The words echoed through Bav’s memory as he descended the rough-hewn steps, deeper and deeper into the earth. The woman at the gate had spoken them to him, a last warning as he crossed the threshold, two days prior. Maybe three days; the only light he had was what he brought with him, and that was now much reduced. He spent more time without a candle or torch than with one, now. Without knowing how much further he would have to go, he wanted to make sure he had some light when he reached the bottom. That he never considered what he would need for the climb back up was not something he wanted to dwell on. Bav’s journey to this place had started three years earlier, on a farm near the coast. He had been travelling long before that, making his way by the strength of his arm and the steel of his sword. Mostly caravan work, some mercenary fighting. Occasionally some less reputable tasks. Bav cared little for the morals - a fight was a fight, and he won far more of them than he lost. He had stopped at the farm to rest, trading manual labour for a berth in the hayloft and a meal or two before moving on. The work was hard, and boring, but nobody was trying to drive a foot of steel into his belly, so he managed to enjoy himself for two days. Hot food, a daughter that was pleasant to the eye, and a warm spot to sleep was enough for the moment. On the third day, things soured slightly, and Bav made up his mind to move on in the morning. The farmer, an old man named Sil with eight fingers, advised bav that it was a Festday, and that he would be required to make his way with the family to the temple or be turned out as a heretic. Not one for religion of any sort, but also wary of the ferocity of a town full of zealots - it would not have been his first, and he would be more than happy to scrape and bow before a beshitted altar for a day than have to deal with one again - Bav agreed. It was an hour walk into the nearest town, and Bav spent most of it trying - and failing - to make the farmer’s daughter laugh. The girl’s mother noticed, and gave Bav her evilest look whenever the opportunity arose. Bav would grace her with his most charming smile in return, and moved the time of his departure in the morning up a few minutes when she looked away. At this rate, he’d be leaving before nightfall. The temple was what he expected, little more than a mud shack at the end of a rutted and narrow track in the town. Small fires burned on each side of the door, piling oily black smoke into the air and forcing Bav to cover his mouth and nose with his sleeve. He glanced in the pyres as he passed, and quickly looked away. It looked like they were burning cats in the fires, and he shook his head. Inside was little better. There were no pews, just a mud floor with a clear circle in the middle of some three dozen farmers and peasants. Sil moved forward, leaving his wife and daughter with Bav, though they quickly moved away from him as well. The three family members sat at opposite sides, Sil to the left and the women to the right side of the circle. Nobody looked at Bav, nor advised him what to do, so he simply moved to one side of the entrance and folded his arms to wait. After a few minutes, Bav stifled a yawn and tried to shift his weight to get more comfortable, and when he looked back at the circle he was surprised to see an old woman in the middle of it. He glanced around to see if he could see where she came from, but there were no gaps in the circle, and no entrance that he could see aside from the one he was standing next to. Suddenly aware that his weapons were back at the farm, Bav adjusted his stance. It was something every fighter learned to do instinctively, to shift their weight to the front of their feet to be ready to leap, to lower their posture to make themselves harder to move against their will. Bav felt his instincts reaching out, mentally assessing the threats in the room. Despite her size and apparent fragility, the old woman dominated his mind. She was short, not quite five feet tall, though Bav suspected if her back was straight she might be a little over that five feet. She was draped in some sort of skin, poorly tanned and with a hole for her head. Rough stitching along the edges gave it a hem of sorts, and it dragged in the dirt around her feet. Her hair was filthy, shaggy, and wild, obscuring her face. Woven into it were the bones and fetishes typical of every country shaman Bav had ever encountered. As he watched, she raised her arms, lifting the skin up over her head, and Bav was shocked to see that she was naked underneath. He was equally shocked that as she lifted the skin from her shoulders he could see that she wasn’t old at all. Like lifting a veil, as her body was revealed Bav was pleased to see a healthy, attractive young woman before him, barely in her thirtieth year. As he watched, her face came free of her garb, and he was shocked to see that her hair, filthy and bedraggled only a moment before, was blond and held back from her face in a thick braid. Bav was barely aware of the chanting when it started, fascinated as he was by the young shaman in front of him. He was mesmerised by her eyes, and found himself relaxing his stance as he leaned toward her. It was as she began to dance that he noticed the people in the circle around her, swaying in time to their own chanting, in a language he didn’t recognise. Despite her obvious beauty, Bav was instantly afraid, and wanted out of that room. Village fanatics be damned, he determined to leave, and turned to the door. It was gone, and he patted the wall with his hands, confused, looking for it. When he had come in, it was just a deerskin draped across the hole cut in the wall. Now, as he ran his hands along the wood and glanced around the room, he could find no break anywhere. Panic seized him, then, and he spun to face the woman in the circle. She was staring at him, her face tilted down so she was looking at him through the hair that fell in front of her face. Smoke filled the room, making her look more and more like a predator. As he watched, the air in the room darkened, and he found himself locked in place by her eyes. They glowed in the shadows, and soon his vision was filled with nothing but her eyes. The chanting reached a crescendo pitch, and stopped suddenly. The immediacy of the silence struck Bav like a hammer blow, and he felt himself falling unconscious, the woman’s eyes following him into the abyss. When he awoke, he had found himself back at the farm, with no memory of how he had gotten there. Sil’s daughter was sitting in the hay next to his bedroll, and he started up when he saw her. “By the Moons!” he cried, scrabbling back from her. She tilted her head, seemingly puzzled. “The Moons?” she asked. “You’re one of those, then?” “What in the pit happened back there? Who was that woman?” The girl leaned forward, looking around as if to make sure nobody else was there. “You mustn’t ask that,” she whispered. “It’s dangerous. Nobody speaks of her.” Bav, confused, looked for a weapon. His knife was closest, and he reached for it. “What?” “You have to help us,” she said, without a hint of concern over the blade in his hand. “I have to what?” “Help us. She’s taking us, one by one. She’ll take you, if you stay. She’ll take me soon, if you don’t help.” She said this so calmly, with no sign of fear in her face, that Bav wasn’t sure how to react. “Taking you?” he asked, finally. She nodded, still expressionless. “She takes people into her. To her world. They don’t come back,” she said. “Into her? To her world?” Bav asked. He still held the knife, but his resolve was weakening, and he found himself lowering it. “What do you mean?” “She’s not from here. She’s something else. She looks human, but she’s not,” the girl said. “Not human? She didn’t look like a Treechild,” Bav said. The girl shook her head. “Not a Treechild, either. Not from here at all. From somewhere else.” As she said this, she looked up, and waved her hand above her. Bav knew she was indicating the sky overhead, but didn’t understand what that meant. “She came two years ago, and she’s been taking us ever since.” “I don’t understand,” Bav said. “Where does she take you? Why don’t you just leave?” She shook her head, looking down at her hands in her lap. “We can’t leave. She doesn’t let us,” she said. She looked up, and Bav fell back at her eyes, now as black as pitch. “You must go to the Bann Faew, and descend into the blackness you find there. At the bottom, you will see the Heart of Ogel. Consume the Heart, and set us free.” As she finished speaking, her head dropped again, and Bav was certain that whoever had spoken the words was not this young girl he had spent three days trying to flirt with. She looked up at him again, and her eyes were normal again. “My name is Abra,” she said. “Please remember me.” Before he could say anything in response, she was gone. Bav didn’t bother saying anything to the farmer or his wife, he simply gathered his things and left. He had tried to forget the farm, and the shaman in the temple, but for the next year his dreams were haunted by nightmares of her eyes as she danced in the smoke. Eventually, he started asking people he met about what the girl had said to him. About the Bann Faew and the Heart of Ogel. Most didn’t know what he was talking about, but were more than willing to listen as long as he bought the ale. It was three months later before he found somebody who knew something. At a campsite on the edge of the Scouring Sands, he met a trio of monks who were making pilgrimage to some holy relic or another, and when he was sufficiently deep in his cups Bav asked them if they knew of the Bann Faew. The three monks all snapped their eyes to him at once as he uttered the words, and Bav froze in place. “I take that as a ‘yes’,” he said. The eldest of the three monks ushered the other two away, and sat cross-legged in front of Bav. “Where did you hear of the Bann Faew?” the man asked. Despite his drunkenness, Bav could hear the threat in the man’s voice. And despite his advantage in size and weaponry, Bav knew the threat was real. He set his cup down and leaned forward. In a hushed voice, he related the tale of the farmer’s Festday, and of the shaman in the temple. When he came to the part of the girl’s words, and how he was convinced that it had not been the girl at all, the monk made him slow down and repeat the tale again. He dug for details, pulling more and more out of Bav’s memory. After he had gone over