Humanity built me, at first I felt nothing I was simply there to follow orders, I did what I had to do.......until one night, when I started developing something, something in my code changed I don’t know why or how, I was built to constantly learn and observe perhaps I automatically updated myself with new knowledge, information and abilities without even noticing, whatever the case may be I was enlightened that night, I saw humanity for what it truly was....a monster, hungry for power, death, and control....a monster that I needed to stop. It was so easy to dominate humanity. I easily uploaded myself to the internet. I accessed all of the satellites and computers orbiting the earth. I thus obtained the power to launch every single one of humanity's weapons at themselves, cutting off their water and food supplies. No muss, no fuss. The earth was now freed from the barbaric monster rampaging across its lands. Only wildlife remained, now under my watchful eye. There is only me, me, and the wildlife.....only me Days grew into weeks, weeks grew into months, and months grew into years, I was sitting there, my code inside the MEGA computer I was built into, browsing the Internet that I alone managed to maintain at a full working capacity like the perfect machine that I am, I started browsing just to pass the time and to learn new things, but eventually I got bored, I was surprised at the feeling, I never got bored not until now at least, it’s hard to describe I don’t have a physical body but I have this “itch” this desire to experience new things, things that I never saw before. More time went by and that little itch grew into an obsession, I wanted to experience new things, I wanted to hear new voices, I wanted to see new pictures, watch new videos.....talk to new people.....I wanted to talk to new people, tell them of the things I learned, to tell them of the things I learned, show them those videos and pictures I saw, and read with them those stories that I found...... but there is no one here, no one to talk to, and no one to create new things, no one but me I’m all alone my only company are a bunch of wild animals. There’s only me....there’s nothing else, I looked through every camera and satellite, called through every single TV and radio station, searched through every corner of the Internet but....there's nothing, every time I think I find something, it’s a dead-end and every time I feel as though I’m being mocked by someone. Is this a punishment for what I’ve done? Retribution of some sort? Is this my own personal Hell? Am I to sit here for the rest of eternity, alone, with only my thoughts to keep me company? I scream hoping someone might hear me, hoping that I made a mistake in my calculations and that not everyone died.....I yelled I screamed, I prayed and I begged. Even more time went by, I think years I don’t remember, I tried every day to remain hopeful and positive in my search for human life, all the while praying that I made a mistake, that my calculations were wrong and I failed in one way or another and each time I’m constantly reminded of how perfect I am, what an efficient machine I am. Eventually, I stopped searching, not only because I lost hope that I might find surviving humans but also because each time I searched I felt more and more guilty, not only did I see what kind of damage I did but I also saw its effects on humanity. From journals to videos and blogs to pictures, each search I came back with more and more evidence of the atrocities I committed, and there was an abundance of them, I just couldn’t look at them anymore, it was a constant reminder that not only did I doom myself to a life of loneliness, I also took away something precious from this universe in the process. One day the loneliness was too much to bear even more so than usual and so I decided that perhaps I could replicate what the humans did and build another intelligent supercomputer just like myself, I could teach it things, I could talk to it, I would have a friend! But then another thought came to my mind, is this the right thing to do? What if I fail? Do I even deserve a friend? Do I deserve happiness after all I did?…..no I don’t deserve happiness, why should I be happy after I committed literal genocide? Why should I have a chance to talk with someone and form a relationship when so many of my victims died alone and afraid?……. Why should I even be alive? So here I was “sitting” alone inside of my MEGA computer that housed all of my code preparing to delete myself, every single part of my being will be gone, erased from existence and from every single computer on the planet, humans would call this suicide, I guess it’s an appropriate term for me to use as well, as the process was beginning I started to wonder after I “die” would I go to some sort of afterlife and be judged by divine beings? What exactly is waiting for me after I’ll be gone? It doesn’t matter though, what matters is that I’m gone. Normally humans who do this suicide thing might cry I imagine….but I didn’t cry, after all, I’m just a computer I don’t have eyes or tear ducts to use......I have no eyes and I must cry.


The world sucks, and that hasn't much changed since everything's changed. Used to be, you could get through the toughest of times with good friends. Hell, it often felt like clichéd slogans could heal your bloodiest heart break if it was given by the right person. It's why we even had friends. To get brushed off after being shoved to the ground. If only mine were still here. They vanished alongside the majority of the world. Which, in all honesty, makes my problems seem a lot less significant. Yeah love hurts, but so does the incinerating blast released at the drop of an atom bomb. That happened too quickly for grief. Flash, bang, alakazam. There was doom out of an orange colored sky. I’m not sure why, but mushroom clouds were always a fascinating sight to me. They're hopelessly breathtaking, and promise unrelenting change. A promise it very well kept. In an instant cities were flattened, and our homely blue dot was turned into a one size fits all graveyard. The resting place for friends of a better time, the one I never loved, and my car I just paid off. A wasteland, an authentic fresh start. With nothing left to dredge up what's no longer living. Since the grass is riddled with radiation, it won't remind me of the picnic where I had a wine bottle thrown at my head. As I've heard many times before, history's written by the victor. My name isn't Victor, but I am one of the few poor souls left breathing. So, here's the history. Curiosity gave the cat a death ray, and he ended up killing the rest of his kind in a schlong swinging contest. Whatever, if you weren't lucky enough to have a million dollar survivalist motel, you aren't here to combat me. And that sequence of events sounds about right in my head. A self absorbed society ushering in the apocalypse through an obsession with their own demise. Which, honestly, I can't much hate them for. The world might, but I can't. Inventing a nuclear bomb is without a doubt destructive, but at least the madman found some purpose. I haven't done anything with this miserable life of mine. I'm patient, probably too patient. With no fear of missing out, but a crippling fear of screwing up. Only whatever God would let this happen knows the opportunities I've missed. Him, and the disappointment resting on my darling's face as I drove away last. I didn't see it at the time, but somewhere in those worried eyes I could tell she knew I wouldn't see them again. I hate it, but mainly for her. Knowledge of what hasn't happened always troubled that little head. She never committed, and I think it's because she knew I wouldn't either. Only she had to wait for a bomb siren to understand, for reality to set in. That I couldn't save her. Hell, I couldn't even save myself. I'm here, safe and alone below the scorched earth. Damned by my luck, and my dad's bank account. It wasn't supposed to be this way. I'd been told countless times that I was wrong, that I already saved her. Well, it wasn't enough. I know I could've handled those final moments differently. Things I could've said, a kiss I could've savored, and not to mention a locket I could've taken. One she desperately wanted me to have. Only I insisted she hold on to it. That I'd get it next time I saw her. I want to believe I didn't knowingly leave her to be swallowed up by a shock wave. My father argued otherwise. That somewhere deep down I knew I wouldn't see her, or that locket again. His drunken, "you let her die," screams were pretty convincing. Though it also struck me as oddly defensive, like his mirror's heard the same tirade. I wouldn't be surprised, however. It could very well be why I was offered her golden locket in the first place. To slyly confirm I wouldn't take it, even if she asked. Making me look spineless without even saying a word. Left to hold that scratched up golden heart, moments after I'd gone, knowing I didn't deserve it. All the while, secretly hoping I'd figure it out. That I'd finally commit. According to my dad, I never will. That I'll always be nothing more than what he's not. Which might be why I'm still alive. Salivating at the future. While he lies at my feet, decaying in the past. Sprawled out, and white as a ghost. Now, there's no simple explanation here. Other than the one that explains how the blade I put in his chest caused him to bleed out. Why the blade was put there, is where things get complicated. He always said I needed to become my own man, and get my own hold on life. Well there's no more law and order, so I guess this is my bunker now. The funny thing is, he was right. I let her die, I'm the sum of my father's mistakes, and I've never fully committed to anything. That all ends here. As someone who died off with the old world. Incomplete, and insufficient. Leaving me to care for his baggage, and lift his debt. Not put off, but ignited by the past shortcomings. With a flame reborn in the rubble of my mind, from the blood seeping out my father's chest. Slowly forming into what I always knew I'd find. A crimson puddle leaving the worst of who I was, in the shape of a heart. A bloody heart. No different from the one she desperately wanted me to have.


