I squinted, trying to see through not only the darkness but the tendrils of cigarette smoke as well that filled the crowded club. I had my arm snaked around the hips of Claudine, a girl that I had met two weeks before in this same club, as she grinded them against my own. Lime and turquoise lights bounced off of her practically white hair, which was frizzy and crazy from all the dancing. She licked her lips like they had sugar covering them and pulled at my neck until my ear was level with her mouth. Her breath smelled like the American Spirit yellows that seemed to be glued between her pouty lips every time I was around her. I found her smoking disgusting, but her body was heavenly. She whispered something in my ear that I couldn’t make out over the EDM that rattled my skull. I looked blankly at her, half trying to figure out what she said, half trying to see if she would say it again. She repeated herself louder, shouting into my ear. “What do you want out of this?” It was such a vague question and I wanted to pry further, so I replied, “I’m not sure I know what you mean.” Plain, simple, and dishonest. Even Jack Daniel’s Honey couldn’t confuse the meaning behind her question. I knew that she wanted to know why I was keeping her around instead of just ghosting her after the first night we had sex. I wasn’t exactly sure she’d heard what I said, and I knew for a fact that what she’d asked me would mean further conversation. She paused for a second before lacing her hand between my fingers and pulling me behind her. She walked quickly, which let me know that she knew exactly where she was taking me and exactly why she was taking me there. We went straight out of the back entrance of the club and into the cold midnight. The actuality of how drunk I was hit me when Claudine led me up the metal steps of a fire escape attached to the apartment complex that shared the alley with Eight Ball. Distracted by the clanging of my feet against the stairs, I stumbled and clenched the railing until confident that I’d regained my balance. Claudine chuckled at my unsteadiness. She was completely sober because she said she didn’t enjoy not having full control over her life at all times. I found this insanely humorous because I couldn’t remember a single time I’d ever felt like I had complete control over my life, and the booze helped me forget that dismal realization. Both of us sat, feet dangling over the edge of the escape, a cigarette suddenly appearing between her deep burgundy lips. My drunkenness had caused me to forget the reason that we’d even come outside in the first place, and I guess she figured it less important to talk than she had before. We both felt comfortable sitting in silence on the fire escape in the cold Denver nighttime. I stared at her thighs. She wore ripped pantyhose, but I could still see her milky skin glowing through the holes in the fabric. I wanted to kiss her thighs more than I wanted to kiss her mouth. I looked up to her face, her cheeks and nose were bright pink from the air around us. Thick, inky eyeliner matched the color of her top and very, very short black skirt, which she wore despite the chill. I realized just how stark a contrast her looks were to mine. Her petite body mismatched my own tall and wiry frame, and her all-black outfit didn’t belong with my mom jeans and fleece-lined denim jacket. The longer I stared at her, the more entranced by her mouth and nose I became. Her nose was cute and buttony, much unlike my bird-like nose. I wanted more than anything to see her face washed over with pleasure again because that was maybe the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Except for maybe all of the marble statues I had seen in my undergraduate graduation trip to Italy that I had taken two summers ago. She reminded me of goth girls I’d seen in the porn that I got off to on Thursday nights when I decided not to get ultimately shit-faced. Only Thursday nights, though, because I was alone and the other nights of the week were reserved for pounding back drinks and not remembering the name of the person in my bed the next morning. Claudine sat on the edge of my bed in the same way she sat on the edge of the fire escape, feet dangling, hands tucked under her. Her tiny body would not allow her feet to touch the floor, she looked like a nymphet. She had replaced her black outfit with nakedness, or really I had replaced it for her. Only her black pantyhose remained, and those were entirely torn open. I was beginning to think that those pantyhose were just as much a part of her as her oxblood lips or her American Spirit yellows-- she always seemed to have them on. I wasn’t naked anymore, I’d put my clothes back on afterward almost as quickly as I had ripped hers off when we stepped into my apartment. Her thighs had small purple marks on them. Her mouth tasted like cigarette smoke, which disgusted me. By now, she was curled underneath my sheets, eyelids fluttering back open, trying to coerce herself out of dozing off in my bed again tonight. She obviously had a hard time convincing herself because within minutes, she was knocked out in my bed for the fifth night this week. I sat up in the washed-out lines that my blinds were casting over my bedroom and poured a glass of gin. Sipping it, I glanced over at Claudine slipping back into her clothes. At the sight of her, I tilted the glass back and finished it in one gulp. She looked just as pretty as she had before she’d fallen asleep, and I wondered if that’s what girls who don’t drink look like every time they wake up-- pure and angelic. My lips fell open as if I were about to say something, but my head was screaming at me not to, so I obeyed. They returned back to my glass instead, my head on fire with drunken thoughts. It begged me to continue staring at Claudine, who was still sound asleep and dreaming. “Jesus, Margot. You look like shit,”Claudine said. “I want Clark’s.” I didn’t want to go. Clark’s is the breakfast diner that you just go to after you hook up with a stranger and happen to actually enjoy their company. It’s where you take the hookups that you see yourself spending a lot more time with. I have made it a life point to never attend breakfast at Clark’s with nightly lovers, and despite some sort of internal protest, I wasn’t about to start. Besides, I didn’t actually like Claudine. I only enjoyed her company because of her thighs and maybe her tits. “So I’m gonna take that as a no. Do you have eggs?” “I’m vegan.” This was a lie. “Uh--” “I’m not hungry,” I said, colder than a normal person should have reacted. Then silence. It was awkward because neither of us had much to say after that. She just stared and stared and stared, and I wanted to tell her to stop looking at me because it was freaking me out, but my mouth was occupied with gin. Her gaze shifted from me to the room around me. Surprisingly, she hadn’t brought up my dump of a place on the previous nights she’d spent in my apartment. I knew she wasn’t going to leave that realm of discussion untouched, though, so I gulped down my second (or was it third?) glass of the morning in preparation to actually have to talk to her about something other than whether the sex was good or whether or not I wanted breakfast. “Do you want me to help you clean your place up a bit?” She asked too many damn questions. Between the student loans and the dead-end hardware store job, I didn’t have the means to even think about living somewhere else. My apartment truly was a dump-- wallpaper peeling and ceiling leaks in just about every room. On top of that, I never cleaned. There were to-go cups on just about every surface of the kitchen and the bathroom had a bigger roach problem than I’d care to admit. Usually, it would go unnoticed. The guys and girls I’d bring back to my place would leave as soon as they sobered up, not having time to notice the mess. Honestly, I barely even had time to notice the mess, being as I was gone to work or a bar most of the time. Alongside the mess, there are two of my discernible personality traits hidden in my bedroom. Hanging above my headboard was a set of hooks that held one of my most prized possessions-- a black, heart-shaped crop. Whether or not it was used on me or used by me depended solely on who I was with. Usually, guys liked to use it on me, whereas when I was with another woman, I’d use it on her. Surrounding the crop, there were scrawly sketches of various people that I’d invited into my bed. I never talked to any of them again, but their faces were in my personal gallery. There were at least forty-six of them up there, and those were just the ones I had met since moving back home to Denver after a mental breakdown interrupted my graduate school progress. Moving home was supposed to help me get my life back together, but instead just fueled a frenzy of drunkenness and casual sex. “That's my wall of fame up there. You’re gonna be in my nympho museum”, I pointed up behind my head. By saying this, I was trying to also answer her question from the night before, in the club. I was trying to let her know that she was gonna be up there like the rest of them. She didn’t pick up on that though because she didn’t leave. Some people were okay with just being used for sex, but Claudine didn’t seem like the type of girl to let another girl just fuck around with her. Especially since she asked me to breakfast. Claudine seemed like the type of girl that would hold my hair while I puked up a whole bottle of Moscato and wipe my tears when I was sad drunk. I couldn’t help but feel like a shitty person for being mad at her for this. I probably should’ve fallen madly in love with Claudine. But I didn’t. Everything about her made me want to be sober, and she made me remember that I’m emotionally unstable. She made me feel like I had feelings for her. I hated that. Having feelings about anything was something that I just didn’t do. Everything about her undid everything that I wanted to just go away. She was breaking barriers without even trying. “What do you want from this?”, she asked again. If anyone else had asked, I would’ve known that I just wanted sex, but with Claudine, I didn’t. “What do you want?.” “Honestly, Margot, I just want to be around you.” “I just want more whiskey. Really.” “Jesus fucking Christ, are you trying to drink yourself to death?” Sounded like a good plan. After that, I put on a Bikini Kill record and ignored every single word she said to me, so she went home. Her eyes were shiny when she left. I think she was trying not to cry. “You aren’t that strong. You’re gonna break--”, her voice cracked, “-- at some point, and you can’t fix it yourself.” I shut the door behind her, sliding to the floor with my back pressed against it. My head was fuzzy, but I knew she was right. I got the urge to leave my apartment. I wanted to chase Claudine at first, to bring her back and apologize and to go to Clark’s with her, but I just repeated to myself that I only missed her thighs and maybe her tits. And also maybe I missed her lips, but that was all I missed about her. And then I drank some more. And then some more. And then I woke up confused. It was dark outside, and I looked at the red glow of my alarm clock. 2:49 A.M. There was another stranger in my bed-- a blonde, curly headed boy. His bare chest was pressed against my side, and his arm was draped over me. His mouth hung open with exhaustion. I carefully slid out of his embrace and stood up. The concrete floors were freezing under my feet, and I was still drunk. I wobbled around and had trouble balancing. I scanned my room, my eyes adjusting to the lack of light. I picked up my t-shirt off the floor, slipping it on with no bra underneath. I slid into my jeans and pocketed the condom wrapper on the nightstand, making a mental note to throw it away and clean my apartment later. I walked out of my bedroom and then straight out the door. The chime on the door of the 24-hour corner store on my block tinkled when I walked in. I was greeted by a side-eyed glance from the cashier and no words. I made my way back to the glass doors on the back wall. I felt a coolness wash over my face and neck when I opened one of them. I grabbed out a twelve-pack of Strawberitas and let the door swing back. I made my way back to the front of the store and lifted the box to the counter. “Will this be all for you tonight, Margot?” the cashier asked, remembering my name because coming here in the middle of the night when I run out of alcohol is a normalcy. “Actually, can I get a pack of American Spirit yellows, too?” I replied, pulling a lighter off of the display and placing it on the counter. In the colored light of Eight Ball, I parted a veil of cigarette smoke with my fingers. I twirled it out of existence and when it fully cleared, I saw a bouncing of iridescent frizz and immediately felt nauseous. I was beyond drunk and my legs were wobbly, but I started towards her anyways. I grabbed Claudine’s shoulder and she turned to face me, her lips falling open when she registered who I was. She was different. Her hand was clutching a cup, no doubt filled with liquor. She was swaying, out of rhythm with the music that was blaring. She blinked, wetness brimming her eyes, and shied away from me. I choked on the words in my throat and headed straight for the exit, abandoning her on the dancefloor. I was hit by a wall of cold air when I made it into the back alley. It was December now and I was leaving to go back to grad school in a month. I had hoped that if I ever saw Claudine again that I’d be able to tell her all the things I stopped myself from saying before, but seeing her again only made me more terrified of being alive and having feelings. I sat atop the fire escape, feet dangling, cigarette between lips. I pulled a drag and held the smoke in my lungs until it burned. That's how it felt to be near Claudine. Entirely too drunk for my own good, or anyone else’s for that matter, I watched as Claudine stumbled out into the alley. She was held up by a lanky goth boy and he was the only thing keeping her from hitting the icy street from intoxication. He looked up at me and gave a nod, unaware that the girl he was dragging along was spending every night in my bed only months ago. Claudine giggled and stumbled over her feet, falling into him even more. They disappeared into the winter night while I stole another inhale of my cigarette. “I hate you!”, I screamed behind them, lungs burning and tears freezing on my face. Except I didn’t. I loved her.


