“Mr. President, what do you say about people suffering in the Midwest, about rumors of a virus that causes paranoia and fear?” The room became hushed waiting for the response. The president rubbed his forehead, his cheeks had grown pale, “We have it totally under control. Everyone just needs to relax. As long as we stay calm, we can get through this.” The reporter responded, “But sir, some states have gone completely dark. Isn’t it true the military has been deployed to combat this threat? You previously stated that it’s just a pandemic of headaches and that quote, ‘this should be of no concern.’ Wouldn’t it be wise to address the frightening reports that this is actually some sort of parasite?“ The plump man at the podium fidgeted with his hands and licked his lips. The press secretary glanced cautiously at the man and saw sweat at the back of his neck. As usual this was not going well. If the president’s mouth was too dry, he would start losing his words. “That’s all fake information circulated by ‘Mrs. Dingbat’ in the Senate. Next question.” The president seemed to hold back a sneeze with his hand, lowering his head and convulsing. Tiffany nearly stepped in with a tissue until he spoke again, “Listen uh, you can’t really expect the American people to believe there’s some crazy species of insect, borrowing into people’s ears and eating out their brains. What kind of ridiculous bull–nonsense is that?” Tiffany looked out into the press conference and saw an awkward, spiteful audience. She was glad she wasn’t asked to speak. The last time didn’t go over well for her. If only she had the president’s talent for political aversion. The reporters shuffled in their seats. They came here for information. They came here for guidance but all they ever got from the president were angry retorts. He shook his head at the podium as several outlets started to shout his name in unison. It was an uncontrollable tremble that turned into a sneezing fit. He tried to cover his mouth but the phlegm couldn’t be contained and sprayed into the crowd of reporters. His head started to swell with redness. Choking and quivering he tried to continue, “I am here to tell you that there is no such –blargh–” The president tried to vomit out words but instead vomited blood and bile onto the podium. Reporters gasped and bolted towards the door. To their further horror the blood retching from the president’s mouth grew into a tentacle that squirmed, as he lowered his head to the stand. He squinted in pain, his eyes started to bulge and bleed. As a stampede of reporters moved back the president gargled and moaned, his fingers pulling at the parasite. His eyes rolled back and exploded with pus. Shouts and screams added to the pandemonium. Tiffany and the medical aides tried to move in but were disgusted by the turn of events. Even more so by the insect legs that protruded from the president’s eyes and nose. The staff members hesitated, not knowing what to do. They remained in shock, allowing the scene to unfold. The creature pulled itself from the president’s face, splitting it down the middle and sending viscera onto the now-empty seats. More revulsion and screams echoed. The press secretary stood aghast, considering if this was sort of horrific prank or animatronic visual effect. She turned to an aide, “Where is the president?” He turned and looked at the slumped body, hanging off the podium, “He’s…everywhere.” —– “Surprisingly his approval rating has gone up.” The aide at Tiffany’s side was flipping through a tablet with nervous fingers. “People are donating like crazy. They think it was some kind of show.” Tiffany was still debating what she had seen and wondering if it was an elaborate scheme. If it’s not then perhaps it was a ploy for the left to grab for power. If that were the case the vice president would be next. “We should take this threat seriously. Medical experts have quarantined the briefing room and are taking samples after the secret service shot the thing.” Said the male aide. The halls were chaos, people were running towards the briefing room. “Why did this have to happen during a public briefing? There’s no time to do a damage assessment.” The press secretary was scrolling through her phone, reading all the conspiracies. This was the best outcome, thought Tiffany, leaving the public confused and unknowing of the truth, whatever that was. The aide –Stephen, was it? — nearly started stuttering, his cadence became manic, “We should — We should consider a mandate. No, not a mandate. Maybe have the White House staff dress in protective gear. I hear the virus is 70% contagious.” “If the president says the virus is a hoax then it’s a hoax.” Said Tiffany. “Going against what he has publicly stated would be job suicide. We all need to make sacrifices for the cause, even if it’s our own beliefs.” “Said. He said the virus is a hoax.” Stephen whispered when they passed several lobbyists. “He’s not dead. There’s no way that was real. The president is probably behind a control room laughing his ass off.” Stephen paused and remained blank faced. “Do you really believe that the left could be killing of hundreds just to get to the president? What would be the goal, if they were killing off their own supporters?” Tiffany turned and stared at the aide, a look forlorn. She quickly straightened up and gave a stern reply, “You wouldn’t want him hearing that. Get me Gruber Finch. We have to control the media’s response to this. We don’t even know what we saw and neither should the public. Tell him to tell them that this was a Halloween gag, or a movie thing. They don’t get to be the judge of what really happened.” Being a spokeswoman for the campaign didn’t prepare her for this. Nothing ever could have prepared her for this. After all her position in the cabinet had been a gift. She wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardize it. An arm grabbed her and pulled her into a side office. The voice was aggressive and had an odor of whiskey. “Tell me this is some insane joke. What was that?” She recognized the three-piece breast suit. Her phone nearly dropped out of her hand. The Chief of Staff had a furled brow. “I’m sorry sir, we are currently evaluating the situation. We believe it to be a hoax.” “A hoax? A damn creature crawled out of the president’s head. Are you blind? What more evidence do you need?” As usual he was eyeing her blouse, clearly not distracted enough. “The speculation that there is no virus is true. It is also now fact that there is a parasite invading our citizens’ bodies, causing headaches, paranoia, and sudden death. The president has ignored this threat for too long. You should have been up there, not him.” Tiffany pulled up her blouse, covering her cleavage. She should have worn something less revealing. “I’m going to go back to my apartment to quarantine. You should too. The vice president is going to hold a virtual meeting with the cabinet. We should all distance ourselves from this.” “How can we?” Asked the Chief of Staff, “CNT aired a story about how the president made a statement, saying the virus was a hoax. A 13-year-old in Georgia picked up the president’s quote and made a blog post about it. Then the president used this article in another social media post, quoting it as fact. This is how the cycle of misinformation is unfolding.” She didn’t have an answer for this and tried to refocus the conversation, “Mistakes may have been made but it is our duty to create the appropriate mediation. Ours together, not a part. In the meantime, we should work with vice president to continue doing what we always do: deflect and distract.” —– The meeting, from her apartment, did not go as expected. There was a lot of shouting and panicked opinions, none of which were made from reasonable thoughts. But, how could they? The news media ran with the story that the president had been infected with a parasite that evacuated from his face. It was an absurd notion but the inevitable had to be dealt with. Tiffany had downed six aspirin after hanging up with the president’s cabinet and had slumped down in a chair. The strategies were mind-numbing. One of the aides had even suggested finding a look-alike to give a briefing but when the others realized that no one could be found that resembled his appearance this was soon abandoned. This mess would never end. She partially wished that she believed that the president had died and that the virus or parasite was real. That way she’d have a lot less to say. She approached the mirror but she couldn’t get the thought of the president squirming over the podium out of her head. The pounding was getting worse. It became a thumping. The aspirin was useless. Flashbacks started, showing the blood-stained floor and what must’ve been going through his mind in those last moments. If of course any of it were real. But what if it were real? Spores would’ve been spraying from his open mouth for days. And if it was contagious… She moved her finger around her eyes. Nothing felt puffy or sore. Sure, her head felt tight but it couldn’t be real, could it? A terrible creature living inside her, waiting for the right moment to burst from her skull. It was silly. Her face was too pretty to be broken. If all of it were true, if the parasite was inside her brain, she couldn’t allow herself to be another victim. The media would have a field day with her corpse, the liberals would dance and celebrate. Her life became meaningless in that moment. She had never dated as the press secretary and now she wish she had. Her head cracked with a sudden jolt. Her eyes became moist. A grimace crossed her once perfect face. There were no options left. She pulled a piece of paper out and a pen from her briefcase. Tears made it hard to write but she did it anyways. She had always managed to push through pain. As the words of regret came out the tears of sorrow turned to blood and the last phrase became smeared. “I wished I had trusted someone else.” The back of her throat started to tickle. Her skin and cheeks burned hot. She could feel the pressure building and building. The lights of DC cast and eerie glow on the room that reminded her that life would continue on without her. She pulled out a heavy piece of metal. The one thing that all right-thinking, God-fearing citizens had, and sat on the bed. The president’s retching face came back to her. She put the metal in her mouth and pulled the trigger.