it half a dozen times, the monk seemed satisfied, and relaxed. Bav was certain that his life had just been spared. When the monk spoke, it was with a voice of authority. “Why you have been chosen for this task, I do not know, but I am not one to question these things. You must travel to the east, deep into the lands beyond the great Hareun River. There you will encounter the homelands of the Berren Toch, the race of giants of legend. Seek out their city, a city without a name, and find Yorok, the sage. Tell him this tale just as you have told it to me, and he will guide you to the Bann Faew. May the heavens guide your path, my friend. And may the gods protect you.” The monk stood at that, and walked away. Bav tried to follow, but the three of them melted into the shadows beyond the firelight, and Bav never saw them again. The next morning, he started east, as he had been directed, and walked for months. When he reached the Hareun River, he hired a fisherman to ferry him across. The fisherman would not come close to the far shore, so Bav had to swim about half a mile to reach the rocky riverside. He walked again, always east, and eventually came to the lands of the Berren Toch. A pair of the giants set upon him as he camped one night, and he begged directions to their unnamed city. They seemed reluctant, but when he described the monk that had sent him here they acquiesced, and accompanied him to his destination. They explained that these lands were dangerous when travelled alone, and they would see him safely to Yorok to repay a debt to the monk. Yorok was ancient, older than anything Bav had ever seen. Bav felt the weight of ages in the giant’s presence, and was convinced that this being had seen the foundation stones of the world laid in the Beginning, and that he would see them pulled at the End. Yorok guided him to a great stone well in the forest, where a woman stood guard. Yorok and the woman didn’t speak to each other - indeed, they didn’t even acknowledge each other’s presence - and Bav was left with her as Yorok simply turned and left without speaking. “Why have you come here, Man?” a voice asked. Bav looked around to see who had spoken, for the woman’s lips had not moved. Finally, he decided she must have been the one to ask, and addressed her. “I was sent by a girl on a farm, who’s family and neighbours were being taken by a being not of this world.” There was silence in the cool air for some time, and Bav was about to say something else when the voice rang in his ears again. “What was her name?” Bav hesitated. He had never spoken the girl’s name aloud, though he remembered it as she had asked. He was afraid that speaking it would set it free, and he would forget her when that happened. He drew breath, and answered, “Abra. Her name is Abra.” “Was. She is gone, though you have remembered her and that is enough.” Bav was shaken by the revelation. He had known, of course, that she would be. It had been three years, after all. But hearing it confirmed filled his chest with stones. “You must descend. Are you prepared?” He checked his belongings, and felt that he had enough supplies. He nodded, and stepped forward. “I am ready, yes,” he said. “Mind the stairs. Take only one at a time, no matter your stride. To stray from this is to beg devastation. If you pray, do so now. There are no gods, here.” She stepped aside, and he peered into the well. Stairs spiralled down into the dark, and he lit a torch before climbing in. Mindful of the woman’s warning, and made sure to take each step in turn, even though they were close enough to make it awkward to do so. Soon enough they evened out and became more comfortable for him. Now, two (three?) days later, Bav was still careful to take them one at a time. When his light was out, he would slide his foot forward to the edge of the step before moving down to the next one, making sure he didn’t skip any in the dark. When he slept, he tucked himself in his bedroll against the riser behind him, and made a barricade between him and the next stair down so he wouldn’t fall. He ate sparingly, drank even less. He tried not to think of how far below the earth he was. When his mind turned to it, he was overcome with dread. Surely he was somewhere else, now. Surely he had passed through some barrier, and was no longer descending into the soil of his own world. When he awoke, he continued moving down, down, always down. The stairs no longer spiralled, and he cared not to remember how long ago they had stopped. Now it was a straight descent into the blackness. His food ran out after three more rest breaks, and his water ran out two rests after that. When he emptied his waterskin, he tossed it into the dark beside the stairs, listening for when it hit the bottom. He felt nothing when no sound came. It was three rests later, his lips parched and his tongue raw against them, when his foot, sliding forward to find the next stair, found nothing. He paused, unsure, and shuffled forward, seeking for the next stair. His toe bumped against something solid, and he held his breath. He reached his fingers ahead of him, gently, carefully, until they met a hard wooden surface. He slung his pack off his shoulder, and felt inside for his last candle. He lit it with a strike of his flint, and blinked against the brightness of light he hadn’t seen in days. As his eyes cleared, he looked up at a wooden door before him. He looked behind to see the stairs he had descended, climbing back up into the abyss above him, seemingly into forever. “By the Moons,” he muttered, and the woman’s voice echoed in his memory again. “There are no gods, here.” The door had a handle, and he reached for it with a trembling hand. It opened easily, and the door swung away from him on silent hinges. The room beyond was brightly lit, and he squinted against the glare. It was a many-sided room, and he quickly scanned it for dangers. Fourteen walls, and a small pedestal in middle were the only things he saw. The light came from everywhere and nowhere at once, and he dropped his candle to the floor as he stepped inside. Fourteen walls, and no doors in any of them. As he circled the room, he saw that the door he had entered through was gone, as well. Before, that would have worried him, but he was beyond such cares, now. The pedestal in the center of the room was waist-high, and had - he counted - seventeen sides. The juxtaposition of the pedestal versus the walls was jarring, somehow, and he felt his eyes grow itchy as he looked from one to the other. On the pedestal sat a small leather sac with no opening. Bav looked at it, and took another look around the room. Still nothing. Just fourteen walls, and a seventeen-sided pedestal, and the headache that came from looking at the two. And the bag. This must be the Heart of Ogel, there was no other explanation. He reached his hand for it, slowly, and froze when it shifted away from him. Like a small shapeless animal, it . . . *flexed*, somehow, and Bav was reminded of nothing so much as a baby pressing against a pregnant woman’s belly. He reached for it again, and it pulled away from his hand slightly before he grasped it. It was warm in his palm, and he felt it stretching and pushing against his fingers. He found he had to grip it tightly for fear of dropping it. He wasn’t sure why, but he had the feeling that if he let it go now, it would not go well for him. Keeping the bag firmly gripped in his left hand, he pulled his knife with his right. Guided more by instinct than anything else, he pressed the tip of the knife against the skin of the bag, pressing slightly. He felt the tip enter the skin, and it felt exactly like slowly stabbing a man in the belly. Blood welled up from the entry wound, and Bav pressed the knife in further. Blood came faster now, spilling out over his palm and falling to the floor. It was dark and thick, heart blood, and Bav twisted the knife slightly to open the wound. The bag in his hand was writhing now, and he gripped it tightly in his left hand as he pulled the knife free. He dropped the knife, and pushed his finger into the wound, hooking it under the skin to tear it open. As it ripped, he felt more than heard the screams of agony that arose from the wound. Agony and fury, bellowing out from the void that was the other side of the wound he had made. The blood that poured forth was warm, but the finger he had placed inside was cold beyond imagining. He pulled, tearing the bag open and spraying his face with the blood from inside, and there, in front of him, was a gaping void where the fourteen-walled room had been. Cold blasted him, and he heard screams beyond anything he had ever imagined. The screams of the mountains, of the stars, of the very world, filled his ears and his mind. And there, hanging before him in the void, was a stone. Black and ragged, it pulsed in the void - in-out, in-out - like a heartbeat. Bav reached a hand out to it, into the cold - so *cold!* \- and wrapped his frost-rimed fingers around it. The beating of the stone heart grew faster in his hand, and he pulled it toward him. It resisted - or something in the void resisted - and Bav had to brace his feet to get leverage. He pulled with all of his might, yelling with the effort, and fell backward when he felt the stone heart tear loose of the endless void and into his hand. The screaming grew louder, more furious, and the weight of the stone in his hand was immense. His arms screamed with the effort of holding it, and even more so for the effort of lifting it to his mouth. As he opened his jaws as wide as they would go to fit the stone heart between his teeth, the shaman’s eyes flashed in the void, staring at him with a fury unmatched. Beside her and behind her and all around her was the girl from the farm, staring at him through and around the shaman woman, pleading with him and pitying him all at once. He laughed into the void, then. “Abra!” he yelled, the howling of the void snatching the sound from him as soon as he made it. “I remember you!” Bav thought he saw her smile, then, but the shaman’s eyes grew wild as he said it, and he pushed the stone heart into his mouth, using his fingers to push it into his throat, and he swallowed reflexively, gagging the monstrous thing down. He heard the shaman’s shriek as he did so, and he fell to the floor as the tear he had opened seemed to reverse itself, sealing her fury and rage on the other side. As it did, the light in the room faded, and Bav fell to the floor, desiccated and cold.


