Of all the things you’re sure the mind would cling desperately to, the strange desire for companionship is the first to go. I am alone, yet I do not feel lonely. Of course, it wasn’t like that initially. Blind panic struck and both my body and mind scrambled frantically for an escape, back into the arms of those I loved. I’ve never thought much of humankind, yet I’ve realised just how adaptable we can be. How, like water poured into any container, we can take the form of our environment and exist comfortably within it. I suppose there are people I miss. Yet, and I feel a pang of guilt admitting it, it’s not as much as I expected. If I made a list of the positives and negatives of my situation, I’d unfortunately have to admit that the loss of those I loved isn’t enough to tip the scales. I’d been so obsessed with filling every second of every day with what I viewed as progression, that I hadn’t realised the truth. I wasn’t trying to live a rich and full life… not really. I was running from it. I was so scared of what may arise in my mind if left unstimulated that I spent every waking moment trying to distract it. Distraction took many forms, be it meaningless sex, alcohol, or acting out the role of adrenaline junkie. I should be grateful for being consumed by the latter, because that’s what landed me here. The truth was, after the initial trepidation of my situation had passed, I realised that being alone with my thoughts wasn’t the all-consuming terror I had once believed. It was, in fact, incredibly peaceful. I never understood William Henry Davies, I thought his words were ridiculous, but I understand now. At first, I would mark the days by carving into the walls. After the first month time seemed an irrelevance, so I gave that up and I’ve decided to carve these words instead. I hope when I’m found that these words are passed to someone who needs them. Don’t be the donkey that chases the carrot, don’t waste your life trying to chase impossible goals. I also hope that when these words are found I have long since passed. There’s a stream of fresh water and enough insects to sustain me. It’s dark in this hole, only a dim glow from where I fell in penetrates and fills the cavern. Light is another surprising addition to the list of things I do not miss. I don’t want to return to civilisation, that is a rat race I have been glad to see the back of. I see no sheep or cows, no squirrels hiding their nuts. I cannot see streams of stars, nor the sky that they reside within. Yet there is a peace within this hole that I have never felt before. There is peace within the darkness. There is peace within the silence. There is peace within the void.


The Archipelago publishes every Wednesday. See the pinned comment for links to the contents. \ I tied the boat up to a small jetti, somewhat relieved Alessia couldn’t see the knot I hastily threw together, and pulled myself up onto the platform. Already I could feel a degree of exhaustion. The short row to the shore had already eaten away at the atrophied muscles in my arms. Still, the impatience in my brain had won out. It needed exercise more than my body needed rest. While I built up some reserves of energy, I took in my surroundings. I hoped to find an islander on a break, idly waiting by the sea, and who might want to talk about Vexids. But while the port didn’t seem busy, anyone I could see was engaged in a task. Porters carried textiles - mostly wool and cotton - off to waiting traders, sellers and buyers negotiated with the waiting boats down by the dock, but no one was stopped. Usually, beyond trade, ports were a place where you’d find those relaxing, finding peace in the coming and going of the waves. But here, there were none. “Can I help you?” I turned to see a woman in her mid-thirties bounding towards me with almost excessive enthusiasm. “Yes. I’m just visiting. I came on the large ship.” I tilted my head towards the Deer Drum boat, floating off the coast like an island of its own “Ah excellent. Another from Deer Drum. Welcome. Can I introduce you to our island? Maybe give you a tour?” She grinned wide, as though pulling her own cheeks back with hooks. The woman’s overt enthusiasm felt abrasive against my own lethargy. An ache ran across my back. “I would love to understand more.” The words felt stiff, my vocal chords still stretching into shape. “We may have to move slowly though, I’ve been recovering from an injury.” “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” the woman replied with the same tone and smile. “Well, if you want to learn more about the island, you’re in luck. My name is Endesha. My passion is sharing the island’s history with others, and I’m on my passion rotation right now. ” “Passion rotation?” “Yes. Are you familiar with our island at all?” She said, clasping her hands together by her stomach. “Honestly, nothing. I know a couple of the islanders have been here. One girl in particular, fifteen years old.” I held up my hand out about Mirai’s height. “I hear she’s visited a lot and likes the place. But no idea beyond that.” Endesha looked up, searching her memory. “Ah, yes. Mirai. Brilliant young woman. I’ve met her a few times. Fits right in here, a mind like that.” She said, pointing a finger. “Well, maybe we can walk to the town square, it’s only a short walk, and I’ll tell you a bit more about our history on our way.” I nodded in agreement, and Endesha held up an arm to guide the way. She led me up through the town past beige stone structures till we arrived at a long, thin building. Inside I could hear the thrum of machines, the thudding so loud it threatened to topple the aged and cracked walls. Endesha pointed to an engraving; old eroded numbers that read 7-7-10. “This is one of the oldest buildings in the work part of town. And it celebrates our most important rule.” Endesha looked at it with reverence. “When The Archipelago formed, those here felt that too many had died living wasteful lives, never doing what made them truly happy. And so beaame the law.” She began counting each point on her fingers. “Seven hours of work, our sacrifice to keeping the island running and ensuring we have food to eat. Seven hours to rest, eat and sleep.” She leaned in, her mouth grinning with delight. “And ten hours to chase our passions, and become the best people we can be.” “You only work for seven hours? The other seventeen are all yours?” “To be the best we can be.” She corrected me with a wagged finger. “The whole town is separated into three sectors. Here, near the harbour, is our industry, to the North we have the homes where people live and sleep, and to the east, is the true treasure of the island. The drive sector.” She turned and jolted with purpose, drawn eastwards by the sector’s mere mention. My legs strained to keep up, joints unsteady and unsure. “I’ve spent a fair amount of time pouring over the documents from the island’s founding and how they describe the old world. There are old descriptions of people watching moving pictures, or making men and women move with hand-held controllers just for fun. They use the term \*to kill time\*. Can you believe that? To kill time.” I thought of the many times on Alessia’s boat, on a relatively still day, when I would simply sit on the edge, watching peaceful waves roll by. “I… I think we might still do that?” “Not here.” Endesha said, her arms outstretched, allowing a broad chest to bellow the words out. “Tell me, Ferdinand. When are you happiest?” “What?” I said, my feet almost tripping on the words. “When do you feel happy?” I tried to go through a list. The drunken walk back to our property on Talin Barier with Alessia. Singing songs with the Deer Drum crew. When Alessia gave me my room on the boat. So many came back to Alessia. Too many. “I’m not sure,” I said, still dodging the truth even to a stranger. “People maybe?” “Even in the old world people spoke of having a calling. Something they wanted to do - not for glory or riches, but for the love of the task. Pursuing that is where happiness lies. Sure, you can be fine sitting about on a warm sunny day…” She waved an arm dismissively. “But real contentment lies in what drives us, what fascinates us. Don’t you agree?” A small smile flickered across my lips as I remembered my own calling. While the chase of the Citadel on Kadear had been intoxicating, travelling the Archipelago had been more than a want. Happiness that lifted your chest as well as your lips. “I’m beginning to.” Her already huge smile gained an extra lift at my agreement. “Then is it not the duty of this - or any island, to help you achieve those dreams? To push you to do what you are capable of.” She prodded my chest with a hard finger. “That is what those ten hours are for. To chase what drives you. To become what you are capable of. Not for the island, but for yourself.” The conversation paused as the road widened out into a large town square. In the middle was a wooden stage made of varnished pine. It was low enough that you could step up to it with a good leap, but wide enough to hold a good thirty or forty people if required. “We have a bit of a ritual that comes with those passions,” Endesha chuckled, staring at the platform. “I took a while to understand it, I had to go through pages and pages of correspondence among the island’s first council members. However, what they realised is that one of the most important parts of chasing your passions is to acknowledge them. To state your dreams aloud and not cower from them.” It made sense. So many times I had stared at that map in my home in Kadear. But other than brief conversations with Thomas my wishes of travelling were hidden. Only external events brought that desire out of the darkness. Endesha walked towards the stage. I could almost see the years of the residents who had taken to the stand in her eyes. “Between the ages of fifteen and sixteen, all residents come here to declare their passion in front of the island. I came here,” she pointed to each individual invisible attendee. “I told them I wanted to learn about the history of Vexids Receives and share it with visitors. And in attending, they told me that they would help me, push me in pursuit of that passion.” She turned to me, her smile reverential. “In a few weeks, the next group will take to that stage. And you can be certain I will be witness to their proclamations.” I thought about what I would’ve said on such a stage. How much easier would my travels have been if I had had to declare that drive to my fellow islanders, and they in turn were duty bound to help me pursue it? Endesha meanwhile was telling me about the history of the stage. The details of when it was first built and the repairs done to it over the years, and how it intertwined with the rest of the planned town. But the dates and minutia weren’t the reason for the smile on my face. It was the growing understanding of this place, and the freedom to give yourself not just to your island, or your own greed and vices, but to what called you. It seemed to shake off some of the lethargy in my bones, and when Endesha asked if I wanted to continue on to the see the passion sector, I obliged. We made our way east, as Endesha regaled me with the founders’ foresight in the layout. A series of workshops each in their own courtyard, their entrances facing inward. Each one had large wooden shutters at the back and front the entire width of the building save for a small doorway at the end. The lack of warmth in Winter was a price worth paying for the community the openness created. We turned and entered into one of the courtyards as I was met with the output of people’s hobbies: the sound of sandpaper grated across wood, the tune of an accordion pushing notes through its pipes. I could smell the aroma of old books, in between the wafts of fresh paint. The sights and sounds were a melody somehow borne of cacophony. No thread connected each space. Each room was home to a different activity. All the island did was give space for them to grow. And yet, the end result seemed harmonious. I watched a woman placing red hot metal into a great furnace, while next door another folded dough, flour pluming into the air each time the bread hit the table. Creaking metal snatched my attention. Atop one of the rooms to the left was a small windmill. Rusted iron blades oscillated with each rotation, but still it turned in the light breeze. From its base, a slew of cables ran down the roof disappearing through a hole near the edge. Looking into the shadowy room I could see two figures. A middle aged man, with curly balding hair, and a teenage girl. “Mirai!” I called out. Mirai looked up, two wires in one hand, and a tool in the other. “Ferdinand! You made it off the ship.” “Eir finally let me go.” Mirai put the wires down on a bench and pointed to the man behind her. “This is Charles. Charles, this is Ferdinand. He helped us move from Deer Drum.” The man took off a pair of thick, leather gloves and reached out to shake my hand. His face was blotched, and there were a few wrinkles across his brow. But his cheeks were taut and youthful. “Good to meet you. Welcome to my electrical shop.” “Charles does electrical engineering as his passion,” Mirai said, jumping in to add more information. “He’s built so many things. Small engines, toys… every workshop in this courtyard has electric lights now thanks to Charles.” She pointed to the bulb hanging from dangled wiring above. “I’m no genius. But I’ve got pretty good over the years.” Charles said, thumbs tucked into the straps of his overalls. Mirai continued. “He’s currently trying to get a windmill working. He could power the whole island off wind power alone.” “It used to be a common form of electrical power in the old world,” Endesha added, stepping between us. “I believe there may be the odd island in the Archipelago where it exists, but it would be a serious boon to have it here.” Charles grinned but bowed his head. “Charles has been letting me help out for the past few days. Soldering cables, testing currents, that kind of thing,” Mirai beamed. “She’s been a great help. Hard to try and fix the turbine on the roof and measure the currents down here at the same time,” Charles added with a chuckle. “It’s amazing. I’ve been sitting on that boat for months just watching the oceans roll by,” Mirai stretched out the words so they were as boring as a flat, windless sea. “I designed that one fish net, but other than that I haven’t got to do anything. But, Ferdinand, I love this stuff.” “I’m glad it’s going so well,” I smiled. Suddenly she snapped her fingers. “Here, let me show you something.” She turned, leaping between tables, before returning with a series of wires that connected a lightbulb to a small metal box with a wooden handle. “I made this. Turn the handle.” I looked at her hesitantly. “Go on.” It was only the width of my palm, but still, the small pole was hard to turn. Mirai laughed. “Harder. You’ll have to go faster.” My muscles were still wasted and weak from the Anmanion islands, and even this small chore was causing my arm to ache. However, for Mirai’s sake, I put in more effort, pushing past the resistance, until the wheel span faster and I saw a small flicker of light from the bulb. The spark invigorated me, and I cranked harder until a soft yellow glow from the bulb rose and dimmed with each shift of my arm. We all watched the light for a few seconds, until the stiffness in my wrist returned and I had to stop. “Mirai, that’s amazing.” I smiled, shaking off the aches. “I mean, it’s nothing compared to what Charles has done.” Mirai looked to the side, turning her cheeks. “But it’s a start.” “It’s an excellent start,” I nodded. The enthusiasm came back. “I just love this stuff so much. I wish I could do it forever.” “You could,” Endesha interrupted. All heads turned to her. “Anyone can join Vexids Receives over the age of fifteen. It was one of the rules created by the island’s founders. All you have to do is declare your passion during the ceremony.” I felt my teeth grit, watching this stranger so ignorant of Mirai and her world. Mirai’s face lit up. “When’s the next ceremony!?” “About three weeks’ time.” Endesha replied, ignoring my grimace. Mirai’s eyes glossed over, filled with an idyllic vision. “I can keep doing this? I can stay?” \ The Archipelago publishes every Wednesday. See the pinned comment for links to the contents.


