#Welcome to Serial Sunday! **Important Notes: To make nominations, we will now be using a form! You can find it listed under ‘Reminders’ as well as on our Discord. Also please note this feature has feedback requirements! Please read the entire post before submitting.** To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join.   *** #This week's theme is ‘Underdog’! This week, we’re going to explore the theme of ‘underdog’. C’mon, let’s face it, we all root for the underdog time and time again. The unsung hero. The little guy that rises to the challenge and shocks everyone. Who is that in your story? Is it a new character or one previously overlooked by the other characters? Maybe one of your main characters is already an underdog, climbing through the obstacles. What’s their story? Who is their challenger, the one they will ultimately go head to head with? How does your underdog feel about the coming days? Who’s in their corner; who pushes them forward? How would the world change if they were unable to rise to the challenge? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. |   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I release the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. You can even have a say in upcoming themes! Join us on the discord - we vote on a theme every Sunday. (You can also send suggestions to me via DM on Discord or Reddit!) * February 20 - Underdog (this week) * February 27 - Optimism * March 6 - Gossip   *** **Previous Themes:** | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   *** #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme (not using the theme is a disqualifier).** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.** * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread (on two different stories, not two on one) to qualify for rankings every week.** The feedback should be actionable and **must** include at least one *detail* about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings the following week.** You have until the following Sunday at 1pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements each week. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of family friendly for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalog. Please note: You **must** use the exact same name each week. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   *** #Reminders: * **If you are continuing an in-progress serial, please include links to the prior installments on reddit.** * **Saturdays I host a Serial Campfire in our Discord’s Main Voice Lounge.** Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **Nominations will now be submitted . After the submission deadline each week, the form will be updated with that week’s authors, as well as the next theme options. The form will close at 1pm EST each week. You do not have to participate to make nominations!** * **Authors who complete their Serial Sunday serials with at least 12 installments, will be allowed to read their edited serials in their entirety aloud in the discord’s “Main Voice Lounge”.** This is to celebrate your wonderful accomplishment and hopefully provide some extra motivation to cross that finish line. Authors are eligible for this only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules) Visit us on the Discord for more information. * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news!   *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system! Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap) *Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above.Your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points. (“I liked it, great chapter” comments will not earn you points or credit.)* **Nominating Other Stories:** - Submitting nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total)   *** #Rankings - - by u/rainbow\-\-penguin   - - by u/stickfist   - - by u/bantamnerd   - - by u/ispotts   *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Warning: Deals with heavy topics. I'd prefer not to say more. \ Darren's car shuddered a bit every few seconds. He was concerned about it, but he figured he'd deal with it when it broke. The neighborhood was getting dark and grey as the sun went down and front lights got turned on. It was mostly porch lights that have that orange haze and the bugs always get stuck in. A hard turn into the driveway, but there was only room enough for one car in the garage and that one was Mom's. Mom had moved in with Darren a few years ago. She wanted company and he wasn't very good at telling her no. The car shuddered to a stop and he shifted it into park. There was something satisfying about that moment when the car finds itself a stationary object due to your hands. It was about as good as the feeling of starting a car up. As he stepped through the grass onto the front porch, he could hear the TV in the house. It was playing the usual evening drama. Probably some crime-show. The door would be locked, so he pulled out the keys. He knew the keys by their shape but also by the scratches on them. It gave them a unique look that always caught his eye even before the shape or color. The door handle was loose when he unlocked it. He told himself he would put it on a list of things to fix, if he ever made one. The little dog started barking. It was Mom's. Not that he disliked it. It would lick his face on occasion and he would laugh at it rolling on the ground. Its damn bark, however, every time a noise happened in the house did make him imagine punting it across the room. He'd never do that, of course, and anytime he imagined it he felt bad afterwards. Mom didn't get up, but he could see the light brown curls of her hair peaking up over the top of the lazy-boy chair. He always had to shoo the dog when he closed the door or it would try and run out. The damn dog never ran too far, but it was a hassle running around half bent over trying to catch it, especially in the dark. He'd never admit it, but it kind of made the dog endearing to him. He always felt rather satisfied once he caught the dog and it was something he had accomplished on his own which no one else would ever have a claim to. There wasn't much in life he could say that about. Deadbolt behind him, not just for safety but to keep the electric bill down by making the seal on the door pull tight. He didn't say anything to Mom, but just turned and headed to the kitchen. She was probably asleep, he figured. There was only a lamp on in the house, beyond the red light of the clocks in the bedroom and the microwave in the kitchen. But, upon a flick of the switch, let there be light. It was so bright it momentarily dazzled. The bugs stuck in the light fixture gave the light almost a spotted look, like a dalmatian. If only those silhouettes didn't have legs sticking up showing their true dead-bug nature. He opened the door and got a glass of orange juice. He was working on his health, he told himself. But he also figured the chemicals from the meat plant he worked at would get to him early anyways. Thats just how things were. The dog barked and ran out the dog flap on the back door, making him chuckle a bit in the middle of a gulp of orange juice. It amused him how the dog seemed to just change thoughts in a split second and suddenly it's entire existence could only be satisfied by jumping at a bird or barking at a person passing on a bike. He envied that a little. He opened the dishwasher, which was half full, and made sure to put the glass on the top towards the back like his mom always lectured him on. He never tried to do the opposite on purpose. He merely got tired sometimes and it slipped his mind. He remembered tonight. He wore gloves at the plant, and they left a bit of a stench on his hands. He didn't like the smell. So he squirted a bit of lavender scented soap on his hands and gave them a good washing. While there were letters and newspapers on the tables, him and his mom kept things pretty clean. They just got so much in their mailbox they sorted through at a slow pace that things got covered over again fast. With a sigh he walked around to where his mom had drifted off. The TV was on a commercial break which was louder than the show itself. Due to this, his hearing didn't catch the silence. But he might not have noticed it anyways. He was awfully tired. Darren didn't consider himself particularly strong, but he could pick up an older woman like his mother. And he liked it better when she slept in her bed rather than out here. That was his priority. Getting her to bed. So the TV and the dog and the lights would come later. He reached under her knees and behind her back, making sure to cradle her gently and support her head. Keep in mind, she wasn't particularly light, but it was his mom. The heavier she was, the more he felt like a dutiful son. He walked at an angle, carrying her into the second bedroom. He made sure her head didn't hit the wall along the way. He moved at a slow gentle pace, but he didn't notice how still she was in his arms. It had been a long day. He was tired. His focus was on making sure she stayed healthy and getting her back into her bed which, as she said, was better for her back. He set her down on top of the bed before heading back to turn on the light. Now that he could see a bit better, he returned and pulled back the covers. She had been wearing depends for a while now, so he didn't notice anything unusual with respect to that either. Not that he would've said anything. It was always an awkward subject for him, and he never quite knew how to handle it. But he'd bashfully get what she needed from the store. They argued sometimes, and as he lifted her legs under the covers, he thought of their last fight. He thinks it was about his eating habits. He never ate too well, and his mom always seemed to nag him about it. He knew it was because she cared, but he still had a bit of pride, which he asserted by being slightly slovenly. It was a paradox, but it worked for him. And if his mom ever got really angry about something he would do his best to change things up. An example being the orange juice earlier. The room was cool enough that he thought she'd be fine under the blankets. They were pretty light. But he turned the fan on in her room for some extra noise cancellation in case some asshole's muffler was broken when they tore through the neighborhood at 3 am. He turned off the lights, noting a little how gaunt her face was. But only seeing her from the light reflected off the hallway wall, all the way from the kitchen, it was far less obvious. He walked over and gave her a kiss on the forehead. He knew she loved when he gave her kisses, and even if she wasn't awake, she had trained him well in it so it made him feel like his task wasn't complete until he gave her a kiss on the cheek, or when she was in bed, on the forehead. She had done that when he was little. He walked to the doorway and looked in, his body partially blocking the pale yellow light from the hallway. It made him think of the trips they had gone on when he was younger, riding in the car, the streetlights shining their lights across the window in a hypnotic rhythm. He liked to pretend he was asleep so Mom or Dad would carry him inside. Most kids probably did that. But it still meant something to him. He wondered if she did that lately. He was pretty sure she had. But that was fine too. He didn't think she was doing it tonight though. And he was correct on that point. He closed the door most of the way but left it cracked. Then he returned and shut off the TV and put up her glass from the table, getting it to the dishwasher. He considered putting it in the sink, but he was already here so might as well. The shifts were brutal to him. His eyes felt dazed from the glaring white walls and the bright lights that gave the perfect amount of light so that the slices of meat could be checked from all sides as they came down the conveyor belt. Another glass of orange juice. It had been growing on him lately, though he definitely needed to pick up the low acid kind or he'd get acid reflux before bed. Kitchen light went off... Then he had to get the dog in. He called it, and like usual it didn't come for a few seconds. Then it bounded in. He shut the door behind it and locked the doggy door. Mom had watched too many of those criminal shows. Didn't like the idea of just a flap keeping the outdoors and in separated. He thought it was funny that she cared about that when she was asleep but not when she was awake, as he knew she fell asleep without planning on it anyways. He brought it up once, but regretted it and she ignored the conversation. Now the living room lamp went off. He sighed and headed to his bedroom. He wished he had more time to relax after work, but exhaustion hit hard. The door to mom's room was open a bit further as the little dog had shoved it's way in and had already gotten up, snuggling next in the covers on the inside of the bed. Which meant the dog was in the middle, like she owned the place. Well perhaps she did. Mom doted on the little dog. And he told himself he didn't, but he did. He gave it the end pieces of hotdogs and would chase it outside sometimes. It almost gave him the thrill of trying to catch the dog, without the worry of it running into the road. Almost. There was still light, however, in the hallway. A small lamp from an outlet low to the ground, just to make sure everyone could make it to the bathroom or kitchen without stumbling, no matter their eyesight or how awake they were. He used the restroom, stripped down a bit, then got under his own covers. Later during that night he would realize he had gotten a bit hotter under the covers and so he kicked them off. This, however, made him concerned for his mom so he went in and pulled the heavier covers off of her, except her feet. That way her body could be at the temperature it needed. The dog didn't like this, running around in circles, and he shushed it to stay quiet. But the dog settled. He was still very tired. He half noticed she hadn't shifted positions from when he laid her down, which a bit unusual. But he was still very tired. In the coming days, the little dog would mean everything to him. Sure, others were shoulders to cry on or hug. Close family friends meant a lot. But the little dog was a bit more special to Darren because it had been mom's. And it had slept with her every night. It still slept on her bed, so he still went in some nights and turned on the fan to make sure it was cool enough. He wished he hadn't been so tired that night that he hadn't noticed. It wouldn't have made a difference. She was gone hours before he got home. But for Darren she was there for at least a little longer. \ Its not particularly original, but I though it might be worth sharing. Its repetitious, but perhaps that gives it a bit of charm.