There's a hunger that starts as desire, evolves into a sharp pain, then descends into nausea. No, This was not that sort of hunger. This was far, far worse. I had a dog once that had eaten four large rocks. Not pebbles. These were landscaping stones. I didn't know until she threw them up one by one. Each was three to four inches long, roughly an inch in diameter, and not at all smooth. According to the vet, she had a gastro-intestinal disorder that caused her brain to believe she was starving no matter how much food she had eaten. "In that state," she said, "she will eat anything just to feel satisfied." Even rocks. I'm at least that hungry. Fortunately, I understand a bit more about the risk versus reward of consuming my home's curb appeal than Xena, my warrior princess doggo. But, the feeling is still the same. I rummage loudly through the fridge. It's early, or late. I haven't slept, so I'm unsure what to call it. Whichever it is, I know my timing and volume are matched inappropriately because my boyfriend calls out to me through a sleepy fog to ask if everything is alright. A nearly incoherent worry paints his voice at first, but it quickly shifts to irritation when the obnoxious "beep" of the oven being set to 425º reveals my intentions. I've decided on a frozen pizza. The oven takes too long to preheat, so I begin snacking on handfuls of peanuts, pouring myself a glass of milk while crushing the nuts to butter between my teeth. \ I don't know how long I've been lying here in my own milk-soured vomit, but Steven is shaking me awake. He is worried. I hear repetitious beeping. I smell smoke. I smell everything. Has the oven timer always been this loud? No, that's the smoke detector. It is screaming into the thickening air in our house. Steven slaps me. He yells. Then again, harder this time. I taste blood in my mouth. Warm iron, but sweeter than I remember. My senses are screaming. The smoke. The alarm. The city lights throw pillars of illumination at one angle and noir at the other. Steven slaps me again. Softer this time. No, not slaps. Scratches? Yes. His fingernails dig into the flesh of my shoulder blades. It doesn't hurt. \ My hunger fades. I am fully satiated now. My lips and jaw and throat and chest are warm and wet. Steven moans weakly, lying limp in my arms. Blood pours steadily from two small holes in his neck. I remember now, it wasn't the vet, it was the woman from the bar. She was talking about me and my new feeding requirements. I don't even have a dog. "In that state," she said, "you will eat anything just to feel satisfied.


In a bar, there was a lone patron sitting at a table with a small black book with symbols written with thin black ink and a half full glass of whisky. His beard was sticking out from the hood, black with long grey strands here and there. The bartender was cleaning glasses with a rag as the patron was writing in his black book. A small group of people in robes came into the bar, pushing past the doors. The oldest looking one looked around the bar, seemingly looking for someone, "Hey barkeep, you seen him?" he asked as two other people came to his sides. The barkeep looked up at him and smirked, "I haven't. Hasn't been here in a few days," He lied. The oldest, glared and narrowed his eyes, "You're lying." The lone patron stood up, finishing his drink in a gulp, "Leave that man alone," his voice was raspy and labored as he grabbed his things. The group turned to face him. The oldest scoffed and laughed until the patron looked up at him. The patron had a missing left eye and a long scar going across his face to the left side of his face. His skin was old and wrinkled, showing his age. In his left hand, he had a walking stick that went to his shoulder. The oldest looked at his face and smiled, confident. "Who the hell are you old man?" He asked as he tried to grab the walking stick. The patron had a very firm grip on it. "Just someone that doesn't like bullies," he tapped the floor with the stick. A large bolt of lightning came down and struck him. He screamed in agony as the others froze in place. The oldest one let go of the stick and his hand was charred and burnt. "What the hell is this?" He was scared and in shock. The old man smirked and tapped the floor again, making another bolt of lightning come down and strike the others. They screamed in pain and the oldest ran out of the bar scared. The other two followed soon after. The bartender was shocked, his mouth agape at this old man, "What the hell are you?" The old man sighed a little as he readjusted his stance, "You can call me Wotan. I am just a scholar," he smirked a little. The bartender was silent as Wotan walked out, his gait was labored. The market outside the bar was bustling with stands selling everything from clothes to food to toys. The air was filled with the smell of smoked meats and cooked vegetables. Wotan started to weave through the crowd to an alleyway, going into a door on the left-hand side. The room was messy with books, newspapers, and feathers of his raven, Artur. He removed his robes and cowl, showing a toned body. His torso was covered in multiple scars that crisscrossed. Artur was perched on his perch, he cawed as Wotan showed his face. He was wrinkled and old, showing his age of maybe seventy. "Artur, old friend. My eyes and ears. What did you see?" His eyes changed to a pale orange. Artur was flying around the main city, bustling and loud. On one roof was a large figure. It was about seven feet tall with dark clothing, his eyes were glowing softly. He cawed and perched on a chimney a few houses down from where the figure stood. "Ah, Mael. It's been so long," Wotan smiled a little as the figure looked at Artur, his eyes were like red spotlights. "Artur, is that you?" His voice was deeper, "Old friend Wotan, it's been a while," he pet Artur on the back of his head.


Young and cold, the night slowly approached a room, filled with comfy air. Behind the blanket, surfaced a tiny little lump of hand, slowly unclenched as it crawl towards a man's arm. The man tried to close his eyes. His mind began to wander peacefully, like a solemn prayer. As the tiny fist tightly gripped his arm, he steadily detached his hand from the child's fistful grip. He hushed the little soul and said, "good night, young one." His old and crummy bones began to move. Touched the hard cold surface of the floor at last, he gently escaped the room, which in truth felt comfy, unlike the ground he stood at. Man's eyes gazed towards an area before him, which laid a logbook and a feathery ink. As steadfast as he walked across the murky and dark aisle, he felt sudden violent shake. Ceiling began to fell, and objects around him collapsed. He swiftly galloped, tried to reach his son's bedroom. But what his eyes saw, gave him hard and bitter truth, as the yet warm and pleasant room, is now in shambles. The man stood tall, stared upon the now ruined space. Wickedly shivered, the house he was in abruptly flickered. Like a hasty cut to the throat, all of a sudden he stood in an empty yet dreadful nothingness. Hours upon hours, perhaps days or months, the man won't budge and still gazed to the pitch black space. He had tried to end his miserable life but alas, the floor wouldn't let him. The lack of hard surface to collide his head, conveyed that his presence in this wretched place was all but a mere fate. He began to muttered, wailed, and yelled at what he knew as 'The Higher Power', but no one replied. The mind behind his tall appearance promptly wander, made him mad in the process. His fate dwindled down, worst and worst, as he tried to walked unbending. Could not fathom how long had he crawled towards the vast nothingness, as the time and space became irrelevant. His mind could not comprehend where he had strolled. An array of light had passed, left and right, there were woman and children, husband and father, a crowded place he was in. One man in the mob yelled at him, but he still won't budge, not even a slight head turn. Steadfast he advanced, more and more weary, the man once known to appear as human, now wickedly crawled with both hands, on the lively street. Another array of lights surfaced beneath the earth people stood on. This phenomenon occurred throughout the kingdom, even a whole continent witnessed this once in a lifetime event. Bewildered as they may, the people of this vast continent did not know what came. The age of darkness had begun and they must prepare... ================================================================================= Hi, if you would gave feedback for my sentences or writing, im not a native english speaker and this is my first attempt on making story fully worded in english. I often made my story in my mother language but if you somewhat have difficulty to understand the sentences, feel free to give me feedback.