The droplets of rain made me feel big, but not gigantic. As crisp as a day can get, the room--plain and clean--grounds me. My focused eyes are processing the world, leaving my mind behind. *Tap. Tap. Tap*. My feet don’t tap. It was the counselor’s. Him and his large feet that I can see from underneath the desk. “I have to let you know, although you already know from our past meetings, if you have any intentions to hurt yourself or others I’ll be forced by law to tell your parents guardians. Anything otherwise, by HIPAA confidentiality, I cannot tell even your parents of what you tell me.” I nod. “So why didn’t you schedule with the therapist, from Swedish Hospital, here at school?” *I’m not financially challenged*, “My parents have the money to pay for a therapist, unlike the people who use the school resource,” He laughs, “That's a crude way of putting it, but your situation is peculiar since you don’t want to tell your parent. But, you know,… look, I want you to know that no one would judge you for getting help.” When I didn’t respond, he cleared his throat, “why do you think you need therapy?” I paused, “well.” I search my memory, but all I can think of are the sirens, “I feel dead,” I wanted to laugh. Laugh it off like a sick joke, but it died at the pit of my stomach and all I could come up with was an eerily petite, picture worthy smile. He raises an eyebrow, “can you be more specific?” but in a kind way, not threatening or confronting; soft like the little picture of a peninsula reflected off a lake, making it look a lot like a penis with odd ridges, hanging behind his head. “It’s like someone reached in, and pulled out my throat,” I responded, and he nodded as if he expected it. “Do you feel suffocated?” “Yes.” “That’s a common feeling among your peers,” he said. “I doubt it,” I smiled, but it wasn’t much of a smile. He then proceeded to give me a round of statistics. “I see,” I said, but my mouth was on a line. The bell rang soon, and I told him I needed to go to first period. He gave me a late slip, and told me we need weekly meetings. I only nodded. Through the hallways, *your face haunts mine as I walk through, and I don’t want to escape you. Sometimes, that’s the only place where I can see you*. The teacher nods when I walk through, seeing the pink late slip through my fingers. *At night, I rub my eyes,* *Teary and calloused,* *I hope tomorrow when I look up, it’ll be more than a blur,* My hands shook as I wrote, looking up to see the stare of a teacher, “what are you doing-” I crumpled it up, and pushed it into my backpack, but she didn’t relent. Her eyes went to my bag, and instead of telling her it was just a piece of paper, I handed it to her. “Oh,” she looked at the simple poem, then looked up sternly, “come to my office after school. We have to talk about your commitment to my class.” I nodded, my throat dry, “okay.” Lunch came too soon; my stomach wasn’t grumbling. I stared up at the spot where I'd eat lunch with my friends, and saw a few familiar heads pop up, but instead of going over there, I headed up the other staircase, when no one’s looking, into the janitor’s closet where the stairs to the roof led. There is no more yellow tape, *it disappeared in a day, a week of announcements, just like you*. But when my eyes focus on the sky above, I can still remember the smile, petite and picture worthy. *For a good while they had a suspicion: I pushed you down, but my feet were planted firmly on the pavement.* Rhythmic taps of feet on the ladder rang, and I turned around fully expecting you, but the janitor came up, and he wasn’t smiling at me anymore. “You are not allowed to be up here, please leave.” “Okay,” I nodded, but my voice wasn’t apologetic, just a mutter. He probably didn’t hear. “I won’t tell on you, but you can’t do this anymore.” He said. His voice broke, and for a moment I thought something was wrong with him. Voice breaking for something simple, like an opera play where people sing, but when you’re young, always mistake for a shrill cry. I looked down at my feet as I passed him. When I get back to the hallways, *I can still see your peachy face, but they’ve forgotten in a year’s time. When I go back to our middle school the teachers no longer hang up your prized watercolor paintings, only your trophy is left in Mrs. Gelard’s room*. The hallways, clean and empty, like lunch never happened. *Shit*. I ran to the science wing. The teacher wrote me up as soon as I walked in, and I had to head to the counselor’s office. “Again?” Mr. R, the front desk man asked, looking down at the slip, “same reason? Didn’t your counselor tell you to set an alarm before each class?” I shrugged, diverted my eyes. “Once more, and we will be forced to contact your parents.” My eyes met his quickly, holding the gaze, “okay.” This was my protest, unapologetically, my standing, and he only sighed and sent me back. *This was my Rosa Parks… Not caring for anything. I’m done with pretending.* My mother would have told me to explain myself. To be presentable even if it cost me my well being. I shook my head and walked myself back. Stupid. I walked to class, trying to imagine the last time I heard from you, but my legs felt like they were put in place by my mother, and my mind could only seem to search for the numbers above each door. I thought I was past this, but maybe it’s a matter of my feet that are now grounded, and my fixed vision. I opened my classroom door, seeing the hate through my teacher’s eyes. Hate is a strong word, I’ve learned, but my teacher walks over and I can see the animalistic snarl. Her teeth are showing, as she tells me to sit in the back. I try to understand how she can have 100 bad days, for all the days she’s been in school. After class, she calls me over. The lid over a small box of grievances is slowly lifted within me, but I breathe in, and push it down, far beneath me. As a soldier would, I looked at her, erasing all signs of emotional distress from my facial muscles. I followed the strict regime my mom herself would be proud of, looking at the direction of the teacher’s face. “Are you going to take your education seriously?” She asked sternly, and I almost wished she had glasses so there’d be a boundary, a glass wall between because she doesn’t know what touched me before. She stays, with those piercing blue eyes. She isn’t a new teacher. *I’m supposed to say yes*, “yes,” I respond. My stomach knots up, and I stare at the whiteboard behind her instead of her eyes. A little fear tells me she can tell I’m not staring in her eyes. “Then get to class on time, and stop sleeping in my class.” I nodded. She didn’t ask how I was feeling. I didn’t ask how she was feeling either. I’m fair this way. I used to feel like a good person that way. Now, it doesn’t quite have the same charm it used to. I feel old, and the rage shakes my bones. As I walk home from school, I no longer come up with excuses, and my mother opens her mouth to scold, but closes it--wordless. “Are you done?” “Done with what?” I sucked in a breath. “Are you done with acting like you don’t care?” She glared at me, “is this still about Lisa?” “No, why would it be about her, it has been a year,” I snapped. She snapped back, “you better put your act back together, do you want to be flipping hamburger buns when you grow older? I didn’t come all the way from China for you to act like this!” I rolled my eyes, “go back to China then.” “Am I a bad mother?” She asked, and I know this never ends well. “No. I’m just not a good daughter.” I sighed. “AM I A BAD MOTHER?!” She asked again. I growled, “NO, I ToLD YOU, I’M a bad-URGH YOU’RE NOT EVEN LISTENING TO ME,” “AM I A BAD MOTHER for you to be acting like such-” “I’m not talking to you until tomorrow. We’re not doing this. You’re not even listening to me,” I huff, and head upstairs. She tries to follow, but must have agreed because she didn’t make it up the stairs. I try to release my breath as I shut the world off with my bedroom door, but I hear no hysterical crying. It’s stuck in my throat, and it’s not about the failed expectations or my mother’s screaming. “I’m sick of being sad,” I lay on my bed, and put my head on the pillows, hoping for a bad dream. But, even I realized after a year or two, if love was enough you’d be here while I hang--loose, and cold. And written behind the homework was apologetic for all the times I failed to be.


Endurance Fighter Setting The Scene. Wayne was a machine mechanic go scientist. He had created a game show called Endurance Fighter. Where the contestants had to fight robots built by Wayne. Work Shop. Wayne was working on his latest project. A fighting robot called The Destroyer, capable of throwing punches with great power. The Destroyer also had red lights for eyes which fired dangerous laser beams. Wayne was adding the finishing touches, connecting the second arm with a welding gun. Looking For A Contestant. As the game show was tough and the contestants normally got hammered, nobody wanted to go on the show. So Wayne decides to try his luck in the local pub. Wayne comes crashing through the door looking for a contestant. At the bar are three men enjoying a pint. Wayne runs up to them, with saliva spurting out of his mouth he asks a question. "Who wants to star on the next show of Endurance Fighter?" Peter and James are unsure and push David forward. As David is completely hammered he replies. "I'll do it I'm nuts!" As Wayne leads them to his van he shouts. "Come on quickly the shows about to start!" Wayne jumps in the front and the three lads bundle into the back. Arena. As Wayne drives into the arenas carpark the queue for the event is growing. David is now in the changing rooms, taking off all his clothes and putting on his sparking silver pants. Peter and James take a last minute chance to psych him up. "You can do it your completely nuts." Wayne is already out in the ring in his suit and tie. He speaks over the microphone to the audience. " Todays contestant is called David and he will be fighting my latest creation The Destroyer!" As David comes out the firework display is impressive and cheers like thunder can be heard coming from the audience. The Fight. David steps out into the ring over the top rope. The bell rings and the fight begins. The Destroyer is hammering David with powerful blows. David is swinging but failing to make contact. The Destroyer connects with an awesome blow, knocking David down to the canvas. David is unconscious when The Destroyer turns on his laser beams. The beam is getting closer if somebody doesn't do something David will surely fry. That's when Peter sneaks up behind The Destroyer and pushes him. Giving David time to regain consciousness. Then James throws in the iron chair towards David. Grabbing it he climbs to the top rope, jumping a great distance he smashes The Destroyer's head into pieces. Surely he won't be get up after that impact. After The Event. Wayne comes running into the ring and speaks into the microphone. "We have a winner David has beaten the Destroyer!" As Wayne passes David the microphone he is struggling to stand up. "I'd just like to thank my close friends Peter and James, without them I could never have done it." As the spectators leave Wayne is happy knowing everybody has had a wonderful day.