Today's tale is one of importance. Alikast as beautiful and adventure filled as it may be is not unrealistic. There are many problems that go on in this w orld that go unseen by many. Turin was dealing with the hurricane that devastated part of their coast and Breter. preparing for war against its neighbor region Artis. This tale of change takes place in Artis. A large village within this region called Esterville is the home to many. Those who live in this village are ruled under a noble. Though the region they are inhabiting is preparing for war. Esterville is going through a massive controversy over their partly beloved noble. This noble being a beautiful young female who just recently came to rule over Esterville. A few months after she took the place as noble of this village she announced something that would change this town and possibly the continent forever. This girl's name was Taliah. "Trev- I mean uh Taliah!" a voice said shaking the young Taliah awake. Taliah was of fair skin and beautiful long brunette hair. Hearing her name being shouted while she was sleeping wasn't a surprise to her anymore since it's been her daily life since forever. Though this morning she had a smile on her face when awoke. She slowly got up from her bed to look at her caretaker. A middle aged woman named Elaine. She's been Taliah's caretaker since the day she was born and loved doing her job. "Good morning Elaine" Taliah said still with a smile. Her and Elaine had a wonderful relationship and quite enjoyed each other's company. Though sometimes they get on each other's nerves because Taliah is a teenager and sometimes acts recklessly. Elaine tries her best to keep Taliah in check from her wild and eccentric habits but when she can't she scolds the young noble. After saying good morning Taliah got out of bed and went instantly downstairs. Her daily routine was getting up and going straight to the kitchen for her breakfast. It was her favorite meal of the day because she got to spend her time eating with her mother and of course Elaine. Though recently ever since she had made her announcement Taliah's mother no longer came to eat breakfast with her. She never came to eat any meals anymore. Now it was just her and Elaine. A sad sight to see for the other workers in the house. Though Taliah tried to keep it out of her thoughts everyone could tell it was slowly causing Taliah's heart to break. She was a noble though. Keeping up her facade of faint happiness was something she was good at. Taliah sat down at the table and her breakfast was already in front of her. The family chef makes it every morning right before her daily wake up that way she can eat it right away. All the workers were quite fond of Taliah. She was a sweet girl who cared about everyone and everything and wouldn't ever let something get in the way of what she thought was right. They've had trouble adjusting after the announcement but they're trying their best. Taliah appreciates all the effort they've put in to making her the happiest she can be. Being a noble is hard though. The work given is a lot and recently people don't really seem to be coming to the noble for the help they need instead are trying to fix it on their own which is causing more issues within this village. People have started to move and some have even threatened riots. Taliah's mother though not throwing a fit was definitely not supportive of her daughter as of late and left. "Young MIstress, you need to see this” Elaine called out from the other room. Taliah hearing this rushed to eat her food and darted to the foyer of the manor. As she ran in she saw her lovely caretaker holding an envelope. An envelope from her mother it would seem. On the front hastily scribbled read out “*Dear Trevor*.” Seeing this the young noble lost all the joy she had from this morning. Her face went neutral. She opened up the letter. Being the rebellious teenager that she is and trying to make some sort of statement she read the letter aloud. *Dear Trevor,* *It is in my best interest to leave Esterville for good. I do not approve of you being a female especially when you are not one. Most of the townsfolk do not seem to approve of this either. For that reason I will be taking my leave and heading elsewhere. I would also like for you to know that I no longer think of you as family and will not be returning unless this phase of yours ends. Good luck with Esterville.* *Goodbye.* Tears started flowing down Lady Taliah's face. Her mother didn't accept her for who she was and didn't want anything to do with her. So much so she denounced herself as being her mother. A fate which none had hoped for had come to life. Elaine hearing this rushed and pulled the young noble into her arms. This hurt for both of them. Elaine couldn't stand seeing her young mistress cry and Taliah had lost the only family she had left. After a few moments Taliah pulled back and wiped the tears from her face. She walked to her guards in the front of her manor and told them to request an audience at 1p.m. at the front of her balcony. Doing so the two left in a hurry to gather the whole town for another announcement. Then running upstairs she grabbed a pen and paper and started writing furiously. She had so much to say to so many people and she was going to. Hours had gone by when the time had finally come. The audience she had requested are in front of her balcony waiting for her approach. Some didn't show but most did. Those who had accepted her from the very start were excited to see what direction she was going to take the village. Those who didn't were hoping that she would say that this entire thing was a joke or a misunderstanding of some sort. Either way people were there and that's all she needed. Walking out onto the balcony she stared down at the citizens of her town. A population of 19,912. There were immense numbers of people staring up at her. All chatting and wondering what was going on. At which point the young noble spoke up. "Citizens of Esterville! First and foremost I would like to talk about the other day" Taliah started off her speech. She went on this long rant about who she was and how she was good enough and didn't need to be accepted by those who didn't like it. She was happy with who she was. This was not going to stop her. Many had smiles on their faces seeing this. Some of which decided to talk about who they were even if who they were wasn't widely accepted. Those who didn't accept this started to yell and raise their fists. Taliah however wasn't done. "Secondly! A new law will be passing, discrimination against others is something that is going to happen! But here in Esterville you are free to be whoever you like!" Taliah went on about the law and how it would affect this village. People started to get increasingly angry but the guards were all on Taliah's side and were handling any sort of mob that was starting to form. It was a happy day for Esterville. A day were discrimination though it wouldn't end would hopefully start to decrease. Taliah pulled out her last piece of paper from the bottom of the pile and read it to the citizens. "Lastly! I, Taliah Remming will be stepping down as noble of this village and will be declaring Miss Elaine as the head of this manor" She put the paper down and looked softly at her caretaker. Her caretaker at this point crying and trying not to implode from all these different emotions hugs the young noble. The two wave at the citizens of Esterville and then Taliah walks back inside. She packs her bags and writes a final note to everyone *Dear Everyone* *Thank you for everything. I'm going to go for a while. It's time to finally find my father. Take care.* *Love, Taliah.* Leaving the note behind with a little heart on the front of it she leaves from the back of the manor on an adventure to find her father and change the world.