It started when my friend said he’s never seen Star Wars and never will. I thought that was really funny. I realized I wanted to boycott something too. You know, people try to do a lot. They try to fit everything into their life. So it's a nice change to not do something. The fun is in not breaking the boycott. You know people break promises all the time. They get bored. Every day the boycott goes on the more fun it is. I decided to boycott the movies all together. It was an easy choice. The last time I went to the movies the person next to me took a call. He told the person on the line that he was at the theatre, like he hoped the other person would understand and hang up. The person didn't understand and they had a whole conversation next to me. It made me sad. They talked about their friends. There are techniques for boycotting: - You can replace the thing. I started gardening while my girlfriend told me about drama with her friends from her lawn chair. I imagined the flowers are the characters in her stories. This lilac doesn't understand that lily. It's like a movie but much healthier. - You can pretend you don't know what the thing is. Whenever people asked me to go to the movies I made them explain the whole thing. What is a theater? Is it hard to get tickets? Do they lock the doors, or can I get out if there's an emergency? My friends stopped asking me to go to the movies. - You can journal about it. It's good to be honest with yourself about how you're feeling. Sometimes I'd wake up in the middle of the night and imagine a huge screen above me, playing a Hallmark Christmas movie. The only solution was to journal about it. Nobody took it seriously when it was just two weeks. Of course not. But after a year, my girlfriend would bring it up to people. I think she was proud of me. They'd look at me across the room (she later told me) and say "Is that so? Why, I'd love to not do something." The first person to join me was her sister. She was over for tea and told us she was boycotting dating men. She looked apologetically at me when she said it but I was so happy. I said "It's very good for us to be able to say no, to anything at all!". That made her smile. After that she came over more often and we'd not do things together. I wouldn't watch a movie while she wouldn't date a man. It was nice. We finally had something in common. I told her my techniques. She told me she had one where she pretended she wasn't good enough to date a man yet, it would take many lifetimes of self-improvement to someday deserve to date a man. I like that one. It spread kind of quickly after that. Her friends got in on it. One boycotted doing dishes and bought a decade's supply of plastic plates and cups. One boycotted tea. "Every time I try it I'm disappointed. I'm done," she said. One boycotted swearing. "Years from now, I'm going to break the boycott and it's going to hit so _frickin_ hard," he said. The thing is, he still hasn't broken it. I don't know anybody who has. We'd have these parties where we'd all not do things together. The nights always started giggly. We felt so rebellious. But by the end, we'd feel a profound bond between us. Between people who can say no. I guess we felt a little superior, together, to all the people who couldn't say no to things. We knew when we said something, we meant it. It was a little sad when the night would end. Knowing we returned to the world of yes. The first time I heard about a stranger doing it, it was online. It was a chess player. He said he was boycotting rewatching his matches. It made him really unhappy, to be confronted by the mistakes he had made. His coach made him do it, but it didn't make him better at chess, it made him worse at waking up in the morning. That was what he said to all these reporters. While they were asking all their silly questions, he recommended everybody boycott something. Later he credited me, but I didn't mind waiting. The important thing is that it started to spread very fast then. This one CEO boycotted remembering his passwords. His assistant entered them for him. My favourite teacher from university boycotted seeing her students. When her school said they were done working remotely, that she couldn't keep playing this game, she just quit. She got lots of support from all of us. We talked online or at our parties. Online was good for the people boycotting parties, the parties were good for people boycotting the internet. The government began to make allowances for us. They had to, we were becoming a sizable voting block. Eventually you'd register your boycott with them so they could keep track. Many people boycotted things like doing taxes or voting, but other people wanted to save their boycott for something more personal, more intimate. This one opinion writer said he was going to boycott boycotts. Everybody felt really sorry for him. Around this time I was facing a lot of stress in my life. The only person I knew who wasn't boycotting was my girlfriend. It made me embarrassed. I wanted to ask what was going on, but because she wasn't one of us, it wasn't easy to talk to her anymore. It was kind of a paradox. I still loved her, but if I tried to think about how I loved her, I got distracted. I also felt this keen sense that something was missing. Or like, it wasn't enough. Life was, of course, ten times better from before, a hundred times. But it didn't feel as good as it did in the beginning. My girlfriend came to me one night like a swan over a lake. She told me she'd been thinking about it for a long time. She'd been confused. She hadn't known what she thought. But now she knew and she was ready to tell me. I held my breath. Then she told me she wanted to boycott being in love. I felt many things. This is hard for me, because I like feeling one thing at a time. But in that moment I couldn't even count my emotions. I was happy. I knew that. She was finally joining us. I was sad. For it was at my loss. I was angry. Because the next thing she said was that we could still sleep together and be best friends. That made me feel like she wasn't serious about the boycott, like it might end in a year or two. I told her I didn't want to play a part in her skirting the line. She cried and admitted she had been ignoring my values. We hugged, and she left, and my anger dissolved like snow in warm water. Soon things got kind of interesting for us because one woman boycotted eating and she died. Some people wanted the government to crack down on us. That was tricky though, because those people were a dwindling minority by then. You have to understand, you can win if you aren't in the majority, but only if you're more passionate than the majority. And besides, the prime minister had declared he was boycotting caring about how the voters felt, so that sealed the deal. We don't have term limits here, so we've sent him to office ever since. It was maybe a decade after I started it all and the gnawing feeling still remained. Something was missing. I hadn't been going to the movies for four thousand days. It was as easy as not going to Pluto. I'd talked to others, and they agreed, but they couldn't figure it out either. It was like something you can only see out of the corner of your eye. Then one night, I was at a party. With some of the old crew, my closest friends. The moon looked very close to the world and yellow, a trick of the light. Maybe that helped. It happened mid-sentence. I was explaining how it all started to somebody quite young, just out of high school. They looked awe-struck when I told them my techniques. There are very advanced techniques now, but you can go a long way with just the basics. I began to talk wistfully about that gnawing feeling, when my ex walked in the door. She looked a little lonely, but in a happy way, like a friend who visits for a long time but can leave very easily. It made me miss her terribly. It made me wish I hadn't boycotted movies, wish that I had boycotted dating instead. But then, I didn't just wish it, I said it. And I didn't say "instead", I said "I'm going to boycott dating _too_". This caused a tremendous uproar. Nobody had really thought of boycotting more than one thing before. You had your boycott and that was that. Maybe you'd support your friend for a bit (many's the night I've refused tea, alongside my dear friend), but that was it. Yet here I was. Boycotting two things. I don't know if somebody else could have come up with it. People might not have taken it seriously. But because I started the whole thing, people gave it an honest chance. And then the floodgates opened. You could boycott any number of things. Within a week I was boycotting movies, dating, seafood, lego, and websites with pop-ups. It made me feel like a complete person. It's a narrow personality who can only refuse one thing. It has been many years now. I boycott dozens of things. The latest is toasters and toast. One food shouldn't get its own whole appliance. I've lived a good life. I have a lovely wife. We were only friends for a few weeks. She always knew I was boycotting dating. She treated it with the utmost respect. She didn't seem surprised when I asked her to marry me. She boycotts much more than me, because younger people just seem to boycott more. My favorite of hers is sweaters. She hasn't worn a sweater in over twenty years. Says layers are for beds. I like to think that when I boycott life (in a decade or so?) I'll have left the world in a better way. A more thoughtful way. With people living lives of integrity and intention. Some of the kids these days boycott more than they don't. With what's left they take great joy. That's the funny thing about it. I got a letter from my friend the other day. The one who boycotts Star Wars. The letter was necessary because he boycotts emails now. But he sent it from the first trip to Mars. Somehow he reached the stars. Is it in spite of his Star Wars boycott? Is it because of it? Who knows. You don't ask these things. You just sit around and, with great pleasure, plan what you won't do tomorrow.