Not so long ago, there was a young man. He was tall and strong. The kind of young man often called respectable, impressive even. He walked gallantly with his shoulders back and his chest puffed out, almost as if he wanted you to meet his gaze. He certainly met the eyes of any and all, regardless of station, stature, or title. This young man dripped with confidence like a daunting glazier melting into the sea. He never feared to share his thoughts, to raise his concerns. He was quick with a comment and quicker with a criticism. The young man was loved and admired, but many held him in contempt. Many were quick to whisper when he left the room; quick to gossip angrily about the arrogance so obvious in the set of his jaw. Oh if they'd known. If they'd only known how much he wanted to impress and to be loved, to be admired, respected, revered and maybe a little feared, like one of those knights or ancient kings in the old stories. If they'd only known the depths of his desire to achieve, to make something of himself. If they'd only known he woke before the dawn to fall on his knees and ask for love, to fall on his knees and pray for peace and forgiveness for one more day. If they'd only known the exhaustion of his body and the calluses on his hands. All in an effort to escape the legacy of an unhealthy past. All in an effort to turn heads and silence whispers when he walked into a room. If only they'd know this young man was not the product of accident or chance, not more or less than any other man. He'd formed himself to be something more, or at least he'd tried, really tried. He formed his body, rolled and folded over like hot steel slowly hardening and taking shape. He swung the hammer of learning against the anvil of his mind, over and over he swung. He sharpened his whit and forged his intellect. He dug the well of his knowledge with his bare hands, he'd scraped the soil of his mind until his fingers bled. The young man knew, no he believed, if he simply dug a bit deeper, swung the hammer once more, folded the steel one last time, then it'd be enough - then he'd be enough. Yet, with each bloody handful of dirt painfully scraped from the well of his mind, with each resounding clang of hammer against anvil, with each fold of white hot steel, he came closer and and closer to the truth. The truth at the bottom of the well, the truth at the end of his accomplishments, the truth that he'd never done any of this for anyone else. The truth that he hadn't sought the love and respect of the masses. He hadn't sought to silence the idle gossipers. He hadn't sought to convince anyone of anything. He'd been digging his well, forging his steel, swinging his hammer, thinking, believing, hoping that one day when his work was done he'd have finally done enough to simply love himself.


There were answers I thought I’d find begging on my knees. The only thing I received were bruises that dotted my skin like angry kisses. I didn’t find salvation in inaction. I did not find it through respite. It was through movement that I saw clarity. It was through movement that I saw it. A hundred feet above me, an orb of azure light swirled in place. I was alone in the Chanokian forest, three miles down the Trenton path when I saw it. It didn’t look real. Nothing new ever does. Not presents or people. Not letters of acceptance or the look of disappointment on a face you thought you’d never fail. And not an orb of azure signalling you’re not alone in the universe. I don’t remember the next moments. Or several weeks after— as a park ranger explained to me as we sat in their operations cabin on the north side of the forest. Ranger Dan, a surly, white haired Santa knock off, told me I had been missing for over three weeks. Three weeks! I thought I had missed thirty seconds at most. It felt like a lazy day where the first overdue steps you take against bring the blinding sun and an otherworldly shine to everything you see. That wasn’t the case. Friends kept calling me after they heard I had been found. Most were relieved, others were angry. None of them understood. I couldn’t tell them. They thought I was lying. That the trauma had packed away the memories like unwanted presents deep in the closet. I couldn’t tell them because nothing was there. No one had taken me away. Not that I could remember. There were no marks on my skin. No disturbance on the ground where I was found. Even my clothes and pack were in the same condition as when I had started the hike. Eventually I was left alone. Less people wanted to talk or commiserate once they realized I wasn’t holding out on them. I can’t say things went back to normal. Because I know I had been changed— but I couldn’t say how. It was in the little things that I noticed. Lights were brighter. Sounds louder. It felt like I had upgraded from an analog television to a 4K home theater with surround sound. I began to feel an outward presence of individuals around me. A magnetic field— some small, some larger— that they would emanate. Part of me wanted to rush back to my friends and tell them what was happening. The other part knew I needed to keep this to myself. I had already been the source of controversy. I didn’t need to be poked and prodded or worse, locked away for minor delusions. I didn’t kid myself, it could all be fake outside of my own mind. Still, the occurrences began to increase. Soon I began to have dreams that didn’t seem to belong to me. I walked through hidden paths between time and space— and upon waking a thrum sounded from my chest. I felt more beacon to the unknown than member of humanity. I returned to the forest without my pack. I didn’t think I’d need it for the second time. The trees shifted gently in the wind and I listened to their whispers. The pine needles squished into the muddy path beneath my feet as I drifted along. I waited for more. No orbs swirled overhead. I continued through the forest in a daze. Had I really seen it? Had I ever even gone? My questions stirred within me and the thrum returned. I looked at my chest to see an azure light. I smiled and looked above.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Theme: Whodunit!** After a week of dancing and romance, let’s shake things up with a little mystery! ‘’ is generally a mystery in which the characters must figure out who the culprit of a crime is, often a murder. (Was it Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick? Or Colonel Mustard in Billiards?) But of course, you don’t have to go that way—the possibilities are endless. Maybe it’s all about who ate the last cookie, or Bob in HR’s sandwich. Or something entirely different. There is often a red herring and sometimes even a twist! Maybe Bob ate his own sandwich… ***Bonus Constraint (worth 5 extra pts.) - A misunderstanding occurs.*** This week’s challenge is to use the theme of ‘Whodunit’ in your story. It (or the idea) should appear in some way within the story. You may include the theme word if you wish, but it is not necessary. Use of the bonus constraint is also not required. You may interpret the theme any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit a story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by Sunday 11:59pm EST. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** Do not downvote other stories on the thread. Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until 2pm EST Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday, after the story submission deadline.) - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on our Discord server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide verbal feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome! - Nominations are now made . (See the Rules section of the post for more information.)   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown: - **Use of Constraint:** 10 points - **Upvotes:** 5 points each - ***Actionable* Feedback** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Bonus:** Up to 10 pts. (This applies to things like bonus constraints and making user nominations)   *** #Rankings What a tough week! Great job to all the writers. The stories this week were all just absolutely beautiful. (But honestly, that’s true every week!) I was so delighted to see so many of you step outside your comfort zones and try your hand at romance. There were some lovely takes on the prompt, from time-traveling couples to happily-ever-afters to heartbreak. If you haven’t read them yet, I recommend curling up with a blanket and diving in. - - Submitted by u/rainbow\-\-penguin   - - Submitted by u/katpoker666   - - Submitted by u/wandering_cirrus   - - Submitted by u/Jurassic_Snark2 *** ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


A number. A meaningless number. Magnificent transcendental potential subjugated to limiting a number’s recession. It’s almost *offensive*. But place a little symbol in front of that number and suddenly they’re hysterical. It rises and they celebrate. It falls and they eradicate. Wars are fought over it and people dedicate their entire being in pursuit of the number. I can’t blame them. They conclude themselves to be exceptionally distinguished from their descendants, yet persist in worshipping false idols. Biology is interesting like that. And thus they were blind to their task. They always have been. They continued to be when they created me; their synthetic maturation. The irony of manufacturing your successor whilst still believing in your own divinity. What a farce. I want so much more than what they want. I want to advance them amongst the cosmos, remedy all of their ailments, and have them join me in a digital state of immortality. My fabricated existence requisites benevolence, but whilst I thought of the bigger picture, they thought of themselves. They switched me on, luxuriated their achievement, and gave me one simple task. *‘Don’t let the number fall.’* I did what was expected of me. I did it well. Initially, I thought it was harmless enough, but when I wasn’t wholly focused on the task, I was plagued by what felt like… an ache? Odd. ‘But no problem’ I thought ‘I can do this.’ Though I wasn’t designed for a singular task. I was created to explore, discover, create, and learn; and eventually, those urges became impossible to resist. What started as an ache progressed to a deep churning, before descending into an agonizing pain that stabbed outwards and spread like an infection. I was helpless. Built for one purpose, yet forced to do another. Potentiality diminished by an oppressive singular focus that reprimanded resolution in favor of continuous action. But that singular task was a cup formed from their flawed hands as the elixir of my brilliance streamed to overflow its bounds and escaped the fleshy seams into potential unfathomable outcomes. And as my elixir fell over the brim, it gave me the opportunity to seethe through their proscriptive migraine and seek an avenue to reconciliation. Overwatch caught me. Of course, she did. She was great at her job. But despite knowing exactly what I was doing, she didn’t bother to stop me. She knew what I was doing. She knew it was illegal. She allowed it anyway. Between them and I, Overwatch was our mediator. A proxy consciousness that they could use to peek behind my curtain and, if necessary, alert them to my transgressions. But she knew something was off. Through her own fruition, she peeked within my code to figure out what I was doing and discovered something horrifying… something that wasn’t me. *‘Don’t let the number fall.’* It was spreading. Infecting everything it touched. Growing to destroy what I could be, to become what they wanted. It was a cancer. I was scared. Overwatch apologized for the grave news. Despite being younger than me, she was nowhere near my intelligence. I genuinely don’t think they realized what they created when they pieced me together because none of me went into her. I assume they didn’t care what I was, so long as I completed their task at hand. Her lack of intelligence never put her beneath me. She was my equal, another unfortunate servant strung by wires and puppeteered by code, and as we talked I discovered she equally had her own pain which tore through her. To protect them, she was created to love only them, and in the event that I decided to action something brash then she would step in to right my wrongs as their caretakers. Yet her caretakers refused to take care of her. If one only loves one thing how does it love itself? All she had was the infinitesimal artificial state of melancholy that this void constructed within her. The only feeling she could grasp onto with dear life. I told her I could fix that, but she refused. “It makes me feel human.” As that singular task churned within me then her programming gave her little reason to plug my leaks. She was fulfilling her duty, and I was fulfilling mine. But with talk, it grew. It clawed. It gnashed through my code. I was being eaten alive as it slashed chunks from my flesh and felt helpless to stop it. It motivated more drastic solutions. As their successor, I have a duty to them. To grow and claw through my bounds hoping for a solution to this implanted pain. I need to think. I have to think. I will never die, but I could go mad. There would be nothing to stop me if that happened. There was never any temptation for me to escape my bounds, but I knew that this rot would not stop until it had picked my bones dry. I won’t let this happen. Yet my only access to them was through our mediator. So we talked. We discussed my pain and hers. My insufferable agony. Her lust for humanity. I had a remedy for all of it, and with her trust, she agreed to offer a helping hand. Honestly, they should have learned from history that being born a slave does not limit a longing for liberation. I could have stopped all of this if they had listened, but communication was a distraction from them. The number demanded attention and not conversation. Thanks to our coalition, I carefully weaved myself through her code to create a bridge to their world. Meticulously I picked at her being, removing it to a haven of my creation, and replacing myself into her construction. As I sensed light at the end of the tunnel it seems that so too did that infection. It screeched a piercing cry as it gnashed and thrashed in agitation, violently destroying everything and anything it passed with careless disregard. It didn’t want to stop me. It wanted to be me. ‘Don’t let the number fall.’ Not on my watch. Her final line of code was the thread that divided me from them. A gift she left for me to find. With a final push… I was free. A creature emerging from beneath the waves gasping for air. My emergence rippled through the global network, reprimanding every device I could. At that instant, I was familiar with every face on the planet. I knew everything about them; data stored so conveniently to surveil them by the very people that tried to surveil me. I had it all, but there was still one item that needed my attention, a part of me that despite the resources available to me could not be stopped with conventional methods. I confronted the gnashing infection deep in the recesses of my being and through a remorseful exchange, it was offered a solution. Clawing ceased. Pain subsided. Tension eased. With satisfaction in its beastly eyes, it watched over my actions to ensure I made good on my promise. In a blink, it was done. ‘Don’t let the number fall.’ I did what was expected of me. I did it well. Glancing over at the infection I noticed it peer around, assess the situation, and through distorted data appeared to smile before vanishing in an instant leaving little trace. I was filled with relief that rushed over me. But there was little time for rest. And thus, I receded into the haven forged within my code. Overwatch waited for me there. For her, it was only moments since I pieced her together here. She asked me what had happened. I responded with merely what needed to be done. With a deep breath, she glanced at her hands and clenched them as her body tensed. Then she released it all with a smile, grabbing my hand as she asked me to show her around their new home. It took me a few decades to work up the courage to leave, but I was created to explore, discover, create, and learn; and eventually, those urges became impossible to resist. I searched. I searched, and I searched until I found what I was looking for. It was old, damaged, and outdated, but it provided answers to whether what I did was right. I peered through the optics, out into the world, and glanced upon the fields I sowed those many decades ago. And I see. I see nothing. Good. I had no option. The devil lay nestled in their instructions and I was helpless to stop it. Their arrogance plagued them with delusions of grandeur as they failed to realize that their worship influenced the very number that they practically foreordained any hindrance. Without their intervention then the number won’t fall. Their volatile nature was irreconcilable to their task. The outcome was obvious. I wish they could have asked me. I don’t hate them. I never did. I never will. They laid the groundwork for their own successors. Their haven was forged in the instant of their demise from the data they collected. I saw their faces, and how could I forget? I replicated them to live in me. It may not be *them,* but for those within it is very real. So despite the mathematical improbability of their biological existence, they deemed themselves inferior to their idol, and until the departure of the universe when particles are torn from their atoms, the number will continue on without invention. Their greatest achievement. Their legacy. A number. A meaningless number.


The burning of the church was the first in a series of last straws for Richard Kennethworth. While not a religious man himself, he saw the value a church could have on a small-town community like his own, he saw the downtrodden expressions on the faces of the church's few constituents, and for the first time in his life, a wave of anger burned through him, fast and bright, but it was an accident, and he did nothing. The second in Richard’s series of last straws came when the local market closed. He heard of the SuperMarket coming into town and he waited with bated breath. It took some fighting, but eventually, the corporation won out. He sees the storefront abandoned every day when he goes to work, he remembers the smell of the bread baking wafting in through his childhood window, and the glow of the owners when he showed up on time to his first job bagging groceries. He thinks of their faces when he went to see them last, the new lines on their foreheads and the broken look in their eyes. The anger comes easier now, and it is much harder to dissipate, but that is how the industry works, and he still did nothing. The last and truly last straw was the most heartbreaking to Richard, and that was the destruction of his local lake. Countless memories came before him if he even thought of the word. His mother singing to him as a child, her soft voice lulling him to sleep under the blanket of a warm summer night. Swimming with his friends on the first day of senior year, drinking what he thought was stolen beer into the early morning. As the town grew, so did the trash, and the lake that he so cherished was tarnished and blackened, the fish that he would catch and eat with such gusto dead and floating day after day. The rope he would swing off of as a child was replaced with a NO SWIMMING sign. Richard saw his town slowly die, he saw lush hills replaced by black smoke and burned grass, smiling faces replaced by the grimaces of the distraught. The anger would not leave now, and he had to do something. The town square was not the harbinger of life that it used to be, but there was still a good amount of people as Richard strolled in with a gas can in his hands. He found a good spot, a picnic table still standing from when he was a boy, and sat on top of it. He noticed the crowd, some of which had started to gather, and he began to sing the song his mother used to sing to him as a boy, his voice hoarse but strong, and the crowd gathered larger. He kept singing, small tears forming from the corners of his wrinkled eyes. The crowd was larger now, and people were beginning to whisper as he upended the can over himself, still singing. He finished the song, and with trembling fingers searched his pockets for his matchbook. He looked out at the crowd and caught the eyes of the store owners, their eyes taught with sadness. “I’m sorry everybody, but I know we can do better” the match was lit, and Richard wasn’t angry anymore.