When I was 17 years old, I lived in an upper middle class neighborhood in Queens, NY. The lawns were kept neatly manicured, beautiful oak trees lined the sidewalks, and school buses dropped off kids after every school day. The neighborhood was a true melting pot, and every summer, the neighbors would pitch in for supplies and a permit to close down the street and have a neighborhood BBQ. The battle of the BBQ was a decade long tradition between a Korean family and a Black family. They would set up their smokers and grills at the end of the culdesac, and the grilloff would begin amid the sounds of music and children laughing and playing in a bouncy castle. The entire neighborhood would stop by for a plate of amazing food, and to vote on who had the best BBQ. The winner got bragging rights for a year and temporary ownership of a stained off-white apron with the single word GRILLMASTER emblazoned on the front in thick black letters.   I was walking on the sidewalk, several blocks away from the battle of the BBQ, when I paused at a stop sign. Before I could turn around, a midnight black Kawasaki Ninja motorcycle roared by me going at least 100 mph and blowing through the stop sign as if it wasn't even there. Simultaneously, a white Oldsmobile sedan was crossing the intersection from left to right. The motorcycle, which was colloquially known as a crotch rocket, barely missed the car and sped by, deafening me with the high-pitched whine of a motorcycle engine being redlined. I watched as the driver of the car snapped his head to the left in surprise. At that exact moment, a second motorcycle, which I only saw as a flash of bright green, raced by me going even faster than the first. The second motorcycle slammed into the passenger's side of the car with a horrendously loud BANG. I had no idea car accidents were that loud until I witnessed one right in front of me. It sounded like a bomb had gone off. The motorcyclist flew through the air so fast that it looked like CGI from a bad movie. He wasn't wearing a helmet, and his head slammed into the concrete curb, killing him instantly with what might be described as gratuitous gore. I remember thinking dumbly, “Blood flows down the concrete gutters just like water.”   There was a pause then. I looked back to the car, but I could no longer see the driver as the entire right side of the vehicle was a mass of shredded and crushed metal. Broken glass twinkled on the asphalt as I noticed that even the headlights were shattered. In the movies, a woman would scream, bystanders would rush to the aid of the injured, someone would frantically call 911, and sirens would be heard in the distance. None of that happened though. There was a loud bang, an audible crunch as the motorcyclist came to an abrupt stop, and then... nothing. I looked around to see if anyone had seen the collision, and if I'm being completely honest with myself, I looked because I desperately did not want to be the one to render aid. I didn't need to look in order to know that whoever had been in that car was probably mangled beyond recognition. Nobody else was around though. I focused on the motorcyclist again, and that's when I felt The Cold.   It hit me with such intensity that I audibly gasped, and then I saw something that's difficult to describe. Have you ever seen that videography technique where there's a mountain in the background, water in the foreground, and the image is split in half horizontally, perfectly mirrored in the water below? Then the water ripples, and it's revealed that the top of the scene is the reflection, not the original, and the camera was upside down the whole time? Well, that ripple is what I saw. It looked like someone had thrown a tiny pebble into reality, and everything rippled like water on the surface of a still lake. The Cold lingered for a single terrifying heartbeat before disappearing as abruptly as it had appeared. A moment later, the ripple was gone too. I stood rooted to the spot for several long seconds before I remembered to call 911.   That night, I thought long and hard about what I'd seen, ruminating and feeling guilty that I didn't feel worse about witnessing a human life snuffed out like a candle dropped into the ocean. The bang. The crunch. The Cold. The ripple. As I thought more about it, I recalled that there was a change in what Google assured me was barometric pressure. At the time, I could only relate it to the experience of being in a car when someone slammed the car door, or being in an airplane during takeoff. My ears didn't pop, but it felt like they could have. There was one thing in particular that kept me awake that night. I had seen something in the ripple. I held the memory in my mind, turning, studying, and polishing it. Whatever had happened was presumably connected to the death of the motorcyclist, and possibly because there was no one else around to see it. If The Cold and the ripple happened every time someone died, the world would surely know about it, so something unique had happened here. A little voice in the back of my head whispered that maybe I'm the only one that CAN see it. “I see dead people,” as the strange little boy once told Bruce Willis. By the time I fell asleep the following morning, I knew something about myself with a calm certainty. I was going to have to kill something and see if The Cold came back.   As I write this, night is falling and the temperature is plunging even further below zero. I can feel The Cold forcing its way through the walls of the cabin, through the sleeping bag, and through 5 layers of clothing. It seems impossible. Utterly mad. The fire should keep The Cold at bay, but my fire now looks tiny and pitiful when compared to the unknowable and ancient vastness of The Cold outside. I am but a hairless monkey, toying with forces beyond my comprehension. I dare not risk burning my fire any hotter though. Running out of wood would mean certain death. I gently flex my muscles in groups, stretching and straining each part of my body in sequence and then again in reverse order. I'm careful not to overexert myself and break out into a momentary sweat, which would also likely mean death. As cold as it is, it's still not cold enough yet. The only sound I hear is the wind outside as it whispers quiet but earnest promises of death. Fuck you, wind. You want me? Come and get me.   I awoke the morning after the accident with curiosity in my heart and murder on my mind. I knew instinctively that the murder part was going to be a problem. The last time I'd hurt an animal, I had been carrying groceries from Costco into the house. I was carrying a repurposed avocado box, stacked high with frozen meats, potatoes, and onions. I tried to set the heavy box on the counter, but I hadn't lifted it high enough. I lifted the box again in an effort to clear the counter and took a half step back, directly onto my dog's paw. Max, my German Shepard, yelped pitifully as I was unable to redirect my momentum and my full weight plus the weight of the heavy groceries crushed his paw beneath the heel of my shoe. He cowered behind me submissively, tail tucked between his legs with his head held low. He only understood that he had gotten too close to the food, and had been severely punished for it. He lowered his ears abjectly, begging for forgiveness, and my heart nearly broke in two. I felt like an absolute monster, and I hugged him for a long time while apologizing profusely. Clearly, I was not cut out to be the next Dexter.   Nevertheless, my plan for animal homicide had already grown and sprouted dark fruit, and less than an hour after waking, I found myself standing near the side of my house, staring at a snail with a sense of growing foreboding and deepening unease. The snail was sliming its way up a stack of red stone pavers. Each paver was about two feet long and two inches thick, and there was a stack of them 10 high. I'd like to say that I took a long moment to contemplate what I was about to do, that I had a final crisis of conscience before playing God, but the truth is, I had decided to kill before I even got out of bed that morning. I plucked the snail from the side of the stack, lifted up the top paver, set the snail down, and let the paver fall on it, crushing it instantly with a wet crunch. I stood there silently for a long moment, hoping desperately that I would feel The Cold, see the ripple, or at least experience something other than bemused disappointment. “Well shit,” I thought to myself. I guess I need to try something else. Snails are like, 1,000 times smaller than a person, so I'd need to kill a thousand of them to even have a chance at recreating what I'd seen. I didn't have a thousand snails handy, but I'm an American, not an American't god dammit, so I gathered the snails I could find in an old pickle jar while pondering the most efficient means of committing simultaneous gastropod genocide.   I was keenly aware that torturing and killing animals was a glaringly obvious indicator of future homicidal tendencies. I tried to rationalize it by convincing myself that, if I didn't really enjoy it, it didn't really count. After all, this was more science than cruelty, right? Efforts at trying to delude myself proved unsuccessful, and after a morning spent gathering snails, I counted that I had 23 of them in my pickle jar. I stared at their curious little eye stalks for a long time, watching as their eyes would bounce into the glass, recoil, and then tentatively reach out into the world again. I paradoxically considered letting them all go while at the same time contemplating how best to kill them all contemporaneously. Thoughts of genocide led me to musings on poisoned gas, and ultimately, I decided on fire. I set the jar down carefully on the concrete along the side of the house and retrieved the plastic gas can we used for the lawn mower. I poured a finger's worth of gasoline into the jar, lit a match, and dropped it in. The response was an immediate FWOOSH as the gasoline ignited, burning all the snails in an instant. I hoped they hadn't suffered too much. My hopes seem to have done fuckall for them though. They all burned for a brief moment and fell to the bottom of the pickle jar with sad little clinks as their hard, and now toasty, shells impacted the glass. Once again, The Cold did not come. When the glass cooled, I buried the burnt pickle jar in the bottom of the trash bin in the garage and asked myself how much further I was willing to go in my hunt for The Cold.   Insects weren't going to cut it I decided. I needed something bigger, like a cat or a dog. I doubted I'd be able to go through with it though. Just thinking about killing a dog made me sick to my stomach. Something else weighed on my mind too. I had never experienced The Cold before, but whatever it was that I had seen in the ripple, I had seen before. It felt like I had seen an actor in a TV show, and I knew I'd seen them in something else, but I couldn't recall exactly where. The question itched at me, grating my nerves with the knowledge that I could be on the verge of uncovering the greatest mystery in human history if only I could remember where I'd seen the ripple. I racked my brain, and the only conclusive fact I settled on was that I had seen whatever it was in real life and not in a book or a movie. The conundrum was amplified by the fact that I was absolutely certain I'd never seen anyone die before yesterday too.   My dad kept a loaded gun in his safe, and the fact that I was even considering using it made me recoil in innate horror. There had to be another way. Like most liberal-minded people, I was aware that every time I ate meat, I was partially responsible for the death of an animal. As the vegans like to remind us, meat is murder. I dealt with this unpleasant fact the same way most people do. I tried not to think about it because thinking about it made me feel icky, and I really like tacos. I tried to rationalize that eating a steak wasn't so different from murdering a cow, and if I could kill a cow, I could surely kill a smaller mammal. For better or worse, I was unable to backdoor my way into misanthropy and psychopathy, and I spent the rest of the day feeling shitty about my escargot a la gasoline.   I exhausted myself in the following days brainstorming possible options. My parents thought I was despondent because I'd seen a violent death up close and personal. It seemed prudent to let them believe that instead of admitting I was trying to work up the nerve to kill a medium sized animal in an ill-conceived plan to experience The Cold and whatever the fuck it was that had made reality ripple. No matter how I tried though, I just couldn't talk myself into it. The closest I'd gotten was acknowledging that I'd be willing to kill an animal in self defense if there were no other options available. It seemed that my plan to experience the supernatural a second time had hit a major stumbling block in the form of me being a little bitch. I found myself drawn repeatedly to the scene of the accident, where I'd sit on the sidewalk in a manner that totally wasn't creepy and stare at the wreath and flowers that had been tied to the stop sign. It was during one of these preternatural musings that I realized, if I couldn't kill a cat or a dog myself, I'd need to find someone that would. The answer that sprung forth was elegant in its simplicity. I needed to get a job at a veterinarian's office. They euthanize animals all the time!   Update from the cabin: There's something outside.


Grandma Charlotte showed me our chains when I was seven. She placed her hands on mine. “Close your eyes,” she whispered, “Look for them.” I saw them before I opened my eyes. I felt their weight pull me down. She dragged my fingers along the ghostly blue metal links that connected my wrist to hers. The links grew heavier as my hand got closer to hers. We walked through the cramped rooms following the phantom trail of our chains into the kitchen. Mom’s heavenly smile greeted us as we entered. She lifted me up in her arms and hummed a song for me. As she held me our chain gradually lost its weight. “What are the chains for?” I asked my grandmother from my mother's arms. “To tether us to our family.” I learned certain things about them over the years:(1) My grandmother carried broken chains. The weight of them slowed her movements.(2) My mother sometimes moved as if the chains carried no weight at all. The chain connecting us floated as if it was lighter than air. (3) My mother and I each carried the same fragmented chain. It was the only chain that burdened my mother, yet it contained no weight for me. —- She looks back at the burning houses. She sees the smoke rise above her town. Their faces scar her mind. As the fire becomes a distant glow, the weight of chains becomes more oppressive. Two chains that were taught now drag against the ground. The cries of the surrounding children drown out her own sobs. They aren't bonded by blood but skin. The children of a town built through hardship, destroyed by hatred. My chains sunk into the ground; their weight anchored me to the snow below my feet. I looked toward grandma. The wood creaked below her chair on the patio. Her chains borrowed through the wood and the ground below. She nods but doesn’t smile. Neither do I. Mother isn’t here to remind us to smile. My bad leg aches as I walk to the car, alone. The radio hums alive as the car starts. Warnings of a storm in the area separated the morning music. I flicked off the radio and drove in silence. The chains feel lighter when she's with Angela. Everytime she reads to her at night, she hears her father reading to her. Everytime she cooks with her, she smells the aromas of her mother's cooking. But for every cheerful moment there are a dozen somber ones. When she sends Angela off for her first date, she is reminded of her family that could never do the same for her. The family that was stolen from her. She sees the smoke in the sky. She feels the ash on her face. So her chains get heavier. —— The tree fell like a comet. I was too slow to react. My vision was consumed by darkness. I awoke to the winter wind howling in my ear. Snow surrounded the vehicle. As I looked at my hands, my blood mixed with memories of hers. I cried out for help. My only responder, the wind. My leg burned the same as it did all those years ago. I looked to the empty seat next to me and saw her. I struggled to walk. Every step the chains got heavier. Every step I saw her cold face. My chains got so heavy they dug deep into the earth. I couldn't move. A human scarecrow in a winter wasteland. —— She knew the words before the man spoke them. “There was an accident, y-your daughter...” he said. “She's gone.” She had felt the broken chain. She knew what it meant. The grief consumed her soul. Her girl was gone. Elijah came home later that day. His left leg twisted in an unnatural direction. She hadn't moved. She couldn't move. The chain's weight had caused it to dig deep into the ground. So she sat in her chair on the patio unable to speak to the boy with the limp. —- My body shivered. My eyes were forced closed. Every time they opened I saw her. The wind had stopped but the snow was still present. The whistling of birds slowly returned. Their whistling turned into my mother’s humming. I opened my eyes, the face was no longer empty but warm and smiling. I saw her picking me up, holding me close. I saw her smile when I learned to ride a bike. I saw her mouth the three words she would tell me every night. The chains rose from the ground. They floated like my mothers. My last unbroken chain directed me like a compass through the snow. Although my leg decelerated my journey, I made it safely to the house, my grandma asleep in her chair. I moved towards her and embraced her. And for a slight second her chains seemed to become weightless. ——— Thank you for reading! I am new to creative writing and this sub. I would appreciate any feedback on my first piece so I can improve.