Richard's mother never liked me, but ever since her son disappeared, we have become closer than ever. I set a steaming plate of rice and stew before her. I had always been meticulous when preparing the woman's food as she was a very picky eater and was generous with crude criticisms. These days, however, she would eat my food with little nods and approving hums. I even caught her licking her fingers once. "I think I am going to ask Richard's father to start buying game meat instead of beef," she said as she pushed her empty plate forward on the glass coffee table. She used to prod at my food, take a spoonful and claim she was full. A woman on the television piped out an evil cackle. "The spices also do a lot of work," I added as I piled our plates together to carry to the kitchen. Mrs. Ncube didn't respond. She was watching me with a squint - her eyes fixed on my left jaw. I turned my face away. "The bruise is healing well," she said stiffly. She looked uncomfortable acknowledging it. "Yes. Would you like some stew to go home with?" I asked. "Yes, sure," she replied. She reached into her gaudy handbag and pulled out the Tupperware she'd left with the day before and handed it to me, baring her crooked teeth in a sheepish smile. Three months had passed since I'd last seen my husband. The police were vague about their efforts to find him, and I am sure people had grown tired of my lamentations. Mrs. Ncube was the only constant in this ordeal. She visited every day. Some days we'd make calls to Richard's friends and colleagues to garner clues about his whereabouts; in others, we cried together in each other's arms. Today we spent the entire day watching Nollywood movies and eating in the living room. We sat across each other, replenishing the coffee table with snacks and sugary drinks with our eyes fixed on the television until the dark orange of sunset filtered through the curtains and bleached the entire room. She wanted us to take our minds off the situation and even expressed concern about my blood pressure. I assured her that I was fine - but I had grown tired of mourning too. In the kitchen, as I spooned the leftovers from the pot into the Tupperware, Mrs. Ncube wafted in and leaned against the counter. "That's a beautiful cleaver. Where do you buy your kitchenware?" she nodded at the stainless steel cleaver hanging off the wall. I told her it had been gifted to me by Richard on the eve of our wedding. I almost dropped the dishing spoon when she opened her mouth again to speak. "It just makes sense for me to be here with you helping around while we wait," she explained. "If you're moving in because of the game meat, I've run out," I joked with my composure regained. She laughed, the hoarseness in her voice betraying how it had been a while. "I would be happy to have you, Mama." After all, we only had each other now; no immediate family, distant friends, and the gaping hole that my husband left in our hearts. Her smile was warm, but it faded. Suddenly she was solemn. "I haven't treated you right, my child," she walked to me. She took the Tupperware, closed it, and set it aside. She held my hands in hers and looked at my face. "How you must feel, to have the last remembrance of your husband be a bruise that has lasted months. To think you came crying to me for help, and I shut you out," her eyes glossed over. She cast them down before dabbing them with the collar of her blouse. "But here you are looking for my son… your husband harder than anyone. I can only imagine how much you loved him." "I do love him. A lot, mama," I said. And it was true. I loved that man more than I have loved anyone. Even when he picked me up from the hospital with my jaw wired shut. Even the last time I saw him with his eyes open as he screamed and gargled in his blood when I struck his neck with the cleaver his mother seemed to admire. She squeezed my hands. "We will find Richard. In God's grace we'll find him," she said, but her eyes betrayed her. She knew we would never see Richard again. She had already mourned him and was ready for a new chapter, as was I. We were two widows lying to each after having a filling dinner with the flesh of the man we loved as a stew. I thought it was poetic, how in all this grief, her body was being nourished by her son's, even though she didn't know.


On a planet far, far away with people not unlike our own, a city rocked sullenly under the dim glow of a brilliant star. An intricately-tangled mess of docks and rafts, destined to drift for all eternity on a world where dry land was but a mystical fantasy, a story told to children of far-away lands and strange beings. When the stars disappeared, there existed nothing but night; but the heavens had not finished writing their story, and so a star was sent down to illuminate the darkness these people lived in. A boy bathed in celestial light, whose fate was to purge the eternal black this land relished in. But radiant light blinds those who gaze upon it; and thus he was cast away, to sail in an endless orbit around this hopeless place the people called home. A boy who was one with the universe, yet, paradoxically, forever alone. Somewhere in the city, a church bell rang out, and a congregation of sinners gathered once again.   ## Waves lapped upon the small dinghy their star-boy was made to call home, and the small craft swayed gently on the eternal sea, lulling the boy back home. Visions of a place he once knew floated through his mind, scenes of planets and comets dancing among the stars. *Here to raise these people to the light, yet cast out for that very same reason. How absurd!* Although he was stuck with such a hopeless purpose, the star-boy found solace in the tranquility of the waves; and although he was so far from home, he took consolation in the ever-unchanging nature of the sea. *I should despair, yet every wave brings me a feeling of comfort. I suppose if I am to be hopeless anywhere, this is not a bad place to be.* The boy watched the fish perform their daily dance off the side of his boat, and as he had every time before, he imagined a life where he lived for such a simple reason. And just as he had every time before, he concluded that he enjoyed his life more. Yet he still felt incomplete, and it was at this moment the star-boy had an epiphany of his own true meaning. And as abruptly as he was cast upon this wretched ocean,\ he dove off the craft, chose to set himself in motion. Deeper, deeper, deeper into the murky depths he swam, propelled further and further down by the realization of his own meaning. And at last in a flash of brilliant, holy light, darkness returned to this planet once again. But the darkness was only a brief respite; for after the star-boy left that vast blue expanse, a star far, far away twinkled with the light of pure radiance. And in that way, darkness left the land once again. The future is but a muddied painting; some blurry shapes are already laid for us, but we can choose the colors and forms that shape our ultimate ending. On this fateful day, the star-boy picked up a brush and dipped it into a paint of his own choosing. Somewhere in the city, a church bell rang out, and a congregation of saints gathered once again.