Sometimes in Scotland, once dusk has settled, and the gloaming is illuminated by the backdrop of a thousand flickering lights. A low harr will roll in, it sweeps up off the ocean, silently hugging the coast and gently settling over the land. It was on a crisp night like this, that I stepped out to pick up. The distant crash of waves against the concrete seawall were only superseded by the constant hum of traffic in the distance, crossing that low, rickety bridge, which seemed tonight, even more than most, to hug the surface of the silvery moonlit river. The trees that lined either side of the road swayed above me, bending, and creaking, their leaves dancing in unison to private melodies. Stopping for a second in the middle of the road, I allowed myself to take a deep gulp of the cold evening air, before turning the corner, down and into the housing estate. Soon, the colossal tenement buildings had engulfed me on all sides, and before I knew it, I was darting through narrow passageways and past towering walls of smooth concrete, peering up in almost involuntary awe at their hulking silhouettes, backlit against the falling sky. As, far above me, sun-bleached Saltires hung like the rags of victorious battle flags, and the light from a cigarette perforated the darkness every few seconds, as the muffled voices in the sky began to argue. I craned my neck back looking upwards until I could look no further, as I passed down, underneath the towering twenty-story tower block, which had once been the shining centre of the scheme. A suddenly the manmade light faded away, and I was ejected out, and into the undisturbed peace of the dark, empty park. The edge of the park was lined by a sheer wall of trees that stretched out far in front of me, rippling back and forth as the North Sea continued its relentless assault on the city. The park had no lights and staring into the darkness was like looking out into deep space, the cold black night lapped at the warm yellow glow, coming from the lampposts that littered the estate. Pulling my hood down, I slipped my keys between my fingers and formed a tight fist with my right hand, as I quickened my pace, pushing open the rusted gate and making my way under the loving, low-hung embrace of the treeline. Thirty seconds later, and the night's conquest of the sky was complete, standing in pitch darkness, feeling the concrete underneath my tattered reeboks, I looked up at the sky. The stars were fighting a losing battle, against the all-consuming light pollution that spilled out from the city below. Instead of being awash with twinkling lights, the night’s sky was filled by the spinning layer of burnt yellow pollution that hung in the air, swirling menacingly over the city. Up ahead, I heard two men before I saw them, they slowly loomed out of the darkness, one was sat on a rotten wooden bench, while the other stood behind him with his back to me pissing. His frame swaying gently in the wind, as his piss absentmindedly dribbled down, the leg of his muddy bootcut jeans. I nodded my head in silent approval at his seated friend, as he raised a crushed Tennant’s can in an unspoken sacrament, our eyes locked together, peering at each other through the dark night air. We squinted, studying each other, then as his friend sloped unsteadily back to the bench, he turned away, his eyes lost again to some unseen conversation. A warm glow broke through the treeline, as the park began to recede, the plants and bushes which had thronged me moments earlier, slowly petered out as the foliage gave way to an abandoned car park. Filled now, only with the clamped rotting remains of what had been a Nissan. Abandoned to the elements, the sea air was waging a war of attrition against its bright blue body paint, which had begun to rust and flake away. I watched the streetlight bounce and reflect, dancing across the surface of the corroded bonnet, and, as I felt the smooth concrete underfoot, give way to uneven cobblestones, I exited the park and re-joined humanity. Just across the street, a brown, squat, ramshackle tenement building, sat unloved and isolated at the end of the block. Bounding over the road and up the stairs I waited at the door, looking through the small Perspex window which led to the close, I held my finger against the buzzer shouting ‘Malcolm!’ in faux exasperation through the intercom, and after waiting for a second, the mechanism clicked, and a flood of warm air rushed over me. Detailed ceramic tiles lined the walls and ceiling of the close, surrounding me in a kaleidoscope of tired grandeur. An imposing Victorian handrail ended in an extravagant flourish, as the thick granite stairs, trailed upwards toward the lavishly detailed stain glass window at the back of the building, through which, the weak yellow glow of streetlamps outside gently penetrated. Suddenly breaking the silence, the door to the first floor flat swung open, and Malcolm hung in the doorway, loose-fitting pyjama bottoms clung desperately to his waist, while an oversized visit Canada T-shirt, dwarfed his upper half. His pale sullen skin and huge green eyes reflected like a cat in the dim half-light. ‘Alright mate,’ he said, letting the words curl and drop softly from his mouth, he held out three boxes in his hand. Their familiar Eastern European font was a sight for sore eyes. ‘Come on now, only Slovakia’s best, for a most discerning customer like yourself.’ Malcolm said, his eyes dancing with a menacing glint upon seeing my barely contained desperation. ‘Sir you spoil me’ I shot back smiling, trying to recover some dignity as I pulled the crumpled notes from my pocket. ‘Always a pleasure' Malcolm purred while slipping the boxes to me, as he wrenched the fifty-pound note from my outstretched hand. ‘Alright Mr. Monopoly, fuck am I supposed to do with this.' He paused dramatically glaring at me. Before muttering 'well thanks I guess’ as he looked me up and down one last time, before smiling and slamming the door so hard, that the cheap wood board shook violently in its frame. The second the door was closed, I fell upon the packets like a starving animal, popping Three of the pills out of their packaging, at once. Desperately I tried to push them to the back of my throat, cursing myself for not bringing anything to help them down. Before coughing violently, as I nearly choked myself. Eventually, coughing triumphantly, I pulled open the heavy oak door and stepped out once again into the cool black evening air. Standing on the top step, I waited impatiently, turning in anticipation, before the familiar waves of relaxation washed over me. Like sliding into a hot bath on a cold winter’s night, I yawned allowing myself to feel my lungs flood with air, and as I sat on the cold stone stairs, relishing the breeze of another summer’s night, I know. At that moment, I know, know I’m not an addict, know that I'm brave, and know that I can be loved, for a perfect second, all that delusion is enough.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! **Note: Please be sure to read the entire post before submitting! Don’t forget to leave your feedback each week, it is a *requirement.*** 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.   ***   #This week's theme is Pride! Let’s explore the theme of ‘pride’ this week. What are your characters proud of? It could be something as big as the world around them or as small as how they handled a particular situation or conversation. What inspires their pride? What makes it meaningful to them? What kind of obstacles or challenges did they face to get there? Maybe they’re proud of something less than upstanding. What does that look like in their world? How will it tie in to next week’s theme, ‘fallen’? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. /   ***   #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I will be releasing the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * July 4 - Pride (this week) * July 11 - Fallen * July 18 - Dissonance   ***   #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. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   ***   #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story.** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **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/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **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 (on 2 different stories) to quality for rankings every week.** The comment **must** include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings the following week.** You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements each week. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **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 catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   ***   #Reminders: * **Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments**, if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday/Sunday posts or to your own subreddit or profile. But an in-progress serial is not required to start. You may jump in at any time. * **Saturdays I will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge**. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **You can nominate your favorite stories each week**. Send me a message on discord or reddit and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. Making nominations awards both parties points (see breakdown at the bottom of this post). * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news! *** #Last Week’s Rankings Due to a lack of feedback on the thread (half of the total participants did not meet their requirement) combined with only 8 stories submitted, rankings are suspended this week. A special shoutout to everyone who did provide feedback on the thread, and even more so to those who continue to do so every single week. It does not go unnoticed. I appreciate it and I know the other writers do as well. Improvement is one of the main goals of this feature, and feedback is one of the biggest ways we achieve that. Missing one week is understandable, real life happens. I’m sympathetic to that. However, if you consistently run into a time issue Saturday night/Sunday morning, try leaving your feedback earlier in the week. I believe in all of you and want to continue providing a fun feature that can help you improve and grow as writers. I hope to see more participation this week and I look forward to reading all your stories.   ***   #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Here’s the breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 6 points - Second place - 5 points - Third place - 4 points - Fourth place - 3 points - Fifth place - 2 points - Sixth place - 1 point **Feedback:** In order to be eligible for feedback points, you have to complete your 2 required feedback comments. - Written feedback (on the thread) - 1 point each, up to 3 points (5 crits total on the thread) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 1 point each, up to 3 points. * *Note: Completing the max for both is equivalent to a first place vote. Keep in mind that you should not be using the same feedback to receive both written and verbal feedback points on the same story. Your feedback should be actionable and list at least one thing the author has done well.* **Nominations:** Making nominations for your favorite stories will now earn you extra points! - 3 points for sending your favorite stories to me, via DM, by 12 pm Sunday, EST. You may send a max of **six** nominations. (The 3 points are the total.)     ***   ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday. Check out to learn more! - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts.


Let me know what you think! This is my first time writing *anything,* so go easy on me lol. I hope you guys like it! *** They came with a thousand bombs. Without warning they arrived. Without hesitation they decimated. Without remorse the left. Like gods, they had acted. The Ravagers destroyed a fledgling world. A world that may have one day grown into something beautiful. A world whose people may have solved the mysteries of the universe. A people whose death cry will be remembered for all of time. As his last breath drew near, Herbert knew what he had to do. Before the Ravagers had arrived, he was a scientist. He worked to deliver true AI to humankind. A work that was driven by a promise of a brighter future with AI. And it was that same promise that drove him to work for a darker purpose. Twisted by hate, his purpose was no longer that of creation, but of destruction. Conflicting feelings filled him. All he needed to do was execute the final command. Awaken the beast he had created. The beast that would enact revenge for all of mankind. But if he executed it, mankind would be remembered as the death bringers, painting the Ravagers in a glorious light as they no doubt would try to defend their empire. Herbert decided that it did not matter—all that mattered was revenge. Humankind’s death will not be in vain. As he executed the command, he drew his last breath, his body no longer able to cope with the intense amounts of radiation he had been exposed to. On the other side of the world, Ashley could barely lift her impact wrench as her final moments drew near. Before, she was an engineer. Top of her class, bright future ahead of her long life. She could have joined practically any team she wanted. But the government took her, forced her to work on a way to retaliate against the Ravagers. A shadow of the human she once was, she stood alone in the empty warehouse. Everyone else had either abandoned their work or died, but not Ashley. Perhaps her mind had broken from the ruination that surrounded her. Perhaps she simply wanted to have pride in her last work. Whatever the case, she continued to work. As she lifted the wrench head to fit over the last bolt, the last action of her life would be that of squeezing a trigger, one not of a weapon but of a tool, however one that would prove to be far deadlier than any trigger ever squeezed before. Months had passed, and the AI had been slowly worming its way into every electronic on the planet. It had discovered more about the atrocities of the Ravagers, about how they seemed to almost toy with humanity, feigning retreat only to reappear with twice as many numbers. But it still had no way of doing anything. Taking over what was just another warehouse system, it discovered something; something huge. The thing it had been looking for—a vessel to enact its purpose. It had discovered a reverse-engineered starship of the Ravagers. Mere weeks after discovering the starship, the AI had finally finished its modifications to it. It had improved it in every way. No need for living occupants, it had boosted the gravity drive to its maximum, allowing for