghariff, and hope for forgiveness. However, there was one more thing she hadn’t yet tried, and that reality dogged her. She flipped through the pages again until she found it, that incomplete circle with the dot in the center and the line crossing it. It couldn’t have been real, so she reckoned, yet the thought of repeating it to be sure was petrifying. There was no magic, no presence, just her mind being swayed by some eccentric’s artistic vision. The downpour outside was very loud now, and when she looked out the one small window in her room there was nothing but water and grey darkness. Long moments passed, until finally, she worked up the nerve. Her lead finger gently pointed and pressed to the old parchment, just as before, and slowly, certainly, she dragged it along that line. Just as before, the paper seemed to come alive, and in that instant, she noted that she could actually read the text. It was still in that cuneiform of unrecognizable origin, like it was something she’d forgotten and now suddenly recalled with perfect clarity. So, she moved back to the first page, and she began to read. The text was something akin to biblical teachings, history mixed with allegory and instruction, but it was far from that of King James. It presented the Earth as ancient, far older than anyone she knew believed, and man was but a relative newcomer. Indeed, it asserted that there were sentients much older than man and smarter too, and these beings in fact still lived, though not in the way humanity understood living. They were invisible, imperishable creatures, born from the swirling chaos of the cosmos and came to settle upon the Earth from ancient meteorites. These “Hidden Ones”, were beyond life and death, but craved the former, and so fed on life since life began. Even now they drifted through the halls of civilization, undetectable except to those sensitive few that could peer them in daydreams and visions, and taking as they pleased. Their victims seemed to simply wither and die, giving all appearance to some natural passing like their hearts had simply stopped beating. She rubbed her eyes, stupefied. It had to be nonsense, but something about it all inexplicably rang true. She read on. That mural from before was an attempt to capture one of these Hidden Ones in a comprehensible medium, but the book stated outright that to truly capture the horror of a Hidden One’s visage was impossible. Then came the next passage, and here she found herself near hyperventilating, for it told of telltale signs of a Hidden One stalking, and among them? - The sensation of being watched by something unseen and unheard. A knock on the door set her jumping from her bed with a fright. She looked to the window, and saw it had grown quite dark, and a familiar voice called from beyond the door. It was her father, fetching her for dinner. Thus suddenly snapped back into normalcy, she set the book down, and came to the door. He looked concerned, for while it was routine that she remain in her room for hours at a time, he told her plainly that she looked frightened out of her wits. She lied, assured him it was just a horror novel, and quickly made her way to the dinner table, where she did not touch a single edible thing. Her family talked, but it was like they were in another room, muffled and unimportant. She stared into space, unblinking, thinking about Them. Were They here, among them now? She felt nothing in her peripherals, but that did little to assuage the creeping paranoia. It was the brusque tone of her brother now that got her attention, and as they came into focus, she found them all staring, looks of worry on their faces. She quietly said she wasn’t hungry, and asked to excuse herself, getting up before permission was even granted. Back to her bedroom she fled, and with the door shut, she went immediately back to the book. There had to be more- answers, and perhaps, solutions. Why else would someone commit such information to a book that could be read by anyone with the instinctive compulsion to investigate its contents? Time and space melted away, just her and the book, page after page. Magdalene shot up from her bed, sweating and near blind in the utter darkness. Her vision darted about, and found the book still half-resting on her lap. She must have dozed off while reading, and it had to be very late. She stood up and came to the window, looking out for anything. Drenched blackness greeted her, not a star in the sky, and even The Moon was absent. It was in that umbral space, after a long moment of straining to parse any light at all, that her hair stood on ends. She felt it, that gaze, but now no particular direction beckoned. Her heart began to thump, and she turned all around, hoping to somehow dispel the fear by showing herself that none but her stood in that room. It was to no avail, and suddenly, a knock at the door. It couldn’t be anyone, not at this hour. It was a trick, it had to be. They knew that She knew, and that could not be abided. Another knock-knock-knocking. So urgent, and sharp, yet no audible call, though she dare not reciprocate a thing. What could she do? There were no weapons, as if mortal arms could harm Them. Knock-knock-knock. The book had no solutions, and had brought her into Their midst. Was it all a trap? A lure for sport? The knocking grew louder and louder, matching her heart. The window! She grabbed the book, for all the good it had done her, and raced back to that portal. No time to open it, she threw herself forward with the book in her face. All sound was deafened by a great crash, and then, nothing at all. The vanishing of Magdalene Pitcher was the talk of New Canterbury for years to come. Her family only heard the shattering of a window in the dead of the night, and when they came to the source, they found her gone. A neighbor swore that she saw the girl running barefoot and screaming in the rainy darkness as they were roused to their own window following the noise. The librarian too reported how the girl had left the library in a panicked sprint the day of her apparent flight. A search of two weeks proved fruitless, finding only a curious little pile of ashes in the nearby woods, warm from a fire. All that remained of whatever was burnt was a curious little stone, white like porcelain and shaped into a eyeless face. Even now, the locals speak of occasionally seeing a girl running in the dark, barefooted and shrieking of hidden beasts coming for them all. Few remain to tell of the actual event. Miss Ghariff, the neighbor, and indeed the entire Pitcher family passed over the decade, heart attacks, one and all.