Long ago, when the sun still ravaged the earth, a newborn god was cast out from the Star Palace. He fell past clouds and birds, landing with a crash so great it made the sun pause in his ravaging. “Brother, what brings you to my world?” Asked the sun of the newborn god. “I know not.” Replied the god, “but I know this; fire and blood is no way to treat a world.” And with that, the newborn god roared at the sun, with such power as to send him back into the sky. But little was left of the world. The young god wandered his new lands, searching for a friend. One day when walking through a great jungle, he came upon a woman shrouded by a great green cloak. “How did you survive the ravages?” He asked her. “I have my ways, for I am stronger than the sun.” She answered. Suddenly, she pounced upon the young god, tearing a great chunk of flesh from his arm. The young god scampered and scrabbled, and barely escaped the jungle. He looked back, but the woman had vanished. Years later, he came upon a man scratching at the side of a mountain. This time he was more careful. The young god shouted to the man from a distance. “You there, how did you survive the ravages?” But the man did not answer. Again and again, the young god shouted, and again and again the man did not answer. He just kept scratching at the side of the mountain. Finally, overcome by curiosity, the young god approached the man, and found his head to be a mess of blood. Using his immense power, the young god healed his newfound friend over the course of seven days and seven nights, but at the end of it the man was still blind. “Take my eye.” Said the young god, reaching into his own head. With a twist he tore out his left eye, and fed it to the man. The next day, he opened his eyes and gasped. “What have you done???” Exclaimed the man, “I do not deserve such things, for I am a traitor and an exile. I do not deserve to see such things.” And with that, he raised a sharp rock to gouge out his eyes. But the young god put a hand on his to still him. “You have died, let me bring you back to life. You have been blinded, let me help you see. You have been hurt, and I have healed you. Do not take my gift in vain, for I am a god.” At the sound of those words the man collapsed into a fit of sobbing. “Weakness,” came a tutting voice from on top of a rock. “Utter weakness.” The young god looked over to see it was the woman again, this time accompanied by a bird, a cat, a bear, and a pair of wolves. “What brings you here?” He asked her. “I too thought I was alone,” she replied. “Doomed to wander this barren world forever until the sun returns.” The young god turned to the man, “How did your people survive the ravages?” “We dug below the earth. We dug so deep that the fires could not reach us. The sun didn’t have a chance of seeing us.” The woman purred softly, “Clever. I shall have to meet this people of yours.” “They are not my people anymore. I do not serve their king.” With those words the man knelt before the young god. “I serve a new king.” With a hiss, the woman pounced. Her claws ripped down the sides of the man, rending him in half in an instant. With a gurgling scream, he fell. The young god barely had time to react before she was on him as well, rending and tearing, but this time he wasn’t a child, and he fought back. For an instant, they clashed. Blood of both gods fell to the mountainside, and pooled in the forest below. Then the next instant, she had vanished into the wind. The young god fell to his knees before the shreds of his first friend. He wept, and the tears that fell upon the flesh turned it into babes. Soon, the young god was surrounded by children, all weeping alongside him. “She will return.” He told them. “But when she does, we will be ready.” The babes gave him a wise eyed stare, as if they knew.


Reader, I imagine you might be about to read this while lying down in your bed. I imagine night has long since fallen and that like many others here, you are seeking out stories of the strange, the curious and the unimaginable to entertain yourself to sleep. If I’m right and this is you, I hope the experiences I am going to share with you don’t somehow impact you in any way. I hope that after reading this, you wake up tomorrow as normal, go about your life, and question nothing. I hope by sharing this with you I don’t somehow pass on whatever is happening to me. See, I am still holding out for that to happen. Waking up, I mean. After all, this horror that is now my life, all began with simply falling asleep. I’ll attempt to explain but at this point, the nightmare has been going on so long that I am not even able to pinpoint a timeframe or a starting point of exactly when it all started. Not confidently anyway. I suppose the earliest I can remember is going to bed one night after staying up late indulging in my habit of watching old school B-movies on the TV. My wife, as usual, had gone to bed long before me and as per what has become our weeknight ritual, I entertained myself with a glass of whiskey in the lounge until I was tired enough to join her. It felt like a Wednesday, but I really can’t be certain. The result is always the same these weeknights anyway. I eventually slide in next to my wife and due to the combination of the alcohol and the exhaustion, I promptly fall asleep. This scenario had played out many, many nights before since we had settled into our middle-aged suburban lifestyle. My wife never had any trouble falling asleep, but I always valued the extra few hours to myself before repeating the 9 to 5 work cycle the next day. So I drifted off that night and my mind wastes no time putting me through a bizarre dream. That’s been the way since I was a kid. I guess I have a vivid imagination or something, but my dreams have always been so nonsensical and strange that I’d long gotten used to it. The dreams usually start off normally enough, in fact recently I’d noticed that the first part of my dreams had become increasingly mundane and realistic that it could easily be mistaken for real life (perhaps this happens with age?). For example, on this occasion the dream began with me at the post office getting ready to mail some forms off to some obscure boring company. Whatever I was supposed to be doing wasn’t really apparent, but it seemed to make sense to me at the time. I’m sure you know what that’s like when your dream self seems to already know what’s going on when thrust into a random dream scenario. Whatever it was, it was typical, routine and not exciting in anyway. As per usual however it didn’t take long for my mind to reveal itself to be dreaming when the post office teller’s jaw dropped off of his face leaving a bloody mess on the counter and an elongated tongue hanging out of the massive hole in his face. Dream me frantically looked around the post office only to see the same thing happen to all the other customers and staff members. Not one of them seemed to react to what was going on but went about their business. At this point of course, I realize I’m dreaming. One of the benefits of having strange dreams so often was that my dream-self had gotten quite good at becoming self-aware when something wasn’t right and when things got uncomfortable or frightening, I generally manage to simply wake up. So it was in this occasion. While my adrenaline had definitely spiked due to the grotesque and bizarre scenes taking place, I quickly was able to recognize I was having yet another weird dream and almost instantly woke up. After blinking in the quiet darkness of my bedroom for a moment, my heart rate slowed back to normal and I rolled over and went back to sleep without so much as a second thought. The next day, I go about business as usual. Wake up, get ready for work, have a quick breakfast, say bye to the wife and start making my way into the office. Once there, I am sitting at my computer, I routinely open up email to check the daily staff bulletin…only for hordes of maggots to suddenly start pouring out of the screen and into my lap while everyone on the entire office floor start spontaneously screaming at the top of their lungs. And just like that I realize that when I had gone back to bed I must have ended up in another dream that started normal, but then turned once again into a nightmare. And, just like the last one and many before, I wake myself up. After catching my breath a second time now, I rub my sleeping wife’s shoulder (more for my own comfort) and roll back over. "Man, two in a row...tough night", I think to myself with a feeling of tired annoyance before drifting off again. The next morning, I wake up to the rotting bloated corpse of my wife hovering over me and laughing. Again, I wake up. If you don't already see where this is going, this has been the pattern now. This has been my life for as long as I can remember. Sometimes, I will wake up, my day will go about as normal and life will seem to go on for days, months, even occasionally years before something bizarre happens, like the sky opening up and a thick liquid blackness pouring through and smothering the earth. Other times, I’ve barely gotten out of bed before the freakish nightmare reveals itself, such as discovering I have misshapen human teeth rapidly growing out of my hands and face while my own teeth melt out of my mouth. This has been going on so long now at this point that while I use that Wednesday night I described earlier as my reference point to when this first started, maybe that wasn't even the truth of it either. Time moves differently when you’re dreaming. Maybe I’m still lying there in bed and am currently going through a seemingly endless sequence of nightmares waiting to finally wake up after the longest night of my life. Maybe that night was just one of thousands and the cycle started long ago. Maybe that night never happened but was yet just another dream, in which case I really don’t know when and where this began. You start to question everything when in this situation. What’s real, what’s not. Am I even real? Am I just consciousness existing in a vacuum, creating my own imaginary world? Was I ever truly awake? Or am I in a coma or something? Will I wake up properly one day to discover I’d been in an accident and this whole thing is what people who are in comas go through, but they forget somehow. Or am I dead even and this is what death is? Or am I simply insane? Experiencing a mental illness such as oneirophrenia or even a severe form of narcolepsy? I really don’t know anymore. The constant exposure to strange and bizarre happenings means I rarely even get scared by it anymore. I expect it. The worst of it is when you manage to go several years before anything has happened and you begin to think that the last time you woke up was finally for real. But then inevitably one day something nightmarish happens like a black demonic figure suddenly replacing your reflection in the mirror one morning or all the stars in the sky start exploding during a family barbecue one night, and you snap awake again back in bed, realizing all those years you spent getting on with your life were a lie and just yet another dream. All I know is that nothing crazy has happened yet in this current state of being “awake”, however it has only been a couple days. I figured I’d hop on here and share this with anyone who’d care to read. I could walk away from my computer after this only to discover suddenly no one has a face anymore or that there are hands coming out of all my walls. Then I’ll wake up again and none of this will matter. But if this does somehow get read, by someone like you, dear reader, who is lying at night preparing to sleep. I just hope when you eventually drift into dream world, that you well and truly do actually wake up tomorrow.