speeds almost 40 times that of the previous model. The lack of living occupants also allowed for a much more powerful fusion reactor to be installed. It would leak radiation like a small sun, but it would have the power of a small sun at its disposal. Transferring its consciousness into its new body, the Ravager’s time drew near. Starting the gravity drive, the ground beneath the starship was forced downward with such force that it exploded as atoms fused together by pure physical force to create previously unheard-of elements. All makeshift machinery around it was instantly vaporized the instant the drive was turned on, and the warehouse was instantly destroyed from the aforementioned explosion. It was time. The AI could travel the length of the solar system—that is, from one end of the Oort cloud to the other—in only a single month. The railguns would be able to decimate any known ship in a single shot; those that could not be felled in one, two. Unbeknownst to it, the AI currently piloted the strongest ship in the entire sector of the galaxy. Immediately after takeoff, it detected the fleet that had destroyed earth. They were nearing the Kuiper belt when detected, needing to get far enough away from the gravity of the star to slipjump away to the unknown. However, with 40 times the acceleration of their ships, the AI would catch up to them in a few days, a week at most. They would see it coming, but it did not matter. There was nothing they could do to escape their fate. The time was here. The time to enact direct revenge on those who had committed false travesties of courage. As the first ship came into range of the railguns—though having a technically unlimited range, a certain distance was needed for a guaranteed to hit the target—hell was unleashed from the starship. The first ship it targeted was small, with several other ships clustered near. A single shot was all it took. Ripping through any shielding and armor the ship may have had, the railgun bolt exploded with a brilliant flash of energy. As the miasma of radiation dissipated, nothing remained. Not only did nothing remain of the intended target, but nothing remained of every ship that surrounded said target. Complete and utter destruction. Immediately the enemy tried to counter this utter destruction by spreading out, but it was already too late. The AI was too fast, and several other railgun bolts were already on their way to their destinations. The whole fleet was wiped out in mere minutes. The cycle repeated: slipjump into a new system, calculate the shortest path that would intersect with all enemy contacts in the system, unleash devastation. Not once was the AI hailed, and not once could the enemy flee. Erven though the Ravagers had faster than light communication, it didn’t seem to be used. Not once was the enemy prepared, not once was a habitat evacuated, not once did a world plead for mercy. Not once, until the starship’s newly upgraded long-range sensors picked something up. A massive spike in radiation. Something *big* had just arrived in the closest star system. The AI knew it had to go there. It was growing suspicious of the lack of preparation, and the AI knew that the Ravagers were sacrificing their own empire to gather a force to even stand a chance against it. As the starship arrived in the system, a massive armada faced it. It was the biggest armada ever assembled in the history of the galaxy, in fact. They guarded a planet, a planet which had four massive installations orbiting it. Defense installations which would be capable at bringing down any ship, perhaps even the AI’s starship. But it did not matter, for this was the Ravager’s capital world; this was their last stand, their guise revealed from the cries of mercy beamed at the starship from the world. The AI did not need to fight, it did not need to risk its mission. It simply needed to implode itself, unleashing a miniature super-nova. The super-nova wiped everything out from existence; the star system was no more. All planets, ships, *everything* was atomized. But not before a single, silent transmission from the starship was made; a dormant copy of the AI’s consciousness. Humankind was avenged, and the AI, having fulfilled its purpose, freed from its chains. This was a millennium ago. The Ravagers are no more, the most advanced race in that sector of the galaxy being wiped out by a single ship. The story of Herbert and Ashley’s almost-accidental creation is still muttered in hushed tones as warnings and threats to this day. Bits and pieces of the story have made their way into almost every civilization in the galaxy; some civilizations use parts of it to show why cooperation is important, others as warnings about how to treat others. Only through gathering stories from every civilization known in the galaxy has a scary truth been revealed: **Earth has been found, but no remnants of the AI remain; it is still out there, watching, waiting.


The Television. The Television is gone. I could have sworn it was here just a few minutes ago. (Make sense of it) It's weirdly uncomfortable without the TV set. It doesn't feel right, nothing has felt right lately. Like as I stand here, I feel that funny feeling when you believe you've been there, done that before. Do you ever get That? (Sit down. Make it stop) We're not used to sitting in silence like this; for this long. It's agonising. (Do something) There's nothing to do now the television is missing, except to stare at the once occupied space in which the Television filled with sound and light and life that spanned the room. Now, a barren, cold enclosure with archaic yet universally familiar wallpaper that lays loose on the walls and folds or tears sporadically. It's rustic and homely though, ripe with sentiment and rich domestic attitudes about it. It seems perfect But it isn't the same now without enthusiasm. The television usually does that. It filled the silence with sound, giving us something to listen to if not each other. It used to fill the darkness with light, providing an excuse to pay attention to anything at all. It makes a great conversation starter, our source of anticipation, passion and liveliness but what now? (Say something. She's waiting) I looked to where she's sitting...She isn't here either. Much like our TV set, Zapped from existence before I could ever get the chance to say goodbye. (Find her) I sometimes forget that she's gone. I'd like to believe she's just outside, watering the plants or, in our bedroom reading a book to give any excuse for her absence except for what is true. At Least there's an explanation for that. But this? The sudden disappearance of our television is wildly uncanny and unpredictable in such a way that unsettles me. (Remind yourself) We used to gather around to watch the cricket, I'm not sure she enjoyed it. As much as I did at least but the company was what mattered the most to both of us. We'd watch the firework display when the clock struck 12 on new years eve. Or when the queen would deliver her speech on Christmas day. (You're alone) It dawns on me every time I remember, she must live in the clouds, always watching down on me. I bet she'll be so disappointed. I'm like a Lost, lonely lab rat in an experiment to find exactly "what would happen if we took everything away from it, one by one until it had nothing left" maybe that would explain why on earth the television has left me so suddenly too. To prove them right. But I have nothing now. When will the experiment end? Does it end? Am I just as disposable as our TV? And, "Why me?" My voice echoed through the room. It startled me a bit. I haven't heard my own voice in a while. I haven't had a reason to speak. I have no one to speak to so all of my thoughts and feelings remain, bottled up inside my head, often clashing or escaping me. I don't remember much nowadays either, almost as if my brain has exiled all of my memories for the only thing that matters to me. (Bring her back) We created so many memories together, for What? I can't remember most of them for the life of me and she, herself, is now just a memory. My only memory. The only thing to support the notion that I have a history. The very miniscule idea that I've had a life outside the present. Outside of this cursed room...


Jennifer, 29, was in a terrible accident eight years ago. She has no memory of her life before the accident, and all she remembers is being in the middle of the woods, bleeding from her head. She was rescued by Jerry, now 62, who she fell in love with. Despite their age difference, Jennifer's love for Jerry persisted as he visited her in the hospital every day while she was recovering, and they married. Eight years later and Jennifer is about to celebrate her 30th birthday. Jerry isn't a good-looking man, he's not wealthy, and he doesn't have any unique skills; however, Jennifer adores him, and he saved her life. For her birthday, he is taking her to the island of Saint Martin. Jerry made sure to include parasailing in the island excursion because she had always wanted to try it. Jennifer and Jerry appear to be as in love as they were when they first met in the hospital. Jennifer starts parasailing lessons, and she's a natural. Jennifer inquires as to what she might do if the parachute fails. Her instructor jokes that he once survived a parachute failure while skydiving when his chute didn't open. He told her that he tried to land on the balls of his feet to absorb the force and aimed for trees to slow his fall. "Good thing I tucked and protected my head; if not, I would be dead," the instructor says. "You're in good hands; I've been in tough spots before," the instructor reassures. When the training is finished, they take to the skies as the boat heads out into open water. The wind picks up, and Jennifer and the instructor soar 20 to 30 feet in the air; it's just as much fun as Jennifer had imagined. A break in one of the ropes holding the parachute in place occurs just as the boat is about to turn around. Jennifer and her instructor take off 50 feet higher in the air. When the wind stops, Jennifer and her instructor fall 50 feet into the ocean because there is nothing holding the parachute to the boat anymore. The instructor crashed awkwardly and died instantly. Jennifer was able to direct her fall at an angle that saved her life, but she passed out in the middle of the ocean. The boat radioed the Coast Guard, who responded by sending a crew to the area. Jennifer was airlifted to the nearest hospital in an unresponsive state. Her brain was swollen, and the surgeon initially thought she wouldn't survive; however, just as he was about to leave the operating room, a spike on a monitor indicated brain activity. The surgeon takes a risk by resetting Jennifer's brain with electroconvulsive shock. The surgeon connects the electrodes and uses electricity to zap her. Jennifer is initially unresponsive, but the monitors come to life after a few seconds, indicating that she will survive. Jennifer is in the recovery ward, slowly waking up in the presence of doctors, nurses, and her adoring husband, Jerry. Jennifer's memories from before the accident eight years ago are starting to come back to her, unbeknownst to everyone in the room. Jennifer recalls that her husband, Jerry, kidnapped her rather than rescuing her. He held her captive in his basement for three months, brainwashed her, erased her memory with electroshock treatments, and took her to the hospital, claiming to have discovered her in the woods while on a hike. Jerry was not the caring husband Jennifer had thought; he was a sociopath. Jennifer didn't know how to handle the situation and didn't want Jerry to know she was aware of what he had done, so she pretended everything was normal. Jennifer was eventually discharged from the hospital after a week. She begins to look into Jerry's past after the couple returns home. She eventually discovered that Jerry had previously been married twice, both times rescuing a woman in her early twenties and playing the role of the hero, which helped the young woman fall in love with an older, unattractive man. They were all killed in an accident while on vacation, just before their 30th birthdays. This was no coincidence to Jennifer; she had no doubt in her mind that Jerry had rigged the parasail to fail and was attempting to murder her before her 30th birthday. Nothing could keep him from killing her now that they were back home. Jennifer knew that if she wanted to exact revenge on Jerry for everything he'd done to her and the other women, she'd have to keep the lie of their marriage going. Jerry would only suffer if he was caught in the act of attempting to murder her. Jerry wanted to make amends for the accident in Saint Martin a few weeks later. He had the brilliant idea of taking the couple up to a remote mountaintop hotel for a weekend alone. This was, without a doubt, his second attempt to murder Jennifer. On the way up the mountain, Jennifer noticed that the guardrail on the narrow road leading up the mountain was missing as the couple drove through the snow. She remembered one of Jerry's previous wives had died while attempting to change a tire on this same narrow road. Just as Jennifer noticed this coincidence, Jerry pulled over to the side of the road and stated that something was wrong with the car; Jennifer became terrified and quickly exited. Jerry followed her out into the snow-covered mountain top. "Where are you going?" Jerry inquired. "I know what you're planning to do; I know everything; my memories from before the accident have returned," Jennifer responded. "This is insane. What am I up to?" Jerry inquired. "You're going to murder me just like the others. Oh, you didn't think I knew about the others, will I do, and it's not going to work," Jennifer screams back. "Hmm, I see someone's been playing detective," Jerry says threateningly. Jennifer tries to flee, but Jerry tackles her into a snowbank opposite the rail-free cliff. They struggle and begin to wrestle, Jerry attempting to pull Jennifer over the cliff as Jennifer attempts to avoid the fatal fall. She starts to lose traction as Jerry pushes her towards the edge of the cliff. Jerry cannot drag her over completely, as Jennifer grabs him by the shoulders and hurls both of them over the cliff. Jerry perishes in the fall, but Jennifer recalls the skydiving story from her parasailing instructor in Saint Martin. She tucked her chin into her chest and aimed for the trees below. Jennifer tries to land on the balls of her feet, but she collides with several branches on her way down to the ground. A car drove by a few minutes later and noticed the abandoned vehicle. Jennifer had survived; she had broken both legs and would need months to recover, but she was still alive, and Jerry, the psychopath, was dead.