I tossed and turned in that limbo between sleep and lucidity - a grown man with a beard - giggling like a schoolgirl as I rolled over in my sheets. Earlier I had dropped onto the bed in blurriness and shame; even after four bottles of lager I couldn't shake the feeling of failure. I hadn't produced a single worthy paragraph all day. Ever since Sian left weeks ago, so had my inspiration. Though, in my current state, I was laughing. I knew I was dreaming, but I was so immersed that it didn't matter. Somewhere in the canvas of my mind, an unknown entity was typing out paragraphs for me on a Word document. I found this hilarious. It was just so indescribably weird to see my work get written out for me. And it *was* my work. Of that I was sure. The dream wasn't lucid enough to make out the sentences or the words, but I felt sure that whatever was being written, it was being done with the intention of helping me. I felt each sentence slot in so satisfyingly like the long-lost pieces to a beloved puzzle. It was kind of whispering to me too. Though, whispering isn't the right word. It was speaking to me silently; that is, I recognised the occasional specific set of letters, but the mood and feeling of the communication was more abstract. It was mischievous and intelligent. It seemed to really enjoy writing. I kept thanking it, chuckling as more words appeared. This is amazing! I thought. As the alcohol in my blood ran thinner, and the night moved closer to morning, I became more and more aware of the outside environment, yet strangely the dream became more vivid in my imagination. I could now picture the Word document much more clearly, and I could make out the individual sentences. They read: "I first came through the porch in the cold. No one was there, so I moved up the stairs. I opened the closest door and found a man. I took him away." And this was repeated over and over and over. Panic shook me from my hazy state. I shot up from the bed and darted eyes across my bedroom. The closest door to the stairs was my flatmate's room. "Danny?" I shouted. No reply. I walked out into the hallway with my pyjamas and knocked on his door. It was open, but I know Danny always slept with his door closed. I pushed it all the way. His bed was empty and curtains were flapping out of an open window. After searching the whole flat twice, I knew Danny was gone. I closed my eyes and imagined the Word document again. The ending sentence had changed, or maybe I just hadn't realised it the first time. My body filled up with dread as I realised the implications: "Tonight, I will try a new door.


*California: October 1st. 2020, 7:50 pm* “Dog’s movin’ kinda funny doncha’ think?” Wife asked. “Nah, he’s just strange that way. You know how he is. All elbows. Let’s take him out.” You laughed. *California: October 2nd. 2020, 6:54 am* “I took him on a walk this morning and his poop was green. You think that’s strange?” Wife observed. “No. You know how he loves to eat those tennis balls. Let’s go get some breakfast.” You answered. *California: October 2nd. 2020, 4:37 pm* “Found the dog in the pond, looked like he was trying to drink his way to the bottom. Think that’s funny?” Wife questioned. “Maybe he has something in him other than collie. Didn’t think he liked to swim. You thirsty boy?” You reasoned. *California: October 3rd. 2020, 3:14 am* “The dog isn’t moving. What should we do?” Wife pleaded. “Let’s take him in. He should be OK though.” You hoped. *California: October 3rd. 2020, 12:53 pm* “Are we going to cremate him or bury him at home?” Wife sobbed. You had no answer this time. \- - - *South Dakota: September 4th. 1954, 7:54 pm* “I saw Dad touching Laurie under her new poodle skirt. The one Grandma made. Don’t you think that’s funny?” Little Sister asked. “Probably just helping her get dressed. You know how he likes to help. You want to go outside and play?” Big Sister answered. *South Dakota: November 15th., 1955, 6:42 am* “Dad was up all night screaming about ‘kamikazes.’ What are ‘kamikazes?’” Little Sister inquired. “Nothing. Just a nightmare he was probably having. We all have them. Do you want to see a new trick I taught one of the chickens? You can hypnotize them!” Big Sister laughed. *South Dakota: February 25th., 1956, 9:03 am* “I saw Dad push Mom down the stairs last night. Do you think she’s OK?” Little Sister fretted. “I bet she’s fine. Probably one of Dad’s practical jokes he messed up. You want to see where I hid the cookies?” Big Sister replied. *South Dakota: June 24th. 1956, 8:04 pm* “Dad says we don’t have any money and we’re going to have to live with Grandma while Mom’s at the hospital in Yankton. He says not to tell anyone. Dad says little fibs never hurt anyone.” Little Sister recited. “That’s right. Everything’s going to be OK. It’ll be fun to live with Grandma…. like a vacation.” Big Sister dreamed. \- - - *California: March 6th., 1985, 3:06 pm* “Your baby has a broken femur. It appears as if it’s been broken for a few days. Do you know how this happened?” Doctor inquired. “I fell on him. Tripped. You know, clumsy. He must be tough. We didn’t notice until today.” Mom fudged. You wailed. *California: July 7th., 1993, 3:23 pm* “Can I have a new babysitter? Brian plays kinda funny with me.” You pleaded. “Yes, of course sweetie. How about the neighbor girl?” Mom ignored. *California: August 12th., 2003, 11:14 am* “Why do I only look like you? I’m all Aryan, no Ashkenazi. Why don’t I look like Dad?” You laughed. “That’s ridiculous. You look just look him. You have the same exact feet. High arches. You want dessert?” Mom moved on. *California: September 26th., 2020, 07:02 am* “Just tell the workers to please not put any poison down. We’ll get those rats out. Dog probably won’t find it but you know he’s curious and too smart for his own good. No poison.” You instructed. “You got it.” Mom fibbed. *California: October 3rd. 2020, 6:14 am* “It’s just that….I don’t know if they did or didn’t…..I think the workers might have put down rat poison under the deck.” Finally, Mom told the truth. You were silent. The little fibs hurt more than Grandpa had promised they would. The little fibs hurt more than the truth.


Bells ringing. They’re in the church; they’re in my ears. Bells. I close my eyes and see doves flying. I open them again and see the weather is too dark. Too sad. It’s lost. My sister’s cheeks are as wet as the pavement. My every step weighs heavier than the next and it’s not just this coffin that’s on my back that’s on our backs it’s something more. The weight of death, nearly as unbearable as the whiteness of being. Every step is a slosh. Every puddle is a loss. And if I took the time to catch my own reflection in the mud I’d see the face of death fighting back tears made of mercury just before my own foot stomped the image out. As I move forward. As we move forward. Carrying the burden of a loss on our backs. My face is his face- he gave it to me. His furrowed brow, my dimpled chin, his bushy eyebrows, my winter-hardened complexion, his olive tone, my loving eyes now fighting the force of a thousand hurricanes behind them- his tears in my eyes. His humor in my laugh. His kindness in my smile. His depth in my stare. My mother’s lips are as shaky as my promises. She can barely hold them still after he’s been lowered into the ground. Low, lower, lowest. He travels deeper and deeper into the earth, exploring depths he never saw in life. Six feet feels like six-hundred. He gets further and further away. I still have not heard him hit the bottom. He’s as low as our hearts have sunk. My brother says that heaven’s real. I can only hope he’s not just saying that. I fear for worse. I fear a hell for my father. Trapped in my body, trapped by my failures. He’s in my eyes, my brother says. His heart beats on in my smile. He’s as hopeful as I am lost. For the rest of the day and the next, we were the closest we’ve ever been. All the long-lost relatives, close friends, recent acquaintances, and old pals had left. Our home was suddenly as empty as his eyes when he passed. We kissed one another goodnight and made sure that we knew we were loved. It’s the mathematics of life and death- one person slips away and four people tighten their grip. Our mother kissed our foreheads like she used to when we were children getting ready to head off to school. In the moment, I felt as small as ever. I may have just as well been wearing blue jean overalls and carrying a lunch pail. We lent tears and warmth to one another. Like a team huddle in the game of life and now feeling more strongly than ever the inevitable reality of our own mortality. We broke away, and I found no trouble falling asleep. Sun beams warmed my too cold skin as it blasted through my window far too bright to be ignored. I made my way down the stairs and past the dining room still set up for guests from the day before and barely noticed the glare gleaming off the stale silverware- distracted by the serenity in our kitchen which drew me nearer. A feeling of inclusion resonated from our linoleum. I walked in to find my family waiting where they had always been. My brother sat gaily at the corner table donning my father’s robe with a coffee and daily tribune- just like dad used to do. My sister couldn’t help but giggling at an anchor’s audacity as she watched the morning news and munched on a burnt piece of buttered toast- just like when we all lived here together. My mother’s smile beams more life-affirming warmth than the sun itself as she poured herself a cold tall glass of refreshing orange juice- just like she has for every morning that I can remember. Despite the loss, despite the pain, despite the missing body from this scene painted so perfect just for dad it’s almost like he’s now the one behind the easel looking down on his beautiful, lovely, coherent creation that he’s left behind and perhaps was only completed and fully recognized posthumously like so many great artists before him- our family, our love, our everything. Just like how dad always imagined it. I sit down in the empty chair across the table from my brother. He’s as hopeful as the light of the morning. I’m as warm as my father’s love filling the room. We’re as peaceful as my father in his grave.


The sugar elves are an elven subspecies with a very interesting history. As their name indicates, they adore anything sugary, and unlike other beings, not only is it not harmful, it’s actually very good for them. Mint is a close second in levels of species-wide adoration. They widely cultivated mint and sugar cane, along with a number of other crops, such as wheat and various berries. You may wonder what for, and the answer is pastries. Not only do sugar elves love raw cane, they also love making the sugar into other things. This also helped trade greatly, and the society was flourishing. It also helped that they were entirely egalitarian, even farming and military(though they didn’t really need the military until much later). Part of this is because male and female elves, like the fairies, are much more biologically similar than male and female humans. But things took a turn for the worse when a trade dispute between the sugar elves and a nearby tribe of gnomes escalated *very* quickly. It got bloody, and when the relatively small military was crushed, the Sugar Elves had no choice but to evacuate. They were run far up north, until the gnomes were sure they’d perish from the cold, and about a third of them did. The whole species might’ve gone extinct if it wasn’t for a powerful but luckily good-hearted sorcerer who found the remaining elves out in the cold. You might’ve heard of him. He took them with him quickly with magic, and though his home was even farther up north, it was much better. He’s fluent in the main two elven languages and was more than willing to teach the elves English. This sorcerers name is Nicholas “Santa” Claus. The inside of his workshop and the surrounding area is warm with magic and he has a surplus of sugary things. The elves were so grateful to Claus and his wife that they decided to stay there and work for them by making toys, tending to their reindeer, and keeping the old couple company. The sugar elves soon gained the same love and appreciation of humans, especially children, that Mr and Mrs Claus had, though the elves are much less tolerant of humans badmouthing the Clauses than the family themselves are. Though human media typically portrays the elves as weak, they are actually quite burly from doing manual labor throughout the year(minus January, half of February, and most of July, when they are celebrating a successful Christmas), which more than makes up for their small stature. The elves sometimes (outside of winter, when they’re working overtime) visit human civilization, and it’s important that you are never seen badmouthing Santa, or as the elves sometimes call him, “Big Red” or “Mr C”, in front of a Sugar Elf, because they know who is responsible for their continued survival as a species, and they are *not* afraid to hurt you in defense of the Claus family. They generally keep their non-humanness under wraps for obvious reasons, so it’s better to not badmouth Santa at all.