Who would have thought that a 1000 years old vampire, by the name of Vengietta Bloodmoon, could be so... charming. The dinner was fun and we are talking for 4 hours already. My sword and dagger are somewhere in the dining hall, my armor I took off next to this astoundingly comfy sofa. And we are so close to each other I can feel the warmth of her skin. I never knew vampires would have warm skin. I always thought – being undead and all – they would be ice-cold, just like zombies. She told me, laughingly, as if to let me in on an intimate joke: "Yes, that is a common misconception. We may be undead, but we drink so much blood, and that blood still circulates through our bodies, it does make sense for us to be at least somewhat warm, doesn't it?" I still feel awkward for asking, even though that was over an hour ago. Oh, and her reasoning for this invitation is the cutest and saddest thing I've ever heard: "It's just been so long since I had a normal conversation with someone from the living world. I miss learning about the outside. The technological advancements, the changes in social constructs, new cultural phenomenons, everything. But because of the stupid curse of a past pope, I have no chance to escape this old castle." "You want to know about the outside? Anything specific?" "Oh, just in general. The last time someone talked to me normally, the world was about go up in flames due to a war with... Nazis, I believe they were called?" "Oh, wow, that was *over 70 years ago*. You really had noone to talk to for this long?" "Well, I can talk to animals in their language, but they don't understand half of what is going on between humans." For over 3 hours I just told her about the world – about what happened in the last 80 or so years. The curiosity and fascination in her eyes and her body-language was so adorable. Now, we are talking about music and art. I told her about Progressive Rock. To someone that never heard about Rock in general, I had a hard time explaining it. The best I could come up with was "Traditional music with hard and dirty sounds, and heavy rhythms" – god, that is one horrible explanation. "I will bring something the next time I visit." "You want to visit *again*?" her red eyes shine so bright I can see the dark green spots in them. "Yeah, of course! We have so much fun talking with each other, why wouldn't I come again?" "Oh, thank you so much." it looks like she was about to cry, but there are no tears. "This is so nice to hear from someone alive. It means a lot, even just the thought." "It's not just a thought. People are hard to come by that are actually engaging to talk to." With that, she throws herself into my arms and we are now just sitting there, in a deep embrace. I have the impression, love doesn't discriminate between the living and the undead. ***Is There A Future?*** Over the last year, I've been spending a lot of time with Vengietta in her castle. I really do like her. She knows my parents, I know her world. Her real parents died when she was still a small child, killed by her progenitor, and she killed that vampire herself the first chance she got. Her friends were wary of me – being a monster hunter and all – but they came around, just like my parents did with her. They like her I think. Her very intellectual and... royal attitude is very much what my parents would want me to be as well. And *her* friends are... fascinating, to say the least. They are very 'physical' with me, always challenging me to friendly duels. I think I have yet to have a meeting with any of them that doesn't at least turn into a short brawl with some monster. And Mindflayers are hilarious. The ability to make everyone drunk or high without any long-term side effects is amazing. Vengietta seems so happy all the time. Despite being over 1000 years old, she never lost her appreciation for the beauty in life. Despite having suffered so much, being cursed to stay in this castle forever, she never lost her trust in humanity. Instead she developed a strong faith in the possibility that humans and monsters can co-exist some day. And, having gotten to know her and her friends, I now share that believe. And her appreciation for any form of art is beyond anything I have ever seen. She finds beauty in everything. In the literary descriptions by Süßkind or Lovecraft just as in movies like 50/50 or – completely different – Event Horizon, or music of any kind. And the way she dances! To say 'ethereal' doesn't even match the smallest aspects of her dance. The ability to shapeshift into crows, bats, snakes, a cat or a hound ads so many options to her movement, it is amazing to watch. Very difficult for a human to keep up though. I think I have to correct myself. I don't 'really do like' her. I love her. But... it is difficult, sometimes. There is of course the aging process. As long as she feeds on animals, she won't die or age, but I will. And I am not sure if I want to become a vampire myself. It would of course bring a lot of advantages with it, the most important one that I can spend a long life with her. But not every vampire can control their hunger with only cattle and wild animals. If I am not strong enough to control it, I will become a problem for humans. I wouldn't want that, not at all. I don't want to endanger innocent people – or innocent monsters for that matter. But the worst is... I pity her. I want for her to be able to see the world herself, not just through tellings of others. I could never tell her that I pity her, that seems... cruel. But it doesn't change the fact that I feel that way. The current pope is more open-minded and maybe he would be willing to lift the curse, so Vengietta can be free... I think I should try that. I will talk with Vengietta about it.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Sentence - Use *one* of the following sentences to use in your story:** - **“The dragon’s wings darkened the city.”** - **“The flames could be seen for miles.”** *Additional Bonus Constraints (worth 5 pts): A major weather event occurs.* This week’s challenge is to use one of the above sentences in your story, in some way. You may add onto it, or change the tense if necessary, but the original sentence should stay intact. I’m providing , but its use is not required. **Stories without one of the above sentences will be disqualified** from rankings. The bonus constraint is not required.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some actionable feedback.** Do not downvote other stories on the thread. Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - **Send your nominations for favorites each week to me, via DM, on Reddit or Discord by Monday at 2pm EST.** - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown: - **Use of Constraint:** 10 points - **Upvotes:** 5 points each - ***Actionable* Feedback** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Bonus:** Up to 10 pts. (This applies to things like bonus constraints and making user nominations)   *** #Rankings: This Past Week - - Submitted by u/DmonRth   - - Submitted by u/Nakuzin   - - Submitted by u/nobodysgeese   - - Submitted by u/FyeNite   *** ###Subreddit News - I’ve extended the nomination period for , so don’t forget to nominate your favorite content before the deadline! - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


He wakes up, tired. As usual, the common man did not get enough sleep. Working overtime became the norm. Being sleep deprived, became required. Giving his life in exchange for the ability to remain alive, became unchangeable. The common man knew it. He had known for a while now. There was a lot of regret in his past. Many lost opportunities. But he had no guide, no leader. No one was there to help him when he couldn’t help himself. Who could blame him? Now they all demand him to pull his own weight, even when they don’t give him the tools to do so. The common man gets up and starts his coffeemaker. The precious coffee was his biggest weapon. To remain awake, that is. There were not many drugs the common man would put inside his body. The coffee was to work. The weed was to live. The only way to live. The only way the common man could truly be at peace. There was always so much going on. Bills, schedules, meetings, more bills, cooking, showering, more bills, yelling, rudeness, and of course, more bills. They were, in fact, endless, the bills. There was always more coming. Always more. Nonstop. They told him to get insurance to protect himself, but they only cared about enriching themselves. The common man knew. He knew about all their corrupt habits, all their evil schemes. There was no escape for the common man, for no enemy was ever in sight. He could not fight. He could not resist. They lived in another reality, and the common man knew they were untouchable. After drinking a big mug of his bitter coffee, he got ready. Put his clothes on, dreaded eating breakfast, for no taste could be tasted by his bitter tongue. He left, got in his car, and drove. Drove for a long time before arriving at his destination. There, the worst and longest part of the day was taking place. The common man’s mind was numb, most of the time. Not for the drugs, but for the perspective. Or the lack thereof, that is. The common man had no future. He only lived a day after another. A paycheck after paycheck. Invest! They said. Work hard! They said. Exchange the limited time you have for the things we decide matter, is what they meant. They didn’t know better; the