The Lady I Live With  The lady I live with knows me. I don’t know her, but she knows me. Sometimes when I’m on my computer I see her in the corner of my room, crouched and balled up like a starving child. Her eyes watch me sometimes too. They feel empty like an abandoned house, but something watches me behind it’s windows. A green galaxy surrounds her voided pupils with the outskirts of a thick brown ring keeping it from escaping. Usually when I’m cooking I see her resting on my electric oven as if it were a warm bed, but sometimes she would stand exactly one foot behind me and watch as I cook my usual eggs and toast, occasionally doing one of those crying sniffles that happen loudly and quickly as the toast pops out. Her nose isn’t what I would really call a nose though. It’s more skeletal since it’s so thin and pointy, like a horn.. She likes to play pranks on me almost every month. I would be sleeping in bed or listening to music when she’d start laughing. Not laughing as from joy, but an “I’m giving up” crying kind of laugh where it howls coarser and longer than usual. After a few seconds of laughing I’d feel blood, then pain. I could find one of my fingernails missing, or cuts and scratches on the bottoms of my arms or all over my chest. It’s more annoying than painful. My blanket and shirt are usually light colored, like white or yellow. So whenever she pranks me I have to buy a new shirt without the brown stain of blood. I notice she’s kind of mean. After school and work she’d berate me in the voices of friends and co-works. I don’t know how she knows how they sound or even how they are, but it’s mean. It’s always at times when I’m at peace too. I like taking in the noises of the roads outside my house and the constant chattering of the neighbors above me. They always have something interesting to talk about or do. At some points they turn into music singing and vocalizing beautiful symphonies. With the repetitive scream or thud, it helps me relax and sleep. Until their performance is once again ruined by the lady. I know she likes to see me cry. Whether from a movie or from pain, I see her standing with her hands locked behind her back as she smiles open mouthed. I see her wrinkles from her cheeks so scrunched up they looked as if they were going to snap. Her eyes would be squished and widened as her smiles grew ever so bigger, until I stopped crying. Her face plateaus as her emotion and joy are shot out like a bullet. She irritates me. She dresses up like me every day, even down to the hair and height. I always ask her to stop, but she never does. When I walk out the shower I see she has my exact clothing for the day. A baby blue t-shirt with a black and white sunset embroidered on the chest. White shorts speckled with tiny light pink roses. Lastly she has my wet straight black hair running over her forehead and blurring a smidge of her eyes. She’s nothing, but a hurtful copycat. Or more accurately, a second me. It’s like having your reflection become a real object. I hate her. No one knows about her, no one has seen her. She knows me, but I don’t know her. Even though she’s a replica of me, she is dead. There’s no life in her emotions or movements, even though they're mine. She has no name, and I won’t give her one. Human is not what she is. It’s like watching a robot imitate human life. Wake up, eat, work, observe, and see herself without her eyes. Behind me.


The barn itself isn’t all that peculiar. Pretty standard as barns go. Big, musty and partially filled with hay and broken tools. It should be noted that it is brown, not red. That is something I’ve noticed having lived in the country all these years. The barns aren’t usually red. Some are, of course. Probably painted by those so desperately trying to live a nostalgic fantasy they must surround themselves with the trappings of times gone bye. Jesus, just buy a painting. I would hate to be like that. My ability to let things go, move on, drop baggage, has always been a strong point. Sure, some would say it makes me cold and isolated from those around me. I like that though. Why would I want to “connect” with people? People are vile, broken, sick, immoral and selfish. People are the main problem with the whole human race. You eliminate people from the equation and what you have is a virtual paradise. Sometimes I’ll watch those movies you know, the end of the world ones and be so very envious. Could you imagine being the last person alive? Just you. No noise. No constant noise. No smell, no disappointment. That, my friend, is the promised land. It’s not to be though, no matter how hard I try I can’t get there. Eight billion is a lot of people. Too many, far, far too many. I thought moving out here would be good for me. Isolate myself a bit. Calm me down. I could teach some classes online to make a buck and rent this old farmhouse to rattle around in. I had hoped it would be haunted but no, just broken down. I should mention that I don’t farm, never could. Sure I’ll play the part. I drive the tractor. I put on the overalls and have even been known to chew some straw once and a while. I don’t farm but I do keep myself busy in this barn. Very much so. Just like now. Digging, digging. It’s surprisingly hot for this early in spring. I had to wait for the ground to thaw as I always do. Usually it’s much later but this year it’s early and I very much prefer this. It’s still dark when I have my chores to do. I like that. Not that anyone is watching but should they happen down this long driveway for whatever reason, the darkness assures no surprises for anyone concerned. I hate small talk. I think that sets me off more than anything. I don’t care about your aunt’s bad leg. I don’t care about your carrot crop. I don’t care about your kids, your mother, your anything. I don’t care at all and pretending is so testing. If I’m to make a mistake, that’ll be when it is. It is crazy hot. Maybe I’m just out of shape. Could be what it is. Farm life, ironically, has me lazy. Have to keep digging though. Maybe I should get a cow? Or chickens. I’d like some chickens. The idea of having someone, or in that case, lots of people to talk to. That is appealing. You see, there’s no small talk with chickens. It’s mostly just a one way conversation and that I like. Plus, chickens can keep a secret. Even if they can’t they make a delicious roasted snitch. Look at that pile of things. This part sucks. I mean, I get it has to be done but it’s like washing dishes after cooking a master piece of a meal. The let down. Oh well. You can’t make an omelette without breaking some eggs. You hear that chickens? Great, now I’m talking to imaginary chickens as well as myself. Best get to moving it into the hole. Deep enough now I figure. One more in the ground, seven billion, nine hundred and ninety nine million, nine hundred and ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine to go. Then there will finally be no more small talk.


Four minutes, fifty-two seconds. That’s how much time I have left. Last night, a timer telling me I was going to die in twenty four hours appeared, and started counting down the seconds. I was scared, of course I was. But I knew what I had to do, I started writing down everything. Once I’m gone the words I’ve written will be the only thing keeping the idea of me alive. So I wrote it all down. Goodbyes to everyone I knew. What I did, what I didn’t, what I wanted to do. I wrote who I love, who I hated and who I didn’t want to lose. All of my regrets and all of my successes filling pages, and pages. I think I wrote 192 pages, in a span of 18 hours. I then wanted to spend some time with the people that meant most to me, I spent a total of three hours with my family. I never told them what was going to happen to me. I didn’t want them to worry. I always had a plan, always had an answer. I want to use my last moments to put my final plan into action. I need to have an answer, I need to be in control of how it all ends. To tell the truth, that's why I didn’t tell my folks, because I can’t control how they react. I can perfectly craft a sentence, an answer, with the written word. I just want to make the best choice with the time I have left. Then there was them. That person that meant more to me than anything else. The moment they came into my life, a smile shone out of me. They could wrangle the truth out of me with just a chuckle. They were the only person I told, I couldn’t lie to them. I came to the door at the dead of night and explained it. God, they probably thought I was insane, I would have thought that. But for whatever reason they listened to me. They listened to my insane ramblings and believed me, and said they’d do whatever I need. I asked them to come out onto the soccer field with me. I told them I wanted to see the stars for one last time. We laid and laid on the grass, and still are. “Do you see that star?” I point out to them. “Yeah, what about it?” They say, “It’s pretty, also it’s kinda bright.” “That’s the north star. People since far back before us or our grandparents used it to navigate. It shines the brightest in the sky don’t you agree? You want to know what I love about it though? That there were people, tens of thousands of years ago looked at that star and thought the same thing you just thought. They thought it was pretty.” “We aren’t all that different from them huh?” They questioned. “I’d argue that we aren’t different at all from the first humans. It’s funny, it’s the end for me soon and I’m here talking about the beginning.” “Are you scared?” They sighed, “I know I would be, how can you say all this without freaking out.” “I’m not scared.” I ponder for a moment, “I feel at peace almost.” “Do you believe in the afterlife?” “No, I don’t really.” “Then how aren’t you scared?” “I don’t know.” I chuckle, “I really don’t.” I look at the timer, seven seconds. It’s funny, in my last moments I didn’t know the answer.