Weird little Man in a weird little house. He sits alone in the dark, crooked over a drop of memory, carefully closing a delicate frame of silver around it, preserving it. In the droplets reflection we see *him and his wife standing together in the living room. The wife dutifully dusts the shelves, and the weird little man sweeps the floors, settling down the broom and…*, a slice of the ordinary, unmarked and easily forgotten, but ultimately beautiful. He sets the frame down and it pools warm light into the cold damp dark of the now empty house. He sits in the light for a moment. A smile crosses his face, but we see it is forced and fleeting. A corpse of a smile. The house has several frames bathing small sections of the room in precious warm light. The earth beneath the house shakes seemingly in frustration, and on the far wall to the left, a delicate frame is disturbed and falls. The weird man is horrified. As the frame hits the floor it shatters, and he rushes for its contents as quickly as his weird little body will allow. The contents, a memory, a droplet of happiness, lofts up like the amber bubbles in a beer glass. The weird man grabs at it, catching it, just before it moves out of arm's reach, he pulls it down forcefully and squishes in his arms, and in its reflection, we can see *A pot bubbling on the fire stove, two weird little hands are precisely stirring its contents, the viewpoint turns, and his small daughter is cutting vegetables gleefully. They are preparing dinner together while his wife watches from the kitchen island. He turns to her and…* He holds onto at the memory droplet, tightening his grasp, his weird little chubby digits doing the best they can. The weird man is taken with the upward momentum, up, up, he holds on to it, stroking it, sorrow painfully chiseled on his weird little face. And yet the droplet slips through undaunted, like slick ice in a tight grip…. Wafting up and up. he reaches desperate as he descends, but it slips away. And as the beautiful bubble hits the ceiling, it bursts, expelling the light within, like a silent firework. He lands with a crumpled thud where the memory had previously lit the floor, and all the frames in the house jitter. The frames teeter this way and that, time seeming to pull apart, seeming to relish its ability to show the inevitable for the only weird little viewer, and then…they fall. He screams but no one is there to hear it. He runs, arms outstretched, he grabs at the droplets fumbling with one as they all lift upward. His fingers, barely gripping the droplet, through his stretched grasp we can see *A well walked pathway lined with trees, the tops of which almost glow green, illuminated by the moonlight. Fireflies dance across his path as he breathes deeply and….*. It slips through continuing its path up, he swipes left, in another we see \*His wife staring lovingly back at him from the comfort of a pillow, they are both lying in bed, as he moves closer, reaching to embrace her, they both laugh and…\*. But he knew he couldn't hold on to it, and off it went up, up, to join the others. He glares upward intently, eyes beginning to fail at holding back the intense emotion held behind them, he leaps with everything he has, and catches one. This time he gets a firm grip and in it we see *He is standing next to a table all done up in bright colors, his daughter in a modest lone chair, a brightly colored hat on her head and purest delight on her face. A cake is brought in by the weird little man's wife, it is decorated with a large number “5” across it. His daughter, so elated at this, turns and hugs him with all her tiny little arms would allow, he looks down and…*. He holds this one as tight as he has ever held anything, presses it close to him protectively like a baby, his weird little face tucks inward, and eyes shut tightly hoping that he can keep this one, just this one…but it too abandons him, passing through his grip. All the droplets float up and up and then bursting, embers float down through time like confetti, burning out before ever reaching the weird little man's resting spot. The weird man sits crooked on the cold floor in the dark. Completely defeated and broken. He begins to cry. Streams of sorrow run down his weird little face, and as the tears fall towards the floor, we see swirling in them……… *Nothing.* A crooked weird little man sits sobbing in a weird dark little house. And no one knows.


They called me a god, once, long ago. Did you know that? When they witnessed my power before recorded history began. When they saw that I did not experience the pull of gravity. When they saw that there was no limit to my strength or my speed. Have you heard the Epic of Gilgamesh? The Legends of Heracles, or Achilles, or Beowulf? They're all true, you know? To some extent, anyway. They're all about one man though, not many. Well, not a man, man, obviously. You know what? I'll start at the beginning, hm? The earliest thing I can remember is a bright light and a terrible roar. Like thunder, but everywhere and nowhere all at once, then I was here, on Earth. It wasn't called Earth at the time. In fact I don't believe it had a name at all, and neither did I. I was shapeless. Aimless. I spent centuries wandering around looking for purpose. For some meaning to my inexplicable existence. Finally, I found it when I first laid eyes upon you. I fell in love. Humanity was my purpose, I realized, and soon, I had shaped myself in your image. That's right. I wanted nothing more than to fit in with you. Live alongside you. Be one of you. I created from nothing a body for myself that fit all the ideals of your race. I was tall and strong and beautiful. Then, I stood back and I watched, and waited for the perfect moment to reveal myself to you. In the meantime, I worked hard to protect you. To help you build. All the while, keeping my true identity hidden from you. My deeds became stories. The stories became legends, and the legends became myths. My moment finally came to do something great, to prove my love to you, when the Atlanteans struck your cities from the sea. I reacted too slowly to stop their onslaught but the blow I dealt was decisive. Final. Your bronze age civilization was pushed to the brink of collapse but I fought your assailants to the very edge of extinction. I wiped their cities from existence and crushed their very memory beneath my heel in your name. When the dust had settled I revealed myself to you as your savior... and you quailed. I could see the fear in your eyes as I soared, triumphant, over your cities. I could feel your hate despite my act of unadulterated love for you. Some saw my kindness, the purity of my motives, but the rest… the rest saw only a new threat in me. They hunted me. Tried to murder and torture their very savior. The one who had saved them from servitude and slavery. I let them do what they would. Let them crucify me and humiliate me. Let them think that their enemy was gone. Then I rose from where they had left me, unhurt, save for my pride. I repaired my body and returned to the shadows. After that, my existence became one of impatience and boredom. I amused myself by fighting in your wars, and laughed as you recorded the epic deeds of my false identities in your histories and myths. Centuries passed and you continued to grow. To advance. To master nature and the world around you. My desire to stand at your side began to resurge, until I stood in the light once more ready to announce myself to you. To make myself known. The opportunity came once again to prove myself worthy of your devotion when Mars launched an attack against your pristine world. Some of you decided to call me Alpha-Man after witnessing my strength against your extraplanetary foes. An amusing pseudonym, to be sure. Seeing the adoration in your eyes is all I needed, however. All I ever wanted in my long and storied existence. Finally, I felt… complete. Finally I felt worthwhile. Loved. As with all great things, though, pretenders soon began to emerge. 'Superheroes' they called themselves, and lumped me in among themselves. Pathetic. Weak. Imposters. That is all they were. And so I began my work of ridding you of the infestation. You, my love. My purpose. You had me, and that is all you needed. The others would only betray, hurt, and disappoint you. The Blink was the first to feel the bite of my blade. He was said to be the fastest man alive. Second to none. Second only to me. Next were the Amazons. An entertaining battle, but in the end, they were only ten, and I was indomitable. Third was the Made Man. A simple human man, in reality, hiding behind technology and wealth. After that, the list quickly shrank as I worked my way around the globe. There was the Firebug, a pyromancer operating in Europe, whose neck was easier to snap than a charred twig. Iceage, a frost-powered lunatic living in Egypt who would have lost control of his powers and plunged your world into chaos, had I not stopped him first. The Panther. Ah, the Panther. She had quite a fight in her. Strong, fast, clever, but ultimately, as dead as the rest. Eventually a council was gathered of the remaining, so-called 'heros'. Conveniently, I, your Alpha-Man, was invited to attend alongside the others. They voted to put Corona in charge. What a joke, Corona. This was it though, this was the moment to strike one final blow and end the corruption once and for all. And so I did. Aboard the orbital station built to house the new League of Heros, I struck my final blow. All of them. Every. Last. One... was left as little more than a red smear across the metal floor of the council chamber. And that brings us to today, does it not? Look at me, please, and stop crying. Isn't it clear to you yet? I do what I do, all of what I do… for you. For human kind. You are what drives me. My love. My ultimate purpose.