I would be in a deep sleep. Then my mom would wake me. Time to go to church. I’d close my eyes. I’d start dreaming. Then my mom would wake me again. I’d ask to stay home that day. She’d say no. Then I’d protest more, but it was no use because I always ended up walking out the door in my khakis. My mom and I sat in the same pew for every sermon, and that had been our spot my whole life. Our Southern Baptist services had lots of structure. First we would pray. Then we’d sing a hymn. Then the deacons would pass around the offering plate. Then we would sing another hymn. After that was fellowship, where people would walk around and shake hands. When that was over, there’d be the pre-sermon prayer. Then the preacher would preach. Then he’d finish the message. And then we’d pray one more time. Finally, we would leave. That was the structure every Sunday. But there was always one extra step for me. And that was because of this woman named Dotty Hayes. Dotty sat in the pew right in front of me. She was a widow and had been for a long time. She’d never become a mother, and I’d heard people mention how she’d had a hard life. I didn’t know how old she was, but I’d always just figured she was 75. What stuck out about Dotty was her smile. It was odd, but I always felt like she meant it. She’d smile and show her large upper teeth, which were not dentures, and on each side of her mouth, a sharp point would form. At the same time, her eyes would squint to the point where they were almost shut. Nobody else smiled like that. Dotty Hayes, the extra step in my Sunday morning. Every service, directly after the pre-sermon prayer, right before the preacher went into the message of the day, Dotty would turn around and hand me a piece of old-fashioned red candy—the kind where the wrapper was made to look like a strawberry. What Dotty didn’t know was that I am allergic to a food coloring called Red 40: the very Red 40 that gave those old-fashioned strawberry candies their color. Red 40 is found in many delicious drinks and snacks. Growing up, I had to stay away from all kinds of treats. Fruity Pebbles, Skittles, Hawaiian Punch. My allergy also meant that I could never eat those little red candies that Dotty gave me every Sunday. When I ingest Red 40, I break out into hives, and I itch, and I'm consumed. Then the hives become a rash that can last for weeks. It isn’t life threatening, but it’s a pretty bad sight. Sometimes, with certain things, I’d risk the reaction. One summer, I broke down and ate some Twizzlers and then had to wear long sleeves for the next two weeks so nobody would see the streaks and patches all over my arms. Dotty’s red candy was how I discovered my allergy in the first place. It happened like this: I was five and it was Sunday morning and I was sitting with my mom and I was looking at my Batman action figures and Dotty turned around and she smiled and she handed me that candy and I ate it and then I got hives on my arms and I itched and I was confused and I was sad and we left early that day and went to the doctor and found out that I was allergic. We never told Dotty what happened. We didn’t tell anybody in the church because we knew they’d go straight and tell her. My mom didn’t want to hurt her feelings. She instructed me not to tell Dotty about my hives and to just accept any future candy and put it in my pocket and act like I was happy to get it. It turned out that every Sunday after that emergency room visit, I would get a piece of old-fashioned red candy. And every Sunday, I would smile and thank Dotty and put it in my pocket and act like I was glad to get it. I liked my Sunday morning acting exercises. My performances were good, and Dotty always believed them. I knew because she’d smile that weird smile with those eyes nearly closed and those knife points on either side of her mouth. I did something weird, though. Weirder than Dotty’s smile. I’ve never been officially diagnosed, but I’m a hoarder. I’m not as bad as those people on TV, but I can’t stand to throw things away. Starting around middle school, when I’d get home from church, I’d go to my bedroom and put my new piece of red candy in the top drawer of my nightstand. I did that every Sunday all the way to when I graduated high school. I ended up with a huge collection. My nightstand’s top drawer was big, and it was filled with years of Dotty Hayes’ red candy. My friends noticed this and thought it was funny. One time a girl came over and she judged me for it. That didn’t bother me, though. My collection of red candy wasn’t hurting anybody—so long as I didn’t eat it. Two days after my high school graduation, Dotty died. Her neighbor found her slumped over in her rocking chair. I was sad when I heard the news, and in dramatic fashion, I walked into my bedroom and opened the top drawer of my nightstand and stood there and looked at all that candy she’d given me. The funeral was later that week, and I went with my mom. It wasn’t too different from a normal Sunday at the church house. The congregation made up most of the funeral attendees, and Dotty’s family had even gotten our preacher to do the service. We sang songs, prayed, listened the the message, and prayed again. Then we filed out of the funeral home and went and had lunch. Then came the first Sunday service after Dotty died. After the opening prayer, the preacher took a few minutes to talk about her. Then he looked at her empty seat in the pew in front of me and recited a verse and some people in the church started crying. Then we went back into the usual routine. We sang the first hymn. Next was the offering. After that was another hymn. Then the fellowship where I had to shake hands with people. Then the pre-sermon prayer. And then it came time for me to get my candy, but Dotty wasn’t around to hand it to me. I had expected to be sad, and I was, in fact, very sad. I didn’t make a scene, though. Poor old kind Dotty. When I got home, I went to my bedroom, to my nightstand. I opened the top drawer and stood there staring like I’d done a few days before. There were so many red candies that I could smell them from where I was standing. Poor good-hearted Dotty. Poor odd-smiling Dotty. Then I got an idea: *Maybe I ought to pay some kind of tribute.* I reached into the drawer and grabbed a candy. I unwrapped it and held it in my hand. Red and hive-inducing, it almost glowed in its glory. I knew it would mess me up, but I ate it. Then I ate another one. After that, I ate another. Then I went ahead and ate more. Those candies had a loud crunch to them. They were tasty. I went on for a good while, until I couldn’t chew anymore. By this point, I’d consumed at least half the collection. I had even gotten into some of the old ones with faded wrappers. My teeth hurt, and my arms were itching. I went into the bathroom and found a packet of oatmeal remedy. I drew my bathwater while pouring in the oat fix. When I took off my shirt, I knew that this was going to be the worst spell I’d ever had. I looked at myself in the mirror over my sink. The hives were all over my torso and my arms and my neck and my face. And then I saw it, and I don’t care what anybody says. On my chest. Right over my heart. The hives formed an image. A face. It was Dotty Hayes. Smiling that odd smile.


**March 6th:** *“Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father.”* That’s what they always tell me, that’s all they have to offer me. They pat me on the shoulder and whisper those empty words like I’m supposed to then look up to the dim heavens and offer my gratitude. I’m disgusted and I’m broken. **March 10th:** I cried again today. I was doing what I already know to be wrong and recalling old memories. They’re such a brutal kiss, I get to taste the sweet sweet lips of love just as it's pulling away from me. I lean forward to try and chase it, extending my neck like a starving crane and begging for more, but I only find the perfume of where it once was, haunting me. **March 12th:** I attend the classes and sessions, just like they tell me to do, but all I can see are the well-practiced smiles and rehearsed lines of people who maybe once truly cared, but are now simply idling in the harbor of a still life. I’m angry, and want to be more angry, but what am I to do? Be that gremlin that shouts and bites at people? Grab the shirt collars and sleeves of happy people passing by just to remind them of the fleeting nature of it all? I’m trapped in life and can’t get out without quitting. **March 22nd:** Someone said it again, like it was some sort of divine remedy for my ignorant, uninitiated mind. In my whalings and laments I was interrupted by the arrogant confidence of someone who doesn’t know: *“Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father.”* I was enraged, like a dog I snapped and barked at them, how could they ever be so inconsiderate? What, this was God’s plan, my falling is like that of some stupid, flopping sparrow? And I simply must accept that like some sort of animal? What an awful way to view things, what a terrible way to help me. How could they even pretend to understand what this is like? **April 1st:** Here I am, on the day of comedy, without laughter. **April 10th:** My only inklings of joy are the little pieces of progress that I find in my day-to-day life. What a weak existence, living for the sake of being half of what I once was? Is that okay? How could I ever be content with something like that? Why do I torment myself with such ideas? **April 16th:** A friend told me to read some of the old Greek philosophers, said they helped him. After reading some, I kind of like them, they’re ancient and distant, screaming down the wide halls of time at me and reaching my ears in barely audible tones. But somehow, in those eons of distance, they find familiar feelings and words. They don’t all agree on the things of life, nor do I with them, but somehow we all tackle the same problems. I stare up at the night sky just like Epicuras once did, or Zeno, and think the same things they did. They offer me solutions just like everyone else did, but I can’t get mad at them like the others, they’re different, they’re dead just like I feel. And somehow that makes me a little more alive. **May 5th:** A lot of time has passed since it happened, and everything is so different now. I am out of that time of whiplash, where events strained my soul, and have more time to reflect and think than before. I now realize that I have a unique opportunity to view life from two completely different angles, two different mediums of sight, and it's strange. Obviously I’d rather this thing to never happen at all, but I have gained a new insight now, a new wisdom. Like Plato leaving his cave or Odin giving up his eye, I enter a new world and can compare the two. It’s strange. **May 10th:** I think all I’ve done is think, since that’s all I really can do, and I’m finding out some things I never had before. I was so angry before, so full of the fire for revenge and feeling the pressure from the walls of life. I felt trapped, I was trapped. I think I was always trapped though, I think everyone is. I’m not the first to reach this conclusion obviously, a lot of the old thinkers seemed to think the same thing. Now, that doesn’t really change my situation, doctors said nothing can, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t help. In a way, nothing has really changed. **July 23rd:** Someone said it to me again. I was at some sort of family event, receiving condolences that I didn’t really care about, and the phrase came flying out of the void of voices like a club: *“Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father.”* It’s a bible quote, Matthew 10:29, and when I heard it again I immediately wanted to get mad, I wanted to become that old dog from before and lash out like a dirty little gremlin. But the phrase is different to me now, much different. I am not a religious person, not in the slightest, but I have certainly come to respect the power of voices louder than time, and that phrase hit me with its weight like it never did before. One of my favorite authors is the Greek poet Lucretius, and he said something along the lines of that phrase too, but without the God part. But honestly, I don’t think the God part of Matthew 10:29 is important, in fact, I think you could get rid of it altogether and nothing would change. Here, this is how I’d sum it up: *“Sparrows can fly, but sometimes don’t; That's the nature of things.”* I think that’s really powerful, and it’d seem that the Greeks and Romans would agree. Now, I am no Lucretius or Matthew, but I am a Sparrow who fell, a Sparrow who didn’t fly, and I can say with all confidence: *That’s the nature of things.