Note: Includes violence. Jill deftly moved out of the way as the pot fell. She had not seen it, but moved by instinct. Her mother had beaten her far to often for her not to have those developed. As she bent over to pick it up, a knock sounded on the door. She looked up, through the dismal kitchen, to see who it was. "Jill, open the door for our guest." She heard her mother yell from the other room. She winced. Nonetheless, Jill brushed down her dress and came over to the door. Unlocking it, she glanced out through a small crack, and, seeing no one, opened it completely. A tall man stood there, draped in a dark cloak, towering over Jill's tiny form. He was pale, clean shaven, his eyes sparkling like gold in the sun. He smiled at Jill's tiny, frightened self. "Do not be afraid, child. I will not hurt you." With these words, he pushed past her, his stride having a determined purpose which she did not like. Jill followed him through the kitchen and into the dirty, grey living room, not daring to intervene. "This place..." He muttered, looking around. Jill understood his disgust. The room was cluttered, dust covering half of the objects in the room, indicating that they had not been used in years. Ten years, in fact. Ever since her father had died. His death had affected Jill's mother greatly. She rarely left her room anymore, except to punish Jill. She forced her to make her food, do the shopping. She was grieving, of course, but Jill did not deserve to bear her mother's burden in such a way. And for ten years. Maybe it was the stranger, or perhaps it was something else, but there awakened in Jill a feeling that her mother would have never tolerated from her. "I hate you, mother," Jill whispered, tears of grief, pain, and quiet, intense fury forming in her eyes. The man, who had briefly paused in the living room, now resumed his purposeful stride. He strode straight into her mother's room, slamming the door behind him, making Jill jump, and leaving her, dumbstruck, outside. She tried desperately to open the door, but apparently the stranger had locked it. Horror overcame her as a scream arose. She started banging on the door in panic, trying to force it open, to no avail. What seemed like an eternity in silence later, the door opened. The first thing Jill saw was a bloody knife in the stranger's hand. Breathing heavily, she slumped to the ground as she saw what lay beyond. Her mother lay on the bed, eyes glassy, a deep wound in her chest, sheets stained with blood. "I'm sorry," a whisper sounded. Then, Jill's eyes filled with rage, unthinking, unforgiving rage. Before the stranger had passed the house's threshold, he he found a kitchen knife lodged in his throat. He collapsed, gasps fading into silence. Jill stood there, tears mixing with blood, a single word ringing in her mind: Why? If anyone can give me feedback on this, I would appreciate it.


You know that saying people use to describe a muddled mind? You know, the one with the fuzziness. Yeah that’s the one. Well that’s the state of mine 90% of the time. As a 26 year old from New York, you would expect me to have some idea. Some inkling of how to socialise, how to engage with people, but the truth is I am as introverted as they come. People are difficult. I’d much rather sit on a deserted beach than deal with another of Stacy’s StarBucks trauma’s, or listen to Bryan rant on about his partners messy morning routine. Despite my a-social tendencies, I still have moments - brief moments - where I crave a human connection. I still want to be loved, to be desired, to be held… However at my age, my lack of experience serves as a complication. You see, in my humble opinion, to navigate the contemporary dating scene you need to have a PhD in psycho-analytics and skin as tough as granite. It doesn’t help that the only experience I have is a 2-day ‘situationship’ with Stacy Mulligan when I was in 11th Grade. That all but ruined my self-confidence, and since then I’ve never felt like opening up to anyone. My go-to explanation when asked by friends, family, and strangers alike is that I’ve been preoccupied with work and just never had the time to devote to someone else. The reality, however, is much more obtuse and dark. It is also - arguably - the reason why Ms. Mulligan is now a permanent resident of the Manhattan Psychiatric Center… To put it plainly, I’m a master observer. Able to predict events and outcomes well before they occur. I predicted my friends death six months before she was diagnosed with a stage 4 lymphoma. I predicted the invasion of Ukraine three years before Russia launched their ‘special operation’. Three weeks ago, I predicted the armed robbery at the cornerstore on 27th Avenue. The one which happened last Tuesday. I also predicted Stacies death... She drowned. After I told her, she broke. The doctors said she suffered a severe psychotic episode - I mean what else would you call an incorrigible fear of water. She refused to go anywhere near a puddle. I can’t explain how it works, what triggers it, or what the timeline for the events occurrence is. The only thing I do know is; when the vision pops into my head, the event will happen. The vision comes in waves, sometimes I have a tactile response (meaning I feel what people in the image feel), sometimes it’s an extreme emotion, and sometimes I feel nothing. So why am I telling you all this? Well, about five seconds ago I brushed hands with the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, and in that moment I saw them die. Before I could say anything, the train doors shut. Off they walked, and there I stood. Speechless. What should have been a tacit and meaningless mistake, caused my heart to flutter and sent a persisting shiver down my spine. I’ve seen disaster and gore before. Hell, my last vision showed the store clerk decapitated at the cornerstore on 27th Avenue.