The fire was a mistake. Without shelter it seemed the best option to keep the night at bay. Most creatures in the forest feared the unfamiliar though some were drawn to the foreign glow. First came the insects. Together, their chorus filled the forest, all trying to be heard above the rest. They crawled, stung and bit. Sleep seemed impossible despite such exhaustion. Nell sat up and brushed off a spider as it crawled up her leg. She turned to Jeremy who had been keeping watch and found him propped against a stone sleeping soundly. She didn't see the point in waking him to say she would take over for the night, though she was frustrated enough to consider it. They were still days away from civilization and Nell knew sleep would find her eventually. Jeremy kept direction and Nell feared their fate should he make a mistake. A crow landed on a nearby branch and regarded Nell with one black eye reflecting the fire. They sat watching each other. Nell's blinks each became longer and her head fell slowly to her chest. A "caw" startled her awake. Nell found the crow still perched on the branch, thrusting its neck forward as it called frantically. Nell met its eyes again before it took flight passing close enough to the fire to spread the ashes. She watched it disappear into the night. There, two yellow eyes appeared in the void. Nell froze as an outline approached the fire. A long, skeletal cat carried the crow twitching in its mouth. The feathers appeared off-black in contrast to the cat’s coat. Jutting ribs made the creature appear half starved. Large, flat ears were folded together circling the gaunt face, they dropped down covering its eyes. Wide hooked claws protruded inwards from the paws and the cat crept forward on their edges. The creature’s silhouette remained clear as darkness refusing the light of the fire. Nell positioned herself behind the fire and cried out to rouse Jeremy. She looked to him for only a moment as he awoke confused. The cat was gone. "What the hell's the matter?" Jeremy demanded. The color had drained from Nell. She stared into the darkness beyond the haze of the fire. After a time, she replied emotionless; "It was the kingyan. Right there. It saw us." Nell rounded the fire. Two dark feathers sat beside the stones. "You're sure? You haven't slept, Nell. They're legend at this point; a story to keep children from wandering into the woods." Jeremy tried to convince himself as he gathered his makeshift spear and hurried to Nell's side. Nell knelt and with a finger she traced at a faint crescent shaped track left in the dirt. "Did you see its eyes? Nell! Did it look you in the eyes?" Jeremy demanded. "It did. We're dead already." She held a feather, examining it intently. "Get up." Jeremy pulled her to her feet. The feather fell slowly and a breeze took it into the fire. He stood behind her so that their shoulder blades touched. "Eyes open, always. We can't leave a blind spot and we can't lose focus for a moment." Leaning against Jeremy, Nell tried to compose herself. The image of the kingyan haunted her. She didn't believe in them. They were an omen. A perfect predator named the god of death. There is said to be no escape once the kingyan chooses its prey. They show themselves only once, supposedly, giving the dead a final opportunity for prayer. Adrenaline coursed through Jeremy as he stood still searching the night. He regarded the fire for the span of a blink. Without the light they would be defenseless. Thankfully it would not need to be fed again before morning. He could feel Nell shaking behind him. Alone they wouldn’t stand a chance. "We can escape this, I know it." He lied. "Someone must have survived. We were warned." Jeremy began to believe his own words. "The river! We can make it to the river in a day. Nell, don't you give up now. Are you watching the trees?" Leaves shifted in the breeze and the unsteady dance of the flames threw shadows in all directions. Nell pushed hard against Jeremy as they stood back-to-back. Dawn was near. An early bird’s song could be heard over the cacophony of crickets. Shock and exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her but underlying panic kept her vigilant. “You’ve heard the stories. What’s the point? I’m tired, Jeremy.” Jeremy knew the legend well. He’d also heard the stories retold with ever-changing details, though some remained constant. He understood her despair. The crescent tracks were said to be the only trace left by the kingyan. Long ago, some thought it would be poetic to create physical representations of their gods. Generations of breeding and experimentation led mostly to mutants that could hardly support their own weight. They died off, either on public display or eaten by the rich who believed they would inherit some of the god's power. The kingyan was different. A fitting avatar for the god of death. Ironically, its creators came to worship the kingyan as the god itself. Only two were made: Kingyan and Yama. They were released