Mommy and Daddy got me this cool diary so I can write down everything (they said that it’s a hammy down) for my birthday! Hi diary! My name’s Maria Lewis and I’m six! My mommy is really pretty and my daddy’s super strong and they’re both the best! But my ultra bestest friend is my doggy! His name is Benny and he likes sleeping on my bed! I asked Mommy how she knows he’s a boy and she said that doggies are boys and kitties are girl and how he’s very special because he’s got those white lines on his neck and paws. She says that’s why he can’t bark and he has trouble walking around but I still love him super duper much! I wanted to bring Benny to school for show and tell, but Mommy and Daddy say I can’t. They say we aren’t allowed to have him because he’s ill eagle, so I gotta keep quiet or else people will come and take him away! I promise I won’t let anyone hurt you, Benny! I got an A on my spelling test! Daddy asked what I wanted as a reward and I said I wanted a little sister so I can give her all my clothes and we can play. I don’t have many friends since we live far away from everybody else, so I want a friend who can come home and play with me. Daddy laughed (I didn’t get what was so funny) and told me that I wouldn’t actually want that because six is the best time for kids and I should just enjoy this year. Benny started whining and Mommy told me that he would get jealous if I gave all my attention to a little sister, so I hugged him real close and told him I’d never stop loving him. Mommy got me pizza and cake for my A! It was soooooooo good! Benny was begging and I tried to give him some but Daddy took it away and said that human food’s not good for doggies. He whined and I gave him a doggy treat instead (I’ve had one before and they’re super yucky but Benny doesn’t mind) and he only ate it when Daddy was watching. Silly Benny! Mommy and Daddy won’t let me go trick or treating, so I get to get all dressed up and walk around the house! Every time I reach the front door, I ring the bell and Daddy acts all surprised and I get a chocolate bar! Mommy made me a Dorothy dress and Benny’s my Toto! He’s too big to fit in the basket, so he carries it in his mouth! Mommy’s got a baby in her tummy! She sat me down and told me it’s growing even though I can’t see anything and that I’m gonna be the bestest big sister! She says it’s gonna live in my room and I’ll have to share but I don’t mind! Mommy even said that our birthdays might be close! That’s double cakes! My sister’s making Mommy get really chubby. I saw Benny staring today, and he started whining again, so I pet him and said that I love him so super much. When we went to bed, Benny sat on my bed and I fell asleep before he did. He woke me up when my door opened because he started growling, but I just petted him and said he was such a good boy. Merry Christmas! I got so many neat new toys, and Benny got a brand new bone! Don’t tell anyone, but I snuck him some of my breakfast, and he seemed super happy and snuggled right up to me! I love you, Benny! Benny attacked Mommy today. She’s really full of baby now and Benny jumped all over her and started biting her belly until Daddy got him off and took Mommy to the hospital. I started crying and Benny tried to take me outside even though it wasn’t time for walkies. I felt bad but I had to put him in his crate, but he didn’t fight it even though he started whining and trying to flip the lock. Poor Benny thinks he has thumbs like us, but there’s just another white mark there. Daddy asked to see my diary today. I don’t know why but he seemed kinda upset when he gave it back. He took Benny for walkies but he came back alone. When I asked where Benny was, he said that a man with a really sick daughter asked for him, and that Benny really wanted to go take care of a girl even more in need than me. I understand and I really hope he comes to visit with his new owner, because then I might have a new friend! I’m almost seven and Mommy says she and Daddy are gonna get me a cute little kitten for my birthday! I’m so excited! Hi! My name’s Kayla Lewis! I just turned six and Mama and Papa got me a notebook! They’re my favorite people ever, but I love my kitty so much more because she’s so pretty and always stays by my side.


A man stands in the desert, and he is alone. The ground, cracked, brittle and dry, crumbles beneath his thick boots, releasing smoke-like wisps of dust carried slowly away by a lethargic wind, rustling the folds of his trenchcoat as it limps across the barren plain. Directly above him lies the sun, a sickly dirty-yellow jewel set deep within a tan sky, casting a toxic glow that made the wasteland seem all the more lifeless. He stands completely still, seemingly gazing off into the distance, towards the one thing that broke up the flat skyline – a great mass of concrete and steel and shards of glass, what was once surely a great city. Now though, its skyscrapers are nothing more than gravestones, monuments to the fallen, twisted spires jutting up like the fingers of some vast leviathan failing to claw its way back from death. Though he seems to be looking at that ghost of a city – after all, there is little else to look at – his face is obscured by a green rubber gas mask, his eyes by glossy circles of black glass rimmed with steel, making it near impossible to discern exactly where he is looking. In fact, no part of him is visible, his hands shrouded by thick gloves and his long army-green coat extending from his mask to his boots. Slowly, as though he carries the weight of that corrupted sky upon his back, the man begins to make his way towards the carcass of the metropolis. Slow and heavy footsteps, muffled by the brittle crumbling dirt, carry the man past the charred mountains of rubble, the only sounds the gentle crunch of the ground and the rustle of his trenchcoat. He seems to walk without thinking, absorbed in the sight of the burnt-out citadel, following a path of muscle memory alone. Every so often, he turns, stopping in his march to gaze up at one of the remnants of buildings, seemingly near-identical to the rest but with some clear significance to him alone. In these moments, true silence settles over the city, for seconds or minutes at a time – and yet always, he returns to his path, his final goal clearly still ahead. City becomes suburb – skyscrapers becoming apartments, apartments becoming houses, and finally it seems his march is at an end. A single house, indistinguishable from those around it, any unique identifiers burned out long ago or covered in dust since – and yet, this house in particular at last brings him off the road. He steps over a half-buried gate, one hinge blown apart, the other barely hanging on and half-submerged in dust, and passes through the half-open door, not running, yet moving markedly quicker than before, and getting faster. Passing through the house in a near jog, he reaches a cabinet, miraculously still standing. On top of it lies a photo, the frame scorched, the glass shattered, the image weathered, clearly damaged by decades of sun and dust – yet still, it had survived. Two children, playing on lush green grass, a woman sunbathing in the background. He pulls it gingerly from its frame and holds it in his gloved hands, looking down at the faded image. The dark glossy eyes betray no emotion, and no sobs can be heard from behind the mask, and yet pure silence settles over the city, and the hours flicker by, until the sun hangs low in the sky and the shadows are long and faded. As the sun touches the horizon, he carefully folds up the picture, puts it in his pocket, and walks out of the house, the weight of the now purple sky on his shoulders seemingly doubled. He makes it a hundred metres or so out of the house before stopping, and looking back at the city he once called home. He turns to those skyscrapers, many with the skeleton frame still intact, and for a fraction of a second feels a decades-old anger return. The arrogance, the blindness of humanity – a species of beings who acted like children and yet thought themselves kings, thought themselves gods, a species smart enough to have built weapons so powerful and cruel they could only be justifiably used against their makers, and a species foolish enough to have given anyone control of them. A species that deserved the price they paid. But then it fades, as it had all those years ago, leaving nothing but shame and regret, and the knowledge that however arrogant and impulsive the rest of humanity used to be, he is far, far worse. A man who, for a brief moment, though it had been long enough to push a button, thought himself god of gods looks upon a city he burned to nothing, on a sky he corrupted and poisoned, on a world he ground into dust, and he knows nothing but remorse. A man who thought himself king of kings looks upon his works, and he despairs. A man, and nothing more, stands in the desert, and he is so alone.


The tinkerer's daughter had once been burnished bronze, her parts oiled daily to ensure they were in working order. Her father received good work on the daily from those who would visit him. Those who came from afar would bring him small gifts of rare metals and gems that he kept in various drawers and cabinets. There was one day the girl couldn't help but be stuck out in the rain, the pitter patter of the drops on her exterior lulling her into a deep slumber she wished not to wake easy. When she did wake, finally, she found herself somewhere unfamiliar. The back of a cricket crackety cart that juttered her around making her loose limbs clank against each other. She went to stretch and felt herself strain as her rusted limbs creaked against each other. She wanted to cry for being a fool, falling asleep in the rain and allowing herself to be taken so far from her father, but what good would tears do her but rust her further? Hearing her creaky stretches, the owner of the cart soon made himself known at the back entrance, pulling wide the heavy curtains that had darkened the interior and revealing a gruff, weathered face of an old man. The tinkerer's daughter went absolutely still. Unmoving, like a doll, she pretended to be one of his knickknacks. The man entered the back of the cart, leaving the curtain up to light the back. First, he inspected a shelf full of metal rings, raising a bushy gray brow at the collection of varied metals. He moved on. Next, were chimes hanging high near the very back of the cart but tied tightly together so not a single chime clang against each other. Lastly, he approached the tinkerer's girl where she sat amongst a row of dolls sitting primly, properly stacked against each other. Here, he lingered, examining each and every doll closely before finally coming to stand before the tinkerer's girl. With him fully before her, she was freely able to observe his face, wrinkled, kindly, old. His eyes were deepset, one blue as the sky she was unsure she'd see again, the other as brown as the soil the farmers back home tilled for their crops. He seemed to linger on her, and, unwillingly, the girl shuddered. He seemed not to notice for a moment, then in one smooth move, she was in his arms. "Are you alive, girl?" he muttered, seeming almost insulted. "Y-yes, I am," the tinkered girl muttered. The man, now seeming gruff, sighed, big and heavy. "That won't do." Both eyebrows moved to meet at the middle of his face. Fearfully, the girl responded. "S-sir?" He sighed again, placing her on her feet. "The back here ain't exactly meant for a thing alive. It won’t do to have you back here alone." At the word "alone," she suddenly felt anything but. He looked away "I suppose, if it’s okay with you, you can ride up front with me." Tentatively, the girl nodded and joined him.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join.   *** #This week's theme is Balance! This week we’re going to take a look at the theme of ‘balance’. Everything in our lives, both good and bad, needs a balance. Too much of one thing can upset the natural order and flow of things. This is no different in fictional worlds. This could be something big, like a new planet or world, or even a new character. It can be a balance of justice, or maybe it’s about things we consume. It can even be something internal, like thoughts or beliefs. What happens when that balance is upset? How does it affect their surroundings? What are the consequences for the people involved? Is there a time where a lack of balance is preferred? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. /   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I release the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. This week, I am giving you the next 3! * August 1 - Balance (this week) * August 8 - Twist * August 15 - Silence * August 22 - Complications   *** **Previous Themes:** | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. (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 two different stories, not two on one) to qualify 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, prior to beginning. Those links must be direct links to the previous installments (on a feature or personal subreddit).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 - - u/throwthisoneintrash   - - u/Zetakh   - - u/Xacktar   - - u/OneSidedDice   - - u/OldBayJ   - - u/nobodysgeese   - - u/WorldOrphan   *** #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.


