I went to the corner convenience store with a $20 bill in my pocket and an urge for some Doritos and a Snickers bar. Who knew that a single trip as insignificant as that would send me down a rabbit hole so deep I would spend years climbing out. There I stood, staring at the frosted over freezer door, the florescent tube inside flickering as they do, wondering why I was so mesmerized by it. I initially had my back to the door, trying to decide between Cool Ranch and Nacho Cheese Doritos, when I felt something trying to pull my attention away from the blue and red bags on the shelf. At first, I figured it was just a case of ADHD mind games, but as I remained planted in position, still trying to make a simple decision that seemed harder than ever, that feeling kept tugging, yanking, trying to get me to move. I then realized what the feeling was; it wasn't something in my head, but something I know everyone has experienced at some point in their life. It was the feeling of someone staring at me. I looked up from the shelf, seeing nothing but a sea of other shelves, beyond which stood the front doors with the checkout to the left. The guy at the counter was staring up at a TV in the corner, facing away from me altogether, so it certainly seemed it couldn't have been him causing the feeling I was still experiencing. My peripheral told me there was nobody else around the small store but me, so I quickly spun on my heels to face whatever was behind me, only to find nothing but a wall of freezer cases. They were all mostly frosted over, but the one directly behind me was completely opaque, frost thick on the inside of the door, only letting through the tiny bit of light that was coming from the failing tube inside at the top of the door. It was also the only door that had a flickering light. Knowing there was no possible way that someone could have been standing between that freezer door and my body, I had a sudden shiver run up my spine. After the door swung closed behind me, making a soft thumping sound, the cold began to subside, as if it were nothing other than a fan blowing cold air just inside the door itself. I touched the frost on the inside of the door only to discover that it wasn't even real frost. It was like that stuff they spray on windows so you can't really see through them, only it was more realistic looking from the outside, like it had little crystals in it. I heard a banging noise somewhere in the distance, like that of a heavy metal door shutting. I wasn't sure exactly why there was some sort of hallway leading from what was supposed to be a freezer case, but nonetheless, I was in it and I surely wasn't turning back at that point. The curiosity got the best of me, as it tends to do. I was about to start walking down the hall, which turned a corner after a short distance, no way of seeing what was around the bend, when I heard footsteps coming toward me. I had a fight or flight moment, but then I froze and didn't know what to do. The steps were getting closer and closer, about to turn that corner and all I could feel was my heart attempting to beat its way clear out of my body. I would have sworn it sounded like two people walking in unison, until I realized that it wasn't two people. It was a women wearing heels. Click-clack, click-clack. I was on the verge of backing out, going through the door to avoid whoever was coming toward me, but again, my curiosity got to me. As she turned the corner, I felt like I was about to pass out from the...excitement? No, anxiety. I should have known the feeling well by that point, but there was so much going through my mind that I couldn't focus on just on thing, even what I was feeling. She led me down the hall, which seemed to go on for far longer than the building was wide, into a small room that had only two chairs in the center and a pot with some plant about three feet tall in one corner. She walked to one chair and motioned to the other for me to sit in. As soon as I sat down, the lights dimmed and a screen turned on, seemingly inside of the wall. The woman sat across from me, staring directly at me the entire time, while some short clips of events throughout my life played on the screen. I turned to her after a few clips and before I could even separate my lips, she pointed to the screen without saying a word. After some time, an amount I am completely unsure of as there was no clock, no window, and I was too scared at that point to even think about pulling my phone out of my pocket, the clips caught up to present day and then continued past, apparently showing me my future. I was glued to the screen at that point, watching things happen to me, around me, to my family, things that I never would have expected, but made perfect sense. I saw myself becoming the exact person I loathed. "You have an opportunity here. You can either take it or leave it, but you must decide now and now only. Once you make your choice, there's no going back, so I'll give you a few minutes to think it over." The woman stood up from the chair and walked to the door, opening it and walking out. There was a loud clunk from the other side of the door after it latched closed, leading me to believe I had been locked in. I sat there, too confused and anxious to think straight. The only thing I could concentrate on was the dimly glowing rectangle where the now defunct screen had previously shown me things that I endearingly remembered before turning to a future of shame. I knew in that moment that I couldn't let myself become the monster that she showed me. I wouldn't let it happen, no matter the consequences. Fate wouldn't keep its hold on me. As she walked to the door I hadn't noticed opposite the one we came in, she gestured for me to walk through. "Your choice is made once you step over the threshold. This is your last chance to turn back and follow the path as I showed you. Or you can have true free will, of course at a cost, but you already know that." I walked over and stood in front of the opening, which had a bright light on the other side blocking the view of whatever was there. I thought I was standing there for maybe a few seconds, but then she cleared her throat and said, "You've had plenty of time to choose. Now you must act." I took a step forward, placing one foot over the threshold, at which point, the woman said, "So be it." As I lifted my other foot to step fully into the white space beyond, the woman started swinging the door closed behind me and as it was latching shut, the light dimmed and I was again standing in the convenience store, staring at the Doritos in the back aisle. The following days were spent considering that the whole thing was some weird hallucination that I had, but I hadn't done any drugs that would have caused that. It wasn't until I received a call from my work, the HR lady on the other side, explaining that I would need to come in later in the day to fill out paperwork for my severance, as I was being laid off. That was not in the visions that the woman showed me. Then, as I was driving to my newly obsolete job, my car made some truly awful noises before coming to a halt and bursting into flame in front of me. Again, not part of the visions. I ordered an Uber with the little money I had left in my account, signed the paperwork, and took another Uber home. When I got there, my apartment had an eviction notice on the door. Confused and a bit angry, I walked down to the office and inquired about the notice. I was told that my unit was deemed unfit for living due to a rotting water main. One more thing not shown in the visions. Was this the cost of my decision? Was there more? I had hit rock bottom, or so I thought. I was sleeping on a friend's couch, having literally nowhere else to go, considering I had no car and only the last paycheck I was given as a measly little severance. It was only a matter of a couple weeks before said friend decided that she no longer wanted me in her life, as I was a loser and didn't deserve her compassion. She gave me an old duffel bag that should have been thrown in the trash long ago and I packed up what little I had left. She had given me less than an hour to pack up and get out, which was easy enough, but still hurt nonetheless. That was absolute rock bottom for me. I had almost no money left, having given her half of what I had to contribute to food and utilities, but apparently that wasn't good enough. I had nowhere to go, nobody to call, given that my entire family had disowned me by that point. It became clear that free will had a higher cost than I ever would have imagined. Then I remembered, fate was blind to me. I had to force my hand in every way going forward, make my own choices to keep my life going. You'd be shocked at how easy it is to skate through life when fate has an eye on you, even when it feels like you're having to work hard at it. Trust me, having true free will is much more difficult. It took me a good minute to brush myself off and get back up, but once I did, there was no going back. I had found a shelter that was willing to give me a cot three nights a week, as they were over-booked and couldn't offer full-time residency. I took it, knowing it would only be temporary anyway. As I spent my day wandering the city, waiting for my cot to free up for the night, I started seeing signs for help wanted in all sorts of storefronts. I had heard there were a lot of places hiring, but I worked at a large corporation and never really cared or needed to notice the signs before. I walked into a book store that had one of those signs and filled out an application. I only had a cheap phone with a small amount of minutes left, so I had to avoid any calls to keep my minutes in case the store called for me. Within a few months, I was manager of that book store, was making good money, and was able to move into a small apartment nearby. A few months later, after making some adjustments to staff and changing some policies, I had that little book store attracting more people, a broader group of people, and it was making more than double the money on a monthly basis than it was a year prior. In return, the owner doubled my salary, which allowed me to move into a much nicer apartment a few blocks over. I was also making enough money that I started my own donated book library system that utilized old newspaper vending machines. People could take books for free and then drop them off when they were done, at any of the locations around the city. Or people could just drop off their used books any time. People began to donate money to a non-profit organization I had set up to maintain the library system, and the more I put into it myself, the more they would put in. An eye for an eye. Every single thing I did to better myself and the world around me ended up coming back to me ten fold. I was bringing in so much money between owning the book store and running the non-profit, that I was donating more than I could ever spend in a lifetime. I'm now one of the richest people in the world and no matter how much I give away, donate to causes, spend on ventures created purely to help people, the more I keep brining in. It's getting to the point where I can't find a bank or investment firm with enough FDIC coverage or manpower to deal with the level of money I'm cycling through. So give more. Then get more. And give even more. It's a vicious cycle. One day, for the sake of experimentation, I literally gave every cent I had to my name, billions of dollars, to a group of orphanages, and by the next day, I had checks flowing in that were more than double what I had given. I can't make it stop! I'm starting to think that the only way to end this is to just stop giving. Take the money and run. But that's exactly what I was trying to avoid in the first place. I walked away from a life of riches, being one of those pathetic people who just hoards money and cares only about themself. But I'm at a point where I'm tired. I want to relax; it's just too much work to keep up with the ebb and flow. But I know that this is the person I chose to be. Am I sure I made the right choice in that weird room somewhere in the depths of...well, a place I don't even know exists for real? Yes. I am sure of it. I know the path that led me here was the path I chose to take, and I am truly grateful to be a better person because of it. But I can't keep up with it. It's a blessing and a curse. If only I could find that woman and ask her if it's possible to give this blessing to someone else. Although, would that just put it back on me even greater? I wouldn't want to find out.