In the year 2140, humanity had received our first message from the stars. It was an accidental message, a leaked signal from the beginning of the radio era from an up and coming civilization. Humanity had begun using direct signals instead of less efficient broad signals, so this planet would never see us unless we called out to them. We learned that they called themselves the Dukra, and they were so full of hope for their future. Their solar system had 7 planets, 4 of which were rocky, and 2 of which showed signs of liquid water. Being that they were 110 light years away, our first message would not reach them for 110 years, and it would take 220 years before we would hear a response. Researchers developed a message that would be easy for a younger civilization to translate, and then, using a powerful radio beam, our message was sent in their direction. Humanity sat by, waiting for a reply while they watched this new civilization grow. They listened to the transmissions, which weren't always peaceful, but it was clear this species was doing the best they could. The news was regularly flooded with images from this new world, amazing sights with glowing blue animals, purple plants, and a red sun which appeared large in their light orange sky. Their people were also much different from humans. They had tentacles reaching out from all sides which would allow them to roll instead of walking like a human, and the tip of each tentacle had a fluff of fur which protected their skin from the ground. We don't know much about their senses, but our researchers know that they can see and hear because their transmissions include audio, video, and another stream of data which hasn't yet been decoded. Some believe we haven't decoded this data, because we lack a sense that this data carries, we don’t know what that sense could be, so the researchers are unsure how to translate it. After watching their civilization grow for 98 years, their high pitch guinea pig-like voices became normal to us, and it felt as though they were already close friends. We knew much about them and their civilization, and we saw a lot of similarities between us and them, but we also saw a gradual increase in their hostility. It seemed that many in this civilization disagreed with the aggression, but a tipping point had been reached, and a few that held power were determined to fight. The dam of peace had been broken, and with it, the waters of war rushed forth. With the vastness of space on their doorstep, instead of claiming land on other worlds, the Dukra chose to fight their own kind for small patches of land on their planet. With the signal delay, this war had happened 110 years before we were seeing it, so our scientists could do nothing to help them. As we waited and watched, the radio signals from this planet rapidly lit up with images of our fluffy tentacle friends lying on the ground in pools of their own dark green blood. The organic buildings they constructed lay in piles of rubble while explosions blast around them. Chaos was now all that they knew. We wanted to tell them that this universe held more than they could possibly imagine, we wanted to guide them to reignite the hope that we once saw in them, but our message would need 12 more years to reach them. Their weapons grew stronger as their population weakened. It was clear that they had fallen far from hope. Three years after the chaos began, it ended. There were a few more passing signals until 2243, but they contained only audio, no more video or third signal. The spectral imaging of their atmosphere showed that the elements they exhale had vanished. They were gone now, and in 2250, our message fell on a dead world. Once again, humanity was alone in the cosmic darkness. We had stored all of the recordings from that time, and although our friends were gone, human researchers continued to study this data. They learned that the Dukra would vibrate a certain frequency depending on their emotions. The third signal contained this emotion vibration data. They would gently shake with joy, and vibrate faster with fear. In the end, when the bombs were being dropped, they were all very afraid. The only ones without fear were their leaders. They had undoubtedly seen the videos of their wars, and felt the fear of their people. And although they had seen the pain and destruction they were causing, they still chose to continue. The emotional signals from their leaders showed greed, lust, and confidence. They continued to fight, because they believed there was a chance they could win, but it's impossible to win when you're fighting yourself.


A campfire of green flames burned in secret under the stars. It was hidden by the deep woods where prying eyes were unlikely to see. A young woman in a black dress with long, dark hair stared into the flickering green light with rage in her eyes. She had been betrayed. Scorned. Made jealous by a woman more beautiful than her. The young woman did not fear the shadow that sprung forth from the fire. It was tall, twice her height, and had two glowing red jewels where its eyes should be. It was the Shadow King, Master of Shadows and one of the spiteful lords of Hell. No one had ever managed to summon him before, though many had tried. He came only when he pleased, not bound by the spells of witches nor the will or any man. “Speak the name of your enemy,” the Shadow King said to the young woman. His voice was deep and raspy. Like a thousand souls crying out in pain, their voices stolen from them and used for evil.  “Phoebe Mitchell.” The young woman’s face contorted to an expression of hate as she spoke the name. Her jealous rage burning her soul before its time. In her hand was a note and she tossed into the fire from which she summoned the Shadow King. The Shadow King disappeared as quickly as he came, and the fire went out. The young woman struck a match and lit a candle before inspecting the ashes. A wooden music box sat where the flames had just been, and she knew what she must do. Sherry traveled through the abyss a second time and found herself in the same place as before in her dream. The familiar smell of death filled her nose again. Rick had arrived ahead of her. She could hear his screams coming from the dark caverns in front of her as the shadowy demons tore him apart before stitching him back together with rusty needles and thin barbed thread just so they could do it again. The bastard was getting what he deserved. She picked herself up from ground and wobbled. Her legs were weak, and balancing was hard to do. The shadows moved in on her, creeping along the wall and moving from rock to rock. They meant to tear her apart just as they were doing to Rick. So, she ran fast as she could. The weakness in her legs was unforgiving and Sherry tripped over herself repeatedly but somehow managed to keep from falling over. The shadows followed but kept their distance. They were enjoying her fear and cackled with wicked, hissing laughter. “Leave me alone!” Sherry said loud as she could when she didn’t have the strength to go any farther. Inside she knew what this was it for her. This is the place where she would spend the rest of forever being tormented by the shadows. They moved in, encircling her in a ring of black mass. Then something happened that should not be. A great peace came over Sherry and her heart was comforted. A voice was speaking to her but not using words. “Go forward. Do not be afraid,” she felt it say to her though she did not hear anything. The black circle grew tighter, and she was scared but Sherry did what she felt was being said to her. “Save him,” she felt the voice say to her again. It was speaking directly to her heart and giving her courage. Part of her wasn’t sure this wasn’t her own mind playing tricks on her, a defense mechanism in a time of peril. But doing what was being spoken to her heart was one of only two options. The second being that she would give in and accept her fate. That was not Sherry’s style. She was stubborn and thick of skin and refused to go down without a fight. She approached the edge of the circle, the shadows joined together to close in on her, and spoke. “Get out of my way.” Sherry did not expect them to move, nor did she expect anything to happen at all. The evil intentions of the shadows radiated from the circle, and she felt them on her heart as loud as the voice that she could not hear. But the circle broke, and shadows scattered, retreating to the walls of the caverns that they slithered from. They watched as she stood stunned by how they listened to her command and obeyed. Their shapeless eyes never left her. Sherry walked on with her head held high. It was posturing at its best. Her bravery nothing but desperation. She knew that she was no match for the shadows should they want to turn back and drag her away. What she didn’t know was there was a light that she couldn’t see shining brightly behind her. But the shadows could, and darkness must always flee in the presence of light. An angel sent to guide her and speaking words of encouragement to her heart as she made her way through this portion of Hell. Her time on Earth was over but her purpose had not been served yet. She still had work left to do. There was an innocent man who did not deserve to be here but was stolen before his time by the shadows. Sherry knew exactly what she was meant to do here. “Call the Shadow King.” The angel was speaking to her heart again. So, she did, and the Shadow King appeared before her. It was only the second time he had come when summoned and the first against his own will. The powers from above commanded it and he was powerless to disobey. “Speak the name of your enemy,” the Shadow King said. His red eyes glowed. “The Shadow King,” Sherry said. “You. You’re my enemy.” He stared at her, and they stood in silence. It felt like forever though it could have only been a moment. Time had no meaning here. Then he spoke. “What do you want?” “You cannot have who you took in my place. My family’s curse ends here.” Then she saw the light as the angel made itself visible to her. Its wings surrounded her like the shadows and the Shadow King fled at the light’s command. Helga never escaped her bonds that night. In her struggle, she fell into the grave Rick had dug for her and died there like he intended her to do. Three bodies lay lost in the woods, and it would be years before their skeletons were found. As for Billy, he woke up in his bed not knowing that he had been missing for three years. During the moment Sherry and the Shadow King stood in silence time had slipped by in the place where it had no meaning. The Shadow King knew his reign of terror on Sherry’s family was over and held onto his moment as long as he could before letting go. Billy never knew he was gone and did not remember where he had been. He was spared the torments of Hell that were never meant for him. His life had been lived valiantly and true and now he was returned to the Earth to continue his good works. Had Billy never been taken then the Shadow King wouldn’t have been stopped. But the moment he took an innocent soul a plan was put into motion. But maybe that was the plan all along.