“Tonight’s the night”. Sergeant Muller said to himself as he was staring over the entrenchments across the field. Tonight he would embark on a daring raid across the battlefield from his own trenches to the enemies. It was not his first raid and by this point in the war he was a profesional in the regard of wreaking havoc upon the enemy trenches when the moon is full and night falls on the land. What was once a daunting task when he was a private was nothing to him now as a Sergeant. Even the prospect of death did not scare him. His thoughts were broken when his good friend Corporal Webb approached him from behind “It’s almost time, are you ready?” He asked. Muller used the moonlight shining above them and checked his pocket watch and nodded. “Of course”. Muller then followed Webb towards the firing line of the trenches and they spoke as they passed by soldiers getting on or getting off shifts of mending wire, digging more trenches, or simply going about their own business. “Why do you think the Bluecoats have been so quiet lately anyways? Today I stood straight up after coming out of my dugout and none of them dared even shoot me”. Webber asked. Muller simply shook his head “Hopefully they’ve lost their stomach for this war and went home. Any sane man would have at this point anyways. We’ve been fighting over this stretch of dirt for months now without the battle lines changing”. Webb nodded “Not us of course, we’re perfectly sane aren’t we?” Muller chuckled slightly “As sane as we can be”. As they continued to walk towards the firing line Muller thought about Webb’s question. “Surely we’ll find out soon enough what’s happening over there”. He said to himself. Once they finally reached the firing line they hailed the sentry and they recognized him as Henderson from his broad mustache “Another night on the job then?” He asked earnestly as Webb and Muller past him. “There’s nothing quite like it Henderson. Keep them all safe back here won’t you?” Muller said as he rubbed some dirt on his face. “Will do”. Henderson said in reply. With that, they then made their way across no man’s land. The area between the Ticonderoga and Ulsterian trenches was a mess of shell holes, stumps, and dead carcasses scattered about the land. Every feature Muller and Webb knew like the back of their hands and they constantly used them for cover and concealment as they crawled across the field. No lantern was necessary for the moon was full that night and shined like a candle upon them and lit their way. They then came upon the outskirts of the Ulsterian lines when Webb reached to Muller and whispered. “Blue coat straight ahead”. Muller then looked over and saw a sentry at his post leaning against his rifle. “He’s asleep”. Muller said. “His head is facing the dirt anyways”. Webb then took a more stern look and drew his dagger from his scabbard and whispered “It's best not to take the chance.” They then crawled to an empty section of the trench and Muller cut the wire and they crawled into the ditch. Their boots made a splash in what they assumed was a mud puddle and they made their way along the firing line until they spotted the sentry. Webb then made quick work of him and carefully stretched his hand over the sentry's mouth and drove his dagger deep into the man’s back. The blow would have been fatal if he was still alive. When Webb threw him into the mud he realized he was dead and his throat slit. Muller then gave a confused look “What the Hell is this?” Webb shrugged in reply. They then made their way carefully along the trench but their subtly was unnecessary. It became apparent the trenches were guarded by dead men. Every soldier they came across was ripped apart with cuts and stabs covering their uniforms and Muller became puzzled. “My God what happened here”. The trail of bodies ended at a dugout where a lantern was burning bright from inside. “Lower enlisted first”. Muller jested at his seniority while Webb growled. Webb then carefully went into the dugout with dagger and pistol drawn while Muller waited outside. When Webb came into the dugout he discovered an officer’s quarters along with a hole freshly dug into the ground and a silver coffin with the lid fully pushed open from the inside. “What the fuck is this?” Were the last words Webb said before his throat was slit open and he fell to the ground with a thud. From up top Muller nearly shouted “Webb?! Webb! What’s happening down there?!” Muller didn’t wait for a response when he heard movement coming from down the trenchline and looked to see Webb laying dead on the ground with a red eyed beast looking back at him from within the dugout. Muller’s instinct to survive overcame his need to enact revenge and he ran for his life. By now he cared nothing for crawling on the ground or stealth at all as he ran past the dead sentry and bodies and onto the field. He could feel whatever had murderer Webb chasing him. He sprinted past the shell craters, stumps and dead corpses he had come to memorize and every step of the way he could feel the beast come near him at an inhuman speed. He then tripped and fell into a shell crater and knew it was too late. Muller then drew his pistol in a panicked frenzy and turned to face the beast. However it was gone. He then peered across the field to find whatever was chasing him was gone and wondered if he had gone mad. Muller waited a few moments more before he holstered his pistol again and ran towards his own trench line and hailed Henderson as he came near “Henderson! Henderson! Awake the commander! somethings terribly wrong!” However, Henderson did not respond and Muller did not understand why until he came near and realized his neck had been slit ear to ear and he was only propped up by the rifle he was leaning on. He then came into the trenches to find all his comrades were slain just the same as his enemies were and the culprit of it all standing at the end of the trench with claws extended and eyes as red as blood. Muller however was out of breath and had nowhere to run even if he wanted to. He then drew his pistol again and faced the beast who had murdered Webb. Either he would kill this beast, or join his friend in death.


“Gunther?.. My God we thought you were dead!” Thomas shouted as he saw his friend standing at the door of the dugout. “Well then.” Gunther began “I certainly don’t feel dead”. Just the other day Thomas swore he saw his friend Gunther die when a wave of Gatling gun fire came over them when they were out of the trenches he even saw him get hit and fall himself. But here he was standing before him in his dirty uniform and cap as if nothing had happened at all. Graf who was sitting at his cot stood up and approached Gunther and shook his hand “My God man you certainly look dead though. You’re as white as a ghost!” He said. Gunther smiled a little and nodded “well to be honest I feel light headed. Mind if I sit down?” Graf then nodded and he sat down in the draw filled cot and Thomas handed him a warm tin of coffee “I bet you’ll be need this more than me. It was real cold out there last night.” Gunther then stared at the cup for a moment but shook his head “I don’t really remember it being cold. Also no thank you honestly I’m not all that thirst right now.” Thomas then set the tin cup on a box and Graf spoke “I should probably tell Sergeant Martin about you then.. Sorry to say this but when we saw you go down we thought you were done for and told him you were gone. I’ll be right back”. With that Graf then put on his cap and slung his rifle over his shoulder and ran off to find Sergeant Martin while Thomas continued to talk. “What happened anyways? Were you just unconscious at that time? We tried to call out your name but you didn’t answer”. Gunther then sighed as he rubbed his forehead. “I was taking cover and I didn’t feel like I could move. To be honest I thought I was dead too. I think I was struck by something, but it certainly wasn’t a bullet. Those Bluebacks couldn’t hit a elephant with one of those crank guns”. Thomas then nodded. “Well when Sergeant Martin comes around you should pretend you got hit just so you can get sent back to the rear and take a vacation in one of those hospitals. Who knows, maybe if you bitch long enough they’ll give you some furlough time off”. Gunther then nodded again. “Well now that you mention it I have one serious headache actually. “ Thomas then smiled. “Yeah that’s the right idea. I can even go along with it and tell Sergeant Martin you hit your head when we were running back to the trench. I can make up a story about a concussion and everything”. Gunther’s smile finally reappeared “yeah.. Your right in finally going to get to go home again”. Sergeant Martin then stepped into the dugout with Graff and Gunther stood up to meet him along with Thomas. Thomas then spoke “Sergeant it seems we made an error last night. Turns out Gunther made it back after all. He just got hit his head when he landed in the dirt.” Sergeant Martin looked Gunther up and down. “Is that so private?” He asked him. Gunther then nodded “yes Sergeant it is. I have a terrible headache from it. When I woke up this morning I crawled my way across the field and made my way into the trenches here and made it back safe like you said.” Sergeant Martin seemed relieved “well I’m glad you made it back son.. We’ll send you to the rear to get a doctor to look at your head. In the meantime I’m going to bitch at whoever was on sentry duty. Pack your things and leave your rifle with Graff.” With that Sergeant Martin stepped out and the trio of soldiers were left alone. “Right” Graff said as he sat down on a crate. “You best get changed and shave, those nurses will be expecting a handsome young man to look after.” Gunther then smiled again and turned and collected what little belongings he had in a small sack and took off his coat and hat and sat them on the cot. While he was doing so Thomas’ face turned to horror and as did Graff’s when they saw dried blood on the back of his head. “Gunther, are you sure you’re feeling alright?” Thomas asked. Gunther then finished shaving rather quickly and turned around to reveal a massive bullet lodged within his forehead. “I’m better than ever gentlemen. Not only did I dodge a bullet yesterday but I managed to get out of the trenches for a time too. This is one of the best days of my life.. Now how do I look?” Graff and Thomas gave each other a look of absolute shock before Graff stood up and took Gunther’s hat and put it squarely on his head. “You look like one lucky soldier”. He said.