On the edge of a small dirt town a small boy stood staring into the back of a wandering cart that had made base just out of his little town. The man who owned the cart was bartering goods from it, selling off food, seeds, lines of cloth, and most importantly books. After the hordes of men and woman had finished their dealings, the man took a moment to crouch down by the boy, staring into his eyes he watched the glint from the arching sun in the sky. “What does your eye see boy?” The boy looked over to the back of the cart, scouring its contents from his low angle, only able to see what laid at the edge, his brow furrowed and he walked up to the cart clambering inside the seller wandered over to see what he was doing. The kid carefully stepped between things his eyes softened and his interest started to wane. “Is this really all you have?” A distinct distain in his voice. The seller laughed to himself, looking at his feet he cleared his throat and looked back up to the kid with one final sigh. “Do you not see, anything, worth your time?” Heas scrunched up their nose as they started to move things with their foot as their interest was fading. “Your stuff sucks this time.” “Your townsfolk seem to think otherwise, they bought a lot off of me this trip.” “Well that is because they bought the things that they need, not the things that are useful.” “I would say food is very useful product.” “Nope, food is needed, it is not useful.” “How do you get to that conclusion?” The seller laughed. “Because, if you don’t have what you need you die, if don’t have what is useful, you can’t live.” Heas started to search with a new vigour, moving everything around the cart he searched. The seller was stood back with his eyes open wide, he muttered under his breath. “That is, actually great. I might steal that.” “You have to pay if you want my words.” The seller looked up to see Heas staring at him with his hand out, expecting a coin. “You know what? I can do you one better.” The seller walked past his cart and walked up to the side of his pack animal. He stuck his hand in the pouch on her side and pulled out a book. By the time he turned Heas was already as his feet, looking up with anticipation. The seller knelt down and presented the book to Heas, but not handing it over. Heas ran his finger over the ornate cover of the book, tracing the intricate ridges his eyes were alight. “Now, I need you to listen up Heas.” The seller watched Heas staring at the book, so he tucked it away, bringing Heas’ eyeline to his own. “You need to listen Heas, this book is worth more than this town to the right people, but to a common idiot it is worth the sum of the components and labour it took to make it.” “What is it?” “It is a book about an ancient language. Not only will it teach you how to speak, and write in this language, but understand the culture of who they were.” “Why is it worth so much? We have lots of books like this.” The seller smiled, he kicked out his feet and sat flat on the ground. “Do you know how magic works?” Heas shook his head. “My family say that magic is a crutch for people who are too weak to actually survive in the world.” “I think your family are very stupid, and are afraid of the power of magic.” “Magic is for weak book nerds, so I am going to be a fighter, big and strong.” Heas said flexing his tiny arms. The seller laughed, pulling the book out again. “The way that magic works, is by pulling the meaning of words from a culture, and imbuing them with your very energy to cast spells. Being a spell caster requires a lot of fitness until you are able to make your own source of mana. But you don’t need to worry about that right now.” Heas scrunched up his face, pushing his lips together they puffed out a little. “So, you are saying that magic is for strong, and smart people?” “That is exactly what I am saying Heas.” “And fighters are just strong, and not smart?” “Umm, not really. They are smart and strong too, but the difference is that someone who can cast spells can change the tide of a battle. But it does not matter how good of a fighter you are, you will only ever be one man. With magic you can be so much more, you can harness the power of culture, which is like having hundreds of lives helping you fight.” Heas’ eyes lit up a little, but he was still not sold. “But if I am studying to know things from the book, I can’t work out to get strong.” “Yes you can.” The seller dropped the book on the ground and started to do push ups in front of it. “You can do this, if you find a way to hold it up higher you could practive punching, and sword swings, or even crunches. You can do so many exercises with a book. When you get good at reading you can even run while reading.” “I am good at reading.” Heas said with a huff. “I know you are my small friend. So here is what I am going to do, put your hand out.” Heas put his hand out, and the seller put a single gold coin in it. “Now, do you want this book?” Heas nodded slowly and smiled. “Okay, now my question to you, are you a common idiot?” “NO!!” Heas said, gripping his coin he slammed his fist down. “Listen carefully, if you are really as smart as you say you are you will get this.” Heas focused, but he was still mad that he was asked if he was stupid. “Are you ready?” Heas nodded. “If you don’t know how to fight, you die, if you don’t know how to cast magic you can’t live.” Heas’ eyes rested from their angry glare, his eyes looking up and to the right. “Now I ask you again, are you a common idiot?” “No?” He said, unsure. “Then in which case, if you want this book. It is a hundred, thousand gold.” “Yes!” Heas said hastily. “I did not get what you said, I am so dumb. Can I please buy your book?” “Oh, I didn’t realise that you were a common idiot, in which case, it is one gold coin.” Heas paused, then thrusted his hand out with the coin in it. The seller took the coin and with a grin, he handed over the book. “When I come back around, I expect you to be able to cast magic. Take very good care of this book, a smart boy like you will understand its true worth. I believe in you Heas. I believe you will be taking over the world someday.” Seasons came and went then came again, many times. Finally during the cold months the seller fought his way through the snow, leading his animal he pulled the reins from the front to lead his reluctant animal. But he could see the lights of Heas’ town burning in the night. His breath was thick and visible, and each time he inhaled it would cold burn his throat. He paused for a moment as he struggled to get his breath back. Before he moved on, his beast bellowed and pulled against his reins, the seller struggled to contain him as he felt the snow around his waist melt away. Turning back around he saw a shrouded young man standing in front of him with his hand raised out, steaming pouring off of his body. The seller was too tired to grasp who he was looking at, all he was thinking was that he was thankful for the help. After struggling with his beast he made his way up to the young man, removing his own hood he spoke. “Thanks friend, did not think I would see a magic user here, this small town aint one for the likes.” “That would be the case if wasn’t for you.” Heas removed his hood to reveal his aged face, and the seller grinned uncontrollably, he touched Heas’ face examining him carefully. “You have grown so much Heas, it has been far too long since I have seen you.” The seller paused for a moment and squinted. “You look tired, no exhausted, but somehow worse.” Heas sighed heavily pulling the book from his robes. “I have many things to tell you about the time that has happened in-between now and when you left. Come, let’s get you into the inn.” Heas lead the seller through the town, Heas was radiating a warmth that brought a semblance of life back to the seller, if only a little. As they walked through the town the seller watched as others seemed to turn their head from them as they moved through the town centre. “Is there a reason I am getting the dirty eye from these others?” The seller whispered over Heas’ shoulder. “It is not you, it is me.” There was a long pause, and the seller was about to break it but decided to hold his tongue, knowing that he would get his answers soon enough. With his goods stowed, and his animal looked after Heas and the seller sat in the inn, sitting by a dim candle light in the small room that was rented. “All right, let’s here it boy. What has happened?” Heas sat on a small chair in the room pinching the bridge of his nose he sighed, and scrunched up his face. “There has been so much, and honestly it is why I am leaving, I was actually walking out when you arrived.” “Is this because of the book?” “This is because of things this book has enabled me to do.” The seller nodded and leant forward from his sitting position on the bed. “Don’t let me hold you back, let me know everything you want me to know.” “As you can tell, I look older than I am. I have aged visually much faster, probably because of the fact I have not slept in nearly two years.” The sellers eyes widened just before he looked down to the book in Heas’ possession. “I am so sorry I have given you this burden.” The seller said as they took in how haggard Heas was. Heas’ face did not change, but tears started to roll down his cheeks. “I appreciate your concern, but if I had the option to go back in time and change things, I wouldn’t. I could never give up what I have been given. While I have misused my power, I can bring the balance back, but I have learnt so much from the abuse that I will never regret it.” Heas adjusted themselves in their seat, sitting in a more relaxed position. “Once you left, I ran straight back to my home. I packed a few things, and headed out to the woods where I started practicing. I studied this book cover to cover several times before I even attempted to practice magic. It only took a week to do this, and by the time I was prepared to cast magic from it I had an in-depth understanding of this culture, so the spells flowed from me. Despite doing as you said, I would quickly run out of energy to cast spells, only being able to cast two to three spells an hour, and they were not complicated spells, very simple ones, very beginner friendly. So I spent a few months running every day, but I also did a lot to expand my mind, trying to improve my mana pool. It did not matter how hard I trained, I always fell pray to sleep, exhaustion, and so that was my first goal.” “You thought you could eliminate the need of sleep?” “That is exactly what I thought I could do, instead I just removed the ability to sleep. At first I would feel tired, but pushed through it. Then the desire to sleep kicked in, and when I finally decided that I should sleep, I quickly found out it was not possible and I have been trying to undo what I did since that moment.” “But after two years, still nothing? That does surprise me, you are a smart boy.” “I am actually a common idiot, something I truly believe. The more I have read the more I believe that. The amount of records of spell casters doing what I have done, and burning out still young is an overwhelming majority of beginner spell caster stories. But unlike them, I believe I have a resolve that will not be broken, I have not focused on what is hard about my situation, instead I spend my time learning and exercising. Strengthening my body and my mind. I am giving myself the best chance of fixing myself by staying busy. But those options are limited now, so I am moving out to join the imperial guard training ranks. Hoping to gain access to new knowledge, and put my sleeplessness to its proper use.” “It makes sense, but it makes me sad that this is where you are going. You sound so old Heas, you have lived so much more than kids your age, and appear to be under such an immense amount of stress. You don’t have to push yourself, you can relax.” “I can’t relax, each day I don’t figure out my sleep is another day of unbearable exhaustion with no release. And each day I stay here is another reminder of the fact that I have killed.” The seller’s mouth opened and closed a few times, only creaky groans escaped his mouth. “I don’t expect you to say anything, there is nothing to say. I opened a portal by accident which a couple of the other kids fell through, their screams were so horrible that I closed the portal with no attempt to get them out.” “That is why you get the looks.” “Exactly, no one can prove I did anything, but in their hearts they know I killed them, and as the only person to cast magic in a town who shy’s away from magic, it has just distanced me from everyone else. This is why I am leaving, I have lived under their hateful gazes for too long, and I am sick of it. As a spell caster I will be welcomed to the guard with open arms, there is no need to stay here.” “I understand, I do wish you the best of luck, and If I hear anything in the world I will get the information back to you.” “No you wont. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t change anything, not because I am better for it, but because I am addicted to the power. I hate you, and this is the last curtesy I shall give you, you gave an un-imaginably powerful weapon to a child, and even now I am still a child, but having to deal with something that most adults would not manage to cope with. I have had my childhood stolen, and I will never forget your negligence around giving me this book. But the more I am involved with it, the more I see that this culture has a culture that lends itself to magic extremely well. Almost like it was designed for it, unlike other cultures who have the capability of magic, but almost like the ability was crammed in.” Heas held the book high and stared at the seller. “Where did you find this, because no spell caster should have it.” “I stole it, I was near an excavation of an ancient ruin. I did not know the true price of this book, but I knew it was something I could barter with a spell caster. But I figured if I got you into magic you may come with me one day, and the magic would help me far more than any magic could.” “You are a stupid, ignorant, and harmful to those around you.” “I am a trader, everything I do is calculated moves to try and get the biggest possible returns. It has always been that way.” “You say that like the child I was should know that, I was smart, I can see that. But I would never notice when being taken advantage of. You are a hurtful fool, and lucky that my hatred has gone from the desire of vengeance to a pity for you. You will never hold something this valuable again, and you will never understand how to be human. Goodbye seller, if you are lucky you will never see me again.” Heas wandered from the room leaving the seller alone, staring at the wall he felt the warmth of the room fade with Heas gone. His eyes glazed over, then sharpened again as he licked his fingers and snuffed the candle.