When I look in a mirror, I see through myself. I have no reflection. I can see and touch my own body, and other people see me without any problems, but for years I was unable to see my own face. I don’t show up in photos or on video. Until I was eleven years old, I knew what my face looked like only from how it felt under my fingertips, how other people described it to me, and from the portraits my parents paid people to draw. But even the portraits were temporary. They faded within minutes. And if you write a sentence about how I look, the nouns and adjectives evaporate. *I have a r and ye .* It’s strange knowing such a unique part of your body—of yourself and your identity—solely through words and pictures, as if you were a character in a story or comic book. As if you weren’t real. And most people aren’t even very good at describing things beyond the most basic and obvious. The video my parents took of my birth is actually pretty bizarre, because it looks like someone filmed the whole thing, then digitally erased the baby. *Something* is born. *Something* is held in its mother’s arms. *Something* is loved. *Something* goes to school. *Something* likes to play with his dog. It was bad enough everyone knew what I looked like, but worse I could see what they looked like. I get that if I was born blind, I wouldn’t know what I looked like either, so I should be thankful for being able to see, but there’s something especially cruel about the *seeing everything but yourself* aspect. It’s like in the Bible, when Adam and Eve could eat everything except the fruit of one fucking tree. I am my own forbidden knowledge. How fucked is that! Or rather I *was* my own forbidden knowledge. Because when *something* was eleven, *something* and his friends ignored their parents’ rules and went to play in the abandoned gas station outside of town, where the junkies shoot up, truckers get laid, and God knows what else goes on. That day there was dying going on. Some emaciated wreck of a human was babbling his last nonsense words as a stream of bloody fluids that escaped him through where his teeth should have been, ran down his neck and over his sunken, scabby chest before gathering in a pool on the cement beside him. *Something*’s friends were all gone by then, rightly freaked the fuck out. But *something* was staring— *Spellbound.* Not by the dying but by the blood itself, so deeply, darkly red *and so perfectly reflective*. It was in that mirror-blood I first saw myself. In the filth of that derelict gas station, in the company of that drooling corpse, I realized that I *could* see myself—**in blood!** And what stared back at me was nothing like the portraits. Or words. I remember sirens and flashing lights and realizing my friends must have called the police. I don’t know how long I spent crouched there, staring at the blood, but when the cops arrived I knew immediately they couldn’t see the body. *It was right there* yet they walked past it. “Is this some kind of fucking joke?” one of them said to me. But before I could answer, his tone softened and he asked, “Are you OK, son?” “Yes, sir,” I said. The cops and my friends loitered like drunks around the gas station for at least a quarter of an hour, acting as if they didn’t know why they were there but didn’t want to admit it, then in a mutual but silent embarrassment started leaving. “It’s boring here. Let’s go to my place,” said one of my friends. Still the body was right there. The gaping, toothless mouth, the greenish-yellow stains. I went with them. On the way back, I asked my friends whether they had called the police after seeing the dying man. “Police?” “Saw somebody dying?” They had no idea what I was talking about. A few days later, I got up at night, took a knife from the kitchen and cut myself on purpose, squeezing out enough blood so that it formed a crimson globule on the countertop, then put my face against it so that my eyeball was almost touching the blood. Slowly, I pulled my face away—a slow zooming out—struggling to focus, but I did not see myself. The globule merely reflected in red a distended, empty kitchen. Animal blood also didn’t work. Neither did my friend’s blood after I punched him in the nose. By then it became apparent to me that somehow death must be involved. I yearned to see myself once more but took solace in the fact that no one else could see the *real* me. They could not see what I saw, what I knew I was. They saw merely a false projection of their own humanity. My chance finally came several years later, after my mom had dragged me to her brother’s cottage. My uncle was using a chainsaw to cut firewood, when the chainsaw slipped and he carved a nasty wound into his leg. He screamed and all of us came running. Despite the pressure he kept applying to the wound, his blood poured out of him, through his fingers and down onto the grass and dirt. Under the pretext of trying to help him slow the bleeding, I pressed my hand against his leg, gathering the hot blood in my palm. When I had enough, I stepped suddenly away—They all stared at me.—and, trembling, held out my hand beneath the dirty evening sunlight and gazed upon my own reflection for the second time. Time again seemed to flow past me, but I recall vaguely, as through a wall of styrofoam, their screams and panic fading fluently away. Like a forest stream whose source has been shut off. Until it was quiet, and although I could see my uncle’s body lying on the ground, they one-by-one seemed to lose all interest in it. Eventually they all went back to whatever trivial thing they’d been doing before, and when I asked my mom what happened to my uncle, she said, “Who?” and laughed and said, “But I’ve never had a brother,” and when I later checked her phone and photo albums, sure enough he was not there, and I realized the power of my gaze. *I am the antonym of being.* More than non-being: dread-form of never-was. To see myself, I must stare into the blood of the dying or the dead. In doing so, I disengender them. To catch a glimpse of my own visage I must erase them from time itself. I am not a human. *I am negation.* Since that evening at the cottage, I have haunted the places all normal people fear. I track death’s cold footsteps to where the threads of life are finest, and wait for them to fray—to snap. Sometimes I aid in their undoing. Because as long as I draw blood, I can kill without earthly consequence. My reflection is the erasure of crime, for how can one kill what has never existed? Every time I see myself reflected, my desire grows. I am beginning to love myself. Perhaps I have become enamoured of my own image, but even so my narcissism is of the most unique kind. For now, I prey only on the weakest among you, those who would not survive long anyway, and in my actions I become their angel: of death / of mercy / of forgetful self-reflection.


When I was two, there was a fire at 731 Bevis Road. The pictures are on my bookshelf. A blonde bowl-cut in jean shorts watches in the white heat of the summer sun as a firefighter hoses down a cloud of grey smoke from his crow’s nest. There is no chimney on the Bevis house for the smoke to come out of. Plus, Daniel told me there was a fire here when I moved in 20 years later. The bowl cut is not my brother but I like to imagine he is. That’s what he was like in pictures from back then-- blonde with a Doctor Octopus haircut. Nick and I share the same body but 8 years apart. And if there’s a question of who’s who in a family picture and there’s no alarm clock orange time stamp, you can look at the eyes to tell the difference. My brother’s eyes were mischievous, a little evil, thinking, scheming, and mine were, well, not. Nick was a troublemaker and a rough houser. I was rough, but like, on accident. Mad scientist that I was, I once broke my Nick’s Playstation because I thought that, if I put multiple discs in at once, I would be able to play one game with another game’s characters. After all, you could do this with *Sonic and Knuckles* and *Sonic 3*. But it wasn’t so much the multiple discs that broke the Playstation as it was me jumping on the console because the lid wouldn’t shut. I can’t remember if he was mad, but I know we didn’t have a Playstation again until our twenty-something cousin got a new one or went on active duty in Iraq or something. Plus, it was an honest-to-God accident. My sister broke his face on purpose once. They were playing badminton under the watch of my grandmother when she hit him with her racket. He had been taunting her, or so the story goes. She had had enough and clobbered the little man. “That’s what you get,” my mom said Nick would say when he was an even younger boy and he had enacted revenge, as I’m told he often did. My mother would revel, I could tell even when I was 10, in the apparent irony when she told me the tale years later. My mother and brother-- that’s something. The year he spent at his *other* friend Jason’s house was the year she called him “The Brat”. She missed him, I think, and she called him “The Brat”. “Comatose” was her favorite word in 2006, the summer after The Brat’s freshman year in college. I think he was depressed. Lazy, I think she thought. They found an empty bottle of Cobra malt liquor in his room that summer. I heard my mom say some stuff about porn. I didn’t really want to listen; it wasn’t my business, you know? But I couldn’t just not be in the family van at the same time as my parents, and she couldn’t just not somehow be angry at my dad for what they’d found in my brother’s room. A house divided, I could not stand. But it did indeed. I hear George Costanza say, “I’m the result of my parents having stayed together,” and Tom Delong sing the lyrics to “Stay Together for The Kids” at the same time. But I think my parents love each other, I really do. And I know they love me and my siblings too-- me and Whitney and Nick and Drew. And they definitely love the grandkids. I know that for sure. What was happening in the Bevis house when the fire happened? Your guess is as good as mine. All I have is the picture, and I’m not even sure I have that. Memory is a photocopy of a photocopy of a photo of a photo. My imagination is almost as good. And I imagine they were just like us with a smaller house. I imagine they felt embarrassed, too, when their dad thought simply pointing at green paper plates and saying, “Shrek plates” was a cam-corder-worthy event. I imagine they weren’t sure whether their mom was whispering or whether she had stopped talking mid-prayer when it was bedtime. I imagine the cognitive dissonance they witnessed in every adult they knew was confusing and infuriating. I imagine they loved when their mother read *The Chronicles of Narnia* to them, but they were too cool to admit it. But where would they go when it was all too much? Was I just a thousand square feet away from arson? What would I have done without the coat rack in the unfinished side of the basement? Where would I have said my curses? Where would I have prayed for the death of certain family members with little conviction and less remorse? I think the backyard apocalypse dream would have been the same. Before Daniel moved out, he yoinked the benches from the newly foreclosed Applebees down the street. I think the dream would have been the same-- flaming Star-Wars-styled credits emblazoned in the sky and all-- but the Applebees benches would have been in it. And the fire pit that I bought from Home Depot would be there, too. Before I let it sit in the rain and it rusted and sprouted foliage, of course. A photocopy of a photocopy of a photo of a photo. What was it like in the happy times? The times when they’d wake up to the sound of butter popping on the stove instead of a blender or a vacuum cleaner or deafening marital strife. When it was the day after Thanksgiving and they had a whole day of flat Sprite and Halo 2 and Christmas tree decorating ahead of them. Did the close quarters make it better? Where there times when they all wanted to watch the same thing on TV? Did the smell of popcorn fill the whole house instead of just the kitchen? Johnny tells me the neighbor said it was a curling iron left on too long in the upstairs bathroom that caused the fire, but I choose not to believe him. What does the neighbor know? Memory is a photocopy of a photocopy of a photo of a photo. My imagination is better.