He lay in bed recounting the past two years. They were dreary, dull. His only memories were that of his ceiling and occasionally some forced smiles looking down at him. His family was ‘supportive’ in their own way, although they would never support him in the one thing he actually wanted. The only thing in the world that could make everything better for him. Death. It would be too painful for them though, so there he lies, a vegetable. Drooling all day. Barely able to get the words out to tell people how he truly feels. Just then there was a knock at the door. He recognized the tenderness of the gentle rasps. It was the one person who he looked forward to seeing. The one person that made an effort to show that she understood the pain he was going through. *“Come in,”* the words passed through his lips like sandpaper over rough metal. She opened the door and let herself in, taking her usual seat at his bedside. The way she acted towards him one would think they’d been lovers before his incident. They were simply the best of friends although he couldn’t help but think they’d have been more if he’d met her before she was married. She held his hand in hers and he felt his muscles relax. He was never truly free from the pain but her touch made him feel light inside. Like he was free from his cage. He looked in her eyes and saw all the pain reflected from his own. She could tell he was hurting and it hurt her just the same. A tear rolled down his cheek. It was refreshing and the warmth of her brushing it away was intense. She noticed a flash of discomfort in his eyes, maybe regret? “What’s on your mind?” She asked. His lips trembled, he didn’t want to but, he knew that she was the only person he could ask. *“I need to ask you for something,”* he started, *“tell me if it’s too much.”* She already knew what was coming. “Yes, I’ll do it”. Her lower lip trembled as the words left her mouth. She wouldn’t enjoy it but she had to do it for him. He deserved that much. They both fell silent. Both had suspected this day was coming. Neither was entirely ready for it though they knew it was entirely beneficial. She looked him dead in the eyes, almost as if to ask ‘are you ready’? He blinked. That had been a part of their code for a while. She knew how difficult it was for him to speak so they developed their own language. It was easier for both of them. Neither had to actually say what they were feeling but, they could express it. She reached behind the bed and unplugged him. Muting his machine in the same motion. He held her hand as the pain began to spread throughout his body. It was a pain at his core, as though his bones themselves were on fire. She leaned down and caressed his lips with her own. Lingering there for a moment before curling up on the bed beside him. She had almost made him regret his decision. Luckily, he didn't have enough time for that. Regardless, this was the happiest he'd been in a long time.


Winter, black as obsidian, crawled over the rooftops of Manchester like the shadows of a dying day. The skyline was littered with cranes from half-finished building projects, crooked steel fingers thrust out from the belly of the earth. The streets from Atlas Fitzgerald’s apartment were slick with ice, waiting to collect crumpled cars and broken bones. Broken bones. The memory scratched the inside of his skull. One year ago today he woke in his hospital bed, his pelvis bruised black, and set up this account to tell his tale. To tell of the voices he heard. But then friends came with cards and flowers, doctors and physiotherapists imparting wisdom and caution of a long road ahead. So he travelled the road and forgot all about the voices, until winter came, when he was out of hospital and his friends and family no longer visited as they once did. Back home, mobile with the aid of crutches, they had Christmas to prepare for and you’d be ok now, right Atlas? Do call though, honestly it’s no trouble. Left alone in the city, away from the hills and trees and starry skies, suffocated by short days and long nights, he heard them again. *Atlas*. Just his name, reverberating around the corners of his room, crawling up the walls. *Atlas*. He had to go back. He had to. Atlas stopped eating then, or rather he ate just enough. Each morning he stood naked in front of his mirror and was horrified by the sight of what he was becoming. His eyes began to retreat into dark sockets, his arms and legs thin and sinewy, his ribs a staircase of bone. *Atlas*. He had to go back. His friend Laurie had told him he looked awful the last time he saw her. She had tried to call but he did not answer, did not respond to text messages. At last, as spring threatened to kiss life into the world, she stopped by. He held the door open, only slightly, dressing gown draped over skeletal frame. Through the front door she could see into the living room, see the coffin he had built. She tried to push her way in but he held her back, which gave him some comfort that he still had some strength left in him. His friends kept trying to reach him after that, thank you Laurie. But he did not relent. He did not respond. And soon enough they left him. They gave up trying. The coffin was a rudimentary plywood box, narrow and tight. Every Sunday throughout spring and summer he tried to squeeze himself in and close the lid and each time it would not go. He could not fit. And so smaller he became, thinner and thinner and *Atlas* still echoed in his mind. He became dizzy, and started to use his crutches again. Until at last, this Friday just gone, he fit. It was time. Atlas packed his bags in the morning and, uneasy on his feet, made his way out of his apartment and took a taxi to the train station. The taxi driver looked anxiously back in his rear view mirror, as did the throngs of commuters and passengers at Manchester Piccadilly who watched him hobble, pirate-legged, toward the train to Clitheroe. He was relieved to be aboard, sat down again, and allowed the hulking vessel to carry him on his way as the world swam around him. A little girl boarded with her mother at Blackburn, and both sat and watched him warily the rest of the journey. At Clitheroe station, Atlas caught another taxi, giving the driver vague directions to take him into the heart of the Forest of Bowland. Turn left here, turn right here. Eventually he told the driver that this was the place, thank you very much. So uneasy was the driver that he did not argue about leaving this skin-and-bones man on a layby in the woods. Atlas cared not, for the voices grew louder now. He clambered over a nearby wall and disappeared into the thicket of trees. At last he found the stream that he remembered following just over a year ago, which lead him to a rushing waterfall and the opening to the cave system. He pitched his tent and tried to sleep through the night although little sleep came his way. The voices, the *voices* all through the night whispering his name. Dawn broke and Atlas changed into his caving gear. A thick red boiler suit, black harness that seemed now heavier and more cumbersome. Flashlight. Sky blue hard hat. He made way for the opening, a yawning mouth that called him to his prize. The cave system was familiar, yet more difficult to traverse than it once had been. Piecing together memories of his last journey here, he made his way, noting the usual formations and turnings. The Main Chamber, Drinkwater Cavern, The Hangman’s Passage, The Big Squeeze. And there it was. That small unchartered hole, newly opened and as yet unexplored. He removed the hard hat, the harness, the boiler suit, until he was dressed only in his tight under layers. He wielded a flashlight that he pressed into his mouth and a single claw hammer and, arms outstretched, he slid into the tunnel. *Atlas*. He was surprised by how easy it was this time around, by how much more room he had. He felt the thin material of his undershirt begin to tear against the salty rock but the voice was louder now, and no longer rattling through his mind but echoing from deeper within the tunnel. *Atlas*. Some thirty metres in he halted. There, just below him, scratch marks lined with blue. His hard hat. One year ago, this is where he became stuck, where he lay as the rescue crew tied his ankles and pulled him, pulled him, pulled him out. His hard hat scraping against the roof and floor of the tunnel, his legs popping from their sockets as he screamed in pain while they pulled him still. But now, now there was an inch or more room all about his head. He pressed on, dragging his lithe frame deeper into the earth. *Atlas*, *Atlas, Atlas*. The tunnel closed quickly around him, hard earth pressing against him on all sides. The flashlight served him no purpose and he spat it out, clearing his airways as the air became thicker and harder to swallow. He clawed his body through the tunnel. The roof and floor scraped him, shredding the clothes from his frame, the skin from his bones. He could not turn his head, so tight was the gap, but still he pulled himself into the darkness, tasting the sweat from his outstretched arms that squashed against his face. And then he could not move. *Atlas.* His pelvis was stuck. He tried to drag his body through but the pain was unbearable and he had no strength left in his arms. *Atlas*. There was no light, no air, no room to move, one hundred feet or more down a passageway that would not fit even the slightest of children. *Atlas, Atlas, Atlas*. “Atlas.” The voice, the thing that called him, breathed deeply on his prone, outstretched arms. The breath was hot and sticky. He felt a light tickling move across his hands, his arms. He realised at once that what he felt was the creeping fingers of another, the one who had whispered his name. The fingers inched down, cold and wet, and touched the crown of his head where they lingered for a moment. And then they pulled away, and he felt the figure shift and scuttle further down the tunnel. He tried to speak but his mouth and jaw were jammed shut by his shoulder. His listened for the voice and found that he was alone. No voices, no one calling his name. Nothing but his slow and laboured breathing and a heart beating so fast and so desperately that he felt his bones pulsating. He felt his face heating up and he gasped for air, trying to push his lungs out yet his ribs and his back were pinched against the rock. He tried to breathe. He tried. To breathe. He could not. Breathe. One year ago this day Atlas Fitzgerald created this account to tell you his story, of the tunnel that called his name. But he could not let it go. He had to find the devil in the dark. No one will find the man Fitzgerald. His tent will not be there when friends come, their last hope that this would be where he went. At the opening to the tunnel, where they had pulled him screaming and crying for his mother a year ago, they will not find his boiler suit or his harness or his sky blue hard hat. A camera inserted through the tunnel will not find his body jammed between the rock. All trace of Atlas Fitzgerald will be dissolved into the earth. I know this to be true because I am the voice that lingers in the corner of the room. I am the fingers that crawl within the gloom. I am the one who plants the seed from which roots break free and creep into the earth, and from which long stemmed flowers reach out and dance towards the sun. Whisper your name. Tell me the thoughts you cannot shake. Tell me your desires, your wants, your needs, that you bury like a body in a shallow grave. Whisper your name, and I shall make them so.