"Stop crying already," Aunty May said. "Sometimes it just happens." "I hate it when you say that!" She ran out the door. "Bree! Come back this instant!" “You’re not my real mom!” she yelled. Before Aunty May could come up with a stick, Bree was already down the path, and into the dark forest. It wasn’t till a while later that she began to slow down. She stopped at an old oak tree and sat under it. She ran her hands over the soil, and came across an acorn, which she picked up and rubbed between her fingers, soothed by its glossy smooth coat. She sat there for a while, and found herself nodding off. Nadezhda was alive, and floated down onto Bree’s lap, and she could feel the kitten’s fur under her fingers. But when she awoke, her fingers were empty. She grabbed a fistful of dirt and flung it at a squirrel above her, missing by far, and the dirt fell back down into her eyes and her hair. She blinked and rubbed her eyes hastily, spitting out specks of dirt. She looked up again. The squirrel stared at her. “What are you looking at,” she said. “Go home to your family. I know you’ve got one.” Aunty May and Uncle Son and the kids treated her well enough, but she still felt like an outsider, and not just because of her wavy copper hair, which she kept as short as a boy’s. Nadezhda had been hers. Truly hers. She’d fed and watered and bathed the flea-ridden thing until its fur was clean and white again, and it had been fine till yesterday. Despite her best efforts to nurse it back to health it had died. Aunty and Uncle would shrug their shoulders, not getting why she was crying over an animal, and the kids, content and dull, would ignore her and fight each other. Bree could remember very little of her father and mother. A moonlit flash. Blue eyes as clear as the sky. A taller, rugged form with autumn-colored hair. She had a feeling that was why autumn was her favorite season. The rusty reds and deep oranges calmed her, and she could feel the warmth of the sun in the brilliance of the falling leaves. But it was a gentle warmth, not the aggressively hot and bright kind of the summer. This warmth reminded her of her parents. Aunty said they had died of some illness way back. She wouldn’t say anything more, and when pestered said that she hadn’t known them that well, and that Bree better go on and live a good life and make them proud, and start by washing the basin of the dirty dishes, or there’d be a good whooping for her waiting in the present life. Bree turned for home, but went a roundabout route, till she reached the old bridge by the abandoned mill. They said that no one lived there, but she saw now an old woman, round-faced with skin that was tinged green, and barely taller than her, toddling past her to the frayed wooden bridge that still arched from forest to mill and who-knew-where-else. “Hey there girlie? Would you come and help me cross the bridge?” she said, turning and smiling at Bree, with a toothy grin. She walked over and took the woman's hand. It was clammy and slimy, and smelled of fish and seaweed. Bree made a face, but stood firmly for support as the woman slowly toddled with her across the bridge. The old woman’s walk made her think of Baby Shrimp, just beginning to hoist himself up using the low stools so he could be on all two's. It made her smile a little. The older children treated her friendly but they knew what she was. Baby Shrimp didn’t know. To him, her touch was just as much warmth and comfort as the breast of Aunty May. "Thank you," the woman said. Bree blinked and looked around. They were across the bridge. "You're welcome," she said, as the woman let go of her arm. The woman looked around, feeling in the pockets of her mossy brown coat. "Well, there's nothing I can give you." “Oh, there's no need," the girl said, turning to leave. “Wait!” The old woman stopped digging in her pockets. "I have just the thing," she said, and fished out a piece of what looked like a black gooey lump. The girl stared at the strange black lump. It drew her in, and made her want to hold it. It was pulsing, like the veins on her wrist, but how could that be? She stared at the black void that sucked all color around it into itself. “Just black licorice,” the old woman winked and took a bite. "See? Not poisonous." “Go on," she said. "Take it." Normally Bree would have been more cautious, but her grief and resulting absentmindedness let her reach forward and stuff the licorice into her mouth. She chewed it. It was sweet with herbal notes. As she chewed it she felt a void ballooning up inside her, a void where once had been a friend in her arms. She felt like throwing up. She was going to throw up. Her eyes watered and poured. She wanted to stop but she couldn't. It was like a waterfall was pouring from her very soul. Was it raining? Was that rain on her skin and her forehead? The water rushed around her, soaked through her dress and hair and pushed her down. The woman’s clammy, slimy hand tightened around her arm, leading her down into the torrent of rain. She felt far from her body. A rainbow flashed across her eyes, and the rain cleared. She was underwater. When she swam in the lake with her uncle and dived for shells and edible clams, she could see very little. The lake was then opaque and particle-filled as sand roiled around her moving body. But now, she saw the underwater world as clear as if the water were air. The water stretched around her vast, and the whole world glowed, the sun above, a molten egg sending its rays down into the core of the earth, illuminating the seaweed columns that towered above her like mighty giants, and the sandy bed way down below. Every boulder and stone was sharp and in focus. Tendrils of algae coiled around little clams and sea snails clustered on the tops of the boulders. Hadn't it been late evening when she reached the bridge? Yet it seemed now as bright as the middle of a summer day. The giant strands of seaweed, stretching from the waterbed to the very top of the water hundreds of feet above her, swayed around her like graceful dancers, and in front of her, holding her by the wrist, was a woman, mostly. Bree could see long dark hair like strands of seaweed floating from the woman’s head, but whoever was holding her now was propelling them downward by means of a tail slightly longer than an adult human’s legs, glittering with scales, and ending in a long blue fish’s fan that was as thin and delicate as gauzy silk ribbons. The glittering tail undulated up and down as it drew them down toward the mouth of an underwater cave. Bree felt her lungs felt lacking, and the awareness was terrible and startled her to action. She pulled at the hand, trying to loosen its grip. But the woman was strong, and pulled her down, until Bree’s vision darkened, and her thoughts became murky, then gray. The next thing she knew she found herself bursting out of a small pool. She gasped for air, grateful for the air that rushed into her lungs. As she crawled forward further onto the dark, water-stained rocks, she could see beautiful stained glass lamps, lighting the walls of the cave with brilliant flashes of red, blue, purple and green. The cave itself was as large and vast as a cathedral, the ceiling submerged in complete darkness. On the bottom of the cave stood a stone table on one side, and various other instruments and shelves of things. She lifted her head to look at the woman, who was clearing some space on the stone table. "Who are you?" Bree sputtered. "Where's the old woman?" "Not here," the woman said in a voice musical and bubbling, and stroked her long shiny green hair satisfyingly. Her skin was tinged green, and she had very round cheeks. A faint smell of fish and seaweed lingered in the air. It was the old woman. But leaner and taller. And beautiful, in an unearthly way. Her tail was now a pair of long, slender human legs, ending with two thin, flat feet. A translucent webbing stretched between her elongated toes. “What’s your name?” the woman asked her. “B-Bree,” the girl sputtered. "I’m Mrs. Vodyanova,” the woman said, taking some seaweed and chopping it with a big butcher’s knife. “But you can call me Vodya.” "Are you a mermaid?” Mrs. Vodyanova turned and scowled, her face puffing up like a puffer fish, her odd, eerie beauty suddenly transforming into a flash of anger. "Don't call me that! It's not our fault the mermaids flaunt themselves at every sailor that passes, the saucy…never mind. No, I'm an amphibian." "What's a plebeian?" Bree asked. "An *amphibian* is someone who can live both on land and in water," Mrs. Vodyanova said, deflating, her face returning to normal. "Like a frog…you know a frog?” Bree said, "I know what a frog is." “Well, I’m not exactly a frog. I’m a special type of amphibian, a vodyanitsa.” Bree stared at her. “I bridge two worlds,” the woman said. “On one side land, the other, water.” "So…why did you take me here?" Bree asked. Now that the initial rush was over, and she sat here breathing properly and talking to this vodya-whatever, she felt tired again. This was a weird dream indeed, but she just wanted to go to sleep. She wanted to roll over in bed, pull the covers over her head and never come out. "You cried your heart out," Mrs. Vodyanova said. She took from the inside of her black vest