“You never see dwarven women,” Belton comments as he chops up the celery. The knife in his hand makes quick work of the current stalk and he grabs another after moving the cut pieces into a pile. “I’ve always wondered why. Do you think they are too ugly or too beautiful?” The kitchen is busy with a number of the half-folk scurrying around. When they are the only kind in sight it can be a bit hard to notice their differences from the other races. They don’t quite look like human children but they don’t quite look just like small versions of them either. And they aren’t just slim dwarves or tall, better groomed gnomes. It can be hard to pinpoint. Especially when they are in a kitchen designed to fit them. Some are checking the various pots of bubbling liquids which emit tantalizing aromas. Eddies of steam whirl behind others as they rush past on their way to check meat cooking over the fires or go take out something from an oven. It is the one peeling potatoes nearby that answers the celery chopper. “What if you have seen them, you just didn’t know?” Using a slightly curved blade the half-folk angles the peels into a bucket placed there to catch them. Upon finishing a potato he tosses it into a nearby basket with some other finished ones. “What do you mean, Ulrin?” “I think you have seen female dwarves, you just haven’t noticed. It’s all in the eyebrows I tell you. That’s how you can tell.” Ulrin nods sagely as he grabs another spud to start on. “That’s crazy. You’re saying they have the same build, including the beards, and the only difference is their \*eyebrows\*?” Belton starts on chopping some carrots after pushing the pile of chopped celery into a large wooden bowl. He harrumphs. “I still say they hide them away in their home caves. No one is allowed outside the visitor halls after all. The only question I have is if it is because they are too beautiful or too hideous to be seen.” A female of the folk carrying a tray of bread loaves pauses by the pair and leans in to add in her two coppers worth. “I heard each clan only has one Matron. She is massive and births everyone in the clan.” Ulrin utters a curse as the insanity of this theory causes him to slip and cut his thumb. He glares at the girl but it is Belton who says in a condescending manner, “You are saying dwarves are like bees or ants, with a queen, Isajen?” Isajen straightens up and looks down her nose at them. “I’m just telling you what I’ve heard.” She takes a step away, pauses and adds, “Makes more sense than \*eyebrows\*,” before heading on her way. Ulrin finishes patching up his thumb and returns to spud duty while Belton has moved onto radishes. One of the women, this one with fiery hair pulled back into a tail, stops by to start sorting the potatoes. Some are taken out and put into a pile for Belton to chop while the others are put in a basket to be taken away. “What do you know about Dwarven women, Diaphina?” Belton asks. She pauses a moment in her sorting to give Belton a side-eye. “I never really thought much about them I suppose.” “Have you ever seen them out in the common room?” pipes up Ulrin as he puts a potato in Diaphina’s basket. She glances at it and moves it to the pile nearby Belton as she answers.” Well of course I’ve… hmm. Actually, now that you mention it I don’t think I’ve ever seen one out there.” “Ha!” exclaims Belton. “That’s because they don’t let them leave their home caves I tell you. Do you think it is because they are too pretty or too gruesome?” Ulrin butts in before Diaphina can answer. “Sure you’ve seen them, they just look almost the same as the dwarven men I tell you.” Diaphina takes a moment to tuck a stray curl of hair back and looks between the two of them. “So this is your discussion of the night, eh? I guess it is better than some things you talk about.” Ulrin blushes at this but Belton just rolls his eyes. “I think Maester Goodbrook has been to one of their mountain homes if you want to ask them about it. Went to learn some of their dishes and teach them some of ours.” Ulrin puts his hands up, one holding a spud, the other his peeling knife. “I wouldn’t want to bother the Maester…” he says but Belton has a pondering look on his face. “I wouldn’t bother him during preparation time of course… but maybe later…” he trails off and moves the finished radishes into their own bowl and brings the pile of potatoes over to start on. Isajen returns without any tray this time and instructs Ulrin that he is needed to help clean up the common room before the day starts. “And don’t forget to take the peels out to the compost.” Ulrin grimaces and mutters that he only forgot that once as he gathers up the bucket and heads out for his next duty. Isajen watches him leave and comments to Belton, “I didn’t really mean they were like queen bees or anything. Just like they are sacred and sheltered because they are the only ones that can reproduce. It isn’t like dwarves are a overly flourishing race. There aren’t that many of them but they do live long. It could be there’s only one, or I guess a few, that give birth and are protected which is why no one gets to meet them.” Belton hmms softly as he cutes up the potatoes into chunks. “I suppose that could be true. It sure seems more plausible than they are out here and look the same as every other dwarf except for their eyebrows.” They share a chuckle and return to their work.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? 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 provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: - **Sentence: Freedom felt so far away.** - **Bonus Constraint:** A map plays a meaningful role in the story (this means it needs to be more than a passing reference). / This week’s challenge is to include the sentence “Freedom felt so far away” in your story (it is required). **You may change tenses/pronouns and/or add onto it, but the original sentence must stay intact to receive credit.** The bonus constraint and use of the included image and song are not required. **Please ensure that you follow all post and subreddit rules.** **Note: Don’t forget to next Monday!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting. You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied We have a new point system! **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** | up to **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 in-depth, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.   *** #Rankings for - - u/OneSidedDice - - u/ZachTheLitchKing - - u/oliverjsn8 ###Crit Stars - u/OneSidedDice #Rankings for - - u/GingerQuill - - u/oliverjsn8 - - u/MelexRengsef ###Crit Stars - u/GingerQuill *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Experiment with tropes and different genres with the brand new feature on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


The soothing music and bubbling waterfall did nothing to relax me or my bouncing leg. So much for "Zen." I kept my eyes peeled on the front door of the spa and my purse clutched in my lap. The waiting room was empty expect for a receptionist, but he was behind the desk and clearly focused solely on texting. He'd be useless if things went south. I figured I could use that artsy marble statue on the coffee table to bash in any brains if *she* came through the door. *Ding.* The front door opened. My chest tightened. A man with a spray-tan and false-white teeth entered. My muscles stayed tense. "Alice?" a sweet voice asked. "I'm Tiffany. I'll be taking care of you today." Her words were like a reassuring hug I didn't know I needed. My eyes teared up as relief surged through me. I blinked them away. Tiffany led me to one of the back rooms. It was the same comforting soft greens of the waiting room complete with a fiddle leaf fig. Meditative music crooned out of the speakers in the ceiling. The lights were so dim and cozy I wondered how Tiffany stayed awake. She motioned for me to have a seat on the recliner in the middle of the room. I sat, and Tiffany pressed a button on its side. The chair whined as it slowly reclined me. "So looks like we're having a facial today, is that right?" "Yes. I, um, have a coupon." I started to rifle through my purse. "It came in the mail. It, um..." "Oh, no need. Rachel up front will take care of that. For the next twenty minutes, I don't want you to worry about a single thing." Tiffany smiled again, knocking another ten pounds off my shoulders. I teared up again. This time Tiffany noticed. "Oh honey, don't cry. What's wrong?" "Sorry, I'm sorry. I'm fine. Go ahead." Tiffany gave me a look, suspicious, but went ahead. She grabbed a syringe filled with clear liquid. "You're going to feel a few little pinches and some numbness, but this will make the whole thing more comfortable." "Needles? Is that necessary?" "No. It's just the facial can get pretty itchy. Our guests find it more comfortable with a itty-bitty numbing agent. We can skip it if you want." "Go ahead, I trust you." She smiled and delicately inserted the syringe into my cheeks, chin, and forehead. "Oof. You got a lot of tension in your forehead. Work troubles?" "I wish." "What's going on?" Tiffany spun to the counter. She poured various powders and liquids into a bowl. "Relationship troubles." "Yikes." "Yeah my boyfriend's ex is... a lot." "Exes are the worst!" Tiffany stirred the gloopy mixture and dabbed it onto my face. Despite the numbness, it felt warm as a cup of chamomile tea. I closed my eyes letting the heat sink into my bones. "What's this bitch doing? Texting him?" Tiffany asked. "Texting him. Calling him. Stalking him. She showed up at his brother's wedding. She drove four hours to crash it." "Jesus. I hope he's getting a restraining order." A weird smell wafted through the air. Iron? I continued, "Oh hell yes. It's in process. He's already blocked her on everything. But now she's resorting to threatening me." "Oh I'm so sorry. We don't have to talk about this." "She spray-painted my office building. 'Give him back or else.' No proof it was her, but who else could it be?" "That's awful." "It gets worse." The iron smell became distracting but being able to vent to a sympathetic ear was too therapeutic. "I found a dead cat inside my car." Tiffany gasped. "Nooooo. I love cats." "I haven't driven it since. I'm afraid she messed with the brakes or — I think something's dripping." Something wet and warm dribbled on my neck and down my back. "Ope, sorry. It does that." Tiffany tucked a towel around my neck. "God, this whole situation sounds horrible." I nodded, not speaking in case I broke down again. "Have you thought of just leaving him?" Tiffany asked. "I love him." "Yes, but does he love you? Really?" I opened my eyes. She looked at me innocently. "What do you mean?" I said — or so I attempted. The words came out weird and slurry, my lips uncooperative. Tiffany sighed and offered me a mirror. My spine went cold, and I didn't want to take it. I didn't want to look. "Tiffany...?" my lips struggled out. She shook her head, genuinely forlorn. I touched my cheek, and my fingers sunk through moist flesh, my nails tapping against teeth. Blood dripped down my hand. *My face, my face, what did she do to my face?* I moaned. I couldn't speak, my mouth turned to jelly. The woman held the mirror up for me to see the grotesque, twisted mass now sitting above my neck. She shook her head, disappointed. "You really should have just given him back.


My dad's real work I have been working with IT for over a dozen years now. This is a story about over ten years in the past. When started studying IT related stuff in my teens, I wanted to be a hacker, as lots of other people want when they start. But it's not nearly as easy as most movies show it to be. But still I tried really hard for over two years of highschool and start computer science college. Even though I never really became a "hacker" I still picked up a lot of skills with the years. And where do you test some of those skills? At Home, at work and at college. My father is now a retired federal cop, but at the time I was "testing" my skills. I kind of snooped around in his laptop and "infected" his pendrives with stuff that would put a backdoor for me to snoop around his work computer. Let me tell you, in the country that I live in. The government IT security sucks. Going back to my father, he only ever talked about his accomplishments when it came to white collar crimes, some politicians that they arrested or when it came to stuff related to drug trafficking. He never mentioned any other sort of crime related stuff. So I was never really interested in my father's work, because I thought that he was pretty open about it One day I saw on the news a major case about trafficking of *** slaves to other countries and that the group that did that was arrested. And I recognized one of the federal agent that a camera picked up on the side, it was my my father's friend from work.Them I realized that my father would probably talk about that to us, but I was mistaken, he never brought up the subject during the week, I thought that maybe he wasn't part of that criminal case. But as I already had access to all his files, I decided to snoop around the cases that he had worked on. It was than that I discoved that the cases he talked about, were the vast minority of his work. He actually had tons of investigations on the most heinous acts that humans could possibly do. *** Slaves. Child ****. Serial killers. Profiles about some of the worst kind of criminals possible. Today I really appreciate the fact that photos on those kind of stuff were not digitalized and kep on the agents computers, that kind of evidence was only ever kept printed in some really secure cabinets. But what I was able to read already made me have nightmares for a few days at that time. I never imagined that my father and some of his colleagues worked in a division where they saw that kind of stuff constantly, and now knowing what they saw most of their years working. I have always seen my father as a kind, calm and cheerful person, and thought the same about his colleagues. A few years after most o them retired, 2 of his peers unalived themselves. And their families could never understand why, I think that they were probably haunted by what they saw for thirty years of their lives. As for my father, I can only say that I have only ever respected and loved him. And after discovering what he really did for a living, I can only pridefully say that he and his friends helped make this world a better place paying the price with their mental health.