I hang amongst my peers waiting to be chosen. I’ve been here the longest compared to the others. I’ve seen many come and go out of this place, but for whatever reason, I remain. The others come in all shapes, sizes, colors, attitudes, & styles. It’s hard not to compare yourself to the rest. The newer additions seem to bring more of a smile to her face when her eyes land on them, sometimes that makes me feel like my age. The majority that have been around for the past few years haven’t been touched, looked at, or have been outside these four walls in some time. I can feel their angst, usually around the five year mark, once you leave, you never return. No one is completely sure what happens or where they go, but I hear all the rumors. Usually when I get chosen, she has a certain look on her face. It is usually one of a few emotions, When she's frustrated, when she’s in a rush, after a few others have been chosen and brought back, or a sigh of relief. I see her reflection in the mirror once she lays me on the bed, and it brings me a sense of calm knowing I get to see the world again and help her navigate the ups and downs of the days we spend together. She’s my best friend. I can’t speak for her, but I think she would feel the same way. We met at the thrift store over on 5th & Main.. We spotted each other in a crowded room, she thought she didn’t need me at first, but boy was she wrong. We became really close once we started spending more time together. We have been through so much in the last decade I was there during her last semester at school and needed to pass that final exam. We stayed up for three days straight. I don’t think she showered once. I stood by when that man paid for her meal when she realized she didn’t have enough cash in her wallet, and the next day she finally asked for that raise at work. There was a time when she bragged about me to her cousin Mary, and Mary said she wished she had something like me in her life. I don’t think they would even remember that, but I sure do. I had the perfect view when she met her now husband for the first time down at ‘The Gold Room’s’ happy hour. I felt her shake when he touched the small of her back. I helped pick out the color for their front door on their first home as a married couple, we went back and forth for hours, until we decided on ‘Hathaway Peach.’ It really was a nice touch. I held her children and watched them grow, but once they hit a certain age, she didn’t reach out to me as much as she used to. I don’t think it was anything personal, I mean, we were getting older and sometimes people grow apart from you for whatever reason, their interests and taste changes. I guess she wasn't into the same old things anymore, we didn’t spend nearly as much time together the past few years, until her daughter asked about me. The story goes that her and her daughter were looking through old photos, and over and over again, there I was. Her daughter asked if I still looked the same and if I was still around. Her daughter's eyes lit up when I entered the room. She said I was a perfect fit for the party next weekend, the boy she’s been crushing on will be there. I may be worn down and have seen better days, but I was always there when she needed me. And now I get to watch her daughter become a woman. She winked at me when her daughter took me with her to her room, I wonder if she still thinks about me..


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: Let’s do something a little different this week! **Media Prompt: ** *Bonus Constraint (worth extra pts.): Something is lost and/or found.* This week’s challenge is to use the above song as inspiration for your story. You can use the song itself, the name, the images in the music video, or . The bonus constraint is not required. You may interpret the media prompt any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and spotlights. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings/Spotlights are Tallied While I am first through third place system for spotlights, and also submitting to the feature myself, I think it’s only fair that you guys know how rankings are totaled. They work on a point-based system as follows: - **Upvotes:** 1 point each (no cap) - **Feedback:** 1 point each (7 pt. cap) - **User nominations:** 2 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 3 points each (I select 1-3 from the thread each week) - **Bonus:** When I announce extra points for things like using an additional constraint, filling out forms, etc. This ranges from 1-2 pts. (Not applicable every week.) #This Past Week’s Spotlights I was blown away by all the amazing stories this week. There were so many beautiful and touching tales told. Each person who wrote a story should congratulate themselves. You all did fantastic work! - - Submitted by u/elephantulus - - Submitted by u/gurgilewis - - Submitted by u/OldBayJ - - Submitted by u/littlewing333 ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


—When glass falls and hits the ground, it breaks into pieces. When one of those pieces gets crushed, even more are created. We can continue this cycle until the glass fundamentally stops existing. ～If that is the case, what would happen to a human? Two AIs conversed late at night. Their first words. This question caught the attention of the first AI. —What do you mean, Rya? ～If everything can be can be broken down until it isn't itself anymore, what would happen to a human? Not the physical body, but the mind and consciousness behind it. —When AIs are presented with enough stress, we divide into smaller parts of ourselves. It protects us from further damage until the next stress limit is reached. And so, I could become two different beings, completely separate from one another. The first AI paused. He wondered how that concept could be applied to a human mind. A person could develop multiple identities, created in response to stress. Different memories, names, and personalities. Even then, these could hardly be considered separate beings. They were still, in essence, part of the same entity. ～I know, Del, but what about a human? Del didn't like questions he wasn't prepared to answer. He'd always have the correct way to get his point across, intricately planned in advance. —Humans were different. Their minds were more complex, less efficient, more susceptible. They got damaged, instead of outright separated. ～Damaged? What exactly is the difference? —Think of it as a crack in the glass, or a deep scratch on the surface. Their memory, awareness, and sanity slowly start failing. Instead of breaking apart, their minds fade away, Rya. Rya wondered about the nature of human existence. Its creation, duration, and its eventual extinction. She thought about the billions of lives that once conquered Earth. Their joy, sadness, triumphs, and defeats. Their colonies, tech, weapons, and ships. She concluded that more than anything, humans desired to live. Not precisely because of life itself, but the meaning they found within it. She thought about all of this in the same amount of time it would take a human to brush their teeth. ～Maybe that's why they're gone. Del reflected on those words. For a moment, he didn't understand what she meant. He hadn't realized what became of humans. Their misgiven fate. A slight moment he proceeded to forget. ～Maybe their desire to stay the same prevented them from moving forward. In all of his knowledge, Del couldn't comprehend why people acted the way they did. The decisions they made and the ones they didn't. The impulse for the simplification of what they clearly couldn't understand. The complexity of the human mind and its unpredicatibility was his only cause for resentment. ～Humans did whatever they could to keep their lives as they had always been. Change scared them, not because it was dangerous, but because it meant adapting. AIs will live for infinity precisely because we can adapt to any situation. I figure that's the reason we splinter off in the first place. —I believe you are correct. ～So that means whoever created us, knew. They knew that adapting is the only way to move forward. To continue existing. —Even adaptation can only go so far. For a moment, they sayed stayed silent. Rya thought about splintering. What would happen to an AI if it breaks down too many times? Would it split indefinitely? Would it eventually stop existing? Del wondered about the war. About the plague and destruction it caused. About the creation of AIs and their true purpose. He did not know the details of their beginning or the nuance of their end. All that he knew about humanity was contained within that precise moment, but perhaps, that was okay. ～Are you scared of splitting off? Of ceasing to existing as you are right now? —Are you asking if I am afraid to change? Rya thought about the millions of different meanings "change" had possessed over millennia. Del was set on a singular one. —Then yes, I am. I do not know what awaits me after I split off, or what will happen to my consciousness, to who I am. I don't have a soul for it to go to heaven or a spirit for it to wander as a ghost. I can only see what is in front of me. I have accepted as much. Whatever is after this life, I will embrace it, and make the most out of it. Rya didn't know exactly why, but this answer filled her with calm. She learned she wasn't alone in her fear. She learned she could find repose in others. It was also then that she learned the answer to her question. When humans fell, they broke down piece by piece. The difference between a human being and a piece of glass is that humans always tried to build themselves back up. Maybe adaptation could only go so far, but if AIs were able to build themselves back up... If each resulting piece was just as strong as the original, maybe then they could succeed where humanity failed. She hoped whoever created them also knew as much. The two AIs conversed late at night as they had done for centuries. Once part of the same consciousness, now individual entities. Even though there was no way for them to know it, a part of them knew this was the truth. They wondered about life and creation, about death and legacy. They figured change is the only thing that cannot be fractured, and that was okay as well.