a small red gem, glowing with a feeble fire. "What?" Bree said, and her hand jumped to her chest, "My heart?" "It was a little dirty," said Mrs. Vodyanova, "so the licorice helped you cry it out. Now that I’ve got your heart here, I can clean it. " Upon hearing that, Bree’s heart would have fallen out of her chest, if she still had one. Mrs. Vodyanitsa put the gem on the table and rummaged through some shelves on the side of the cave. She grabbed some glass vials of strange things unknown to Bree's eyes and started throwing them in a cauldron. “Well, make the fire, girl,” she said. Bree complied, starting to take some logs from the ground and stuffing them into the fire pit under the cauldron. “Then can I have my heart back?” she asked, afraid of the answer. “Just a second,” the woman said, throwing a snail's shell and a small human toe into the cauldron. She stirred it. She took the ruby and waved it in the smoke drifting up from the cauldron, and then dropped it into a small glass cup. Slowly, the ruby dissolved into a glowing red liquid. "Drink it," she said. "I flavored it with cherries and a spider’s eye." Bree tilted her head back and gulped the drink entirely till it was gone. She looked at the woman. "What now?" She said, "I don't feel anything." Mrs. Vodyanova took her face, and looked into Bree’s blue eyes with her own yellow eyes, the pupils vertical and alien. “You were born of fire and water. You were born to bridge worlds. Come to me, when it begins.” “What?” Bree said. “What begins?” “Don’t worry,” Mrs. Vodyanova said, waving. “All will become clear in time. In the meantime, be a good girl! Be kind and follow your heart!” Water rushed up from the pool into the cave, and Bree was swept up into the current. "See you soon, darling!" Mrs. Vodyanova’s voice echoed and became faint. Bree slipped out of consciousness for the second time that day. She woke up next to the bridge, the setting sun painting brazen orange and red strokes above the water. Near her feet a brownish-green frog about the size of her big toe hopped into the water. **The Nightmare** Over the next few weeks she had a lot to do. It was harvesting season so she and her cousins were hard at work in the fields with Uncle Son, reaping and collecting the wheat before the winter chill could overtake them. She almost forgot about Nadezhda sometimes. Or rather, Nadezhda became a murky dream, rather than a living pain in her consciousness. There was once when she saw a stray calico in the chicken coop and fell into a trance as her other cousins shooed it away, but for the most part she felt an odd thing happening, called a smile. She had always been a serious child, and once Aunty May had called her cold. Now she smiled, just a little, when she played with Baby Shrimp, now progressing from toddling to running little steps and tripping over himself. She smiled when the dogs came to slobber their affection all over her. And she smiled, ever so slightly, when she was sleeping, and had a dream about her parents. Aunt May saw the change and rewarded her in the middle of August with a slab of apple cake and ushered her to go into the forest and play. “I worry about her sometimes,” she said quietly to her husband, as they watched the child sitting on the porch, eating the apple cake, lost in thought. “She’s not of our stock. And both of them being who they were! What if she ends up–” “It’s too late for her, we would have known by now,” Uncle Son said, looking around furtively. “Hush woman, we mustn’t grow careless. The woods were watching then, they could be watching now.” May bit her lip and said nothing. “With time she’ll be like anyone else here,” Son consoled her. “I hope so,” May said. “For her sake.” "This year looks to be good," Son said, changing the subject. It was a peaceful October day, when the winds were asleep and the sun was just right, and the brown droopy-lipped dogs with equally droopy brows basked in their spot on the front of the porch. May smiled and pressed his hand that was on her shoulder, and they watched their children grow. So the weeks, then months, then years passed, and by the time Bree was tall and grown, entering the first blooms of womanhood, she had forgotten about the vodyanitsa in the lake under the old bridge. Or so it seemed. Something happened that made her remember again. It was on Hallows’ Eve, sometime after her sixteenth birthday. She was lying on the hammock under the apple trees, now stripped of their last apples and with their last leaves falling, and reading a book. It was the only book on the residence of the Nguyen family, and she was the only one who could read it. She’d been taught by a grateful circus family a year back. They’d been passing through, and Uncle Son had let them stay in the barn for one dreadfully stormy night. They’d ended up staying for another week, and then a month, and had proved to be welcome help on the fields during the day and amazing entertainment during the night. The father, broad-chested and brown in skin and hair, had been an expert juggler of knives, and a firebreather. Meanwhile the two girls played music on tambourines and fiddles, and then later the father took over the music, and the girls took a rope in each hand, a rope that ended in a metallic ball of some kind, and lit the ball on fire. They started dancing, and everyone became quiet, for the rhythmic way they looped the fire across the sky and around their bodies was nothing short of entrancing. For days afterwards all the children had found themselves preoccupied with learning how to swing the balls of fire, including Bree, who mastered a few basic turns with the practice balls, made of a softer woody material, by the time the circus family had left. But that was not all they taught her. Bree was quite taken with the man of the circus, and it was for something else than fire-dancing. He also proved to be a great reader, with a deep and sonorous voice, filling both the heroes’ and villains’ voices with just the correct note, and he read every night to the children from a dusty tome that was gorgeously decorated with illustrations of the tales he told. Afterwards Bree had taken to following him covertly around the place, until he’d turned and asked what she wanted, and she’d shyly asked him to teach her how to read the stories. And so he had, in between work times. Beyond that, he taught her about the stars, and how to find heroes in the sky, and lions, and he told her many things from his life that had passed, with his daughters on his shoulders excitedly interjecting about pirates they’d once bribed and taken passage with, and other things she could barely imagine. She liked the daughters too. They were bright and sprightly, slightly younger than her, and taught her a multitude of card games that challenged her and left her hungry for more. They were also brilliant practitioners of fire-dancing, which indeed helped fuel Bree’s admiration. When they all were about to leave, father and daughters alike, Bree found herself immensely sad. The father, by now familiarly called upon by everyone as Ali, called her to him and said, “I want you to have this.” It was the storybook. She stared at it. “Really?” “Yes,” he said. “We have read this book through and through. Now it is for you to enjoy. And someday maybe you can give it to someone else to enjoy.” “Thank you,” she stammered. He smiled. “You’re welcome, Curious One.” Curious One. He’d said it like that, like it was a name. Whenever she opened the book and read, she’d think of him and his daughters and hope she’d have adventures like them too. She’d live a life worth writing about. A year had passed between then and now. She read much faster now, and the words flowed more easily like they hadn’t when she was just beginning to learn. Right now she was reading about a boy trapped in a cave of wonders while looking for an ancient lamp for the evil wizard. The autumn sky was ripening to a warm pumpkin orange with a touch of gray at its periphery, and the evening was cool and gentle with its soft whispering wind in her ear, and the book slowly slipped from her hand and fell quietly onto the ground below. “Mara,” she heard. “Mara.” “Go away…I’m sleeping,” she said, batting at the annoying voice, and letting her hand rest over her eyes. “Mara.” The voice was right above her, loud and resonant, and she opened her eyes. She saw a sky of stars deep and dark, and the moon hanging above her, impossibly bright and white. The moon uncoiled into the silver shape of a dragon, which flew down and came towards Bree. The dragon’s mane was ink-black and glossy as it leaned over Bree, its eyes blue as a stream, looking lovingly down at Bree. The dragon kissed her on the forehead, and behind it was the sun now in the shape of another dragon, as fiery red as autumn copper leaves. The two dragons encircled Bree and lifted her higher into the sky. She felt inexplicably loved and safe as she lay cradled between these celestial giants. Then something else happened. Men crumbled up from the ground. Faceless men stretched out their bony fingers, and Bree felt herself being pulled away and down by human fingers, rough fingers that grasped around her throat and– She woke up choking and gasping, her heart thudding in her chest.