Some time ago, a new boy arrived at the school. As was the custom with all newcomers, the school bully approached him. He was a skinny boy, with brown-rimmed glasses, somewhat disheveled hair, and loose clothing: the perfect target. Not only for Thomas, the biggest bully in school, but also for everyone else. Thomas stood in front of him, arms folded and a crooked smile on his face. The new boy stared at him for a long moment, saying nothing, until Thomas took his arm in one of his huge hands. "I'll explain how things work around here, new," he said. "You give me part of your money, I protect you." The new boy didn't say anything, just stared at him. By that time, we were all watching the situation closely. Many smiled, complicit; others were scared; some rolled their eyes, knowing how it would all end: no matter how much the new guy refused at first, he would end up giving the bully money. However, to everyone's surprise, the new boy disappeared. Thomas's fingers, which had been holding the boy's skinny arm, were left holding the very air. The bully looked everywhere, not understanding what was happening. "What—?!" he started to scream, but was interrupted by a loud crack. Immediately afterwards, and to the astonishment of the entire school, a metallic contraption appeared around Thomas. It looked like a cage, only one side was not made of bars, but a smooth metal plate. Thomas had been hooked to the metal at the wrists and ankles, through metal handcuffs that protruded from the bars opposite the plate. From one of the corners of the apparatus stick out a gigantic drill, which was pointed directly at Thomas's chest. The bully tried to get free, without any success. Many of us, including me, came to take a closer look at the device. One of the girls screamed, discovering that the new boy's face was etched into the metal plate: his face was very clear, sticking out of the metal, his eyes closed. A new crack startled us all, causing us to walk away. The drill turned on and began to slowly approach Thomas. The sharp point aiming straight into the middle of his chest… into his heart. Thomas began to yell and move more, desperate to get away. Many started laughing, others just stared, a couple ran outside to call the teachers. I, for my part, began to walk around the device to see how it was set up and if there was any way to turn off the drill. Thomas was a bully, I myself had been bullied by him for years, but that didn't mean I wanted him to get hurt. Or dead… because if that drill reached his chest, it would kill him, that was for sure. A couple of teachers showed up within a few minutes. Some of the boys began to yell, joining in on Thomas's yelling. "Professor," I said, moving closer to one of them, "I think if we unscrew those things, we can get him out." I pointed out some gigantic screws, metallic like the rest of the structure, that protruded from it and seemed to keep it assembled. The professor looked at me, then looked at the structure and nodded. “I'll get some screwdrivers,” he said, and ran off. As we waited, we all watched in horror as the drill moved closer and closer to Thomas's body. The bully was still squirming, and he had started sobbing like a baby. Many guys laughed at this. Most of us, however, were now more concerned than amused. The new boy's face was still there, in the metallic silver, impassive and with his eyes closed, as if he were a punishing god. The drill was already halfway through when the professor arrived with the screwdrivers. I took one. Several more took others. All together we began to try to remove the screws. They were so big and so locked that it took incredible force to move them even an inch. The vibration of the drill and Thomas's crying and struggling were not helping the overall situation. “Thomas,” the professor said at one point, “we need you to calm down. We'll get you out of there, don't worry. But please don't move." The bully nodded. Tears streamed down his face and he kept his eyes closed, so he wouldn't look at the drill. The screw that I was removing was halfway. The drill was several inches from Thomas's body and for a moment I panicked. What would happen if we didn't get it out in time? What explanation would we give? It would be a disaster, that's for sure. Not just for Thomas's family and the school, but for everyone. I couldn't even imagine what it must be like to watch someone get pierced by a screw spinning at full speed. The entire hallway would be drenched in blood and… other things I didn't even want to think about. I shook my head, trying to push those thoughts away, and turned my attention back to the screw. I twisted and pulled with all the strength I had, causing the screw to come out a little more. At that moment, one of the teachers managed to remove one of the screws, which fell to the floor with a metallic noise that startled us all. The other teacher was already close to removing another. I was in the middle, and the other boys were in situations similar to mine. But Thomas didn’t have that much time. The drill was dangerously close to his body, to his chest. When the second screw fell, both teachers began to help with the others. Thomas's eyes narrowed, and seeing how close he was to death, he gave a desperate squeal and began to move in all directions. "Thomas, calm down!" yelled one of the teachers. The third and fourth screws fell to the ground. There were only two left. One of them, mine. The teachers went to help, as well as the other boys. The bully's scream filled the hallway, the drill was very close. The fifth screw fell. Thomas was still yelling. The drill seemed to be already touching the leather jacket he was wearing. The professor and I gave the last pull; the sixth and final screw fell to the floor. The metal holding Thomas in place split open and he fell to his knees, shivering. He covered his face with his hands and began to cry again. The teachers went to help him. Almost automatically, I looked at the drill: it had stopped. The teachers helped the bully to his feet and took him away, trying to calm him down. The rest of us stayed and watched the device, which began to vanish into thin air, as mysteriously as it had appeared. No one ever saw the new guy again. Nobody even remembers his name, if he ever said it. The teachers don't know who he was…apparently there was no transfer scheduled for that day. Thomas is no longer a bully.


I remember the first time I killed it. You're probably wondering what it is. It is more of a thing really. It's a parasite. A fucking spiritual draining parasite. And not a quick drain, more like a slow and gradual mental and spiritual decline. That's what happened to me… I used to be different then I am now. I used to laugh and have a sense of humor, a real sense of direction, and now… I'm just a body existing through life instead of living. I moved into my three bedroom house with my daughter in July 2019. There were immediate signs. My daughter began to have nightmares, horrifically vivid nightmares. She would describe them to me and the hairs on my entire body would stand at attention. A few weeks passed and a friend I would often confide in recommended having a priest pray over and bless my house. I thought he was full of shit but what could it hurt? I mean my daughter was literally suffering every night and was terrified to go to sleep. Reluctantly, I called the priest from my friend's church. He came to my house and blessed it by spraying holy water in every room and burning sage throughout my entire residence. Her nightmares only grew worse and I began to have a strong feeling I was being watched when I was at home. This felt like whatever it was was angry. I could feel its rage. It grew stronger with each passing day. It didn't take long till it manifested itself in the form of something hideous, something physical. I trapped it and stabbed it repeatedly, killing it, or at least I thought I did. I buried it in my backyard just to find an empty hole in the morning. We moved out of our house and hit the road for Colorado to stay with my brother. It followed us all the way to his house. It killed my brother and ate his entire body. It likes people. It feasts on them. And so I used that to its disadvantage. I set a trap using my daughter as bait. I didn't tie her up or anything crazy like that. She sat in a chair in the middle of our living room and cried. It loves tears. Especially those that belong to a weeping child. It came and tried to eat my daughter but I killed it… again. That was a few years ago. I know it's not dead. It's out there, waiting to come back. It's waiting for me to settle down somewhere. Somewhere it can hide. It has nestled itself into every place we've moved to, so we've stopped settling and have remained on the road, scraping by to live. I still don't sleep most nights. I sit up and watch over my daughter as she sleeps. She rarely gets nightmares anymore. However, I'm still uncomfortable most days and feel this impending dread. Plus, being on the road nonstop and running is exhausting. I wish we could settle down. But I know if I settle it will come back. It always comes back.