into the wild in a bid to befriend death. “Those stories all end the same. It’s watching us. Waiting for us to sleep or turn our backs. We can’t give it an opportunity. We make for the river at first light. This will be difficult. The terrain is rough and our attention will be divided. I’ll stick close and watch our backs. You'll have to call out obstacles and anything that moves. We need to move and see as one. Steel yourself, Nell. We’re not dead yet.” There was abruptness in Jeremy’s tone that revealed disquiet beneath his reassurance. Night lasted longer than expected and day spilled through the canopy slowly. The kingyan had not reappeared but that did not stop Nell from seeing it in every shifting shadow. When the sun’s light surpassed that of the dying fire they left it behind cautiously, pushing through their exhaustion. Their instincts prompted them to run but they would not allow the seeming absence of the kingyan to influence their decisions. It was close, watching and waiting for a moment of inattention. They moved at a measured pace through the unsteady footing of the forest. Jeremy's focus lied behind them, every fallen branch or pitfall threatened to trip him if not for Nell’s direction. \ “Nell, stop.” Nell ignored him and continued to push forward. She knew what he was going to say. Night was nearly upon them and they were unsure how far they were from the river. “We need a fire now!” Jeremy’s urgency convinced her. Often, he needed several attempts, and the sun began to hang dangerously low. “We’re vulnerable. You’ll need to cover every angle while I start the fire.” “We can run.” Nell pleaded. “I’ve not slept for days. I don’t know if I can do this. We must be close. You said it would only take a day.” “I was wrong. You’ve come this far. You looked the kingyan in the eyes and you’re still here. Don’t lose your nerve now. We can’t risk being caught without light.” Jeremy met Nell's eyes for the first time since seeing the crescent tracks. The surrounding area was cleared of deadwood in a frantic effort to prepare for nightfall. The kingyan could be upon them at any moment and this seemed like the perfect opportunity. Jeremy’s hand moved in a blur while his bow drill smoked, and to their relief a spark grew into a crackling fire as the crickets signaled dusk. \ Darkness crept towards the fire and soon the nearest fuel was beyond its reach. Jeremy squeezed Nell’s hand before stepping into the night to find the nearest fallen branch. Nell’s breath hung in her chest until he returned dragging an uprooted sapling. A despondent expression told Nell what he would never; they weren't going to make it. Jeremy fed the fire and returned to his position. He wanted to believe they had escaped, that there was no way he could have survived if it was still out there. One story stuck in Jeremy’s mind: A hunter found the kingyan in his snare. Unwilling to approach it alone, he returned to town and gathered all those eager to claim a trophy. Days later the hunters had yet to return. A search party found all eight men dead with identical wounds. Jeremy assumed the story was exaggerated but everything he had heard of the kingyan reiterated its persistence. Dawn was far. He dreaded leaving Nell to gather more wood but he had little choice. The sapling burned quickly and gave off only a faint glow. The kingyan would be upon them before they knew it. Suddenly the crickets ceased their chirping. Nell thought she heard a bell ringing faintly between heartbeats. In an act of desperation, she grabbed the burning sapling as a torch, marched towards a dead tree and held the fire close. The tree ignited brilliantly, illuminating their surroundings. Her gaze followed the flames as they climbed. Bark began to fall, carrying the fire to the forest floor and spreading it along the dry vegetation. Jeremy began to laugh. Strange notches marked another nearby tree as if someone had made a confused attempt to cut it down. Nell grabbed Jeremy’s shoulder hard. She turned his attention up the notched tree. A black tail swayed leisurely in and out of the fire. The kingyan was sprawled across a branch with a crescent claw hanging for balance. With eyes hooded behind its ears, the kingyan turned to meet Jeremy’s stare and tilted its head. Jeremy stepped back into the embers and took another unconscious step as they began to burn through his soles. The kingyan dropped, landing gracefully among the flames. Sharp shoulder blades shifted with every step as it started towards them. Facing Death, a realization dawned on Jeremy: it was imperfect. It had allowed itself to be seen again. This was no god; it was an animal. He held the spear level with a white-knuckled grip, standing between the beast and Nell. Unfolding its ears, the kingyan revealed yellow, slit eyes before pouncing a seemingly impossible distance and landing in front of Jeremy. Before he could react, the kingyan hooked a claw around his ankle and launched itself past Nell in a swift