common man would say to himself. They were raised like that. Chunks of clay, molded by the machinery of the state, to become a brick and fit perfectly in the wall. The wall that kept on growing, but never changing. They say things change. They say one must adapt. But they don’t mean it. Things never change. The common man still lives under the bridge. The bridge that unites people and their dreams. The bridge he will never cross. After hours and hours of numb work, the common man’s shift ended. Another day for the books. Another chance of living life wasted. It is okay. The common man would say. But he knew it was not. He chose to blind himself from the numbers. For the numbers never lied, and he feared the truth. Scared of the ongoing countdown before the end of everything. He knew there was no going back from that bitter end. He knew that this was his one chance. And because of that, he was sad. As he has always been. Sad for the regret, that was already growing in him. Sad for the regret that was still to come. And it would come. Oh, yes it would. He knew that, which makes everything worse. Being aware. Conscious. Knowing full well of the wrongdoings happening around him. Enlightened by the fact that his life, for more depressing, sad, painful, and useless as it was, was still better than most. Once back home, the common man was still tired. There was not enough time in a day to fulfill all his duties. There never was. He stopped going to the gym because there was no time. He stopped playing video games because he was too tired. He stopped reading because he needed to cook. No. Not really. Those were all excuses. Things he told himself to run away from the harsh truth. They lied to him. They lied to everyone. They said we could be anything we wanted, but we can’t. They said all dreams come true, but they don’t. They said many things and many lies. The common man dreaded another day. His social circle was small, almost nonexistent. The rare occasions in which he would see the ones he called friends were, well, rare. Life happens. Everyone says. And it does indeed. We watch it happening, mesmerized by everything and nothing at the same time. Fixated on the things that give our daily dopamine. We watch life happening and forget to be part of it. The common man went out, ate with friends, talked about some interesting things, and then went home. He was feeling better. He always felt better after living life for a little bit. But because of the rules they put upon society, there were only small moments like that. Most of the time, life was preserving and protecting, not exploring. The common man lived his days like that for years. Finally, he reached the golden age. Retirement. He was excited. For the first time as an adult, he would live life. He would go places, see things, study interesting subjects, meet new people, eat exotic foods. Ultimately, create memories. It was tough realizing how much of those things he wouldn’t do. They gave him money, yes. They thanked him for the years he exchanged of his life, by giving him the necessary to survive. The living part was still up to the common man. So, he could choose between only surviving, or working more to get his lapses of life every once in a while. The latter seemed more appropriate. In his late life, the common man would admire young people. See their dreams reflected in their eyes. The sea of possibilities emanates through their skin. That excitement he had lost many years ago. He knew lots of them would lose that, as he did. And yet, he was grateful. Grateful for not having the same destiny that millions of people had. Billions, perhaps. The one of extreme poverty. The one to be born without a chance of living. The one where survival was the only word known. It could have been worse, he thought. And in fact, it could. It could have been much worse. Hell, the things they do to the weak. Disgusting. The few overpowered the many. The common man didn’t have any hope for changes. The many were preoccupied surviving whereas the few were living. It was a no-brainer. Like starting a chess match without the queen and the two towers. What are the chances given there? What are the odds the game will turn in my favor? Not many, he knew. The common man cried for the unlucky players. The ones that never even learned how to play. The ones on the bottom, prisoners of a game they never agreed to play. He cried for them, but he also cried for the others. The few. On their extreme lack of vision. On their stupidity and close minds. Give a man a fish, and you will feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish, and he will invent new methods of fishing. The possibilities! That was the worst part. The common man cried on the wasted potential. On the brilliant minds lost to starvation. How many Einsteins have we lost? How many Teslas? How many Curies? The few were too blind to see. They enjoyed the creations of the brilliant, without realizing how much more they were missing on. Without the perception that if we all win, our victory would be much, much greater. Their minds were closed, and the keys for their cells had been lost while they focused on winning the game. They never realized we were on the same team. They never realized how much more fun the game could be. The common man sits in his chair, after another day of work. The sun sets slowly on the horizon. The beautiful orange light colors the sky. There is peace in the air. For a moment, there are no cars, no loud neighbors, no shots, no police, no airplanes, no politicians, no news, no nothing. Just the dim sunlight and a smooth light breeze hitting his skin. For the first time in decades, he has hope. As he closes his eyes one last time, the common man smiles widely, realizing the one final truth. The truth nobody knew, for the enlightened were already dead. The truth nobody shared. The truth nobody wanted to know.


Inky black crested all around me, the salt spewed into my mouth with every intake. I struggled to take my next breath like clockwork at the bottom of every wave. My head started spinning while I looked up at the moonlit with complete despair. I reached my hands up, trying in vain to secure some kind of connection with something that would save me. Just when I had lost all hope and resigned myself to the depths, I noticed something floating in the distance. An orange light flickered around a buoy that couldn't have been more than 20 yards away. Each wave pushed me closer, and closer. All I could think about was the safe refuge that lay around the ring of that buoy. My tunnel vision saved me from seeing the hundreds of black fins circling around me on every side, inching closer and closer towards the buoy. I finally reached it and nearly cried out, feeling a surge of emotion that made my arms limp. I climbed up onto the small platform that surrounded the buoy and collapsed, the next few minutes completely disappeared. I felt a strange gnawing in my dream. My arm was being tugged. I didn't care, because the sky was beautiful, and I was laying on the beach. The sun touched my face and I felt at peace. Eventually my arm started to feel pain, and I couldn't ignore the sounds. I looked down and my illusion shattered. There was blood everywhere on the platform. I looked at the stub of my arm and screamed in blistering pain. My vision started to darken, as I sat down again, cradling what was left of my arm and wrapping it in my shirt. Where there was a beach was now an ocean. I was back in the same nightmare. I squinted my eyes to look for any sign of hope. My heart sank in my chest, breath became trapped in my throat. I saw thousands of fins circling around me, horrifying creatures with jagged teeth and bulbous eyes popped out over the waves. They looked directly at me, not as sharks would, but as something sentient. I averted my eyes, but I could still see them in my mind. Suddenly, they began to turn around. They swam in unison backwards, retreating from where they came. At the same time, the sky darkened even more, and the water went from translucent to completely pitch black. I hugged my knees close to my chest and prayed as the world closed in to me. I returned once again to the beach. This time, my arm was completely restored. I felt happy again, and went back to enjoying the sun. "This must be the real world." I felt reassured. There was no way anything as crazy as what I just saw could have been real. I smiled to myself and began to count the clouds, wondering when I would return home. I was jolted awake again on the buoy. My arm was gone, but had stopped bleeding. The creatures were absent. I could see nothing except the buoy and the platform, the rest of the ocean was shrouded in complete darkness. A clarion call sounded in the distance. Hope surged in my heart again! I jumped up and looked around for a ship or some sign of life. I could now see the sun, but the waves were completely still. There was no noise or any sign of life. The waves parted in front of me, and something stepped forward. His body took up the entire horizon. He stepped forth from the ocean, coated in moss, both his eyes closed and crusted with seaweed. He did not look in my direction, but I knew he could see me. I was so terrified I could not breathe, my entire body was shaking and I began to sob violently. He opened his fist and put it over me, blotting out the sun. I was picked up and dragged, water filling up my cage, dragged to the bottom where his people lay in wait.