I had my taxi drop me off at 666 Jackson Street, right at “Dr. Susannah's Museum of The Weird.” By day, it was a downtown tourist trap meant to get visitors to pretend to awe at clearly fake bigfoot prints, Fiji mermaids, and other oddities. The most real thing they had there was the taxidermized remains of a three eyed pig, although even then, the taxidermist went out of his way to make it a bit more horrifying. But by night, after closing, when the witches reclaimed their spot from the tourists, the weirdness got very real. And that’s when I popped by to make my visit. “Good evening, ladies.” I said to the three heads of the coven (Margaret, Christine, and Tina) as they sat at their table. “I must say, this city never ceases to amaze me, one of my favorite spots on the mortal plane to pay a visit.” The witches seemed surprised. “What, you didn’t think that even The Devil still needs to take a vacation every now and then?” “I’m more surprised you needed a cab to get here.” One of them said. “I didn’t need to, I wanted to.” He said. “Whenever I visit the human world, I want to make the most of it, live like a local, ‘when in Rome’ as you say. Hell gets boring after a while. Heaven is even worse, if I weren’t immortal I’d die of boredom every time I have to go there for a ‘diplomatic’ trip. You humans, on the other hand, you know how to make everything artistic and vibrant. Your lives may be short, but you’ve damn well learned to…” “Can we please get to business?” one of them asked. “Very well.” I said. “You must be Margaret. You were the one who contacted me, I believe.” “Yes, I am.” Margaret said. "And what does a group of beautiful young ladies like yourselves want with The Devil?" I asked. “We need a weapon, something that can defeat a powerful vampire.” Margaret said. “It’s a long story, but we’ve made enemies with an exceptionally powerful vampire lord, one who calls himself Lord Wallace, although he's not been 'Lord' of anything ever since he hopped on a ship to the United States. Anyway, we need something that can beat him. Could you give something like that to us?” “Wait here.” I said before vanishing back to Hell, to browse my vault. I came back a few minutes later with something I knew they’d be interested in. “11th Century Celtic vampire killing staff.” I said. “Infused with powerful magic designed to kill vampires. If anything in my collection has a chance of killing it, this does.” “Now that that’s out of the way, what would I expect in return if I loaned this to you?” I asked. “How about our souls?” Tina asked. I laughed. “I can already smell the sins on your souls, they’ll be mine eventually anyway. You’re young, so it may be a long wait, but they will be mine, and I think you already know that.” “How about this.” I said as I showed them a picture. Shelby Smith was a fifty-two year old woman who lived fairly close to the witches. For all her strong suits, attractiveness was not one of them, never was. Despite being fairly active, her lifelong love of sweets kept her quite overweight, and it didn’t help that she was too frugal to buy jewelry, makeup, or nice clothes, save for maybe a nice church outfit or two. She was a nurse by day, and a committed charity worker by night, organizing weekly luncheons for the homeless with her Bible study group. To most who knew her, she was a kind, grandmotherly figure who always had kind words and a hug for anyone who wanted one. “I want her dead.” I said. “Her infectious kindness makes it very hard to attract people in this area to sin. If you kill your vampire, then you owe me her death.” “Deal.” The three witches said in near perfect unison. "Wonderful." I said as I whipped up a contract. After they all signed, I said "Alright, now, I best be leaving." "Why, because you have important duties back in Hell?" Margaret asked. "No." I said. "Because I have a dinner reservation in fifteen minutes. One of my favorite seafood restaurants is just down the street." \_\_\_\_\_ The next day, the witches made their move against the vampire. They went to the mansion he was based out of, and used the staff’s power to break down the door. They even targeted him during the daytime, to make sure he was really home. “Wakey wakey, we’re here for you.” Margaret said. “It’s a beautiful day out, come enjoy.” The vampire said and did nothing. “Alright girls, time to find this prick.” Margaret said as she summoned a ball of fire in her hands. They didn’t find him anywhere downstairs, so they went up the stairs. And then, Christine was attacked from behind, pulled by Lord Wallace and thrown down a full flight of stairs onto a wooden floor. The other ladies could hear the sound of her neck break. Margaret then used the staff to blast lightning in his direction. Lord Wallace fled back into the shadows, and Margaret and Tina then stood back to back, eyes on a swivel and ears scanning for every little sound that could be him. Lord Wallace then reappeared as a cloud of smoke. Margaret used a wind spell to make him dissipate, and spread him so thin that it was hard for him to put himself back together. After he reappeared in his vampire form, Margaret began blasting him with fire. He keeled in pain, but then leapt out of the way and into one of the bedrooms. Tina noticed something. She said “Stop, look at that.” and pointed to a little discovery that could turn the fight in their favor. The spot where she had fired lightning had burned straight through the ceiling, and was now shining light inside. “You thinking what I’m thinking?” Tina asked. Margaret then fired another three blasts at the roof, each one made a little more light shine in. “Yeah, I think I am. Keep watch while I make it a little brighter here.” \_\_\_\_\_\_\_ After they brightened up the second floor, Margaret taunted “What are you staying inside for, the day is so nice. Oh well, time to get you out of that stuffy bedroom.” She used a wind spell to knock the door off its hinges. She and tina barged in, only to find that no one was there. What they didn’t realize was that each room on the top floor was connected, each room had a backdoor leading to one of the other rooms. But just before they realized what was going on, Tina was grabbed from behind, bit once in the neck, and then thrown out of a second story window. The window wasn’t even open, she was simply thrown with so much force that she bursted through the glass. Margaret didn’t even have to look at her to know that she was a goner. The vampire then came towards Margaret, but Margaret kept it at bay with a fire spell. She then pushed him back, into the hallway, where the light would shine on him. “What’s the problem, too bright out for you?” She asked as his skin began to burn under the intense sun. Right as she was about to win, she got cocky, and blasted the ceiling with more lightning. She thought he was too weak to fight back anymore; he wasn’t. Using the last of his strength, the vampire rushed her, and before she could back up or defend herself, he slashed her neck wide open. He succumbed to the sunlight and finally burned to a crisp moments later, but it was too late for Margaret. She then simply died of blood loss, and no spells could save her. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_ As I looked at Margaret’s dying body, I said “Oh well. I may not be getting to see Shelby Smith die, but at least I won’t have to wait any longer for your souls. I'll be seeing you again soon, in Hell, looks like your friends are already waiting for you there.” “And thank you, I think I’ll take my staff back now.” I said as I pulled it out of her hands and left to put it back in Hell’s vault.


I also might be dead, which is its own freedom in a sense. I almost didn’t check anything at all. The movie was late, I was tired and more than a little high, and I was feeling just enough of a buzz to feel young and reckless and indestructible. Twenty five going on forever. But my roommate was out of town, and I was no hero. So, gulping Cool Blue Gatorare like an overzealous Little Leaguer, I shuffled to the guest bedroom, flicked on the lights, opened the bathroom door. Clear. Checked the guest closet: clear. Groaning, flattened myself on the ground and checked under the bed. I wasn’t sure if anyone could fit under there, but if I was doing it, might as well commit. Hall closet, my shower, my closet: not a soul to be found. Marinading in the privacy of my own embarrassment, I stuffed my toothbrush into my mouth. It was because of that single moment when Jonah had held out the joint, and I, a slave to my casual nonchalance, accepted it with only the slightest hesitation even though I really didn’t want any more, that I crossed the line from fine to moderately stoned. And it was because of that buzz that I didn’t notice that in brushing my teeth I had allowed my own foamy spit to seep onto my fingers. And it was because I didn’t notice that foamy spit that my phone slipped from my fingers as I pilgrimaged to my bed. And then, upon kneeling down to grope under my bed for the piece of shit that had gotten me in enough trouble already, I looked into the abyss. And the abyss was wearing Warby Parkers. “What the fuck?” I was standing now. So was my unexpected companion who I had temporarily dubbed the Scary Guy. Scary Guy wasn’t visually scary, as he was shorter than I was and was wearing Crocs. “Hi.” “Hi. Who the fuck are you?” “I’m Kyle. I was going to kill you.” \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* “Milk? Honey?” “Just a splash of milk, please.” Kyle settled down at the table, knife in hand. I slid his earl grey over to him. We eyed each other. Me, regarding him with terror. Him, regarding me with interest. We had been over the basics: he had warned me not to scream, or he would stab me. He warned me not to try to call the police, or he would stab me. He said this as a matter of fact, not a threat, which was both comforting and terrifying, a perfect encapsulation of his overall vibe. “So what now?” “I’m not sure. I’ve really never been caught before.” Kyle sipped thoughtfully, itching his temple with the knife. “Can I ask you not to kill me?” “You’ve seen my face.” “Yea, but what am I going to do? Call the cops and say, ‘this man was about to kill me but because I caught him under the bed, he decided not to? No officer, he didn’t even touch me?’ I don’t even know how you got in.” “Trade secret.” “Fair.” I squeezed my mug, the porcelain burning my hands. This was a good sign. If he was going to kill me anyway, he might as well tell me how he got in. My phone was in his pocket. There was no landline. Could I overpower him? “Don’t you want to know why?” “Why what?” “Why I was going to kill you.” A thought that had genuinely not occurred to me, concerned more with the knife going into my body rather than questioning its motives. “I mean I guess so.” “You can ask.” “Kind of seems like you want me to ask.” “Doesn’t really matter to me either way. You’re going to be dead anyway.” I took a deep breath. Perhaps Kyle was committed. Perhaps I could talk this way out of this.” “Okay. Why were you going to kill me?” And he told me. He told me about how he’d seen me eat an entire pack of saltines on the subway while trying to hide it. He told me how he followed me home and began to watch me. He told me how he had made a habit out of killing genuinely sad people, his form of unconsensual mercy killings. “Look. You’re wealthy. Successful. Good looking. You seem to have friends. Decently healthy lifestyle. You seem to be doing everything right. So if you can’t be fucking happy with all these wonderful things and resources…” He trailed off, shrugging apologetically. I stared at him. With anyone else, Iw ould have thought it was an elaborate joke. A fucked up prank show, a twisted practical joke from Casey. But surprisingly, I trusted Kyle. “My life was so hopeless that you thought you’d be doing me a service by murdering me with a paring knife?” There was pity in Kyle’s eyes. He was certifiably insane, about to kill a stranger with a paring knife, and wearing fucking crocs in my well-appointed yet humble West Village apartment, and he pitied me. “Yes.” And it was the way he looked at me then, with honesty and sympathy and with complete conviction in his own fucked-up morals, that made me issue a proposal. And he countered and we bartered and negotiated and debated and pleaded a little (me) and in the end hashed out our arrangement. Kyle would not kill me. Yet. He would stick around and monitor my happiness, checking in periodically. In one year, we would reassess. And he would either kill me, or he wouldn’t. There was no point in going to the police; Kyle revealed that he’d been in my apartment no fewer than a dozen times, and the local brass weren’t exactly known for their proactivity. Kyle was a man of his word. He promised he would help me find my passion, as he had found his own passion of euthanizing the depressed. And with that, our life together began.