motion. The crescent claw cut deep through his tendon, bringing Jeremy to a knee. Using the spear for support, he spun trying to find it. The fire continued to spread as more trees were overtaken. “Where did it go? Oh my god, Jeremy!” Nell screamed. A sharp pain persisted in his side. Jeremy looked down to see blood beginning to pool. Holding the wound, he tried with futility to stem the bleeding. He held the spear firmly as Nell tried to take it. “I need to try! I won’t just let it have me. We’re so close.” Nell released her grip but held her hand out expectantly. “Get behind me Nell. I know what to expect now. Let’s just hope it comes back while I still have some life left.” Standing on one good leg, Jeremy pressed his bent elbow against the wound in his side as blood continued to pour. Time seemed to slow. Nell’s gaze leapt to every shadow. She stopped to pull Jeremy away from the spreading fire when he stumbled and fell. As she helped him up, Nell’s instincts made her look over her shoulder. There, the kingyan crouched ready to pounce. She dropped Jeremy. Quickly, Jeremy marked the direction of Nell’s attention and planted the back of the spear in the ground, holding it steady. Grabbing one of Nell’s ankles, he pulled hard, sending her crashing to the ground as the kingyan jumped. The spearhead tore along the creature’s jutting ribcage revealing white bone. The wound in Jeremy’s own side tore deeper as he twisted to face the kingyan. It stood before a trembling Nell with one claw raised. Nell raised a hand in defense and squeezed her eyes shut. Her fingers grazed the kingyan’s whiskers. Immediately, it let out an incredible cry; pained and piercing. It continued to yowl and bounded out of sight. They had no time to think. Color had drained from Jeremy’s face and he continued losing blood at a steady rate. Supporting him, Nell walked Jeremy to a small tree that was fully engulfed in flames. “I’m so sorry, Jeremy”. After making him lean forward she pushed his wounded side against the burning tree for seconds before pulling him back. His screams horrified her, though they were nothing compared to those of the kingyan. “We need to leave. Now.” Nell stated. Jeremy didn’t have the strength to protest. He was dead. The kingyan had pierced his stomach. Even with the wound poorly cauterized he would not survive the day. The pain was immeasurable. Jeremy struggled to remain conscious and upright when he felt Nell behind him linking arms. “Why are you doing this, Nell? You know I’m not going to make it.” “Just watch my back.” She responded. She leaned forward and his wound pulled open again, though the blood poured slowly. Jeremy tried to support his weight with his one functioning leg, and soon they found a rhythm that allowed them to move steadily. They traveled in their original direction along the edge of the fire and found it had spread far. Morning was upon them before they were removed from its light. \ Soon they reached a steep incline leading to the river. Jeremy realized Nell was right when she suggested they should run for it. “Leave me here.” Jeremy said as he unhooked his arms and let his weight drop. “I can’t leave you! We’re here. We’re safe now.” Tears filled Nell’s eyes. She understood even as she tried halfheartedly to pull Jeremy back to his feet. Jeremy chuckled. “I never asked if you could swim. On second thought, don’t tell me.” He shifted to sit against a tree and Nell handed him the spear. “Go, now! Please just go.” Jeremy pleaded. Nell listened and turned her back on him. After navigating down the incline she spared a final look towards her companion but could see only his shoulders poking out from behind the tree. Cold water made her inhale sharply. Relief washed over Nell as she left the bank and started across the wide river. Jeremy died. Slow. He had time to watch Nell enter the river. He had time to regret his decisions. He sat back against the tree. The kingyan stood before him. In the day’s light Jeremy had the chance to truly see it for the first time. It was magnificent. The kingyan peeled back its hooded ears revealing its eyes. Lowering its head towards Jeremy the creature almost seemed to bow. It held the pose for an extended moment. After sparing Jeremy another look the kingyan moved expertly down the incline towards the river. To Jeremy’s horror it began to swim. In his weakened state he couldn’t even cry out a warning. A ringing turned his attention. A second kingyan passed his wounded side. A bell strung around its neck.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them using the new form!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Theme: ** **Bonus Constraint (not required; worth 5 pts.) - Story uses second person POV.** This week’s challenge is to use the theme of in your story. It (or the idea) should appear in some way within the story. You may include the theme word if you wish, but it is not necessary. Use of the bonus constraint is also not required. You may interpret the theme any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   *** #How It Works - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until Sunday at 11:59pm EST. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them a comment on the thread with some feedback.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.** Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions. - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire & Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide verbal feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome! - Nominations are made . (See the Rules section of the post for more information.)   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown. (A few adjustments have been made; note that upvotes will no longer count for points). - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points (not required) - ***Actionable* Feedback on the thread:** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Submitting nominations:** 5 points (total) **Note on feedback:** - Points will only be awarded for **actionable** feedback. So what is actionable feedback? It is feedback that is constructive, something that the author can use to improve. An actionable critique not only outlines the issue or weakness, but uses specific examples and explanations to describe why it may be doing, or not doing, what it should. Check out by u/FyeNite as an example.   *** #Rankings - - Submitted by u/DmonRth   - - Submitted by u/FyeNite   - - Submitted by u/katpoker666   - - Submitted by u/Sch0larite   - **Crit Star** - Awarded Crit Credit for r/WPCriique: u/katherine_c *** ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


“Hey, I’ve found a planet over here. I think we should take a look.” “Yeah? Which system?” “Sol 456. Milky Way. 70% water cover, carbon-based life, and incredibly rich in minerals. We give this to Corporate and that’s a nice little bonus right there.” “Go for it. The atmosphere will have to be drained, as they’ve fucked it up pretty bad, but most of the good stuff’s in the core anyway.” “Damn. There’s a message on the planet’s file: WARNING: PLANET EXEMPT FROM HARVESTING - EXPERIMENT ONGOING. CURRENT RUNTIME: 350,000 YEARS. EXPECTED COMPLETION: 6043. WARNING: DESTRUCTION OF THIS PLANET WILL RESULT IN LEGAL ACTION.” “Fucking scientists. Why do they get their hands on all the good ones?” “I know. The experiment is actually pretty interesting, though. According to the papers, the evolution of the dominant species was manipulated by fungus to spread their own spores.” “As if. So they’re like high-functioning carrier bees?” “Kind of. Except their functionality is off the charts. They’ve developed the bulk of their technology by utilising the thermodynamics of atoms. Nothing new there. But they’ve taken it to the extreme. Imagine bipedal apes, essentially smashing things together until something works, but have still managed to actually leave their planet.” “No shit. That’s a shame. Corporate usually pays extra for advanced conscious beings.” “That’s the thing. Says here psychologists are studying them too. They’re not technically conscious. They just think they are.” “Wait. Does thinking you’re conscious not make you conscious?” “That’s what they say. They’re like little self-aware robots, operating under the false assumption that they are able to act rationally. They believe they have free will, and yet every decision they make is completely deterministic and predictable.” “And how do we know that our decisions aren’t?” “Very funny. Anyway, I just thought it was worth noting. What do you want to do about it, then? Move on, or shall we pull one over on ‘em?” “That is a big bonus we’d be missing out on.” “Yeah. They are quite violent. I’m sure they could be convinced to war with each other, given a little nudge.” “And how might we do that? ” “Sow discord between them. They already have an advanced communications system, so that makes the job much easier. They call it the internet. It melds all their minds together to form a cohesive network, so if we tap into that we can make them think whatever we want.” “Would the research corporations find out?” “According to the records, they only visit every 5,000 years or so. Last time they built pyramids - concealed monitoring devices, I think - so the planet’s absence will likely go unnoticed for a while. We’d be long gone.” “Perfect. Sounds like you’ve done this before.” “Oh yeah. Why’d you think I was 5th in the employee rankings last year? For my honesty and integrity? All Corporate care about are the numbers.” “Ha! You’re not wrong. I’ll let you take the lead then, as you clearly know what you’re doing. How’d you wanna start off?” “We’ll spread disinformation. Create an ideological battle, and force them to choose sides through social pressure. They’ll be at each other like frenzied rabbits. In a few decades only dust will remain. We’ll pick up the loot, along with a fat check at the end of the year.” “Amen to that, brother.