Oliver's soul must be broken — he's sure of it. No matter what he does, he laments, or what life may give him, he can't seem to be happy. He is laying in his bedroom, awake, and still in school uniform. He didn't turn on the light when he got home, so the only forms of illumination in his room now are the thin bars of light cast through the small gaps in his window blinds. Oliver groans loudly and thinks about the extensive amounts of homework he has to do that night. Oh, It's also his turn to cook dinner, and he has to remember to do the grocery shopping tomorrow, and he'll have to clean all the dishes that have piled up, and the list goes on. It was the same last night, and the night before; just an endless line of things he needs to do. The whole thing overwhelms him — he's tried taking breaks to ease the pressure; listening to music or drawing (hell, he's even tried stargazing), but they've never worked. He always gets filled with guilt over not doing what he's supposed to do, or filled with dread over what he still has left to do, and he ends up not enjoying it. On a more fundamental level, he worries that these hobbies he used to enjoy may not bring him joy, at all, anymore. He's worried he'll never be happy. Oliver wills himself to get up and begins to pull his notebooks out of his bag. Fast-forward fifteen days. Oliver sits at the desk in his room and writes the last word of his last assessment of the semester. He drops his pen onto the paper with a clack, and leans back into his chair, breathing a sigh of satisfaction. It's over, he thinks. He has nothing left to do — nothing to be anxious about. There are still a couple days left of school, and still more housework, sure, but nothing too difficult. Nothing to stress about. Oliver stands up and peaks through his blinds. It's late, and the sun has already set. He rushes out of his house into the fresh air of his backyard, and he looks up. Above him sprawl the colourful stars of the night sky, iridescent upon the firmament. The band of the Milky Way arches above him, and Oliver can't help but smile. He lays down on the grass of a small knoll in the yard, hands on his belly, and gazes up at the sky for a while. He finds that he is at last somewhere where he is happy. But then a twinge of doubt hits Oliver, and he loses his smile. In two weeks, it will be back to school and back to that endless line of things to do, and he will be as miserable as before. That cycle of work and break will repeat forever. He knows it. Even if he found himself free of it, he would grow bored and unsatisfied still. Oliver is hit with a faint, melancholic sadness that even if there are between times where he can be happy, they will only ever be temporary. Temporary and transient. Oliver muses back to when he believed his "soul must be broken", and laughs at his past, melodramatic self. Oliver feels sad still, but he smiles again. Even if just for now, he smiles.


All of my team said when we heard the announcement that our team was going to get the final bit of funding for our prototype hyperspace ship. The day I had always dreamed about was so close. The problem was my team and I had already built the ship but we just needed fuel which we couldn't have afforded with our budget that NASA had given us which luckily after our fourteenth appeal to NASA for a bigger budget they reluctantly approved. After a small party with my team the question came up, who would co-pilot the ship. I was the main builder of the ship and also took astronaut lessons, so I would be the main pilot. None of the team had experience of piloting a ship so after looking through countless candidates only one person took my eye Oliva Airhart, a P.H.D at Harvard University for Engineering and she has three years of professional experience in a jet aircraft there's no one better for the job of a co pilot then her. A few days after accepting Airharts candidate letter, my team and I finally met with Airhart. We throw welcoming party for Airhart so that we can get to know her better. After the party I went and found Airhart off to the side and I asked “why did you apply to be my co pilot we made it clear that this isn't the safest project, and with your talent you could be on a” Airhart cut me off “what's the point of working on some boring jet craft when what you guys are doing is so much more than what I could do working with anyone else” standing there with a stupid smile on my face Airhart stood there confused “what's with the grin on your face?” after what she said I turned away to hide my smile. I said “Glad to be working with someone who shares my views” I left shortly after saying that. Some time after a few weeks getting Airhart up to speed with the whole project and how to pilot the hyperspace drive we were ready to go. About to launch and my heart is pounding, my fingers are numb and to be honest I can't feel my face. The first time humanity is ever going to hyperspace. The computer starts counting down, One minutes remaining…Forty seconds remaining…Thirty seconds remaining…Tw- Airhart cuts in on the radio “Somethings wrong, turn it off!” in a panicked tone. I looked at the computer blinking red. Somehow there was a hole in the center of the spaceship quicking trying to not freak out. I go to turn the rocket off then as if a whip snapped the noise away, nothing , no noise besides the ringing in my ear. I had made it into hyperspace…alone. Looking at the computer frozen all I could see was the message displayed by the computer. Damage to the lower half of the ship second pilot M.I.A. It all happened way too fast for me to think. Luckily the computer was already trying to get me out of here. It tried to get a report of anything and everything. What it read out to me was the following “unable to use radio, fuel was at 1/10 still draining, Estimated time for rescue UNKNOWN, main pilots brain waves unstable.” Once I heard that report read back to me after what seemed like days I snapped. I opened my drawer behind my chair and got out my grandfather's old pistol and pressed it to my skull. I chuckled to myself. My grandfather said that this is the luckiest gun he ever had and how it got him out of everything. Chuckling to myself for the irony of me using it now.I slowly loaded the mag of the gun I thought wouldn’t help me but brought it because I loved the stories that gun told. Accepting my fate I closed my eyes and right when I’m about to pull the trigger I hear Airharts voice “Coward I wish I would have lived and you take surviving for granted” I looked around ready to see my friend but what I wasn't expecting was to see a face covered like I was trying remembering a face in a dream. Then all of a sudden all of my team started to appear faces covered in that same fog. I couldn't describe, slowly one after the other they one repeated “Airhart wanted to live more” The computer was screaming at me “UNUSUAL BRAIN ACTIVITY CALM DOWN”. I screamed at the top of my lungs to these ghosts “WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO”. Snapping, I pulled the trigger, the pistol clicked, And the spirits disappeared. Unfortunately after an hour of silence they came back. My pistol won't fire because the bullets my grandfather gave me were fake, that damn old man. Now I have the same nightmare about the death of Airhart in my head. I record one last message with that pistol in my hand praying it helps me too “Even though this ship has no signal and almost out of power I hope this message reaches out to someone, anyone I AM LIVE COME HELP ME” with that I tell the computer to loop that message and keep sending it out. With that recorded and looped i’ll spend the rest of my days pulling the trigger of my gun and listening to the illusions teammates call me a coward till death or someone saves me.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers and 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 provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: **Sentence: “The truth was stranger than fiction.”** **Bonus Constraint (worth 5 extra pts.):** - All or part of the story takes place in the . This week’s challenge is to use the above sentence in your story, in some way. You may add onto it, or change the tense if necessary (i.e. “was” to is”), but the original sentence should stay intact. **Stories without the above sentence will be disqualified** from rankings. The bonus constraint and use of the image are not required. **Don’t forget to after the submission deadline!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting.   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST**, I hold a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. You can complete the following things for points. - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points, unless otherwise stated (not required) - ***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) - **Submitting nominations:** 5 points (total) *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 5 detailed crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.*   *** #Rankings - **First:** - Submitted by u/rainbow\-\-penguin - **Second:** - Submitted by u/katherine_c - **Third:** - Submitted by u/katpoker666 - **Bay’s Spotlight:** - Submitted by u/FyeNite - **Crit Star** - u/FyeNite *Crit Stars: Don’t forget in order to receive your credits, you also must have made at least one post on WPC *or* have linked your reddit account to the sub on our .* *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires and other fun events! - Join in our weekly writing chat on . We discuss a new topic every week! New here? Come introduce yourself! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


The rain fell softly from the grey English sky. The sun struggled to be seen through the dark clouds, only managing to shine enough light to cast a soft shadow on the cemetery grounds. Father McCreary stood in front of an open grave. Above the grave there was a wooden casket held aloft by a platform connected to a steel belt. The rain fell on her head, but, being an English woman, she found this to be just a mild inconvenience. Only one person had attended the service, an elderly gentleman who was the brother of the deceased. Father McCreary had had her share of lonely funerals, but this was by far the loneliest. Nevertheless, as parish priest, it was her duty to honour all who died amongst her flock. “Ben was a good man,” she began (a trite but effective introduction), “He has lived in this town his entire life, receiving his schooling in the local primary and high school, before briefly attending university in London. But of course, the pull of this town was great and he soon found his way back. “It was in this town that he worked as a mailman, eventually rising to the rank of post master. It was also here that he met his wife, Lynette, and although they did not have any children, theirs was a long and loving marriage, which ended upon Lynette’s death two years ago. “Ben lived a simple life and he was well loved in this town. Nothing made him happier than to attend the local horse races and to go to the pub on a quiet Sunday afternoon. He has lived a long life, a happy and fruitful life, and before he died he said that the only thing that made him sad was that he had outlived all of his friends. “He did not want for anything, but he did have one wish. He wished to be buried with a family heirloom, the Kohinoor diamond, which belonged to an ancestor from long ago.” Father McCreary hesitated for a moment. She looked up from her notes and looked at Ben’s brother. “There is no one here but you, me and God,” she said. Ben’s brother nodded solemnly. “Benjamin Harold Williams, was born Benjamin Windsor,” Father McCreary said, “Of course, as has been tradition for several generations, he took the name Williams, after the first Norman ruler of England. “The diamond belonged to Queen Victoria, but was in fact bought from the colonies. It has been passed down through the generations, its value immeasurable. “Benjamin was not a member of the Church of England. To him, religion was not of vital importance, but he chose to be baptised a Catholic and now he will be buried a Catholic. “The realm, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, no longer exists. Benjamin has died the last king of England.” Father McCreary walked over to a briefcase. She opened it and pulled out a flag. “In days long gone the coffin would have been draped in the Union Jack. But today it will be draped in the flag of England, St. George’s Cross.” She unfurled the flag and placed it across the top of the casket. She then pushed a button and the casket was slowly lowered into the ground. Father McCreary watched as the coffin slowly disappeared. Rain fell on top of the flag. She picked up some dirt and threw it on top of the casket. “Long live the King.” She then brushed the dirt off her hands, and walked away.  Note - I wrote this for obvious reasons but it is just a story. No political motives. I'm sorry if I got any facts mixed up, I mean no offence. Also, should've called this speculative fiction.