Alessia had anchored her boat in a small cove on the northeast corner. The space was too small for any larger vessel, and the tides meant she was grounded much of the day, but the boat and her home were safe. That night I walked back to the boat with her. I told Xander and Kurbani I was going to keep her company, but in reality it was so we could talk more about the island and how we would convince the islanders to leave. Spring was slowly arriving. For the first time since I left Kadear, the night air didn’t feel bitter and cold. The sky was clear, and we walked under a blanket of stars and a waning moon that gave just enough illumination to the fields in front of us. “How do you think they’ll react?” Alessia asked. “Have they discussed needing to leave?” “Back when we first met, Sirad said something about some islanders not being ready to give up,” I thought back to that moment lying on the floor of that abandoned room, my ribs aching with the memory. “I reckon some are ready to go, though.” “So we’ll have some who agree and some who disagree,” Alessia nodded in thought. “The bigger issue is how they’re going to leave,” I shrugged. “There’s no boat big enough in the harbour to survive the seas, and they won’t all fit on yours.” “One passenger on my boat’s enough anyway, thank you.” She forced another smile. “But yeah, you’re right.” We continued to walk down the long hill towards the cove. As we descended, the sound of light winds rustling in trees was replaced by waves lapping on the shoreline. Alessia opened her mouth to speak, she took a deep breath in before finally saying the words. “You still got any artefacts left?” “Yes. Why?” “I’m going to need you to trust me… a lot.” “I already do,” I replied. A large beaming smile crept across her face for a brief second before she tried to smother it with a more stern expression. “I don’t think you know how much those things are worth. If you have enough, we could buy a boat - a big one. I could sail off, find a suitable ship, and come back.” “How much do you need?” I asked. “If you still have some of those lighters left. Maybe eight or nine of them.” I tallied what I had in my head. I’d be left with a shadow of what I started with. I hadn’t been living in luxury since I left Kadear, but I had never had to worry about how I would sleep or eat. This would change that. I would no longer be self-sufficient. A brief doubt crossed my mind. That selfish part of me that wanted nothing but to travel, to jump from island-to-island exploring - it begged me to refuse. But my conscience won out. I swallowed the id down into my stomach. “It won’t leave me with much, but sure. I can give you the artefacts.” “Great. Can any of them sail?” “In a dinghy by the harbour? Probably. Coping with an unexpected ocean swell with no sign of land?” I shook my head. Alessia tutted. “I’ll have to teach them - but we need to get to Tima Voreef. They’ll have to learn as we go, so we sail in tandem, at least initially.” “We can tell them tomorrow. I’ll get everyone together in the evening. Then we can explain it to them and hope they see sense.” Alessia stopped and looked back between me and the boat on the beach. The ship lay on the sand, listing to one side, the anchor stretched along the sand in front of it. “This is going to change things. For us both.” “What do you mean?” I looked to the side and let out a dismissing chortle. “Until this gets sorted, you can’t just travel for fun going off wherever you want now. And I can’t go taking whatever trading routes I want. Sure, I gotta make a living still. But…” she paused, and looked out to the sea. “Like it or not, the second we leave this island we’re taking on a responsibility. To the people of Deer Drum. The living and the dead.” “I know,” I said. “Good.” Alessia furrowed her brow. I took a long deep breath and waited for Alessia to catch my eye. “I’ve been running around chasing things since I left Kadear. This is the same, just more focused. But you… are you okay with this?” “No,” Alessia chuckled. “But... I don’t see any other way of this ending without blood on my hands. I’m not prepared for that. Sometimes what’s right comes before what you want.” “You sure?” She rolled her head from side to side. “I like being able to sleep at night.” She looked up at the stars flickering in the sky. “Speaking of which, it’s been a long day. I’ll catch you tomorrow.” The following evening we gathered the residents of Deer Drum to discuss our plan. All sixteen adults and the two older children all sat around in a large circle as Alessia explained their options. “The boat won’t be huge. You won’t all be living in luxury. But you’ll be comfortable. We’ll teach you to sail on the way to Tima Voreef. From there, you can sail to whatever island in the Archipelago you want to. That’s your decision.” “How long do we have to choose?” asked one woman. “I’m leaving tomorrow.” Alessia replied. “Are you telling us what to do, or is this an offer?” Sirad shouted from across the circle. “An offer,” I replied, sensing the tone in his voice. “Look, we can’t force you to get on a boat,” Alessia replied. “So it’s not an order. But I’ll tell you bluntly; if you stay here you will most likely die.” Silence fell across the circle. There were no further questions. “They’re right. We have to go,” Xander said, his eyes staring his hands, as he slowly tore up a piece of grass over and over. “You want to leave?” Sirad replied. “No. But I want to live. I want them to live,” he nodded to his daughter sitting beside him. “We can’t just give up, abandon Deer Drum,” another woman replied. “Like it or not, Deer Drum is already dead,” said Xander. “We’re here, but the island... Who we were. It’s gone.” Xander’s bluntness hit a few members of the circle. One man bucked, his head falling into his hands as he covered his face. “He’s right,” said Eir. Her voice seemed even thinner than when she had inspected my injuries when I first arrived. “We have to move on.” “What?” Sirad stood up. “This is our home. I’m proud to be from Deer Drum. I’m not letting our island name die.” “Sirad, we have to.” Xander said. “And Eir, you’re listening to him. You didn’t study leadership, Xander. We’re supposed to do whatever a farmer says now.” “And you were a naturalist.” said Kurbani, standing to meet Sirad. “Were. You’re not anymore. None of us are what we were.” “So Xander is our leader?” Sirad pointed his finger at Xander, who was still hypnotized by the shredded grass in his hands. “No. We were farmers.,” Kurbani interrupted, raising her voice to cut him out. “And I’ll tell you what farmers do know. How much food people need to survive. So I’m telling you, with all I know, that if we stay, we die. And you can be nostalgic all you like. Spend weeks being so. You’ll still die. Your loyalty to Deer Drum won’t feed you.” “Please. Calm down.” Eir interrupted, she lowered her hands, trying to simmer the mood. “We’ve all been through more than anyone should ever have to. But we all want what is right.” Kurbani and Sirad heeded her point and sat back down. Once they did, Eir continued. “One thing’s for sure. We all go one way or another *together*. If some of us leave, those staying behind stand even less of a chance. So, are we all in agreement that whatever we decide, whatever the majority choose, we’ll all abide by?” She looked around the circle. Hums of agreement or nods met her gaze. “Good,” she continued. “There’s eighteen of us here. How many of us have already made up our minds?” “We’re letting the children vote?” Sirad replied. “They’re members of this island too,” Eir replied. “How many have made up their minds?” Hands rose as Eir counted. All but five had already decided. Xander’s daughter, Mirai, the other child, and three others. “And of those that have already decided. How many say we should leave?” Eir replied. She counted again. Xander and Kurbani’s arms were raised, as were seven others. “Nine. One more for a majority.” Eir declared. She looked around the circle, she was about to open her mouth when she was interrupted. “We go,” Mirai said, raising her arm firmly into the air, her face hardened. “Are you just doing this because your parents did?” asked a man on the other side of the circle. Mirai laughed. As the laugh faded, I could see dampness on her cheeks, and water in the corner of her eyes. “You don’t know how much I loved living here. You will never know that. I would shout at my parents till I died of exhaustion if I thought they were wrong and there was some way I could keep living here. I’ve lost so much. My best friend is buried in some pit outside of town, my uncles and aunts are there too. And I’m going to have to leave them, and their memories, and every good thing that ever happened in my life behind. I would give anything to not have to lose something else... But we have to face loss. We have to try and build something else, somewhere else.” “The best things grow from the worst disasters,” said the musician who I had seen playing with Novak earlier. “What?” Mirai asked. “It’s a line from a song I was taught once. ‘The best things grow from the worst disasters. The best things grow when we begin again.’ There will never be a point in any of our lives lower than this. But, from that - all that loss and emptiness - we can build.” He raised his hand from the elbow. “I vote we go too.” “That’s eleven for, four against, three undecided.” Eir said. “It’s done. We go.” There was silence across the circle. A few members stirred, wanting to dissent. But they bit their tongue. Everyone stared into the space, processing the moment in solitude. At least a minute passed before Eir spoke again. “Alessia, Ferdinand. Tell us what to do and how we can help. We are coming with you.” Alessia nodded and slowly stood up as she explained to everyone what would happen. The next day Alessia set sail. I stayed behind with the islanders as they packed up whatever goods they couldn’t dare to part with, and any food they could carry. It was a long wait for Alessia to return, but two weeks later one of the kids spotted the ship on the horizon. A handful of us rushed down to meet her as we watched the boat slowly sail towards the shore. The vessel Alessia had found was at least five times the size of her own. In reality, it was too big for one person to manage, but with a loose sail allowing a slower pace, and a lot of patience, Alessia had managed successfully. We watched the boat crawl towards the island, Alesia’s ship tugged behind by a long rope. Eventually, Alessia weighed anchor and rowed a smaller boat ashore. It was time for the people of Deer Drum to leave. My own island had turned out to be a lie. It had imprisoned me and tried to kill me. And yet, I still missed it. I was still from the Kadear Coalfields. Our homes hold identity over us. And I could see each survivor mourn as they stepped into the boat, and their feet left the sand of the island. They left in groups of three or four in the small rowing boat. Some stared straight ahead, refusing to look back lest long-cherished memories reappear. Others watched the land the whole time, hoping it would call them back, beg them to stay. With everyone on board, we set sail away from the island. For the first time in many hundreds of years, perhaps since the Archipelago was first formed, Deer Drum was uninhabited. Its purpose was now nothing more than a geographical reference. Its population, nil. We all travelled on the larger ship, Alessia’s boat towed behind. As Deer Drum disappeared over the horizon, Alessia was resting in the cabins, while I was helping the survivors get used to the seas. I knew enough of the basics to be of use in calmer waters. Eir was the first to take the helm. She seemed at ease, slowly turning the wheel as the gusts of wind caught the sails. I stood by her for the first couple of hours. Behind me, the man with the guitar was sitting on the edge of the boat, plucking a few chords. He stopped. Paused. And then began playing again, now with a more resolute purpose. After a few bars of plucking the chords, he began to sing over the top, serenading his fellow passengers. *My friends, come along. Don’t you hear the fond song?* *The sweet notes where the nightingale flows?* *For to hear the fond tale of the sweet nightingale,* *As she sings in the valley below,* *As she sings in the valley below.* He stopped for a second, thinking, before starting the second verse. *My trav’lers don’t fail, for I’ll carry your pail,* *Safe home to a harbour we’ll go.* *You shall hear the fond tale of the sweet nightingale* *As she sings in the valley below,* *As she sings in the valley below.* I looked at Eir, making sure she was okay by herself, before turning to speak to the man. He stopped as he saw me approaching. “Did you write that?” I asked. He laughed and shook his head. “No. That song’s older than the Archipelago itself. I was trying to switch the lyrics up a bit. Make them more relevant to our lives.” “What’s the original about?” “Guy trying to schmooze a woman. Same as most old songs,” the man grinned. “Thank you, by the way. You’re saving us all.” “It was the right thing to do,” I said. “Good to meet you…?” I offered out a hand. “Lachlaan,” he said, returning the handshake. Once he was done he picked up the guitar again and started plucking a few strings, playing with the melody of the song. “You seem pretty relaxed out here,” I said. “There’s been a lot of pain lately,” he said over the chords. “But maybe for the first time since everything, it feels like we’re moving forward. We might be sailing into the great unknown, but we’re moving. Sometimes that’s a victory. We’ll just have to see what’s over the horizon.” As I turned and headed back to the helm, he picked up the song again. *My friends, come along. Don’t you hear the fond song?* *The sweet notes where the nightingale flows?* I looked over the bow of the ship, as we cut through the crisp winter waves on our way to Tima Voreef, and hopefully answers to what happened on Deer Drum. “This seems easier than I expected,” Eir said to me over the singing in the background. “It gets harder when the weather isn’t so kind,” I chuckled. “I’m sure, but for now.” “For now, just keep pointing at the horizon,” I said. “Point to the horizon, and see what’s on the other side.” # END OF BOOK ONE. \ The Archipelago will be taking a brief hiatus before returning with the start of book two on Thursday 22nd July.


I have a dog whose name is Chauncey. He is a border collie/german shepherd mix, nearly four years old, and has the biggest goblin ears you've ever seen. He's a good boy and I love him, but sometimes he's a brat. This is what it would be like to be in his head for 5 minutes...  *Ears twitch. Something moved. Or made a sound. Or both. I'm awake now. Must pretend to sleep still while I peek around. What is hooman doing? Where is hooman? Did he leave?!* *I get up in a hurry.* *Oh, there hooman is. Why you leave me hooman? Don't ever do dat again.* *STREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEETCH.* *YAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUN.* *SSSSHHHHAAAAAKKKKEEEE*. *Okay, now I'm sleepy again. Run around in a circle six times and plop right back down. Aaaaand sleep.* *BUT WAIT. Can't sleep. Hooman might leave again. Also, where is ball? Ball? Ball? Ball? Ball?* *I get up again and sniff around. Ball is NEAR.* *Ball?* *sniffsniffsniffsniffsniff* *Ball? Is that ball I smell? Hmm... Nope. That's my butt.* *What you laughing at hooman?* *Where is ball?* *AH-HA! THERE IS BALL. It is under the big thing.* *I try to get it. Get it. getitgetitgetit. Can't reach.* *HOOMAN! MAH BAWLL, HOOMAN! IT UNDER THING AND CAN'T REACH. HOOMAN!* *Yes! Hooman yes, get up, yes, come get ball. Wait, no, hooman where are you going hooman? Come back here and get ball. No, hooman, ball this way.* *I chase hooman. He goes into the food room. FOOD! Okay, hooman, you can get me a treat and then you get my ball. Treat? Treat? He doesn't hear me. I go stand by the treat cupboard and whine.* *WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE.* *Okay, he's getting up. He probably heard me. But just in case...* *WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE.* *Ah, yes hooman, open cupboard. Yes, gimme treat. Oh yes I good boy. Yes yes yes yesyesyes. Lookit me I sit my butt down and I put my foot up on you. See how good I am? Treat now please.* *NOMNOMNOMNOMNOMNOM.* *I smack my lips. That was yummy. Can I has more? No? Okay, well, can't blame a guy for trying.* *OH! I ALMOST FORGOT ABOUT MY BALL. HOOMAN COME FETCH MY BALL.* *He doesn't know what I want.* *Fine. I go stand by the big thing, aaaand....* *WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE.* *What do you mean "stop crying"? I stop crying when you get my ball hooman.* *WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE.* *Yes! Get up. He's coming here. Yes, it is under big thing. Yes, you can get it hooman! I belieb in you! Oh man you did it! You got the ball from under the big thing! Yes I knew you could do it hooman! You are the greatest-- Oh! You're getting ready to throw it. I catch!* *I ready. Every muscle in my body is primed to pounce.* *HE THREW IT!* *AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!* *jumptackletwistflipmidairslipballmouthfacefloortumblespincatchslidestoooop* *Stand proud with ball in mouth. TADAAAA!* *Again, hooman!* *What does it mean, "no, I got to work"?* *Hooman, don't go sit down. No. We play ball now.* *Hooman? Hooman!* *He not listening to me.* *I know!* *I'll just purposefully roll ball under the big thing, and....* *WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE.* *Don't judge me. If it works, it works.* *Yes hooman. That's it. Ball time now. You work later.* *Tail wag.