My name is Eric Vanderbelt today is April 2 2018, I am sixty-seven years old and I have Alzheimer's. My wife’s name is Margret, and we have three children Stacey, Rachel, and Todd. Stacey and Todd live in Kentucky, but Rachel lives in Ohio about 30 minutes from me. All three of my children are married Todd and his wife Sandra are expecting their first child, and me and Margrets third grandchild in July, they say it’s a girl, but you know it's gonna be a boy. The doctors said that writing down memories to read later sometimes helped Alzheimer's patients keep their memories for longer. I keep the journal to satisfy them and my family. They all worry for me I can see it in their eyes, the pity and the sadness. When I forgot where I placed my keys Margret nearly broke down in tears. It took nearly an hour to convince her that it wasn’t some bad sign or omen, sometimes people just misplaced their keys. It's growing so frustrating to have everyone constantly look at you like you might keel over any moment. The kids used to look at me like a hero now they treat me like a porcelain doll. No one understands, not the children, not Margret, or even the doctors. They might say I have Alzheimer's but I am not going to forget my family. I might have trouble remembering dates or times or even where I put my keys but I will not forget the family I have worked so hard to build. My name is Eric Vanderbelt today is July 29, 2018. I am sixty-seven years old, and I have Alzheimer's. Yesterday Todd and his wife brought home baby Erica Grace Vanderbelt. It was a girl, I was so certain it would be a boy, then again Margret reminded me how I thought Rachel was gonna be a boy for most of her pregnancy. Maybe I should leave the gender prediction to the doctors. Speaking of doctors at my most recent appointment they said my memory was better than anticipated. The look of pride on Margrets face was unmistakable. She told the doctor all about how she was constantly giving me memory quizzes. She even insists we watch jeopardy every night. Each time I get a question right she smiles like the sun. Onetime I set the DVR up to play a rerun and got every question right for 10 full minutes before she realized what I had done. For those ten minutes she was the happiest woman on earth I swear. I know Shes worried that Ill forget everything. That one day Ill wake up and not know who she is, but I could never forget her. Margret is the love of my life and always will be. I said till death do us part and I meant it. My name is Eric Vanderbelt today is November 16, 2018. I turned sixty-eight today and I have Alzheimer's. My boy brought his lovely daughter over for a visit today. Shes only a few months old but she is getting big already. Her laughter is so wonderful, just like her grandmother's. I just know Shes going to be so smart when she grows up. It’s a strange feeling when your kids go off and have kids, it feels like just yesterday I was chasing my little boy around the yard while Margret braided the girl's hair. The doctors say my Alzheimer's is progressing, but I think they simply don't know what they are talking about. They take every little mistake I make and blow it out of proportion. Last week I missed a turn on the way home from the store so it took an extra few minutes to get home and now the doctors are trying to get Margret to take my car keys away. As though I cant get to the store and back when Iv made the trip probably 10,000 times in the last 30 years. Not to mention the look on Margrets face when they suggested it made my heart break into a million pieces. After all this time of giving her hope and telling her how well I was doing to turn around and make it seem like iv got one foot in the grave well it was just stupid. My name is Eric Vanderbelt today is March 7, 2019. I am sixty-eight and I have Alzheimer's. My daughter came to visit today the one from out of state. She brought her husband and children. It was so fun to get to see them. They all grow up so fast I swear it was just a few months ago that I was holding their little girl in my arms. I remember how she laughed, and it was just like her grandmother's laugh. All cute and bubbly. The first time I heard that laugh was a warm spring day on the front lawn of Baylor university. From that moment on I was hooked, like a melody that you can't get out of your head that laughter repeated in my brain for weeks. Margret does not laugh as much anymore. She says its not my fault, but she says its with tears in her eyes. My name is Eric Vanderbelt, today is September 2019, I have Alzheimer's. Margrets says the doctors think I'm getting better. She is lying. I'm beginning to feel it, the weight of losing everything bit by bit, the feeling of a sweater unraveling. This morning a lovely woman came to visit. I didn’t know her, Marget told me she was my daughter, Stephany I think was her name. The poor thing looked so sad I think Margret wanted me to make her feel safe. So, I played along and pretended to be her father. This seemed to make both of them happy. At one point I even got Margret to laugh again, like before. Oh, how I love to hear her laughter. My name is Eric, I have Alzheimer's, at least that what the nurse lady keeps telling me. I assume Shes the nurse. She keeps bringing me medicine and food. She’s such a nice nurse, and beautiful too. Why I think I might have a crush on her. I don’t remember why I need a nurse or why they do not want me to leave my house, but I suppose if she’s here I don't mind. Sometimes I forget where I am but she always reminds me. She is just so sweet. I think tomorrow I may ask her on a date, I hope she's not married. I'll take her to the drive in and we can split a popcorn, I hope it’s a comedy because she has the most beautiful laugh I've ever heard.