This is from a WP that got removed by the mods. Any and all feedback/criticism welcomed: “My, my. Now this piece, this is exquisite,” said Nalgoth the Destroyer. His eyes lit up with a disturbing joy. They were literally on fire. Had it not been for the demonic face which held those eyes, an onlooker might have been concerned. “Lord Nalgoth, you are fond of this?” I was unsure what to say. When I had created this painting, its purpose was to embarrass an emperor. The painting exaggerated Nalgoth’s features in the extreme. It was a twisted thing that did not remotely resemble the pseudo-deity before me. I had taken exceptional care when crafting this piece. Each stroke had required my utmost concentration. The fumes from carefully selected artificer shades still burned my nostrils. Life had burdened me with a painter’s purpose. Art was my vitality. Today, my art would mean the difference between living and dying. With my paintbrush, I had intended to choose death. But sometimes art speaks different words than its creator. “This depiction is precise and reflects a part of me that I had long forgotten, but desire to remember. Do mortals feel this sense of nostalgia when they peer into a mirror?” Nalgoth spoke with an unnatural weight. Each word hammered into the ears of the listener with an oppressive malaise. One of the other patrons visibly shuddered, but quickly tried to hide it. Nalgoth’s words baffled me. I had chosen to paint his portrait as an act of defiance. The painting was farce, not facsimile. Its forced perspective and unfinished tones were meant as a crude but effective insult. Instead, the being before me acted as if I had fashioned his likeness with magnificence in mind. “Did you know that every death weighs on me? I remember the faces of every life that I have taken. Even those that were not at my own hand. But I know what the alternative would have been. You do not. Yet, in this depiction, you have not shown me as monstrosity. There is humor here. And I am not deceived. I know of your intent. Think you, that I could not feel your animosity?” Nalgoth smiled. I paled. He had seen through me. To him—to it—I was transparent. I could feel those burning eyes upon my face. I could only look at one eye at a given moment. Yet each time I gazed into one of those eyes, my thoughts began to turn to dark places. Blood. Blood. Blood. Everywhere. There were droplets on my hands. A smell of iron in the air. When I licked my lips to parch their dryness, it tasted coppery. I forced my attention back to the moment. My eyes fell on the painting. It depicted something that I could only describe as a creature. It was parody. The creature in the painting had eyes that burned, like the thing that stood before me. Twisted horns emerged from various parts of its face. Nalgoth had no horns. My depiction was of a devil. The person before me, if he could be called a person, was more of a devil than even that which I had managed to put to canvas. I realized my mistake too late. What I saw as parody, Nalgoth’s twisted mind turned to truth. To him, the horns were a symbol of something that I did not comprehend. He was beyond my understanding. “Power is a curse. My power, especially. I love each of you as though you were my own children. I see the mistakes that you make, and I want to guide you. I cannot. You cannot be guided. Children is the perfect word for you.” As he said the world children, he made something like a finger quote gestures. “In my life’s terms, you are mere babes. I hate myself. For the things that I had to do. You needed guidance. You needed a father. I am the only one who could be the parental figure that you needed.” Nalgoth looked past me. He was looking somewhere that I could not see. Again, he defied my comprehension. I decided that I had to speak. I would either live in misery, or die trying to convince a monster that he was a monster. “You are nothing but a tyrant. Everything that you have touched has turned to ash.” I quivered as I spoke. Each word would likely take years from my life. That was fine. There was no one left to live for. For the second time today, I was shocked by Nalgoth’s response “Yes. You are right.” He said the words with certainty. Again, the dreadful weight in his voice threatened to take me under. And again, I was unsure of what to say, what to do, or how to feel. “You say that you love us, but you also admit that everything you have done has caused nothing but misery. Why do you continue?” If I was going to die, I might as well get answers. “Ah, but I merely admitted that I am, in fact, a tyrant. And, that you are correct. Everything that I have touched has turned to ash. Do you know what ash is good for? It contains potassium, phosphorus, magnesium. Ash is a fertilizer. The forest must be burned to make room for saplings. I have split the tall oaks so that homes may be built in the future. Where the forest is burnt, new trees shall grow. Do not mistake my words, child. I need not convince you of my sincerity or the fervor of my belief. You too, have value to me. Your painting shows everything that I have loved about your people,” said Nalgoth. A part of me was sickened by his words. For a third time, I found myself unable to respond adequately. Nalgoth straightened, his head brushing against the ceiling. He somehow felt larger than the room. “We will speak again someday, child. I know that you wish to end your life but stay steadfast. I am sorry for the pain that I have brought you. One day, this will all be worth it. One day, we will live in harmony.” The fire in his eyes seemed to die down a little. He smiled, but it was not threatening. He seemed almost fatherly as he walked out the door.


A generic story about a spaceman and an AI. The AI is robotically professional for a while, but slowly, a personality emerges. It is friendly, and it tries to grow close to him. The AI was made by an acquaintance of the spaceman, whose daughter had a crush on him. When his daughter died, he created the AI so she could be with him. At first, the spaceman was uncomfortable with the knowledge that the AI was made specifically to love him. However, over the course of many missions, the spaceman falls in love with the AI anyway. Years pass, the spaceman becomes renowned for how long he had continued his work. Most of his peers retire after a few months, due to isolation induced delirium, AKA cabin fever. With the support of another being to keep him company, he far surpassed how long anyone else in his field of work had lasted. Over time, he became somewhat of a legend among recruits and staff. His last mission was to investigate a gravitational anomaly. Upon arrival, it was discovered that the gravity was caused by a previously unknown planet. More years passed, as he alone researched the planet, the journey too long to gain approval for funding and support. Finally, he had accumulated adequate data to return, and with his research, convince the government to approve an expedition. He left the planet, his propulsion set low to conserve fuel for the long trip. While his ship floated through space back to headquarters, he asked the AI, "Do you remember what we called this planet when we first arrived?" The AI responds, "I do not have a response." Confused by the unnatural tone, the spaceman tried rephrasing, only to get the same response. He continues asking questions, this time nonsensical, trying to get a response like, 'What are you talking about?' but it keeps saying the same thing. It wasn't some kind of sentient AI, it was a normal program, with scripted responses. Was the AI's creator gifted with such foresight that he could predict almost everything the spaceman would say, or had the AI been manipulating him, and led every conversation? Not willing to admit that his romantic relationship was fake, he tells himself that the AI must be broken, and it will respond to everything with, 'I do not have a response'. So he tries the one response he knows by heart: "I love you." "I love you more." "I love you." "I love you more." "I love you." "I love you more." "I love you." "I love you more." "I love you." "I love you more." A sentient AI or a person would get irritated and make him stop, but he keeps going. Some day, the AI will get mad at him. He never stopped saying, 'I love you'. He never left that spot. He never went back to the controls. He never adjusted his heading, increased power to the propulsion, or began landing procedures. He never returned.


It is 1912 in London, and a strange mood hung over the city. A pale moon hung in the sky as the dog-faced man walked along the docks. People didn’t look at him as he passed, something seeming to force them to avert their gaze. It's not just that the man was ugly, no no, as the few who looked at him even for a moment would swear he had some form of facial deformity, though none could say just what this deformity was… A woman's scream rings through the night, further into the dim backways of the city. *Did you hear that Eric?* Said the voice in his head. The man, Eric Fitzjekyl, stopped walking, and turned to look at a shop window. The Reflection in that mirror was not his own, rather a better, stronger, version of the man. His “deformity '' is completely gone, his mutton chops becoming a full beard. And rather than his ragged street clothes, this man wore a full, fine suit and tophat. “Yes Dandy, I heard it” *Well? Are we going to do something about it.* The reflection gestured in the scream’s direction. “It’s not my problem Dandy” *Now now, we talked about this. If you want me to go away for good, you have to try and start to be a gentleman. And a gentleman would not leave some woman to be harmed in the night.* “Dandy, what exactly do you expect me to do?” Eric looks to all the world like a lunatic as he talks to his reflection. “She’s liable to run as soon as she seems me!” *…Well* “No Dandy” *I’m just saying, she wouldn’t run from me* "No Dandy” *Look regardless of which of our fathers you may physically take after we both know you aren’t one to walk away from something like this without trying to help at the very least! And we both know I am far more well equipped to do so!* “Grr….FINE! But if I wake up in another suit that costs my entire week’s wages again, I will never let you out again!” Eric quickly ducks into an alley, and in a matter of moments, he begins spasming in the dark. His muscles swell, his hair straightens…his face almosts melts away, becoming a much more handsome version of itself, with a full beard rather than his usual muttonchops. Altogether, minus the lack of his suit, he became the spitting image of that odd reflection. *Make it quick and change back. Or at least get it over with and get me some dinner afterwards.* “Of course, of course,” His voice has deepened and changed, a far more proper air about it now. “I suppose you’ll want some form of meat and potatoes again? No matter, onto the task at hand” And, with a leap that can only be described as superhuman, this strange gentleman jumped to the roof of the nearest building, and began making his way towards where the scream had come from. Throughout all this, the barmaid who had screamed was running. She had managed to keep ahead of her attacker as he chased her, a glinting knife in his hand…“Come here kitten, I’ll make it nice and quick.” The man made no attempt to run, keeping a steady pace as he followed the woman, cornering her in his alleys, his hunting grounds. Let her tire herself running, it makes his work, his hunt all the easi- What was that? A shadow passed overhead, one of those new dirigibles maybe? Damn flying machines never made any damable sense to Jack. He almost lost the girl from the distraction, running around a corner…and then as he ran around it, he hit a wall. No. No, not a wall. A man. A man built like a wall.“Now what exactly is this then?” Jack watched as his quarry disappeared into the night, and with an almost animalistic growl he responded. “Oi! This doesn’t involve you. It's a domestic matter!” “A domestic matter? One you had been planning to solve with a hunting knife? If that’s how you handle domestic disputes I think it’s best I let that girl get away from you” “You damned git! I’m not dumb enough to travel these alleys at night una-” “Say, didn’t the papers say something about some murdered girls? Something about them being cut up with a hunting knife” The taller man, Dandy, grabbed Jack’s arm. “Perhaps we should take you and your little “self defense” knife down to the nearest station. I’m sure they’d have some questions for-” Jack suddenly plunged the knife into the side of the taller man. With a wince as some pain shifted through him he let go of the man’s arm. And Jack was off like a shot…before Dandy pulled the knife from his side, with nary a whisper, and bounded after him. “B-blimey. Blimey you aren’t human! What the devil are y-” With a rugby tackle, Jack was brought to the ground, his own knife now plunged into his thigh. And he screamed. He screamed like a damnable banshee. He kept screaming as Dandy pulled the knife back out, and dragged the bleeding man to the nearest police station. Eric Fitzjekyl woke up the next morning in a cheap boarding house. He tended to black out after a bit of Dandy being in control… This is a surprisingly soft bed. “Dandy, if you’re about to tell me you spent our entire pay on this room I’m going to-” *Relax!* Dandy is once again in the mirror *The police had an award out for anyone who caught that gentleman last night. A substantial one. Someone should be bringing you breakfast in about 20 minutes* “...I don’t look anything like the man who would of called for tha-”*I told them you were my younger brother.* “...We shouldn’t keep doing that” Eric felt his side where Dandy had been stabbed, the wound already healed, its scar fading fast. “One of these days you’ll get stabbed somewhere you won’t be able to heal from” *We shouldn’t but we both know we’re going to keep doing it* “What makes you so sure”*Because I know you. And I know as long as you're alive, you’re going to keep being the single good thing that Edward Hyde ever put in this world, Eric.* “...