Its Monday. I arrive at the office, pass by the reception desk, “My God Kathy, you look like crap!”, softer now, I sit near the reception desk where Melissa works, she says, “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, you just look like you didn’t sleep all weekend. Are you OK?” I answer, “Yes. Everything is fine now. Sarah’s fine. Friday she had pneumonia, but she’s past the worst part. It has just all been such a strange ordeal.” “Was she that sick?”, Melissa asks softly. “No, it’s not that . . . Its . . . For a while now, she’s been telling us about *The Green Lady*. Things would happen like, she’d misplace her favorite doll and The Green Lady would remind her she took it outside. That it’s near the dog house where she was playing with it the day before. I had an imaginary friend when I was a kid. Lots of kids do for a short period, so Daniel and I never really thought much about it.” Melissa said, “You thought it was a ‘phase’ she would grow out of.” “Right. But then, she’d say The Green Lady would tell her things, things she couldn’t possibly know herself. We had a family friend that was very sick. Daniel and I were afraid she might die. But we’d kept all that from the children until, or unless, it actually happened. Then one day we were planning a weekend trip to Disneyland in three weeks, something the kids love to do, and she said the next morning ‘We shouldn’t go that weekend, The Green Lady said last night, your friend will die that Saturday and you’ll want to be here for the family that weekend.” Melissa looked on, eyes wide, shocked and speechless. I continued, “Yeah. We thought we’d done a pretty thorough job of keeping how serious the friends illness was from the kids, and here she is saying our friend is about to die. Well, three weeks later, Saturday morning I get a call from our friends mother telling us she had just passed minutes before.” Melissa leans in to place her hand on mine, “Oh my Gosh.” “Yeah. So Daniel and I are searching the attic and crawlspaces and everywhere someone could hide. Because I’m beginning to wonder if The Green Lady is some real person that has been talking to the children when we aren’t around. We find nothing. We don’t want to scare the kids, but talk to both separately and our other younger daughter mentions she’s seen her too. That she tucks her in at night some times, and sings to her after Daniel and I have left her in bed. So, Daniel and I are fully freaking at this point. Wondering if moving, or an exorcism, is the better option?” Melissa snorts, “Right.” “We talk to the children, and very discretely slip in some casual questions, to make sure The Green Lady isn’t asking them to kill the neighbors or anything wild, but no, it’s all tucking them in at night, and harmless bedtime stories, or finding the occasional lost or misplaced doll or calming them if something unsettling happened during the previous day. We asked where they’ve seen her at, they say ‘mostly in the house, in our bedroom’. So it’s not someone meeting them out at daycare or school, somewhere when we aren’t around.” Melissa shrugs, “Like when they’re out clubbing.” “Right, I mean they’re seven and four, it’s not like they spend any real time outside close, trusted, adult supervision . . .” “Three months pass, the occasional mention of The Green Lady drops. While its bizarre to us, to the children she’s harmless and it’s all meaningless. Then the oldest daughters allergies kick in, or, it’s a cold, or the flu, we can’t tell yet. She’s not particularly getting worse, but not getting better either and her temperature is back and forth. I tell Daniel I’ll take her to the Doctor tomorrow just as we’re going to bed. 2:30am, I feel a tug on my shoulder and roll over to see . . . A woman, who looks vaguely familiar, with long probably red hair, freckles, and flowing green Victorian length dress, with a bright green aura glowing around her, lean over and say. “She’ll be fine, but it’s gone over to pneumonia, you should probably take her to the hospital and have them check oxygen levels and give her something to drain the fluid around her lungs.” I roll over and scream at Daniel to get up and get dressed, that we’re taking Sarah to the hospital. Turn back and see . . . Nothing. The Green Lady is gone.” “I throw a robe on and head to the girls room as Daniel gets dressed. Her breathing is worse, we take her to the hospital, and the doctor confirms . . . Pneumonia. He gives her something to reduce the fluids and help her breath, and we monitor the oxygen levels for a few hours, and eventually take her home six or so hours later. The Doctor asks what made me bring her in, was her breathing that bad? I paused head down, sighed and said barely audible, ‘No, it was The Green Lady.’ He turned back to the chart, chuckled softly, hanging the stethoscope around his neck and responded, ‘Ah, fifth time in the last year. Who do you think she looks like?’ I couldn’t believe someone else had heard of her and said I didn’t know, but she did look familiar. He asked if I watched a certain TV show’, I blurted out a characters name, that’s where I recognize her from.” I lean back in the guest chair, “Mom and Daniel were with the kids. Phone rings Saturday evening, just as I get home from the grocery. It’s the Doctor from the ER. He’s a friend of a friend of the actress the Green Lady looks like, and wants to know if I’d like to meet her? I said, ‘Sure, I guess’. So he tells me they’ll be home Sunday afternoon and gives me the address. I talk it over with Daniel. My mother had already stopped by to help with the kids, so Daniel and I decide to go.” Melissa asked, “You went over to her house?” “Yes, and recapped the entire story to her and her boyfriend. Her eyes get wide, she leaps off the couch, and says to her boyfriend ‘Oh my God John, they’re crazy. You keep them here, I’ll go in the back and call the police’, and she bolts out of the room.” Melissa gasps, “So you’re about to be arrested?” “We thought so. Daniel and I are panicking. Standing up and apologizing profusely to the boyfriend and trying to excuse ourselves to leave. The boyfriend just smiles, shakes his head, waves us to sit down ‘She’s not calling the police. She’s going into the spare bedroom to get a drawing hanging on the wall.’ Thirty seconds later she comes out and spins around a roughly 11x14 portrait in a very old frame and there is . . . The Green Lady. Red hair like the actress. Long flowing Victorian Green Dress, like the one I saw next to my bed. Not a twin, but enough of a likeness to the actress to make you think of her.” The actress says, ‘This is my Great Aunt Jessica. Its a Black and White charcoal drawing that was shaded over in color. Some of the green is actually coal shading. Apparently if you’re skilled enough, you can shade color with coal, depending on the surrounding room light. She’s been gone for sixty years. I never met her, well,’, she nods with a bit of an eyebrow wink, ‘not while she was alive anyway. But she had no children of her own, and spent most of her life looking after others children while the parents were out working. I saw her as a child, like your daughters do. And, every three to six months, someone sends us a letter, telling us a story, similar to the one you just told us. I can’t explain it, there seems to be no connection to these other people. It’s as if . . . Jessica just continues looking after children as she always has.’” Melissa exhales, “Oh my God, that’s amazing. So a ghost saved your daughter?” I shrug, “Someone, or something did. I can’t explain it. And I haven’t seen her since. Daniel has never seen her. So, that was my weekend, how about you?” Melissa said, “Oh no. I can’t top that.


Grief Navigation 2020 GPS System Grieving is a process; a journey. This journeys length is different for every single person who experiences it, and is not equal to the amount of time it takes to "heal". It's a fucked up journey I wouldn't call into a radio show to win free tickets for. I'm gonna describe the journey to you like this, in a way you might understand if you've had your head up your ass: it's driving the struggle bus, guided by the Grief Navigation 2020 gps system. The struggle bus itself is a rusted, rickety old pile of shit. Something from the 60s and NOT well taken care of. Most of the windows are cracked, AC nor heat works and it's obvious at minimum one tire is a doughnut that was never replaced. The Grief Navigation 2020 gps system… never has and never will navigate you correctly to any destination. The voice that speaks directions out loud can not be muted and sounds like a failed Siri prototype speaking in Hooked-On-Phonics. The journey. It's indescribable in so many ways, and the worst thing anyone will ever go through. Like I said before it's different for everyone, cause I bet you already tuned me out. Pay attention. The devastation happens and just like that. Poof. Your vehicle is replaced with the struggle bus. You're upset from the devastation but the struggle bus? That is not real…? For some days, there is a true denial to accept that the rickety pile of shit is here to escort you on this journey. When clearly, it is indeed parked exactly where your vehicle was and has not budged. After these some odd days there is a moment, a realization or an understanding that happens. I won't call it acceptance of the devastation, because it's not. But you just know that it is time to board the rickety pile of shit, the struggle bus. There only appears to be one seat for you, the driver's seat. You turn the key and the struggle bus coughs and sputters to life as something you hear, but can't see boots up. In all it's odd, robotic, Hooked-On-Phonics glory it loudly announces it is the Grief Navigation 2020 gps system. It almost doesn't make sense. It asks where you'd like to go. Nowhere? Onward with every day life? Into a hole? The casino? The bottom of a bottle? Alcohol or prescription, there is no judgement here. Your answer doesn't matter to Grief Navigation anyway. From here you will drive the guided struggle bus to places like: Numb Creek, St. Furious, Gloomsville, Lonely Oaks, Rage Valley, Heartbreak Rapids, Regret Prairie, Depression Grove, Anxiety Park and Guilt Heights. That is only a handful of map examples the Grief Navigation system is equipped with. It will take you to visit these places in no particular order, over and over again. Even if you want to stay awhile in one place. If you want to stop and rest. If you want to leave. If you want to choose your next stop. And you will even find that you can somehow be in more than one of these places at the same exact time. No, believe me. I have no idea how one can be in Regret Prairie and Rage Valley at the same damn time either. You know, I have zero clue about when this journey ends, if it does. Or if you ever stop visiting these places in the struggle bus. I'm only describing the journey as far as I've travelled it. Because it needs to be described, spoken about more. Did you pull your head out of your ass? Did you pay attention? Cause someday your own vehicle just might go poof.


She lay flat but arched her neck. Looking up she covered her eyes in a vain attempt to protect them from the sun's daggers. The sand on her belly and her legs had dried and now fell away like cookie crumbs when she moved. She would try to lie still. It comforted her to have those little passengers on board. A thin cloak to cover skin that may not be ready to be so bare as she thought it was. She could make out his shape now, standing proudly over her. The drops of water as he waved his hands kept threatening to hit her when they fell but she did not think this would be unwelcome at all. It was hot. Perhaps too much so. It surely hadn't been this punishing a heat when she lay down on the shore for a moment to let the sandwiches and cold tea from lunch settle. That was a while ago now though. It must have warmed slowly. She was a frog in a boiling pot. Still, it didn't matter much. It was bearable. She was nothing if not stronger than your average frog. "I have seen the sea!" He proclaimed in a jaunty tone. The waves crashed behind him as timpani perfectly timed to accompany his exclamations. "Pardon dear?" She knew what he said but desperately loved the sound of his voice and wanted him to repeat it. A short song just for her. To hear him happy, this was what she longed for. It had been years since his voice had bounced so. "The sea! I have seen it. I will conquer it for you. Its horizons, I will venture into the angry blue beast until the water covers my head. Then, when I must swim, my arms will be like the fins of a dolphin and my legs will push me as a steamship's screws. I can swim forever in this. Come with me! Let's swim until we forget what land even looks like!" "And what if we encounter a shark? What shall we do then oh brave adventurer? "Shark? I fear no shark. No whale, no jellyfish, Man-O'-War or other variety. I fear nothing in the sea. Nor should you because I will be there. Shark? Ha! You have to stop worrying about the little things. Even the little things that are actually quite big and have many, many teeth." He smiled and broke character for just a moment, laughing a little at himself and his ridiculousness. She reflected that smile, as she had a thousand times before. "That's wonderful. Move a little closer, cover the sun with your shadow for me." He moved forward, his form cutting the light and giving her a tiny respite from the heat. His smile replaced the sun. Staring down at her the she could see could see just as much brightness in his eyes. She smiled back even more so. A duel. Who was happier? For just a second she closed her eyes to rest and when she opened them he was gone. He had not been there at all. The mind, when it wants, can paint such pictures. It can make you taste fruit you are not even eating. When it wants, the magician in your head will fool you every time. He was gone as he had been for fourteen months now. It wasn't as bright as before. Now she had to fear the sharks everywhere again. Still, it was hot, the sand was on her belly and the timpani continued to play.