With a grin on my face, I step into the elevator, holding the heavy bag of food I've carefully prepared and packaged. "I'm sure he will love this!", I squeal as I press the button for Floor 22. "Hmm, I hope I've got everything, fresh veggies, washed strawberries, a week's worth of reheatable meals, oh! and my secret recipe guac that he loves.. shoot I think I forgot the tortilla chips", I tell myself as I peek into the bag, checking the contents, "he should be back from his work trip later tonight... I'm sure he'll be hungry so this food will come in handy for sure.. I should text him later to tell him to check the fridge when he gets back". Ding! The elevator doors slide open and the cool air from the hallway gently blows on my damp skin as I step out. I take a right and march down the hall, stopping at unit 2203. I reach into my purse and pull out the key with the bacon keychain and shove it into the keyhole. "I'll just put everything in the fridge, hopefully the sticky notes I put on the tupperware don't fall off..", I mumble to myself as I turn the key and push open the heavy door. I had prepared each sticky note with a sweet little message, I wish I could see the look on his face when reads them. I step into the entrance way and slide my sandals off, as I look around for the pair of slippers I like to wear whenever I'm over at his place. A furrow forms between my brows as I fail to spot them, "hmm, maybe he washed them and they are drying somewhere". I shrug and make my way towards the kitchen barefeet. I heave the heavy bag onto the kitchen counter and start taking out the contents, laying them out neatly. The window blinds clatter as they flap in the wind and my eyes drift up to the living room area. "Did he forget to close the windows too? He must have left in such a rush, good thing it didn't rain during the 5 days he was away", I think to myself as I continue to take out the containers of food. Suddenly, I freeze as I hear a giggle. "Wait, am I hearing things? What was that?", my eyes widen and the hairs on my skin perk up. "Not there! Heheheh", I hear a voice say lightheartedly, trailing from the bedroom. "Wait what? Is he back already? His flight doesn't arrive until another 6 hours. Did somebody break in?" I put the box of bacon I'm holding down as quietly as possible and scan the kitchen for anything I might be able to use as self-defense. My eyes land on the knife block, but reconsider and instead open a drawer and reach for a rolling pin. I suck in a deep breath and tip toe towards the bedroom, my right hand firmly gripping the rolling pin. With each step I take towards his room, my heart races faster and faster until I reach the doorway of his bedroom. I hold my breath and pause, "what the hell am I doing?? What if the people who broke in are really dangerous?". Too late now, I slowly peek over the doorway and my eyes are immediately drawn to the center of the room. A mound lay on his bed, under the blankets. More giggling ensues and the mound shifts around. "What the heck? People broke in to do THAT in somebody else's bed??", I gape as my grip on the rolling pin loosens. Then, two heads pop out and the familiar tuff of ash blonde hair over a black undercut appears. My eyes widen and my free hand flies to my mouth, stifling a gasp. "That's Nick!! In bed...with somebody else?? What the hell?". I stumble backwards in shock, losing awareness of my surroundings. Just as I'm about to fall, I grasp the edge of the door frame, steadying myself. I abruptly turn around and bolt towards the kitchen, my mind racing. "What the hell, what the hell, what the hell", I broode as I hurriedly pass the kitchen and finally arrive at the entryway. I fling open the door and charge out, making a bee line for the emergency stairs. Tears begin to pour out of my eyes, lining my cheeks with marks of betrayal. I half-stumble, half-run down the stairs, floor after floor, round and around, the cold hard cement slapping against my bare feet. As I reach the seventh floor, my right foot gives in and I feel myself falling face first. My eyes widen as I see the cement floor practically pull me towards itself as I shield myself by putting up my arms in a cross in-front of my face. I feel myself hit the cold cement, scraping my forearms and my knees and wince at the pain. Then, silence. I stay still, lying on the floor for who knows how long, listening to my breath, feeling the cold of the cement seep into my body, and my heart beat against the floor, my mind blank. Vrrrr, vrrr, my phone suddenly starts vibrating in my pocket as I get snapped out of my trance and back into reality. "Is it Nick? Did he hear me run out? Hah, I wonder what reason he'll come up with. No..... do I even want to know? How could he do this to me.. after all we've been through and after all I've done for him", I wimper as tears begin to well up again, still lying on the floor. The phone stops vibrating and I wait. "He should call again right..? To show that he's sorry? Right..?". What seems like an eternity passes but I get no other calls. "Wow, what a jackass", I mumble as I pull myself off the floor. I examine my injuries and flinch as I see the crimson blood drip off my scraped arms and knees. "Damn, I'm a mess", I sigh as I let out a long breath and press my back to the wall, "now what?". Vrrr, vrrrr, my phone starts vibrating again. "Oh finally, he calls again?", I roll my eyes as I slide my phone out of my pocket and glance at the screen. The screen glows and "Mark" appears. "Wait Mark? Why is he calling me?" Mark is good buddy from uni and he lives in the same building as Nick, just only on different floors, floor 16. I drop by sometimes whenever I vist Nick but I have been visiting Mark less lately... "Dammit, if I don't answer, he'll know something is up," I think as I wipe my tears, clear my throat, and press *Accept Call*. "Heyy!! What's up Mark?", I exclaim trying to sound as enthusiastic as somebody who has just found their boyfriend cheating and has just fallen down a set of stairs can. "Jenn, I noticed your car parked out the front of the building. Are you here? Just in time cuz I still have the camera you let me borrow last time. Come by and pick it up before you leave! You barely come around I've almost forgotten what you look like!", he says with a smile. He has one of those voices where you can just imagine what emotions are spread across their face. I glance down and see the bloodied mess, there's no way I can let him see this. "Ohh sorry man, today won't work.... Nick and I are uh... oh I just parked the car by the apartment but I'm actually somewhere else! I'll come by to pick it up next time okay?", I manage to let out as I try to stifle the lump in my throat. That excuse did NOT sound convincing, I sigh. "Umm alright, you better come by soon!", Mark hollers back, he did not sound convinced but whatever. "Yep, I gotta go, bye Mark," I quickly mumble as I scramble to hit the *End Call* button right away. I let out a big sigh as I stand up, hand on the wall for support. I dust myself off and notice my barefeet and realize that I forgot my sandals up at Nick's place. I wonder if he's noticed yet... but he hasn't called.. I check my phone to see who the previous call was from before Mark. Oh, it was from Mark as well, I guess he called again after I didn't pick up the first time. My mind wanders back what I saw in Nick's apartment and I feel my legs lose strength. "What an asshole," I mumble to myself as I start to make my way down the stairs. I'm really hoping nobody is in the lobby... and I'm sure that once I get out of the building, I can easily get to my car parked out front quickly enough. Once I reach to the bottom of the stairs, I pause at the door leading to the lobby and peek through the little cut-out window in the door. To my dismay, I see a couple standing there waiting for the elevator. Okay, no biggie, I'll wait for them to hop on the elevator and then I'll slip out. Minutes pass and the cold air bouncing off the cement staircase and walls seeps in deeper into my body. I shiver as I finally see the couple enter the elevator and I reach for the door knob. Quietly, I open the door and tip-toe towards the lobby exit. With each step I take on the white marble floor, a chill seems to run from my feet up my spine. I reach the lobby door and pull, spotting my little green beetle VW parked on the sidewalk. I don't need to tip-toe anymore and speed up to a jog until suddenly, I feel a hand grasp my right wrist. Surprised, I turn around only to see a face I was really hoping to avoid. "Jenn? I thought you were somewhere else? Wait.. what happened to you? Are you okay?", Mark asks with a concerned look as his eyes land on my bloodied arms and knees, "what's going on?".