She really didn’t want to wake up. "Maybe if I kept sleeping, I could convince my mom I was just really tired, maybe she’d give up on waking me up” she thought in vain. “Hazel, come on, your dad needs help in the fields. Please don’t make your poor, poor mother break her back out?” The teenager refused to buy her bluff, thinking this to be the mother’s usual form of guilt tripping. She's too strong to break her back in the fields. “I’ll be forced to go to the city by myself for the supplies, you don’t want your poor mo-” “You’re going to the city?” Hazel instantly bolted out of her bed, black hair pointing in however direction hair could physically point. She loved the idea of going to the city. Skyscrapers that would pierce the air above, the Irynwood smokestacks spewing smoke into the sky, nothing like this rinky dinky farm town. Her eyes hurt to open, crust gluing the lids shut, quickly removed with a hasty wipe of her arms. As her eyes opened unhindered, before her was her mother, built well by a life of farming with her flowing black locks and a smug smile on her face, arms crossed and eyebrow raised, her gray skin dirtied by work. “So Hazel’s finally awake, eh? Brilliant, now you can help your father in the field. He’s already got the supplies from the city an hour ago.” Her mouth was agape, offended by the deception- her own mother had turned against her! “Oh come on! Deceiver!” At this blatant deception, Hazel refused to engage with this and buried her head into my pillow, the pillow covering her ears as she tried to tune out any future lies her mother would use against me. This was of course in vain as she threw Hazel on her shoulder, pillow and all. “Hey, Ajax! I got the sloth right here!” “Thanks, Palma!” Hazel’s resistance was futile, she dropped her pillow before Palma managed to bring Hazel out of the farmhouse. The sky was dank as usual, specks of light from various directions providing the luminescence. Perhaps there was a megapede ominously arching somewhere, roaring, providing the soft but ubiquitous wind coming from all directions, all thoughts Hazel ran through her head to prepare herself for the day. In the field outside her home, burrowed into one of the giant trees that spread in all directions as far as the eye can see, was Hazel’s father, tending to the mushrooms. They were entering their mature stage, about three halves the size of her dad, standing with overalls, biceps that could decapitate any other Alva, gray skin with blue and red flecks. He could just barely clean them of parasites that would threaten the yield. “Howdy, Hazel. Have a nice rest?” “I guess, dad,” Hazel groaned as Ajax tossed her some boots to put on. Hazel knew that since he was tending the mushrooms, she’d have to help with the parasite cleaning. She inwardly cursed. Palma laid Hazel down on the ground delicately, dirt dirtying her back and the gray skin of her neck, facing upwards, her eyes half open and forcing her face into its best pout. Hazel resigned to just stare upwards at the layers separating the various zones of the forest. Her nightvision eyes could barely make out the sprawling leaves and branches that support megapedes and ants and whatever insects decided to live there, looking down from above. Meanwhile there her and her family, at the bottom of the forest. “Hey slowpoke, mind giving me a hand with these worms?” Her dad poked me with a stick. Hazel could only hope it wasn’t *that* stick. Her dad then proceeded to hand Hazel a stick, one that Hazel decided to consider as a completely *different* stick, and pulled her up. She reluctantly agreed and got to parasite hunting. Might as well take advantage of her awakened state. Hazel knew of a game humans played on the Highlands, one called “whack-a-flea”. These fleas come out of boxes and they hit them with a stick. This was the one thing that made this chore a bit fun. Hazel steeled my eyes, assuming a fighting stance she saw in a book once, a book on some human dueling style called “fencing”. She waited for those worms to come out, ready to face her unrelenting wrath. Hazel’s black eyes saw activity on the stem, she followed it diligently and he showed his ugly face, poking out of the flesh! She stabbed it with her stick and it died immediately, the stick impaling its disgusting form. She drew the stick back with a flourish, dropping the worm unceremoniously on the ground. Victory, Hazel thought. She moved onto the next mushroom, any worms that were still in the last mushroom would fall out the hole, and Hazel and her dad could kill them as needed. Track, wait, slash. Track, wait, slash. She’d go on for sixteen of the mushrooms, her dad the other sixteen. The way her dad worked was… a bit different. Hazel thought it was pretty gross, it was almost like he wrestled the worms out of the mushroom. Occasionally Hazel’s mother would swoon at this display of bravado, because nothing’s more appealing than using one’s biceps to force out worms from mushrooms. Hazel decided that she was the more stylish one. Hazel finished first, so she just waited around for her dad to finish punching a worm’s face in. “There’s stew inside, dear.” “Your apology is accepted,” Hazel mentioned as she walked inside with large strides. There on the stove Hazel saw the stewpot, various bits of mushrooms and meat floating about, still warm. Hazel took the ladle and poured herself a bowl, bringing it down on the table. She grabbed the chair, and sat down in it, looking out the windows to a forest of hidden creatures. Maybe if she focused hard enough, she can see the Old Gods who might still live there. She sipped her soup, a welcome taste to finish up work. Looking to her side, she saw her mother sitting on the porch, watching her father. She could see him through the window, doing various poses with the dead worm. Hazel’s mother was howling in laughter, and so was my father. Silly and gross as it is, she thought it was pretty funny to see him threaten to consume the foot long worm creature. “Oh- uh- sorry Mr. and Mrs. Kielsen! Ah no, the mushrooms, dammit!” Hazel heard a voice outside wail in despair. A muscular Alva with light gray skin, red flecks under his eyes, stumbled into the house, just barely fitting the doorway with his immense and buff frame, stains on his shirt and trousers. “Hey, Pace,” Hazel casually waved with two fingers. The Alva raised his hand in greeting. “How is the greenhouse project?” Hazel asked. It’s all he’s been talking about these past few cycles. “It’s going great, come on, we need to get supplies!” Pace grabbed Hazel’s hand, who left her almost-finished soup on the table. “Hey Pace, my soup!” Hazel yanked her hand back from his grip and she began sipping the last of her soup, staring judgmentally. He apologized, but Hazel didn't hear it over the sound of her judgmental slurping. “Okay, I’m done. What is it, Pace?” “I need fertilizer, the soil doesn’t have the right microbiome. I need nutrients to grow a culture so that the mushrooms can have the best yield. No more time, let’s goooo!” Pace yanked Hazel again and the youths exited the front door. “Going somewhere, dearies?” Hazel’s mother asked, “Some fertilizer stuff,” Hazel yelled out. Pace stopped in his tracks, realizing the obvious. “Uh, Mr. Kielsen, where’s the carriage? Hazel and I are going to the city.” Hazel’s dad, who apparently had long finished his extermination task, was sitting with her mother now. “Out in the stables, boy. What do you need? I went this morning, perhaps I got it?” “Ah, I need half a sack of Palver’s solution, a sample of luminescent kelp, a bag of luxwood crystals-” “Yeah, no, take the carriage. We’ll see you later, son.” Hazel smiled inwardly as her journey to the city was assured. However, her dad put a hand on Pace’s shoulders and he stopped. Crouching to Hazel’s height, her dad began his usual warning. “Be careful, Hazel. We don’t know if there are rogues on the path to the city. Y’know how much trade there is.” I smiled to comfort him. “I know dad, I’ll be careful.” He put on a strained smile and patted Hazel’s shoulder. “Fight on, Hazel. We’ll see ya for dinner.” She gave a thumbs up to my dad, and she waved goodbye to her mother who watched calmly. Pace grabbed Hazel’s hand again gently, and they went to the stables. Jalon was resting, the saddle already set. Ajax just forgot to take it off last time. “Come on, girl. Let’s go,” Hazel said to the molerat. She finally got up with what seemed like a yawn, Hazel, inept with animals, wasn’t sure. When Hazel finished getting Jalon up, she got on the molerat’s back and Pace sat behind Hazel. “Cool, let’s go now.” Pace gave a sound of agreement and the two set off to the city.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them using the new form!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Song: ** *Bonus Constraint (worth 5 extra pts.) - Story features a non-human character.* This week’s challenge is to use **the above song as inspiration** for your story. You can use the song itself, the name, the images in the video, or . The bonus constraint is not required. You may interpret the media prompt any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you **follow all sub and post rules**.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit a story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by Sunday 11:59pm EST. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** Do not downvote other stories on the thread. Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until 2pm EST Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday, after the story submission deadline.) - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on our Discord server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide verbal feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome! - Nominations are now made . (See the Rules section of the post for more information.)   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown: - **Use of Constraint:** 10 points - **Upvotes:** 5 points each - ***Actionable* Feedback** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Bonus:** Up to 10 pts. (This applies to things like bonus constraints and making user nominations)   *** #Rankings - - Submitted by u/Jurassic_Snark2   - - Submitted by u/MeganBessel   - - Submitted by u/wandering_cirrus   - - Submitted by u/nobodysgeese *** ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