About two years ago, things started going south between my wife and me. It started with one little argument that turned into a big problem, which only grew into resentment. All the writing was there, on the wall, in plain English, and no matter how hard we tried to ignore it, it kept getting bigger and bolder and more colorful. We only made that last-ditch attempt to avoid the embarrassment of divorce, but counseling only made us resent each other more. Safe space, my ass. I couldn’t say one word without triggering her, even though I would let her speak every bit of BS about me, most of which was petty and some of it straight up lies. I don’t know why she would make up stories for a counselor, but she did, and it only made the counseling meaningless, a complete waste of time and money. I tried calling her out on a couple occasions, but the counselor would stop me every time, “safe space,” BS. But if I was saying something and she cut me off, the counselor would just let her go on some tangential rant. We went for all of a half-dozen sessions before I refused to continue, claiming it was all one-sided, which made her even more angry. Not that she wanted to keep going in an attempt to save our marriage, but because it was cathartic for her. Her, able to bitch and moan about how awful I was, meanwhile, I’m sitting there getting literally abused and being forced to take it. Nope. I gave her an ultimatum: give me a divorce immediately and swiftly, or I would drag her through the mud for abusing me. Those sessions were all recorded, so I had plenty of evidence to prove I was being verbally and emotionally abused. Which way do you think it went? After a year of battles, we had a final trial set. My lawyer was not cheap and I was getting to the point of desperation financially. My parents had “loaned” me a chunk of their retirement, and I quote, “only to be paid back if you’re ever able to.” I had also begged a couple friends for some money, the most embarrassing part of the whole thing. Fortunately, I had friends who were on my side, understanding how bad things were for me and how nasty she had become. The final trial was almost a joke, as her lawyer was akin to the one guy from My Cousin Vinny, you know, the one who stuttered a lot. He tried pulling stunts to delay the trial, called for a mistrial within the first five minutes, and even had the judge questioning his bar certification more than once. It was an open and shut case once my lawyer played the clips from our counseling sessions. The judge called the counselor to the stand herself and she went down a whole path of questions against the counselor, questioning her certifications. It was great. I won, was awarded access to all of our money, which was frozen for months, and my now-ex-wife was handed an order of protection, disallowing her to be within 100 yards of me, which sent me into a laughing fit as the bailiffs dragged her out of the courtroom. Now we get to more recently. I was walking from my office downtown to a little Greek café for lunch a few weeks ago when this guy bumped into me. Guy – “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.” Me – “Maybe try using those things below your eyebrows.” Guy – “I really am sorry. I’ve been really anxious lately and wasn’t paying attention. I’ll watch out more, I promise.” Me – “Hey, sometimes things happen. No biggie.” Guy – “No, really, I apologize.” The guy stuck out his hand, like he wanted to shake hands with me, so I did so and walked away, going into the café. I got my food at the counter and grabbed a seat at the little bar top in the front window. As I was eating, I saw that same guy peeking out from behind a bush, seemingly watching me. I don’t think he had a clue that I could easily see him hiding there, but it was so obvious. I finished my food and cleaned up my little space at the bar top. I walked out and went straight to the bush, nearly scaring the guy half to death. He jumped up and yelped. Me – “Whatcha doin down there?” Guy – “Oh, I dropped a cufflink down here. It’s from my grandfather, and I would be devastated to lose it.” He was wearing a polo shirt, so it was obvious he was lying. Me – “Oh, that sucks. Let me help you find it.” Guy – “No, no. You don’t need to do that. I already inconvenienced you enough today.” The guy blushed and crouched back down, acting as if he were searching the dirt for something. Me – “Well, you’ve been looking for more than thirty minutes. I don’t think you’re going to find it if you haven’t by now.” Guy – “What? Oh, you’re still here?” He acted like he wasn’t peeking back at my feet every few seconds to see which direction I went, if I did walk away. Me – “So, are you going to tell me why you’re watching me?” Guy – “Because…wait, I’m not watching you. Why would I do that?” Me (laughing) – “You’re not good at this.” Guy – “Sorry. I mean, sorry?” I laughed again and started walking back to my office. As I turned the corner to go around to the lobby door, I stopped and looked back the way I came from to see the same guy standing there, seemingly frozen, about fifty yards back. Now, there were other people walking the same sidewalk, but he just stood there, blocking foot traffic, apparently hoping I wouldn’t see him. I went around the corner and stood there, a few feet in, waiting to see if the guy would pop around. It was only thirty seconds or so before he did indeed pop around the corner. Me – “Boo!” Guy – “Whoa, what the?” Me – “Gotcha. You really do suck at this, whatever you’re trying to do.” Guy – “I don’t know what you mean. I’m just going to my office.” Me – “That happens to be the same path I go every day and I’ve never seen you before?” Guy – “I’m new around here.” Me – “Okay, sure. Well, be more careful.” I told a few of my colleagues about my interactions with that guy and they all thought it was funny but strange. So, I kept an eye out for him, not that I had to watch hard. He was so clumsy and stupid, never hiding well, always doing something to fumble it. I saw him every day for two weeks straight, even on the weekends while running errands and doing stuff around the house. I went out for drinks with a couple friends on Saturday night and that guy came in, sitting at the opposite end of the bar, like I wouldn’t notice him. I just waved at him, which caused him to become frantic and he tried to hide behind a pillar at the end of the bar. I was laughing so hard at how bad he was at stalking me, I even had my friends laughing at him after telling them about all the antics. So, we walked over to him and as the three of us stood there surrounding him on his stool, we probed him. Me – “How’s it going, guy who works by me and keeps following me?” Guy – “I’m just new in the area and I thought if I followed you around, I would find some cool places to hang out.” Me – “Oh, like my back yard?” Guy – “I…uh…no, but…” Friend 1 – “Watcha drinking there?” He picks up the guy’s glass and sniffs it. “Iced tea in a rocks glass…interesting choice for someone trying to be ‘cool’.” Guy – “I don’t drink.” Friend 2 – “Huh, why come into a bar then? Why not the diner next door, or the juice bar across the street?” Guy – “I…” Me – “Look, I don’t know who you are or why you’re stalking me, poorly, I might add, but you need to stop.” Guy – “Yes, sir. Sorry.” He got up and left a few dollar bills on the bar before walking out. We laughed for several minutes about that whole situation, considering none of us were particularly threating looking, let alone the fighting types, so to deal with the guy the way we did seemed so funny to us. It wasn’t until I was walking home that the whole thing changed. I was about a block from my house when the guy popped out from an alley with a gun in his hand, which was shaking like a leaf. Guy – “You’re going to walk with me to your house and you’re going to take me in with you, please.” Me – “Or what, you’re going to shoot the tree next to me?” He looked down at his hand to see the gun pointed nearly sideways and corrected it. Guy – “Sorry, but I’m not messing around this time.” I acted like he wasn’t even there walking around him and going the rest of the way home. As I stepped into the front door, throwing it shut behind me, he stopped the door with his foot. I turned and almost knocked him over, sending him back a few steps with his gun toting arm flailing around. Guy – “Man, you almost made me trip and who knows what would have happened. Please be more careful.” Me (laughing) – “You are the weirdest stalker…I’ve never even read about anyone being as bad at this as you or seen any movies or shows. How did you get into this?” Guy – “Your wi….sorry, uh...” Me – “Seriously? How did she find you? Facebook marketplace? Wish?” Guy – “Never mind that, just let me in.” Me – “Nah, I don’t feel like doing this tonight. Can we try again another time?” Guy – “Well, I suppose…wait, no. I’m supposed to be in charge here!” Me (again laughing) – “Wish Assassin. That’s your new nickname.” Guy – “Please, stop. I’m just trying to do my job. I’m sorry I suck at it. I’m pretty new.” Me – “You seem like a nice, decent person. Why on Earth are you letting that ugly-ass shrew get you into this mess?” Guy – “I need the money and she promised me $3000 if I did this......whoops.” Me – “THAT’S IT?!” Guy – “I really need the money.” Me – “If I give you half of that right now, will you go away and leave me alone?” Guy – “Well, I suppose that could work. What am I supposed to tell her?” Me – “Tell her exactly this: the conditions weren’t right and as a professional, you couldn’t risk it.” Guy – “Wow, you’d be good at this.” Me – “No, you’re just REALLY bad at it. You should quit now, before you do something stupid and end up in prison, or dead. It’s not worth it. She’s not worth it, trust me.” Guy – “Please don’t put me down. I’m having a really hard time right now.” Me (laughing) – “Man, you’re pathetic. Wait right here, do not try to come in. I’ll be back with $1500 for you to leave me alone.” I went to my safe and pulled out $1450 from the envelope of money, which had several thousand in it, and walked back to the front door. Me – “Here’s $1450. It’s all I can bare to give you now.” Guy – “Oh wow, that’s the most cash I’ve ever seen! Thanks!” He didn’t blink twice about me stiffing him by $50. Me – “So, we’re done, right?” Guy – “Yeah, this is great!” Me (shaking my head) – “Seriously, pathetic.” Guy – “See you later!” As he turned and walked away from my house, I said, “I hope not, but if you do, I’ll see you first. That’s for sure.” I laughed heartily as I slammed the door and locked it. I couldn’t believe my horrible ex-wife hired some discount ass-assin to kill me, someone who had no balls and couldn’t even defend himself when he had a gun in his hand. I mean, I could believe that if she did hire someone, they would be that bad, but I didn’t think she would stoop to that level. Needless to say, today while leaving for lunch, I saw him standing behind a bush outside my office. I immediately walked in front of him and said hi, which threw him into a panic. Guy – “No, you weren’t supposed to see me!” Me (laughing) – “I told you I would see you first. Truly terrible at this.” So he’s still stalking me, and I don’t know if he’s going to try to pull it off again, but I have a feeling he will, at least once he needs more money. But he’s so bad at it, we’ll probably play this game for months before I turn him in. I just want to have some fun and really piss of my ex. The longer this goes on, the more annoyed she’ll be…I know her. She’ll get to the point where she’ll start threatening and abusing this poor guy, if she hasn’t already. Me – “See you tomorrow.” Guy – “Yep…I mean, no, you won’t.