“Our new, innovative 2023 Life Glasses model allows instant real-time display of personal achievements of any one you meet. ONLY $5.99!” I don’t usually do internet shopping but I don’t know…seemed like a good prank gift for my mate Jimmy. There was just something about them. Looked like the photos were ripped off from the old Google Glass website or something. Even the company seemed strange, “Enhanced Life Technologies”. There was a legit webpage, with unique images (thanks reverse image search) but everything seemed so…manufactured. Like it was all so artificial. Ah well, I’ve got six bucks to burn and the look on his face will be priceless: Hey, here’s app-enabled smart glasses. Nah, jokes, only some cheap knockoffs but at least you can google stuff if you blink I think. When it came in the mail just two days later, I discovered how wrong I was. Amazon’s smile logo was almost mocking me as I tore it open and found a pristine silver rectangular box with the Enhanced Life Technologies logo emblazoned on the front. I had trouble unwrapping the plastic film but found the Life Glasses inside, exactly as depicted on the website. There was only a single sheet of paper with the instructions: 1. Turn them on. 2. Put them on. 3. Find out more about other people than even they know. Seemed simple enough. I know what you’re thinking: they’re a gift for someone else, you can’t try them on! Weeeell… they’re just six dollars, there wouldn’t be any real harm if I tried them. Looking at them closely, they were simple glasses with a small black box the size of the end of your thumb next to the left lens. After putting them on, naturally everything was out of focus since I don’t wear glasses. Underwhelmed, I took them off and then I saw the small red power button on the black box. After pressing the button, I put them back on to see my vison blurred at first but it slowly started to come into focus. I guessed these really were smart glasses. Not bad for six dollars huh? Bored, I kept them on and went out to do some shopping. There wasn’t any difficulty driving to the shops with the Life Glasses on but when I went inside that’s when they really went to work. Some teenage kid pushing trolleys had: “Has swam a total of fifty one miles during his lifetime”. An elderly lady walking out of the store had floating bright green text to her head saying: “Has travelled to a total of seventy two countries”. The girl at the checkout lane had red text next to her that said: “Suffers from globophobia”. I had to take the glasses off to make sure of what I was seeing, of course, as soon as I did, the text disappeared. I gawked at the checkout girl as I was processing this information. Were these facts really true about people? Can a six-dollar pair of glasses be this accurate? Unfortunately I got lost in my own thoughts and the checkout girl gave me a filthy look, sending me on my way, embarrassed. Walking through the fresh produce section only weirded me out even further. There was floating red text next to a six year old boy that said, “Total live spiders eaten: 3”, the floating yellow text next to his mother said, “Number of people bullied to tears: 5”. Really? Am I to believe the glasses can tell me that? The bald guy picking out apples was really concerning though. “Served six months for aggravated assault.” That can’t be true can it? I took off the glasses and stared at the guy. He didn’t seem dangerous. Maybe the way he’s holding that banana is kind of threatening? No. I couldn’t just assume the glasses are correct. I had to take them off. I had to stop worrying about other strangers. I had to get ready for my date that night… Internet match. Nothing unusual. She decided on a Korean-Mexican fusion restaurant (don’t ask) and I just went with the flow. She was a looker, no doubt, Before you ask, yes I wore the glasses. Now, hold on, there were several reasons why I wore them. One, they made me look smarter. Two, who’s to say that it actually works? I was thinking that it could tell me more about my date… Okay, there were only two reasons, but they were enough. When I first sat down with her the glasses popped up with the text, “likes wholesome memes”, which is okay but I could hardly use that in a conversation. Then there was a lull of information for the next five minutes. She ordered the bulgogi tacos, I ordered the French fries with kimchi. We really hit it off, then the next bit of information popped up. “Has kayaked 300 miles”. That was kind of useful. Outdoors kinda chick. I liked that. So I casually dropped that I sometimes went hiking then the conversation really started flying. Thought she was a real keeper. Then red text popped up next to her head. “Boyfriends killed: 3” Wait what? Did a double take. The glasses maybe got some things right about her but that was next level creepy. “So how did the breakup with your last boyfriend go?” I know, dick move, really soon, but… She just threw her head back and laughed. “It was pretty messy, I have to admit. Never had someone ask that on a first date before though.” I just nodded hoping to play it off. I mean really, was I going to get a full blown murder confession from her? Another red text popped up next to her. “Earliest date until murder of boyfriend: Third date.” At least I have some leeway…might give this another date. Would be cutting it close though.


"Can I go to Amanda’s party tonight?" I asked my dad. "Not tonight sweetie, plus you have school in the morning," said my dad. I sighed. "Your mother is coming home late tonight and it would ease her mind to know you were here safe," stated my dad. My mom is a nurse at the hospital and last week a girl came in injured from an attempted kidnapping by a man in a red pickup truck. Today, my mom comes home late because it is her last day before she goes on maternity leave. An hour later, I grab a snack from the kitchen and I overhear my dad on the phone with my mom. "I will probably still be up at 12 when you get here," I overheard my dad say. I tell my dad that I am going to bed early, so he will not bother me. I sneak out. At the party, I only had a couple of drinks but I made sure to stop myself. Older guys were there and I paid them no mind. One of the guys in particular kept eyeing me down and he was a total smoke show. He walked over to me and offered me a drink. I informed him that I had to drive back home and he insisted that "one more drink will not hurt." I drank half of it and it was very bitter tasting. I looked down at my phone and I saw that it was 11:47pm. I panicked. The guy walked me out and we both got into our vehicles. He drove a red pickup truck. I began to SPEED home because the party was about 10 minutes away from my house. I look in my rearview and I notice the red truck behind me. I am 7 minutes into my drive. I approach the last traffic light before I get to my house and the truck is still behind me. No cars are in front of me and the light is green, I accelerate. I glue my eyes back on the truck. He suddenly makes a turn down a street and I exhale in relief. I focus back on the road and I see that the traffic light is now red. I hit the brakes as fast as I could but it was too late. I crashed into another vehicle. The airbags burst out immediately. I was in shock, but I quickly remembered that I t-boned another person. I got out of the car crying from glass cuts and thinking about how I was going to tell my parents that I caused a wreck 2 minutes away from home. I get my phone out of my back pocket to get ready to call emergency services. It is 11:58pm. I finally get a better look into the car and I can not see the person’s face because it is covered with blood. There was no response. This person had on scrubs and was pregnant.