y hand slides under my pack in my light slumber, my fingers lightly coming into contact with my pistol. The feeling of cold steel roused me from my sleep. As I drifted awake the feeling of the Firearm under my makeshift pillow was almost comforting , given the environment I was now in. By habit my hand grips the gun as if I were preparing to fire, even if I were still mostly sleeping. My eyelids seem to weigh hundreds of pounds as I tried to open them. I was never a morning person even before all the world came to an abrupt end. I slowly unzipped the almost worn out sleeping bag I was in and sat up. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and checked my surroundings, attempting to remember where I'd decided to camp out during the night. I saw the room in partial light that is filtering through the cracks in the boards nailed to the window frame, my eyes snap to the doorway by instinct. Closed and barricaded, like I had left it. "Thank God!" I exclaimed to the hallowed room. My eyes continued to scan finding it completely void of all furniture except for the destitute chest of drawers against the door. Slowly I made my way to my feet, my joints cracking and popping like a patient at an old folks home. "Well that's not getting easier." I again said to the desolate room. Just as the words flew from my mouth I heard a thud from above. The sound reverberating off the walls. "Shit." I thought in a panic to myself "I forgot to clear the upstairs last night." The guttural groans then began to filter through the floor above my head. “This is gonna hurt.” My spine tingled at the vibrations that the baritone sounds produced. I slowly packed my things into my rucksack trying to be dead silent so as to not make my guest aware of my presence. Once finished I slung the pack over my shoulder. I then picked up my 1911 from its resting spot on the ground. I pressed the mag release and dropped the magazine into my hand. "Eight rounds, full." I whispered to myself as the bullets glinted in the sunlight. The magazine seemed to vibrate in my hand with the energy contained in each round. The round sticking out had a tiny cross engraved onto the surface of the metallic copper that was the tip. I then slid the magazine into my pistol and with a heavy pull on the slide I racked a single bullet in the chamber with a satisfying clack, as the gun's mechanisms did their job. I then tapped my chest in search of my Catholic cross. I wrapped my hands around it and began a small prayer. "Dear Lord let me be your sword as you are my shield. Forgive me for the sins I must commit for the safety of your kingdom. Please guide my bullets and let my shots reign true in battle. Amen." I said at a barely audible level just before kissing the cross. The words that came out felt so...rehearsed because I had probably said that same prayer a hundred times. Another loud thud resonated from the ceiling, making me jump and pushing the adrenaline into my bloodstream. I quickly yet quietly holstered the Firearm then moved the chest of drawers from the doorway. The groan of the large piece of furniture was only arrested by the fact I pressed my whole body against it. I then opened the solid wooden door and made my way into what I would have guessed was supposed to be some sort of "Man Cave" before the collapse. Complete with all the regional sports team decals littering the walls. I remember this team being the rivals of my dads sports team before everything went to ***Hell***. With my heart pounding in my ears as I tried to make my footfalls as silent as possible against the basement’s concrete floor, I passed the door I had entered last night - the glass from the broken French door now glinting in the sun of a new day. I made my way to the stairs and began to head up at an almost impossibly slow pace, building tension in every step. I had become accustomed to the way you had to move around in this new world I found myself in. Silence was key because every corner could have some new danger , some new threat, and the less noise you made the less you had to deal with. I reached the landing at the top of the stairs, my brain firing on all cylinders as the moan rang out through the ground floor once again. I slowly creeped towards the source of the noise , keeping my exit strategy in the back of my mind. My hand glided down to my 1911 as if by instinct. "Too loud." I whispered to myself as I reached for my opposite hip. The clasp on my knife popped off effortlessly as I drew the blade from its sheath. The steel glinted in the morning sun, which was sneaking through the sheer curtains by the main entryway. The blade itself was well used but the carving on the hilt was what made it truly useful. A cross not too unlike the one hanging from my neck was engraved on the surface of the dark wood. Step by step I made my way deeper into the house passing by this perfectly preserved specimen of what used to be called a home. It wasn't too long ago I used to live in something akin to this house. I came upon the door I suspected was the one imprisoning the abomination making the dreadful growl. Thump thump thump, the sound of my heart filled my ears as I reached for the door. I turned the knob slowly and with a small almost inaudible click the door started to open. I then pushed my head towards the small crack I had made in some attempt to see my very much unwanted guest. My eyes fell upon a gnarled corpse on the bed. The body was as if it had been mummified. The ribcage of the corpse was splayed open wide with what was left of the internals exposed to the air. Each organ that was on display seemed to want to crumble to dust at the slightest touch. The long dark hair of the corpse was draped over the side of the bed, matted and clumped from what I would assume would have been blood from a long time ago. I was glued to the gruesome sight until the growl resonated from the opposite side of the door. The waves of sound shook me to the core, the fight was now and my body knew it. With a swift motion I stepped back and kicked the door with all my might. With a meaty THUD the door collided with my unknowing foe. The door then swung wide putting my new adversary Directly in my line of sight. The grotesque figure of what I assume was a man fell before me , his pale skin drawn across his elongated bones as if a small fissure would cause the whole of his skin to tear clean off. The Eye sockets of the abomination were empty and seemed to have descended into the skull. I quickly raised my knife above my head and ran at the creature. With a high pitched screech the monster took to his feet and began his own charge. I swung the knife towards it and made contact with the right arm of the beast. The steel hissed against the blood and flesh it was now buried in. My heart was pounding into my ears as the creature took a swipe. I ducked below the swing but lost my grip on the handle of my knife. Scrambling I rolled to the side out the door attempting to gain an upper hand. Panicking I Bolted from the room and made my way back to the stairs, the Thing not far behind me. The sickening sound of the creature’s nails against the floor as it scrambled towards me only made me panic more. “Fuck” was the only word flooding my mind, repeating over and over. I came to the stairs and was quickly knocked over by my adversary. Before I had time to react I was on my back, a sharp pain fired out through my left shoulder. The fucker had jumped on me and bit me, it’s jagged teeth were still sinking into me. I took the opportunity that I was given and grabbed the hilt of my blade. Rearing back I worked my legs under the thing and pushed against it’s center mass. Luckily this caught it off guard just enough that it loosened its hold and with a gruesome pull the mouth of the monstrosity was free from my shoulder as well as my knife from it’s bicep as it began a forceful descent down the flight of stairs. I quickly clambered to my feet chasing it down the stairs and with a leap of faith onto it’s waist I thrust my knife into its chest. Immediately the struggle stopped as the ***Demon*** crumbled into dust , the smell of sulfur and brimstone filling the tiny room. I slumped against the wall and slowly slid down until I was seated. With a deep exhale I reached for the tin of hand rolled cigarettes I kept in my jacket. I popped the tin to find I only had three left. “Figures.” I said as I placed the cigarette into my mouth and lit it.


# Happy Weekend, serialists! Welcome to Serial Saturday… ish! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ ***New here?*** If you’re brand new to and thinking about participating in Serial Saturday, welcome! Feel free to dip your toes in by writing for this challenge or any others we have listed on the handy dandy! We appreciate all contributions made to this thread, and all submissions are of course welcomed, whether it addresses a previous challenge or the current one. We hope you enjoy your time in the community! Take a look at our inaugural Serial Saturday post for some helpful tips. You don’t need to catch up by writing for each of the previous assignments, feel free to jump right in wherever fits for you, with whatever assignment or theme fits for you, and post it on the current thread with a link to whichever previously posted challenge you chose to start with. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # This week it’s all about: New World Order WE MADE IT! It’s the final episode, folks!! Congratulations for making it this far, writers! Everything is coming up Millhouse. It’s a whole new world and it smells of roses and , right? The dust has settled and there’s a new sheriff in town. Those boots don’t fill themselves, and it’s taken a helluva journey to earn them. If there’s ever been a time for a hero to trot out and strut their stuff, now is that time. This is your last chance to answer some questions and really wrap up what you have to say . Some of you will be continuing your universes into the next SerSat cycle. In that case, feel free to hook us with some flirting with your next story arc. Make us demand with this closing chapter. **Things to think about this time around:** Did your characters make the world due to their actions? Is there room left in this topsy turvy setting for your characters anymore, when the story is played out? Are they , or some uninvited guest? Now it’s time to examine what’s left. What’s left after your protagonist crosses their ‘t’s and dots their ‘i’s? Have your characters *peaked?* Are they living the golden years of top performance? Is this the first taste of resting on their laurels ? If we come back in 10 years will this story arc be their best claim to fame? Will we find them kicked back with a beerbaby and a shrine to the things they’ve won? **\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*** **For the final installment of Serial Saturday the word count has been upped to 850 words.** **You have until \*next\* Saturday, 11/28, to submit and comment on everyone else's stories here. Make sure to check back on this thread periodically to lay some sweet, sweet crit down on those who don't have any yet!** \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* # Top picks from last week’s assignment, The Spoils: **Fan favorite with the most votes:** /u/Xacktar, with a retelling that is so cleverly written and just makes us that more excited for the full novella. This week the **Smoking Hot Challenge Sash** goes to an author that nailed the spirit of the assignment: /u/LitCityBlues, for a beautifully poignant story of closure and silver linings. And two honorable mentions: /u/Kammerice, with victories that are short-lived in the world where criminals and politicians collide. And /u/Lynx_elia, delivering a new chapter that is all too fitting for the world that’s been built up since Lynx’s very first Theme Thursday entries. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **The Rules:** * In the comments below submit a story that is between **500 - 850** words in your own original universe. * Submissions are limited to ***one*** serial submission from each author per week. * **Each author should comment on at least 2 other stories** during the course of the week. * That comment must include ***at least one*** **detail** about what the author has done well. * Authors who successfully finish a serial lasting longer than 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the sub. * Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule. *Yes, we will check*. * While content rules are more lax here at /r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely ***family friendly***" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Reminders: * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday post or to your own subreddit/profile. * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serials Campfire on the main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start on Saturdays at 9AM CST. **Don’t worry about being late, just join!** There’s a *Super Serial* role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! **Join the** **to chat with prompters, authors, and readers!** Previous constraint: **The Spoils** Have you seen the ? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule.