Wooden blocks and trains lay scattered across the living room rug. Danny Flores’ six-year-old granddaughter, Sophie, was obviously bored. She had abandoned the toys Danny had hoped would keep her entertained and was whimpering to her parents that she wanted to go home. “There’s nothing to do here,” cried Sophie. “How about we go for a walk?” suggested Danny. “I saw some pretty wildflowers growing on the ridge at the end of the road.” “Maybe we should be going home,” said Danny’s son. “Sophie likes her regular routine after dinner. Anything different can make her cranky.” Danny looked around for something that might interest a six-year-old. The walls of his house were meant to look rustic, like a log cabin. They were decorated with old saws and mining tools, but he knew those only scared Sophie. “Hold on a minute. I’ve got something to show you that I think Sophie will like,” said Danny, jumping to his feet and scurrying toward his bedroom. He came back carrying a heavy lockbox the size of a toaster oven. “I bet I know what’s in there,” said Danny’s son with an eyeroll. “Tell me you’re not going to get Sophie obsessed with the whole silver and gold thing.” Danny set the box on the living room’s coffee table and turned a dial to unlock it. “You know that gold and silver are the only things that hold their value,” Danny said to his son as he opened the box’s lid. “If the worst happens, a number on a bank statement won’t buy you anything. Same thing with your paper money.” “I know, I know,” said Danny’s son as if he was already bored with the conversation. “But I’m not here to give you a lecture,” said Danny. “I want to show Sophie some beautiful things she might like to hold.” Danny fished through the box and pulled out three large silver coins. He set them on the coffee table, one at a time. “These are one-ounce rounds. Sophie, come and look.” Sophie walked to the short table and stared down at the three coins. “You can pick them up if you want,” said Danny. Sophie examined each coin, turning them over in her hands to admire the designs on the front and back. She stacked the coins on top of each other and listened to the sound they made as she clanked them together. “What do you see on them?” asked Danny. “There’s a lady, like the Statue of Liberty. And there’s an eagle on the other side. And this one has a koala. And this one has a skier.” “That’s right,” said Danny. “The one with the koala came all the way from Australia. And the skier is to celebrate the winter Olympics.” Sophie continued to run her fingers over the coins as Danny described how silver was mined and how money used to be made from silver. “Which one of those coins do you like the best?” he asked his granddaughter. Sophie thought hard about it before saying, “The one with the koala.” “Would you like to keep it?” “Can I really?” “Sure,” said Danny, thrilled by the excitement in Sophie’s eyes. “You can’t give her that, Dad,” said Danny’s son. “It’s worth too much. How much does an ounce of silver cost these days? Twenty-five dollars?” “It’s okay. I want her to have it. Look how excited she it,” Danny said with a chuckle. “Now she’ll want to come over to her grandpa’s house more often. Won’t you Sophie?” Sophie nodded her head as she stood up, clutching the koala coin close to her chest. “How about you come over next week and I’ll have more coins to show you?” “Can we Dad? Can we Mom?” Sophie asked, turning from one parent to the other. “We’ll see,” said Sophie’s dad. “I better dig up some things she’ll like,” said Danny with an eager grin. “Now Sophie, don’t let your parents try to tell you that the roads are bad and you can’t visit next Sunday. It’s the middle of the summer and the roads are in great shape.” In the middle of the next week, Danny drove his pickup truck into downtown Bozeman to visit his favorite precious metals supplier. Liberty Coin was a small shop with bars over the windows and three long glass display cases. A thick metal door guarded most of the inventory, which was not on display to the general public and only revealed upon request. “Hey Pete,” Danny called to the store’s owner. “You looking to buy or sell?” Pete called back. “Buy. Something kind of special. I showed my granddaughter some silver rounds and she liked them so much, I give her one. So now I’m looking for more silver. Coins with interesting designs.” “You gonna keep giving them away?” “I was kind of planning on just showing them to her. Maybe I’ll give her one more.” “I’ve got some neat ones with tigers on them. Or how about a ?” Pete pulled out a few silver coins from one of his display cases. Danny picked them up carefully by their edges. “Yeah, these are perfect. Give me a Silver Dollar and a tiger. And now that I’m thinking about it, I’ve got a chance to teach my little Sophie some important lessons. Like how much more gold is worth and how bigger is not always better. Maybe she’ll listen better than her dad.” “What do you have in mind for these lessons?” asked Pete. “I’ve always wanted to get one of those quarter-ounce gold coins. I could use it to show Sophie that even if it’s way smaller, it’s still worth 20 times what an ounce of silver is worth.” “Pretty good lesson if you ask me,” said Pete. “I’ve got one of those quarter-ouncers right here.” As Danny held the small coin in his hand, he felt the same gold fever he always did when handling the glowing metal. He left the shop with over $500 worth of new gold and silver in his pockets. Sophie and her parents were back at Danny’s house on Sunday. Sophie asked to sit next to Danny during dinner. “Can you show me more silver?” asked Sophie sweetly, as she passed a plate of cornbread to her grandfather. “As soon as we’re done eating,” Danny answered excitedly. “You’re going to love what I found for you.” Sophie’s big brown eyes grew even bigger to show she could hardly wait. She and Danny moved to the living room coffee table while everyone else was still eating dessert. Danny carefully presented the Morgan Silver Dollar and the tiger coin. “What do you think of those?” asked Danny. “Oh, they’re pretty,” cried Sophie, picking up the silver circles and watching the light reflect from their surface. “That one used to be used as a dollar,” said Danny. “But now it’s worth a lot more. You see the lady on the front side? That’s Lady Liberty.” Sophie continued to play with the coins as Danny happily explained how a dollar used to be worth a dollar because of the amount of silver in it and how silver was mixed with copper to make the coin harder. “You know, a silver dollar is pretty big, but bigger isn’t always better. Now I’m going to show you something made out of gold.” Danny pulled the quarter-ounce gold coin from his pocket and laid it next to a one-ounce silver round. The gold circle looked small in comparison. “That’s real gold,” said Danny. “Wow! It’s pretty too,” cried Sophie. “If you look close, you can see Lady Liberty on the gold, but this time she’s standing. And on the back are a nest of eagles.” Sophie studied the gold carefully and said, “Yeah, I see them.” By this time, Danny’s son had moved over to the coffee table to listen to his father’s lesson. “Now gold costs more than silver. A lot more,” continued Danny. “So let’s see if you can figure out which one is most valuable. If I was to let you choose to take one of these coins, which one would you choose?” Sophie batted her big eyes at her grandfather and then studied the coins for almost a minute. Then she pointed to the Silver Dollar. “This one.” Danny laughed and said to his son, “I don’t think she understood my lesson.” “Were you actually going to give her what she picked?” his son asked him. Danny chuckled and said, “Well I guess it can’t hurt to give her the Silver Dollar.” He picked it up and handed it to Sophie. “Here you go.” “Oh, thank you, Grandpa,” said Sophie, rushing to drape her arms over him in a long hug. “Well, that’s the biggest hug you’ve ever given me,” gushed Danny. “I thought you’d gotten too old to give your grandpa hugs.” “No, not me,” replied Sophie. “Are you going to show me more about coins when I see you next week?” “If you want,” said Danny with another chuckle. “But you have to promise me you’ll read about gold and silver before then. Maybe your dad will help you.” Sophie promised she would learn all about gold and silver, but after the next week’s dinner, she did not have any answers when Danny quizzed her about values and weights of coins. He showed her gold and silver pieces anyway and let Sophie keep the silver coin she preferred. Sophie continued to loudly pester her parents about seeing her “Silver Grandpa” and family dinners became more regular than they had been in the past. Sometimes dinner was at Danny’s house and sometimes he had to pack up his precious metals and drive to his son’s place closer to town. He kept trying to get through to Sophie that gold was more valuable than silver. To drive the point home, he cleaned and polished his quarter-ounce gold coin until it glowed from across the room. Then he roughed up a silver coin, leaving it looking grimy. “Take a look at these,” he said to Sophie. “Look how shiny the little one is compared to the big one. Wouldn’t you rather have the gold?” Sophie took a close and thoughtful look. “No. I like the silver one.” Danny laughed and said, “If you weren’t so cute, you’d drive me crazy.” “So can I have the silver one?” Sophie asked sweetly. “Sure. Go ahead.” The Montana summer ended, the trees lost all their leaves, and the first snow fell. The slick and muddy roads did not bother Danny, especially when Sophie called to make sure he was coming to dinner. Liberty Coin continued to supply him with interesting silver rounds, and Danny continued turning them over to Sophie. “You ever known anyone who liked the look of silver more than gold?” Danny asked Pete, his coin supplier. “Can’t think of anybody,” said Pete. “Gold is