The Archipelago publishes every Wednesday. See the pinned comment for links to the contents. \ The image of the man curled up on the stool stayed with me. He seemed exhausted in a way that I hadn’t seen anywhere. Like a prey animal, he had been told to keep running, to cling onto the instinct for survival. But drive only goes so far, and eventually he’d given up, lied down, and waited for the predators to feast on whatever remained. I tried to explain that look of defeat to Kurbani and Xander; how passionless his passion had become. “Even if you’re meant to be doing something you love,” I said with a shrug, “If you can’t leave…” “…the room becomes a prison and the passion becomes slavery.” Kurbani said plainly, absent-mindedly poking her breakfast. I gave a sheepish nod. “I’d hate that for Mirai,” Xander said, stirring runny eggs as though a vision might appear in them. “She’s got too good a spirit to have it used up.” “It can happen to anyone,” Kurbani said. “We’ve all only got so much to give. You use it up, you’ve got nothing left, even for what you love.” She picked up a morself of freshly cooked fish and swallowed it. It smelled delicious, but neither of them were enjoying their meal. Xander lifted his head back, letting the cool winter sun spill onto his face. “This won’t deter her that easily. She’s too strong-willed for that.” “Always has been,” Kurbani smiled with an odd pride. “You know, it’s your fault she’s so smart. She didn’t get that from me.” Xander accused, pointing mockingly with his fork. “Maybe. But her stubbornness comes from you.” Xander let out a small chuckle before scratching his beard. “True that. True that.” Kurbani placed her plate down in her lap and took a resolute sigh. “Ferdinand, could you talk with her?” My eyes widened. “Me?” She leaned forwards, emboldened by the idea. “Offer an outside perspective. You’ve travelled the Archipelago and know what it’s like to go alone and what the world can be like.” “So have you,” I said with a nervous laugh. “Yeah,” Xander lifted his chin. “But we’re boring parents who want to ruin her life.” I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling a sudden heat despite the cold winter air. “You think there’s any chance she’ll listen to me, either?” Kurbani smiled. “She respects you more than you know. More than anyone.” “I can try.” “That’s all that we ask,” Kurbani smiled. I knew that I had to speak to Mirai. I owed Kurbani and Xander that much. But the reality was I was scared. After everything I had been through since Kadear, I shouldn't have been. My body was still recovering from the latest adventure: my legs still ached after the most basic of walks, and I still got pains in my kidneys from where the dehydration had left its mark. But those other threats, those mortal ones, they came to me. They made me respond. I could choose when I faced this fear, and that made me procrastinate and stew over exactly what to say. Two days later, the cowardice finally passing, and I headed to the shore to speak with Mirai. I decided I would catch her as she came home, away from the boat in an open space where private conversations weren’t overheard by default. As I waited, I watched the low sun skim across the seas and all too quickly dim below the horizon again. Boats came and went, each one failing to be the one I wanted to see. Alessia was out there somewhere. I wondered what the islanders of Vexids made of my idle waiting. Throughout the day, those on work shifts bounded by to meet with merchants or carry goods. Endesha was there too, striding with purpose, keen to share a little of the island’s history with visiting sailors. And amongst all the trading, and carrying, and talk, there was me. Sitting. Watching. Waiting. I wasn’t sure if they envied me, pitied me, or thought of me as some strange anomaly, a fascinating deviant whose inactivity could be gawked at. As dusk came I gave up waiting. The ships were beginning to blur with the clouds and waves. Patches of indeterminate blacks, purples and blues swirled like dyes, and soon, perhaps in my hopefulness, every cloud looked like a ship I knew. Instead, I waited by the cafe area to the side of the docks, sitting round a well-stoked fire that kept the sea breeze at bay. I practised what I would say to the flames, trying to work out what could possibly make a headstrong teenage girl decide her family were worth staying on a boring boat for. I was out of time to rehearse. At the top of the hill, I could see Mirai descending. Her walk was slow and meandering, shoulders loose and her head leaned back. I left the cafe and climbed up the hill to meet her, the winds now pinching as I huddled my arms around myself for warmth. “How was Charles?” I asked. She smiled. “Good. Been learning a lot.” She stretched out her arms. “Tired though.” “Even enjoyable things can be tiring.” She tilted her head and peered up at me, her eyes rolling back. “Yeah. There’s a satisfaction in being tired from doing good though. You know?” I nodded my agreement. The winds picked up and whistled around my ears, flapping in my sweater, all filling in the silence as I didn’t know what to say. “Do you mind me asking, have you thought anymore about if you’re going to stay?” She paused for a moment, a thought caught in her throat. She turned and stared off to the west. “It’s too far to see, and there are a few islands you’d have to sail around. But if you went dead straight that way,” she pointed over the small hill in front of her. “You’d sail straight into Deer Drum.” I turned to face where she was looking. “I didn’t know you knew your geography that well.” There was a slight shake of her head, not enough to dislodge the gaze. “I don’t. I just like to always know where it is.” “I’m sorry you all had to leave. I’m sorry that Deer Drum is a boat.” Another shake of the head, this one firmer. “This boat isn’t Deer Drum. It’s a lot of the same people. But it’s not Deer Drum. That’s what hurts. Ever since those bastards came to our island I’ve just been waiting. Waiting for things to settle down. Return to normal. And that’ll never happen. I don’t think dad or mum or any of the others ever want things to settle.” “Do you hate it on this boat that much?” “No. But it’s not Deer Drum. This place, those courtyards, it’s the first place I’ve been where I’ve felt… not belonging, but…” She grimaced, forcing the words to fruition. “At last, something felt right.” I didn’t respond. I just smiled and gave her room to talk. “I’ve just been drifting. Metaphorically and literally.” She let out a small spluttered chuckle. “For once I’m not. I have something to do, and I love it.” “You’re good at it too. I still remember the fish nets.” “Yeah. That felt good,” the corner of her lips uplifted with the memory. “But there’s way more I could do.” I swallowed. “Mirai, I know how much you love it here, and learning about engineering, but-“ “-a lot of the people are miserable?” She leaned back on one foot and folded her arms. She chuckled with a smirk. “Yeah. I’ve seen them too. I don’t want to end up like some of those people in the courtyards.” Another silence, this one filled by birds singing their evening song. Mirai turned, muttering to the ground. “Doesn’t matter though. I don’t think I’m staying.” Word spluttered from my mouth and I tried to hide my relief. “You’re not?” I failed. Mirai gave me a stern look for my unhidden pleasure. “This place is great, I honestly think I could make it work here. But… dad, mum, Novak.” She turned to face me at last, her eyes glassy. “I have to do what’s right for me, but that also means keeping my family close.” I smiled. “That sounds very mature of you.” She scrunched her face. “With everything that happened, you kind of grow up fast.” My face softened. “I’m glad you're staying.” “I hope I am too.” She looked up to the sky, then back to the ground, then finally back to me, a smirk on her lips. “I was chatting to Charles though, and I think, maybe I can have the best of both worlds?” “Oh?” She looked at the boat, her home, her lips curling with frustration. “I can’t just keep doing what I was doing. I can’t just keep babysitting kids. I need to make a life on that boat for me.” “And how do you plan to do that?” Mirai looked around at the passersby, eyeing up the porters and merchants, scanning every face. Her mouth opened, then closed again, puffing her cheeks. She looked back up the hill, and nodded for me to follow. As we walked the people and winds of the harbour were placed by nocturnal insects and the hum of factory machines through the nearby walls. “Can I tell you something and you keep it a secret?” Mirai asked. “Sure,” I nodded, trying to convince myself of the words. Her face was serious. She pointed at me as she spoke. “You’ve got to back me up on this. You can’t tell mum and dad.” I looked over my shoulder to the ship. A secret that would keep the family together. Xander and Kurbani would approve of that wouldn’t they? “Agreed.” Her posture loosened. “I’m going to stay, whatever happens. I can’t leave them. But I need something to not go insane.” A manic laugh escaped as she tilted her head back. “If it helps you stay I’ll do what I can. What do you need?” “I need you to convince my parents that you’ve come up with the one solution to make me stay.” “And that is…?” She opened her mouth to speak, but something caught her attention and lips wired shut again. Turning, I could see Sirad running up the path towards us. “Ferdinand! Ferdinand!” He stopped, panting. “Alessia. She’s back. At the quay.” I felt a jolt to my chest. “Mirai. We’ll do what it takes, but…” “Really?” She jerked a finger at me. “You just said you were going to help me.” “I will. I promise. But…” My head turned instinctively, I had to go. “I promise, we’ll speak tomorrow.” Mirai took a deep breath, releasing the tension in the exhale. “You’re right. This can wait. We’ll speak tomorrow.” I smiled. “Thank you.” Out of my periphery I could see that Sirad was still in hearing distance. “And… I’m glad we had this talk.” She smiled. “Same.” Nervousness crept through my veins as I walked back down the dirt path, my heart beating harder, as I scanned the quay, looking at the faces caught in the glow of the yellow lanterns. I skipped back and forth, checking sail patterns and trims of hulls till I saw a ship. Her ship. I followed the mast down to the deck, then to the jetti next to it. I saw three figures. Xander, Eir, and then, next to them… A smile crept across my lips and my torso flooded with warmth, as my arms twitched in anxiety. She was bent over, her whole body crouching down to the pavement, her face covered in her hands. She nodded, her hand slipping to reveal a wide grin. She shot up and hugged Xander tightly. He froze for a moment, then lifted his arms up and returned the hug. Alessia spoke again. Xander turned and pointed up the hill. She turned, staring in my direction but not at me. I started walking, trying to get into her eyeline. More glances across the crowd till our eyes met. She lifted her head back and mouthed something to the heavens, before she ran up the hill towards me. Her head hit my chest with force, and I wrapped my arms round her shoulders, feeling her hands squeeze behind my back. “I thought I’d lost you. I really did,” she muttered, her voice creaking slight. “Me too. I was worried about you.” “I still had the boat,” she chuckled dismissively. “But you, I saw you drift off on that crate. I thought you were gone.” We pulled back from the embrace. I concentrated on my face, trying to keep it calm, not allowing the smile to grow too big. “The crate floated past an island, and I managed to get to shore.” Her smile held no such reservations. She grinned so wide it threatened to swallow her face, her eyes reduced to thin slits across her brow. Her head lifted back, and she let out a sigh - part moan, part laugh, part exhaustion. Then she tightened her mouth and, outstretching a hand, smacked me in the arm. “Don’t you do that to me again.” She repeated the gesture with each word. “Next time look out for the crates. Be more aware of your surroundings. Keep a wider stance when you walk across a wet deck. And…” she let out a groan borne of feelings that had no words. “Thank God you are safe.” “You too. I saw that mast fall down and hit you. You fell off the boat-“ She shook her head. “I was dazed, but thankfully I didn’t drift far.” “I didn’t see you get back on board.” “Must have climbed up between the waves,” she said, biting her lip. “By the time I got to deck I was pretty dizzy and losing blood. Took me a while to get moving again.” It was only then I noticed, shadowed in the twilight, the large scar across the top of her forehead, just below the hairline. A strip where the skin was indented and pink. “Does it still hurt?” She pulled the hair back slightly and rotated her head, allowing me to inspect the mark. “It did hurt like shit. Now? It’s tender, but…” She shrugged. “You should see Eir. Get it checked out.” “Month old now. Ain’t gonna get worse. Besides, I’m a merchant girl, remember? I’ve had worse.” There it was again, that tongue caught between the teeth. I’d missed it. “What you need to know, is this is what I get for trying to save your dumb arse.” She pointed to the scar, and leaned it closer to my face. I shrugged. “I wouldn’t have had to cross the deck if you hadn’t broken your rope.” “Not my fault I’m trying to sail a four or five person ship by myself.” “And it’s not my fault I’m the only person who’ll sail with you.” We both stared at each other for a second in mock antipathy before more laughter crossed our lips, the moment too joyous for even sarcastic anger. She looked me over, inspecting my thin frame and sagging face. “Sorry it took so long to find you.” “It’s fine.” I curled up, scraggly arms crossing in front of my scrawny frame. Alessia didn’t notice, she was staring back at the ship. “I completely lost the front sail, and by the time I was on my feet, all the ropes were messed up. No steering, one sail, and no control. Just limped for a day-and-a-half till I bumped into another boat and could get a tow.” “How’s the ship?” “Got towed to one island, then paid someone to tow me to one where I knew some guys.” She rolled her head from side to side. “But we’re back to sailing.” “How much did it cost?” I stared at the new mast at the front of the ship, pretending I knew how to assess the quality of nautical craftsmanship in the dark from a hundred metres out. “Did they do a good job?” “Ferdinand.” She waited till she had my attention. “You have no idea how much that stuff I took from the ship on Yotese was worth, do you?” I looked to the side, avoiding the eye contact. A snicker escaped her lips. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.” She nodded at the boat. A different smile showed, one of a greater love than any human knew. “Let’s just say I could’ve got that entire mast gold-plated with change if I’d wanted.” “So what now?” I asked, standing next to her as we admired the new mast, rigging and freshly varnished wood. She let out a small uncertain huff. “I don’t like it, but…” “What?” “Day I’m leaving to come here, some guy approaches me on the quay, says someone’s been looking for us - you and me - and they need to see us soon. Told me to stay and wait here for them to come. Be about a week.” “Who do we both even know? Someone from one of the islands? Kedrick?” Alessia pulled one side of mouth back and shook her head. “They’d all say who they were right? Has to be someone who wants us to stay but worried we’d sail off if we knew who.” A name surfaced, I felt the frost on the ocean winds as I said it. “Sannaz?” She wrinkled her nose. “Maybe? I don’t know.” “But you want to wait and see?” “I want to wait and see,” she nodded. “We can wait a few days. What’s the worst that could happen?” “Sannaz finds what he’s after and ends The Archipelago?” I said with a raised eyebrow. “Yeah. But… apart from that?” I looked at the swirl of pastel colors on the sea, a brief silence forming between us for the first time. “Could Sannaz really be coming to find us?” Alessia folded her arms, and leaned her head towards me, the tip of her head touching my shoulder. “Honestly? I hope so. Because I’d really like this fishshit to be over with.”  \ The Archipelago publishes every Wednesday. See the pinned comment for links to the contents.