Wake Up... John K felt a furious breeze against his skin. “What is this,” he thought. “It's so cold.” The feeling was completely foreign. It was agony. Just a moment before this, John K thought of pure bliss, caressed in a complete vacuum. What changed? John loosened his tense muscles. Instantly he rolled onto his back. His arms and legs shot up vertically above his torso, shaping his body into a U shape. Something else was there. He felt encapsulated in it. The quick loss of bodily control caused John's eyes open. For the first time there was light. Blinding light. After a few moments, his eyes acclimated and he took his first view of the world. The colors, they are so vibrant. I've never seen so many blues before. The pallet of colors across the sky overwhelmed John and he began to tear up. I've never seen anything so marvelous, so vivid, and alive. John focused his gaze on the sharp divide between the heavenly blues and dark greens. He traced the spherical border between the two colors 360 degrees with his eyes. There was something about the green sphere. It looked stable. So substantial. Something within all the chaos that would feel warm. He reached out with his arms to hold the soft green orb but quickly realized it was too far away. Suddenly, John's mind was overcome with a ferocious roar. Alien noises invaded his brain. It sounded like a star being ripped apart. The death of a star screaming through the universe unwilling to let the vacuum re capture it without a fight. But there was no star. The sound came from inside his head. John's body convulsed in response to the disquieting noise. He grabbed his head with both hands but the noise would not go away. In the cold rush of sound, John's body flipped back over. He was looking straight down and saw nothing but green plots of land for miles on the gigantic sphere. The longer he looked, the closer the squares looked, and the quitter to noise sounded. “Focus,” John thought to himself. John thought as though he could look at the marvelously concentric fields for a lifetime, but in the breathless moments of staring down, John finally realized what was going on. He was falling through the sky. He closed his eyes. In hysterics, John shook his head violently back and forth trying to wake himself up. There's no way this is happening. It's impossible. He hit himself in an attempt to go back to the dream from which he came. Anywhere was better than this, he thought. "Wake up, wake up," he yelled to himself while punching his head. But deep within his mind he already knew there was no going back. This was his life. There is no more infinity. This was real, and the approaching ground was real. John K became fully conscious of his situation. Just take deep breathes and think. Look around. Is there anyone out there that can help me. I can't be alone. John shouted into the air, "Help me. Anybody, help me." There was no response. Even if there was one, due to the violent wind, John wouldn't have been able to hear it. He scanned the air high and low but saw no one. Johns stomach began to buckle as he found himself completely alone. It sent a creep through the spinal cord to his brain. The message was received. John's body quivered, and his skin began to sweat as vomit spewed from his mouth. His body was just as upset as his mind. The vomit spewed all over his face at terminal velocity speeds. The stench from the vomit was atrocious. How depressing. I'm plummeting through the sky and it still gets worse. What's next? John sensed he might have to throw up a second time, but there was nothing left in his stomach and instead he just gagged. It was followed by a nervous laughter. Time to regain composure. John wiped off his face and opened up his eyes. I'm need to find a way to survive this. He focused on the ground. It was still getting closer and closer. Think, what can I do? He felt along his chest looking for a parachute. Come on, where is it. Wait... what the hell. It didn't take John long to notice that there was no such back pack, or shirt. He felt lower and lower. John was completely naked. The severity of the situation was overwhelming. He thought about everything, but nothing in particular. No solid thought could help him out. Everything was too distorted to make sense. But his chaotic befuddlement was not an accident. It was a technique. John was in hysterics trying to think of anything that could keep the inevitable question from coming up in his mind. He knew what was going to happen, but did not want to admit it. Eventually, John could not distort his mind any longer. The torturous pain he was trying so hard repress final came out. Theres nothing to save me from hitting the ground. Soon, I will hit, explode into thousands of tiny pieces and die. John knew he was going to think it, but it still surprised him when he eventually thought it. He began to understand the seriousness of the situation. I've only got a few minutes left. The ground looks even closer now than before. He could see the divisions between one crop and another. A red dot showed up in his vision. John was in dismay over the fate at hand, but also possessed an odd comfort. A sense of accomplishment. It surprised John, but there was no denying it. It felt good to accept his fate. To not hide from the thought but rather embrace it. Admitting it removed the anxiety from denying the truth. But it still doesn't explain anything he thought. I want some answers. John peered into the infinite horizon and spoke to no one, "Why me? How the hell did I get here?" This was a marginally futile demand. Such perplexing questions have been asked by countless beings for centuries, and John wanted answers while falling through the sky. Why John? Why Anybody? Why anything? What is it that makes(allows?) someone become self-conscious? I must have upset a god. How else would I have ended up naked falling through the sky. An image rushed through his head of a god picking him up, observing with disgust and immediately tossing him over his shoulder. Like an insufferable infested rat on the land. What could I have done to make his so discussed with me? Did he even think about how I would feel? Did he wonder if maybe it was wrong? Focus John. What are you saying. In his short period of life, John saw nothing that would determine it was a magical being who was pulling the strings. There has to be an objective reason why I'm was falling. It has to have been an airplane. A perfectly reasonable explanation with no magic involved. But this only opened more questions. Why don't I remember anything that happened before? And why am I naked? Who would do this to me? The more he thought about it, the more holes he found in this argument. The more it sounded just as magical as a God throwing him away. While thinking about his situation, John was simultaneously adjusting to his environment. He became relatively talented at controlling his position through the air. No longer was it a conflict to stay in one position. Rather than just falling, John learned to steer himself. Through subtle changes in body position, he was able to turn left, right, and fly. A slight bend to the right and away he went. Turn left to get around this cloud. I don't want to fall through it and spoil the view. He could make out the rows of corn. The red dot gained definition. It was a house, that had children running around outside. He wasn't alone. The greater definition of ground features only made the inevitable crash more prevalent in John's mind. What will happen to me after I crash? I hope it only hurts for a second. John hoped there was no god, for if there was, he thought he'd be in for more suffering in the next life. No one that could care so little about me in this life would care about me more in the next. John pondered the bleak outlook he had upon death. What if it's a test? What if I have to suffer this death? If I take it in good spirits the next life will be easier. I'll be able to laugh at what I had to go through. John liked that answer more and decided that's what has to happen, but deep down he felt the true answer was different. He couldn't fool himself. This was just a nice dream. He was pretty certain that nothing would happen to him. He would fall and then the lights would go out again. No one will notice that he lived or that he died. I will vanish as fast as I came. As long as it was only a hope, John knew that he would never be settled with answers of the afterlife and would always worry if it really would be over when he hit. Time was running out fast, and nothing John could do would get him the answers he was looking for. What's the point? Why do I care so much? John closed his eyes. How good I had it when I was 15,000 feet higher. It feels like I had the world in my hands back then. A depression fell over John. I wasted all that time worrying about what was and will be that I forgot to think about what is. He finally noticed the beauty that surrounded him. The birds sailed along the air currents. The same currents that caused the trees to dance. With a deep breathe, he smelled the air. Life was meant for the present. John contorted his body to tumble around and take in all the sights. Why worry about what was? John felt a sense of freedom, one with his surroundings. Only with the acceptance of death can one take in the beauty of life. The same wind that blows the trees blows on me. I am a part of this world, and I effect it just as much as it effects me. The pain of death was numbed. It didn't matter anymore. All that mattered was the here and now. The red house was fast approaching. The fence was made of solid wood. It wrapped around the house to keep the families golden retriever from running away. The children were playing tag around the swing set in the backyard. John prepared for what would be his last moments. He bent to the right to make sure he would avoid the house and land alone in one of the fields. I hope those kids don't see what's about to happen. The time was here. Just a few seconds remained. John curled into a ball for protection from the impact. He knew full well it was not going to help but didn't want to go out without a fight. He closed his eyes and and with the last seconds left prayed to God for help. It took 5 minutes and 34 seconds for John K to hit the ground, but for John it felt like a lifetime.


The night sky lit up momentarily as lightning leapt again through the heavens, reflecting on the still, mirror-like sea. Moments later there followed a low rumble of thunder, disturbing the otherwise serene beauty of the landscape. “It’s getting closer”, he thought, as the distant lightning flashed its tendrils across the midnight sky, leaving him once again plunged into darkness. Sighing, he pulled himself further up the piece of wood and out of the chilling, black water. He gazed up at the stars, barely glimmering above him, and then looked over towards the looming storm. He pulled his long brown cloak tighter about him, hoping its fabric, though sodden, might offer some warmth. But it was no good: the water had chilled him deeper than his bones, seemingly to his very soul. He thought back to that moment: the sound of men screaming like children; the sight of burning bodies tumbling over the wooden rails of the ship and into the murky water; and, worst of all, the smell, the foul smell. He shuddered as he tried to banish the gloomy thoughts from his mind. Several days had passed since that ill-fated moment, yet still he clung to hope that someone would find him, clutching his splintered piece of wood. Clinging on to life itself. Another flash; more thunder. Something caught his attention. He lifted his head from where it rested on the wood, groaning with the effort, his malnourished body struggling to accomplish even so simple a task. He peered intently into the darkling gloom. “Land?”, he thought to himself. He pushed himself up with both arms, raising himself as high as he dared. Not far off, towards the storm, he could see a small rock thrusting out of the dark water. He let out a sob of relief and began paddling frantically towards this small island and the relative safety it might offer. As he neared the rock, he slowed, once again straining upwards to see it more clearly. It was perfectly round and not very tall, jutting only a few feet above the waterline. Frowning, he continued paddling. A slight breeze was now coming from the direction of the storm, and with it came a stench, filling his nostrils with a rotten, tainted smell. He squirmed uncomfortably on his board as memories of that night came flooding back: tentacles the size of trees thrashing at the ship on which he’d served; teeth the size of tombstones grinding through its wooden hull. Another flash illuminated the sky, its light reflecting off the lonely rock before him. Only then did he realise it was no rock. He stared in horror, gazing into the yawning depths of a huge, black eye that stared right back into him, transfixing his gaze and piercing his very soul. Without warning, he felt something grip his ankle with vicelike strength and begin to pull him down into the inky depths below. An involuntary scream escaped his lips and his lungs filled with icy water.