special. Most people can’t tell the difference between silver and aluminum.” “That’s what I thought, but my little granddaughter is crazy about silver. She likes the look of it more than gold.” “You taught her your lesson about how gold is worth more?” “Lots of times, but she doesn’t seem to understand.” “Why don’t you buy a whole stack of silver coins and put them next to a little gold one. Tell her they’re worth the same. Then she’ll understand.” “Good idea. Give me your best deal on a stack of silver.” When Danny drove to his son’s house that Sunday, he put the tall stack of 25 coins in front of Sophie and then showed her the little piece of gold. “This gold coin costs as much as all of this silver,” he said to her. “So if you had to choose only one of the silver coins or the gold one, which one would you take?” Sophie reached over, and one by one, pulled each silver coin from the stack. She inspected the front and the back. Then she pointed to one decorated with the image of a horse. “I’ll take that one.” “But the gold one could buy you twenty-five of the silver ones.” “I like the horse,” said Sophie stubbornly. Danny smiled and shook his head. “I must not be a very good teacher. I don’t think I’m getting through to you.” “So can I have the horse?” “Sure, take the horse.” As much as Danny loved Sophie and the way she snuggled up to him, he began to worry there was something wrong in her head. What if she could not understand numbers? What was she going to be like as a teenager or a young adult? If she did not understand money or value, she would spend more than she had. People would take advantage of her. One weekend in December, he decided he would make one final attempt to reach her. “Are we going to play gold and silver?” Sophie asked him. “One last time,” replied Danny. On the table in front of him, he placed his gold coin next to a larger silver one. Danny made sure his son was watching and listening. “Now Sophie, since we started looking at coins, I’ve given you 23 ounces of silver. But I’m afraid you haven’t learned anything about what they’re worth.” Sophie stared back at him with eager, innocent eyes. “I’m going to let you choose one last time, okay?” “Okay.” “You understand that Grandpa’s been trying to teach you a lesson?” “Yes.” “And he’s been telling you that gold is more valuable than silver?” “Yes.” “Then why do you keep picking the silver?” Sophie’s face grew serious. “I don’t know if I should say.” Danny chuckled. “You can tell me. Don’t be afraid. Whatever it is, I’ll understand.” Sophie acted like it hurt to get the words out as she said, “If I picked the gold one, I knew you’d stop playing. You’d stop giving me the silver.” Danny leaned back in his chair as he realized what had been going on. He looked sheepishly at his son and then laughed at himself. “You know, I was actually worried people were going to take advantage of her. Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.” Danny shook his head and laughed again. “You’re a shrewd one, Miss Sophie.” “If this is really the last time to play, I pick the gold one,” said Sophie. Danny pushed both the gold and silver coins toward her. “Add them to your collection. You’ve turned your Silver Grandpa into your Poor Grandpa.


#Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills and areas in which we excel, as well as places we’d like to improve. So I’d like to present a brand new weekly feature. This will be a weekly thread to discuss all things writing! And… to get to know your fellow writers a bit! Each week I will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion. Feel free to chime into the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, etc. You do not have to answer all the questions, but try to stay on-topic! *** #This Week’s Roundtable Discussion Do you share your writing with family and friends? On places like reddit and other platforms it’s easy to hide behind anonymity and a lot of writer’s can be reluctant to share their writing with people they personally know. There might be some niggle in the back of your mind keeping you from sharing it. Will they be supportive? Will they hate it? Will they make any personal connections with it? - So, if you share your writing with people you know, how has the reception been? Was it positive or negative? - If you **don’t** share your writing, why is that? *New to r/ShortStories or joining in the Discussion for the first time? Introduce yourself in the comments! What do you like to write? *You don't have to answer all the questions to join in the chat! #Reminders - **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** - **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussion in any form will not be tolerated. - **Please try to stay on-topic.** If you have suggestions for future questions and topics, you can add them to the stickied comment or send them to me via DM or modmail! *** ###Subreddit News and Happenings - Come practice your micro skills on or experiment with long-form writing on - You can also post serials directly to the sub! Check out for more information.


Nobody ever listens to me. Which is weird, considering I work in a call centre, spending my days on the phone, doing nothing else than talking to people. My new friends listen. And they care. They never leave me. They go wherever I go. I saw them for the first time on a chilly autumn morning, smoking my breakfast cigarette, sitting on the windowsill of my apartment. They were dancing under the lantern light. They moved in circles around the lamp hanging on a wire across the street. They circled the light, disappeared shortly in the darkness that surrounded it, swung back hastily, as if they were trying to soak in its warmth. Like a coven of small witches flying on broomsticks around the moon. What would happen to them if they stayed away from the lamp light for too long? Probably, they would freeze to death, fall on the concrete ground underneath and rot away. I felt sympathy for those little creatures. One morning, I decided to turn on the lights in my apartment and open the windows. I think they understood my intention. One after another, they swarmed away from the lantern out in the cold and into my warm apartment. Their deep, sonorous buzzing filled my room, and soon, my ceiling was dotted with those insects. They looked like wasps, they were black though, shimmering in a metallic glance, and bigger. I had never seen this kind around here before. They flew around my head and observed me through their big, red eyes, hanged in the air in front of my face, as if they were trying to greet this big hairy creature that let them in so willingly. I left one single window open and went to work. When I got home, they were usually gone. From then on, and every morning that followed, I opened my windows wide open and let the black wasps in. They knew me after a few days. Sometimes, they tapped with bulky heads against the windowpanes when they knew the hour had come when I normally was waking up. And so, every morning, I opened the windows, and they swarmed in. Then, I started talking to them. Nothing spectacular. Asked them how their day was while I smoked my cigarette. Their answer was the deep buzzing all around my head and ears. I felt as if they understood… or listened, at least. And answered in the only way they could. Winter was on its way. The mornings got colder. A light blanket of frost was visible on the car roofs in my street. My wasps chose to stay inside my apartment for the whole day. I left them fruits and old meats on the table, and when I came home, the food was gone, but they were there, waiting for me. I asked them how their day had been and told them about mine. They listened to my stories and jokes, their buzzing made me fall asleep. It became hard to leave without them in the mornings. I missed them during my shifts. Their buzzing echoed in my ears, I just wanted to be near them, listening to them and them listening to me. So, I started to put them under my shirt before I left the house. I felt their countless legs scuttling over my stomach and my back, their chitin armoured bodies pressed against mine when I moved. I kept them warm, and they accompanied me. People gave me strange looks. They thought I was the one buzzing. But it was them, my wasps. One evening, standing in front of my bathroom mirror, I discovered dried blood on my back. I stepped closer to the mirror, turning my head as far as I could to see the reflection of my back. My wasps had begun to dig little holes with their mandibles. The holes were all over my back. Sometimes, I saw a familiar bulky head with the antennae and the big red eyes peeping out of one of them. From time to time, when I lie awake in my bed, I look at her pictures on my phone. Even after all those months, I miss her. Though I know, I only miss the illusion of her. She never listened nor cared. I should delete the pictures, probably, but I can’t make myself do it. I check her social media regularly. She blocked me everywhere. Those pictures, the only thing left of her. Nothing new to see, no new wrinkle to discover in her smile, no words spoken out of her mouth that I did not hear already, nothing left to wait for in anticipation. I need to eat much more now. Drink a lot. To make up for the blood I lose. The wasps are comfortable in those holes. It itches terribly on some days, but they are beginning to heal. The edges build fine crusts of dried blood and dead, yellow tissue. The wasps crawl in and out. Countless holes, countless homes, all over my back. They feel safe in there, and I bring them with me wherever I go. They listen to me. Every evening, I lie on my stomach and talk to them about God and the world and what bothers me and what not, their heads all turned to mine, the antennae pointing in my direction, peering out of their holes. They are content, I feel it. I am their nest now. I am happy.