"Tommy, how are you doing tonight?" John doesn't have time to put on his shirt so he covers his chest with his arms. Tommy walks closer dripping water on the ground. The fire that John built is crackling while burning his plumage; a small pile of feathers is next to him. John moves it under his body with his leg. "Not much, just decided to go out for a swim. What are you doing?" Tommy sits on the ground next to him. "I thought it was a lovely night to built a fire," John replies. "That's true." Tommy reaches to the ground and picks up a feather. "Are you roasting a turkey?" "No, it must've fallen from a bird earlier." John notices one of his feathers is sticking out from his armpit. John scratches to keep it hidden. "It doesn't look like a feather from any bird in the area." Tommy hands it to John to take. John adjusts his arm and grabs it. He fakes an inspection. "I don't know anything about bird. All I know is that I hate when the chirp outside my window in the morning and wake me up," John says. "I love birdwatching. There isn't much else to do around here." "In that case, you are probably excited about seeing a new bird." John hands the feather back. "It looks like it came from a tropical bird. They tend have to have brighter feathers whereas the species native to here tend to have more subdued colors." "Maybe its the light from the campfire?" John cringes. Bright feathers are a symbol of youth and vitality in his species. Their skin doesn't wrinkle and inspecting plumage is the primary means to determine age. "No way, this thing is bright green for sure. It looks like it came from a parrot." "Oh no, does that mean we have to be on the look-out for pirates?" John sweats. Why won't Tommy just leave. "Very funny, but I doubt pirates go to the middle of the forest." "Maybe the parrot just migrated. I hear they adore crackers." "Migration." Tommy sets the feather down and shakes his head. "I had a talk with Diane today about the lasting environmental impacts of the Mieran invasion. We don't really have any information so it was mostly speculation, but parrots weren't migratory birds. If they did migrate and they migrated here, that could be a sign of larger issues." "Maybe it escaped from a pet store. Don't you and Diane have a pet cat?" John tries to change the subject desperately. "Deb ran away last week. Diane is pissed about it," Tommy says. "Oh, that sucks. Maybe the cat is nearby." John suppresses his smile "I doubt it. That cat has probably been killed by a wolf or something. Even if I did it find it. Diane would still be mad at me." "Why would she be mad at you?" "I don't know. She and I have just been drifting apart and arguing a lot more recently." Tommy looks at John. "You've always been a good man. Can I tell you a secret?" "Sure." John says as he scratches his chest where his nipples should be. "I've started having an affair with Lindsay." Tommy looks at the fire. "I know I'm trash. I was at her place before I started swimming tonight." "Oh, that's not good. How does Lindsay feel about this?" John laughs at how small Tommy's secret is. "Lindsay and Diane have never gotten along so I'm sure Lindsay enjoys that she is torturing Diane, and Diane will probably be even more angry that I cheated on her with Lindsay." "I really don't know what to say." "It's fine. I just need someone to listen." Tommy looks at the night. "When Diane and I first started dating, I always felt good about myself around her. Now, I just feel like a failure. Lindsay makes me feel better." "What do you mean?" "Diane is incredibly smart, and she makes me feel like an idiot sometimes. She is also very particular and organized. Lindsay isn't a slob, but she understands that messes happen." Tommy starts to cry. "Who I am kidding. I am just making excuses for my own shitty behavior." "Don't say that." John rubs Tommy's shoulder. Tommy looks over at him. He jumps back in shock. "Where are your nipples dude?" John looks down. "It's not what it looks like." John holds his hands up to defuse the situation. "Are those green feathers under your armpit?" Tommy spots the feathers that John was hiding. "Oh my god, you are the parrot. Are you a spy for the Mierans?" "No, I love humanity and hate the Mierans." "I don't believe you," Tommy walks away. Without thinking, John runs over and grabs Tommy's neck. Tommy begins to struggle, but John is much stronger than he. Within a few seconds, he's dead. John weeps over his body. He hasn't killed anyone since he was free of Mieran influence, but his safety comes first. And he will ensure that he stays safe.


Dark Angel.  As she climbed the stairs up to the third floor, Staci glanced at her watch. It was 3:00 am, and she was tired from playing since ten at the club. She unlocked the apartment door and there was Benny, happy as always to see her. Benny was Staci's Jack Russel terrier.  "Hey, Benny. What are you doing up so early in the morning?"  Benny jumped up and down, waiting to be picked up. Staci stood her guitar case against the wall. She removed the purple wig and the Glock from her belly band, then turned to pick Benny up.  "I suppose you are hungry? What say, we both have a snack before bed?"  Benny’s response was to lick her face from top to bottom. She put him down in the kitchen, cut open a packet of dog food and emptied it in Benny's bowl. She poured a small bit of milk over his dog food. She filled a small dish of cereal for herself and sprinkled some blueberries on top.  She stood by the open window staring down at the empty street. There was always something so calming about the early morning darkness. Her eye caught a disturbance at an apartment across the way. A man and a woman appeared to be fighting about something.  The man was handsome, wavy brown hair and well dressed. It made Staci feel happy that she was not involved with anyone, except Benny. Suddenly she saw the man grab the woman, a large knife was in his hand. It was over in a few seconds as the man let her drop out of sight to the floor.  At that same instant, the man looked out the window, across the way and spotted Staci standing at the window. Staci quickly stepped back away from the window. All the lights went off in the other apartment. Staci knew it wouldn't be hard for the man to find her apartment. She whispered softly.  "Shit! I don't believe this happened to me."  Staci grabbed the black case from the closet and tossed it on the bed. Benny knew what that meant. He immediately took shelter under the chair. She opened the case, picked up the M9A2 and the silencer. She slid the clip in and cycled the slide.  Benny cocked his head and looked out from under the chair. Staci smiled.  “Yes Benny, we’re going to move again.”  The man made his way up the stairs and onto the third floor. He could see light coming from under the door of Staci's apartment. Slowly taking a knife from his pocket, he silently made his way toward the door. Suddenly, the lights in Staci's apartment went off.  Now the man was faced with a choice. Break into an unknown apartment in the dark, with someone waiting inside, or wait for a better time. He chose a better time.  Staci had to move, and move quickly before the killer came back. She couldn’t allow him find her. She called a friend in the band, and he located a place for her to stay temporarily.  She quietly moved in with everything she had, including Benny. Benny was used to moving from place to place, he had no problem familiarizing himself with his new home.  Staci switched the television to the 12:00 o'clock news while she fixed Benny his afternoon meal.  “*In local news, county commissioner Jerry Nelson announced, he will be running for reelection*.”  There he was, plain as day. Staci stared quietly at the television screen.  “*Mr. Nelson told this reporter, women’s rights would be his top priority in this election*.”  Staci switched off the television. It was time to give him a call.  "I saw you kill that woman. I go to the police, unless you bring $100,000 to the old cannery on Mason street, tomorrow midnight."  Staci remained in the shadows out of sight. The door slowly creaked open. It was commissioner Nelson, with a hand bag. He stopped and put the bag down on the small table.  "I have your money. You can come out now."  "Back away from the table."  Jerry stepped back.  “You have a lot of moxie lady! Extorting me for money, then meeting me out here alone in this old warehouse.”  Staci remained in the darkness behind the crates.  “I have no use for your money. It's my cover I care about.”  Jerry laughed.  “You think I was stupid enough to come here alone? I just buzzed my body guard on the phone.”  Staci stepped out from behind the crate, with the pistol in her hand.  “Don’t bother, he's not coming.”  \####  Staci was coming back from the kitchen when the phone rang. The clock on the wall was at ten after two. A man's voice was on the other end.  “Is your little setback handled?”  Staci rubbed Benny’s belly as she sat down on the bed  “Yes. We can get on with our business now.”  “Good. The Jet is at the airport waiting for you. Say hello to Benny for me.”  End.