Micheal plodded down the steps, into a bright room, empty except for the brightly-lit and colorful displays on the walls. He had begged his father to go to the museum to see the new exhibit from a local artist - a close friend of his - all morning, but now that his father wanted to stop and look at each and every work of art before seeing the main attraction, Micheal was questioning his life choices. *I could have just waited and went with my friend*, he thought. The thought stung, for a brief moment. He and Cavill were more than friends, but to the world, they were friends, and he’d been trying to work up the courage to introduce Cavill to his parents, going so far as reciting how he’d introduce him. He’d gotten very used to the words “This is my friend, Cavill” but, even in his internal monologue, referring to his lover as “my friend” pained him. He wished he could perceive anything in his father’s attitude as a clue for whether he’d accept the truth. He’d been dropping hints and watching his father for over a year, but couldn’t read anything, good or bad, in the man’s stoic expression. As they walked into yet another exhibit room, Micheal noticed his father lingering, looking down at the explanatory plaque below one of the exhibits - an exhibit they’d probably seen before in their previous trips to the Museum, which had mostly remained static since the days when his father brought him here as a younger child, teaching him about the world by pointing at exhibits and reading the plaques. As he caught up with his father, he looked at the painting above the placard. It depicted two men, one with his tie loosened, sitting on a couch and leaning his head on the other man’s shoulder, the other carefully pouring wine into a glass, their faces glowing in the light of what must have been a television in front of them. They looked exactly like a couple just settling down after a long day at their respective jobs. The room around them was meticulously tidy and well-decorated, with flowers and little flashes of greenery adoring the mauve-painted walls and the light hardwood floors. Micheal inwardly groaned at how his younger mind had perceived this painting - he thought they were two friends who perhaps shared an apartment. He remembered the title of this one - “Confirmed Bachelor Pad” - but he couldn’t really recall what the placard, which his dad had probably read to him years before, said. As he tilted his head down to read the placard, his father seemed to shift a bit, and suddenly Micheal felt like he was being observed - “watched” would be a loaded word here, and it didn’t really feel creepy. This is just what parents do sometimes, suddenly realize that their child, their precious baby, is growing before their eyes and that time is fleeting, and choose to spend a moment just observing them. That’s how he passed it off, anyways, beginning to read the plaque as he could feel his father’s eyes reading his face. > “*Confirmed Bachelor Pad* by Lucious Thomas, 1986: > Lucious Thomas himself was referred to as a “Confirmed Bachelor” by his biographers for nearly a decade after his death. In 1993, when his estate, in accordance with his will, released a collection of until-then secret and hidden works, this painting caught a large amount of public attention with its title and subject matter. The subjects in the painting resemble a younger Lucious Thomas and his longtime “roommate”, Henry. Micheal caught a lump in his throat and tried not to betray anything in his facial expression. The sensation that his father was watching him passed. He turned around and, following his father, proceeded to the next exhibit. He remembered his father reading that plaque to him now - when he was too young to understand it. He was too young to have possibly ever met Lucious Thomas, but in that moment, he felt like he was in one of his portraits, a classic Lucious Thomas work, where the subject grimaces in some uncomfortable or awkward circumstance, with no easy escape in sight.


“Do you think you’re a good person, Chris?” The question took me by surprise, “Do I…do I think I’m a good person?” I repeated. “Yes.” It replied. “Isn’t that up to you to decide?” I asked, puzzled. “Perhaps.” It says, “But does that really matter?” I began recollecting, or, trying to recollect the events of my life. A memory makes itself apparent. I see myself on my knees, holding something. No, someone. “Why Is it so hard to remember?” I asked. “Just concentrate, Chris. You’re here for a reason.” It replied reassuringly. I closed my eyes and dived into the murky black water of my mind. The memory comes back, sharper this time. The person I’m holding, she’s a girl, one with short brown hair and green eyes. There’s something wrong though. She’s…pale, the whitest shade I’ve ever seen. There’s blood on her clothes and by proxy, on mine too. Tears sting my cheeks. I’m pulled back to It’s domain. “I’m sorry, it’s so hard to picture, like remembering some long-forgotten dream.” I said. “That’s okay, take all the time you need.” It replied reassuringly. In an instant I’m back, warm torchlight illuminates the crowd around me and casts shadows of angry faces and sharpened blades across the floor. I look up at the man responsible. A grin besmirches his face and a bloodied knife lays gripped in his hand. A firestorm spurs in my head. I lift my gun to his chest and, before he can react, pull the trigger. My mind is carried to a new scene, I face a crowd of onlookers, smirks on their faces. My hands are bound. There’s a man to my right reading from a text. “For the crime of first-degree murder and the harbouring of the fugitive, we sentence you, Christopher James, to death by hanging of the neck. The floor drops from below me. The rope tightens around my neck. I feel my life end as my eyes lay frozen on the sign that hangs above the onlookers’ heads. “Welcome to Salem.” It reads. “I remember” I say through choked sobs, with tears stinging in my eyes. It looks at me with sorrow in its eyes. “I judge you’ve come to an answer then” It assumes. My mind struggles to recall the question but eventually does. “Yes” I say defiantly, “That man I killed deserved to die, my daughter was innocent.” It nods in acknowledgement. “What happened to you and your daughter was an affront to the moral laws of this world. Keeping this in mind, I agree with your assertion that you are a good person, Chris.” It says reassuringly. “What does that mean for me?” I ask hopefully. “It means that you deserve another chance” It says back with a smile. Somewhere in the world, a child is born, one with no memories of it’s previous life. A mother looks upon her child’s face. “He’s beautiful” she utters to herself. Her husband turns his gaze from the child to her. “What should we name him?” he asks, with a smile on his face. A thousand names flash through her mind in that moment as she looks into her son’s eyes. One name reveals itself among the swarm. “Christopher” she utters to herself. “It’s perfect.” Her husband replies.


Toby could not believe his luck. He had never achieved much success with women. As he had been often told, he lacked charm, looks or even that oft used fallback of a winning personality. Here she was however, dancing up against him. So close he could smell her perfume, he didn't recognise it but something in it drove him wild. The woman's slim frame and short dress certainly helped that too. She'd walked up to him, whispered in his ear in a voice like the sweetest honey that she liked his smile. That he had nice teeth. Nothing else but inappropriate looks had been exchanged between them since then. She never opened her mouth. She hadn't spoken since they met and only appeared to breathe through her nose. On top of that her cheeks and lips seemed to bulge out slightly, like she was holding her breath. Then she pulled her top down a little further and those little details were lost to the back of his one track mind. Toby took one last swig of the drink she had given him before hurling the bottle into the crowd behind him. In a voice far more slurred than confident he shouted over the din of the music "So uh do you wanna get out of this dump? Your place or...". The woman cut him off with a finger to his lips and a coy smile. "My place then?" he stammered, not having expected that to work. She nodded, took his hand and leads him out of the nightclub into the cool air. As soon as they turned the corner from the nightclub, Toby seized the tiny blonde's shoulder and pushed her up against the wall. "So how about a kiss?" he slurred, leaning his face into hers. In response the woman placed one finger on his chest and pushed him back with ease. Then there was that coy smile again, lips never parting, before she took his hand and leads him on towards his house. That small part of his brain screamed out again. It tried warning the rest of him that a woman that small could not be that strong. That she was leading him straight to his house. Toby had never been the smartest man though and awash in alcohol the rest of his brain ignored the warning. Before he knew it he was at his door, the woman hanging off his arm softly giggled as he fiddled with his keys. His numb fingers dropped them, cursing he went to pick them up. Before he could the woman reached down, daintily gathered them up and walked past him to the door. Within a mere moment the door clicked and swung open. Toby stumbled past the woman into the hallway. He turned to see her stood right on the threshold, a forlorn look on her face. Irritated he blurted out "well come on in then you dozy mare!" Despite the unpleasant tone, she smiled at this, eyes agleam and stepped through the threshold. She pointed for Toby to head upstairs before turning and locking the door. Once she had snapped the key off in the lock, she followed Toby upstairs into the gloom. Toby struggled furiously to get his trousers off. All he had managed however, was to get them tangled around his ankles. Before he could free himself, a short sharp shove sent him sprawling onto the bed. He scrambled onto his back in time to see the blonde climb onto the bed with him. She straddled his chest, placed a hand on each of his shoulders and pinned him to the bed. The crushing pain her hands were causing was immediately blocked out by her smile. She flashed him a toothy grin. Even in his drunken state Toby was sure humans didn't have that many teeth. The woman's smile grew at the look of horror on his face. Her mouth opened wide. Then wider still. Even in the gloom Toby could see them now. Pearly white teeth filled her grotesquely large mouth. No tongue could be seen. Just teeth, human teeth. "I gave you a gift at the club, you know how this works" she said in her voice like honey "for that you owe me." Toby tried to cry out, but a vice like hand clamped his mouth shut. He slammed his fist into her side. All he received for his efforts was a soft giggle. "Yes this isn't how it worked when you were a child," she purred, "but I always remembered you had such pretty teeth." With that she leaned forwards, forced her hands into his mouth and pried it wide open. Toby felt an agonising pop as his jaw dislocated. The last thing he remembered was that horrifying woman's hand reaching inside his mouth and grabbing a tooth...


I can't go back. I'm stricken but I cannot move forward. You were there when I needed you, but when I needed you the most, you were gone. I loved you. I cherished you. But now you're gone.  In that purple room, curtains closed and lights dimmed down, you were beautiful. I needed you just as much as you needed me. The glorious touch of our color shone down upon us. You were absent, but still loved me from afar. I'd die for you, but that was never enough. We left the room and embarked onto a journey through the streets and came out into nothing but black and white roads. Our life was ahead of us, but it looked so bland. I was here for you one hundred percent. You held my hand as we walked down the road. You touched my face and stroked me from cheekbone to chin as you said, "I care for you." I cared for you too, but I don't understand how to approach it. The world spiraled and became a blur around us as I said, "I care for you, too."  As we landed back into this world, you were gone; i'm left holding myself. The cold world began creeping around me. "What can I do to bring you back?" I spoke to myself, as the horrors of the universe began closing in. I'm here now, but you've left. I've spoke my last words.  I see your face on the billboards as I'm passing through this dreary road ahead of me with the dark closing in. I wish so much for purple. Just one shred of purple would please me. I see a purple piece of paper ahead of me on the road.  I walk up to the piece of paper and am immediately disoriented and thrown out of where I was. Where am I? I struggle against the void, yet the void struggles back. I can't do this and as a result I give up. I let the void fill my lungs. "Please take me." I say to myself, as I'm pulled back up.  I'm pulled back onto the streets and I see a gray piece of paper in front of me. I pick it up only to see that the paper is made out of text I cannot understand. I struggle to read it, but it just doesn't make sense.  The void now closes in front of and behind me and I set down. "Just take me" I say to myself. Let this entire world burn to the ground, because without you, my only color is gone. The void closes upon me.  I am in a purple room with curtains closed and lights dim. You're standing there as beautiful as ever and you have the look upon your face as though you have to hold me. I don't want to; I can't touch you. We embrace. I can't get over you, despite how many times I've went through this painful void. I love you, but you can't stop and neither can I. I love you.


A young man awakens with a breaking back, feeling ancient despite the twenty winters, and turns to his side. Drowsy and numb. He rises from his soft prison and puts on a pair of pants, the same of last night; a blinding star greets him from his window each day, so does a small bamboo on a glass tube adorned with a bronze coin. The bags under his eyes and his exhaustion remain eternal and the perpetual routine begins: He forces himself outside and flinches before the blinding gold of the skies, then looks down at his feet; healthy nature amidst a sea of endless concrete. Small vibrant flowers bring life into the oasis surrounded by the soulless white brick walls; improvised towers of plastic and tape are the homes of young and eager crops. The ancient young man watches them closely and caringly, he has named them: Monolith, Obelisk, Hope, Claw, Neo, Overflow… He quietly bestows them words of encouragement and is grateful. He rejoices in the presence of the bees, but despises that of the ants. Breakfast, a cup of mint tea or similar infusions, a handful of calories and then back into his self-inflicted sentence of isolation. Idiotic penance for thought-crimes. The pain grows for reasons well-known yet he ignores the cure and has chosen instead a half-assed treatment. Better than nothing. With each breath drawn, his ribs crackle along with his spine. With each letter typed onto the screen, fingers crackle. With each step taken, both his feet and knees crackle. With each passing minute, his mind crackles. He yearns for forgiveness that no one has He resigns to the numbness He dreams of morphine Before another soul, he fabricates a smile and a voice but behind them lies nothing. Only fear and weakness. Two voices argue and yell inside, one moves his body and the other, his mouth; they rarely agree. The first one yells without a tongue, the other does with two. A third one rises louder than the others, this one moves the soul. The mediator. The golden star begins to settle on the horizon, a warm infusion rests on the ancient’s desk. Peace. Hours passed, wasted? Perhaps. Futile are his dreams? Those of a calm morphine sea? Those of a day without screams? Those of a life without freezing fear? He will be handed no answer, for he has not yet earned it. The pale moon now rises, final meal of the day. He shares table with those who love him, yet he feels no warmth. Regret. A fabricated smile once again until the clock shows 10pm; he heads into the shower. The infernal water clashes with the arctic one and, in perfect synchrony, they drown both the pain and his poisonous thoughts. Serene. Methodical cleaning takes place, the skin breathes once more and the hair softens; the poison is washed away following the rhythm of soothing tunes. The clock now shows the 11th hour again, he heads back into his cell, feeling renewed. He leaves his pants on his obsidian chair, turns off the lights and partially jams the door. He returns to his soft prison of springs and cloth. The pain awakens just as he falls asleep, the nightmares continue. He dreams of burning flesh and twisted bone He resists the fear and the pain He dreams of cold morphine sea.


The town of Caydesdale, Iowa cant be found on maps anymore. Caydesdale used to be a small farming town just outside of Ames. Characterized by its copious number of chickens, humble residents, and peculiar architecture. Every building in the town was almost funnel-like in shape with intricate carvings on the wooden walls, not even the oldest residents had any clue what the symbols meant. It was truly a welcoming place, but even then, with all of its otherworldly charm and bountiful job opportunities the town was not very prosperous and every year residents would pack up and leave. Then, on November 15, 1884 a nearby river overflowed. Only minor damage was done to surrounding areas, but somehow Caydesdale was entirely washed away. The few remaining residents tried for years to rebuild the town but after two major collapses, three deaths and five fires people just gave up trying to revive the place. Everything in the town rotted and became open fields, except the library which to this day still stands tall. Almost like a monument. The town hasn’t even been mentioned on a map since circa 1897. In fact, the only way I found out about it was through a comment left by a follower on my YouTube. I make videos of myself exploring odd, creepy and/or ancient sites and giving any information I can about them, like a sort of knockoff History Channel a la urban exploration. Not the type of thing people typically create on the platform, but hey, anything and everything has its own niche I suppose, Plus it helps me pay rent so it isn’t so bad. Either way, after receiving that comment I packed my bags and drove the 1200 miles to Iowa from my home in Massachusetts. It took almost three days of hiking, and a lot of avoidant bordering on hostile interactions with locals, but I eventually found the library. Worn and eroded in the ocean of weeds, the building looked more like a watchtower than a library. Night began to fall as I finished up recording the first bit of my video so I decided to set up camp inside the building rather than my van to begin editing what I had so far. Afterall, it’s not breaking and entering if the place doesn’t technically exist right?? About two hours in, I decided to explore a bit. All of the books on the shelves were rotted or the water had made the pages’ ink smear. A few more minutes of searching led me to a set of stairs leading down into a narrow hall. It was all dimly lit by my phone’s flashlight though at this point I mentally kicked myself for not grabbing my camera. At the end of that hall was a metal door. It had strange etchings on it similar to those on the outside of the library and I’m assuming to the rest of the buildings in Caydesdale. I tried the handle, which was shaped like some type of clawed leg, it was unlocked. I pushed the door open, immediately a smell hit me, familiar yet in this setting it was out of place, nearly unrecognizable. The room was dark except for a warm amber glow from some type of alcove at the back of the room. The walls and floor were concrete and there was a hissing noise coming from the direction of the light. There was movement. A shadow. Something was here, something was this in this old ass building, sealed away for god knows how long and I was stuck here with it. Logic kicked in as I took my first hesitant step forward, then another. My steps were silent as I made it to the alcove wall and peeked in while there was this kind of mantra going through my head: *There couldn’t be anything living down here for this long, it would be impossible and I’m just paranoid and too far from home. There’s nothing here…* but there was. It filled the small space, it was tall, even though it was hunched over I could tell. It was facing me and it was eating... something. Some kind of meat, the smell was stronger now, too strong. The hissing noises louder, too loud. Then it looked up. At me. Through me. Into my soul. The dim light lit its eyes with a predatory glint. I ducked back in an attempt to hide from whatever that thing was... I couldn’ get up fast enough. I was barley on my knees when I was met with gleaming white teeth shown through an equally snowy mustache, a smile all too wide. Eyes squinted in some type of perverse joy. He loomed over me as he made his way around the wall, the only thing keeping us separate. In his hands a bucket of fried chicken. It all hit me at once, I fell back from the shock. The shapes of the houses, the carvings on the sides, the chickens, the library itself. This is where Colonel Sanders has been living for hundreds of years… he sat me down and soon I knew everything. How Caydesdale came to be, the flood, and that the library was a collection of all of his recipes. He had me go and grab my camera so I could record the conversation for my video. Turns out he was the one who suggested I come out here in the first place, a huge fan as it turned out. After the video was posted I packed my things(with the addition of three buckets of chicken, all signed by the Colonel) and drove back to my home. The video was deemed a prank of course and received quite a bit of backlash, but I knew and the Colonel knew. And that’s all that matters. Plus I was given a lifetime supply of free KFC chicken valid internationally so really fuck those guys.  (this is my first post to reddit and anywhere.