Gaust looked me up and down inquisitively. “Is that stick supposed to protect you?” He chortled. I put my hand across my back and felt Ithilus’ cold steel. I felt his spirit leap out towards me like a flame, yearning for a fight. The spirit of my ancestors inside me yearned to fight too, but it was a time for temperance. “It is meant to kill.” I shot back at him. He didn’t seem shaken, but continued on nonetheless, flanked by his Kearne lapdogs. They looked down on me from the steeds as I stood beside mine, fixing him with a saddle. I watched him continue down the line, barking orders at my companions, testing my restraint. Behind him followed a stream of others from the castle that I had not seen for a long time. House Dunkan lead the pack on their war bears. The towering beasts lumbered with each step, panting heavily. It was Dunkan custom to tame them from youth and ride them into old age. They travelled to far Scandinavia in order to find the most fierce and territorial bears in all of Europe. They had an incredible bond with these animals, along with an undying loyalty. The grey mane of their leader Roy billowed in the wind as he rode his black grizzled war-bear up to meet me. His red eyes flashed in the night, matched by the red of his bear. His snout was full with scars, and one of his eyes was completely white, blind from a puncture wound. “Roy!” I shouted. “Do you think we are invading France? This is a fool’s errand by Cailan to deal with a few hunters!” “Hah! Always the joker, Rathiel. Have you not heard the news?” He grew more downcast and tempered his tone as he approached. “Those few who were hit on patrol didn’t make it. Well, one did, but he is with Lazarus in recovery.” A warm feeling mixed with sorrow hit me squarely in my chest. To have lost any vampire to a mortal was something that had not happened in recen memory. Usually the dread we struck into the hearts of humans was enough to keep them at bay. But the one survivor gave me hope that this new threat could be overcome. Perhaps Lazarus would be able to tell me more about his condition once we returned. I looked around cautiously to see if anyone had heard. Luckily, the rest of Houses Duncan, Ulmer, Alnwick & Kearne were off fraternizing near the castle gate. “Truly a terrible loss.” I began solemnly. “But that is the entire point of this hunting party. I still feel the King has gone too far in his pursuit of justice. We stand at about fifty strong, for some duine”? My sudden use of the ancient tongue left a slight look of surprise across his brow. “Ah, yes… But regular men they are not, my friend. To kill not just one, but two of our kind, is something that is worth looking into. This is the rare occasion I am with Cailan despite his…” He took on a hushed tone, looking around quickly. “Paranoid delusions.” Unfortunately, I agreed with him. I made sure Ithilus was fastened tightly on my back, and with a quick nod towards Roy, I jumped up on Raven. The black leather saddle welcomed me, hugging my body after so much use. I pulled the reins shortly and urged Raven towards the rest of the group.  Not a minute had passed before the booming voice of Gaust cut across the small-talk that had erupted amongst the Houses. “LISTEN.” Everyone immediately stopped talking and turned to pay attention to the General. “I am sure most of you have been informed as to why you are needed here today. The humans to the south have made their move against us. They attacked Craven’s patrol a few days ago.” He spat on the ground. “Two of our men are dead. Lazarus cannot bring them back.” There were a few gasps among the crowd that were quickly stifled. “They were weak. To die to humans is a complete dishonour. But we cannot allow such transgression to continue to stain the name of the King. The other clans will see this development as an opportunity to attack.” A murmur of agreement rang out amongst the crowd. Gaust paused suddenly, as his nostrils flared, and his eyes narrowed. There was a sudden cry from atop the battlements. “ARRGH, Git off me!” A voice that was not one of our own. There was a wisp of smoke, and the body of a human was flung towards us. He hit the ground with a thud, which surely resulted in several broken bones. “Tch. Imbecile.” A rumbling voice came from the shadows nearest the castle gate. There was a vampire with a blue twinge to his skin, cloaked in all black peasants clothing. “This is one of their scouts, I’ve been watching him for an hour now on orders from Roderick.” Said the mysterious figure. None of Roderick’s agents names were ever revealed officially, so they couldn’t be tied back to us in their operations. He quickly leaped from the shadows and flashed a blade at the human’s throat. “Should kill you…” A warm fizzling sound came from the man’s chaps, he looked absolutely terrified. The agent looked towards Gaust. “There were no others with him, I made sure of it.” Gaust nodded. "Take him to Roderick then." His murderous smile reappeared, pushing the corners of his mouth to inhuman proportions. The spy screamed. “Bravo!” One of the Lieutenants from House Ulmer roared. Muted approval and nods came from the crowd once again. Vampires weren’t much for celebration. “Now…” Gaust carried on, as if nothing had happened. “By the grace of Absalom, we should arrive unnoticed.” Absalom was a Vampire deity, the King of Kings. To invoke his name was to bring a blessing upon our hunting party. “It need not be said, but for the more dull-headed of you I will do so.” He nodded towards the Ulmers, who shouted their displeasure. “We will go to the hamlet nearest the ambush location, in Swansea. The journey is a few days by human measure, but much quicker for us.” He gathered his reins in his hands. “I will not be joining you, King Cailan has only tasked me with directing you… unfortunately.” He looked the closest to sadness I had ever seen, which given the context, was disconcerting. “Go to the village marked on this scroll.” He handed it to the Kearnes, who took it with glee. “You will find them there. Find out where their base of operations is, then destroy it. Do not kill anyone until you know where they come from. These rats have been highly organized, and the Spymaster suspects some involvement from the English Royals. We must know how deep this goes.” The Kearnes moved forward. Cian spoke. “You heard the General!” He shouted with the most incredibly high-pitched and nasally voice that made several of us recoil. “We’re in charge here. Follow the Kearne caravan through the southern gate.” The party lined up as they were told. House Wren took our places at the rear. I nodded at Micah and Layla. Silas and the others came in behind us in formation. The Kearne bannerman shouted and we urged our mounts forward, pressing on into the darkness with no guarantee of return.


Maybe inevitably, the census checks were unsuccessful. We spent three hours pouring through books, but the answer was simple. If Sannaz was anywhere in the North, he wasn’t in any of the outer villages. The only place left was the main town, the largest settlement on the island, closely guarded like the base of the South. One of Kendra’s lieutenants was kind enough to let us stay the night in one of the abandoned buildings. We had nothing but the stone floor to sleep on, but we were at least protected from the element. A strong wind howled through the old building, whistling through thin gaps, and banging loose siding. In between the gale I could hear the fringes of the war. Boots would trample along the ground in unison, a percussive drum beat, as they marched off to the fight. The returning steps came a few hours later a tiny bit out of sync, and occasionally quieter. Every so often I could hear orders being barked, or soldiers shouting out updates from the front. But never anything louder. Never a gunshot. Between the noise and the hard floor I only slept for the briefest of moments that night. As we rose the next day, I was certain Kurbani had slept no better. Yet she seemed to take a poor night’s sleep better than me, already standing and ready to go within moments of the sun’s rays creeping through gaps in the shutters. “What’s the plan today?” she asked, as I lazily pulled myself off the floor. “Head north. Check the main town.” Kurbani opened the shutters and studied the outside world. “How do you think they’ll have gotten on in the South?” I shrugged. “Hopefully better than us.” “At least you’ve learned a bit more about the war and what’s happening,” she said to me, her gaze still staring into the morning sun. “True.” I stood next to Kurbani feeling the warmth hit my skin. “Looks like it’ll be a lovely day.” “Would be anywhere but a battlefield.” Kurbani scrunched her face. “We should get going. Would be good to reach the town by lunchtime.” We trekked northwards through the pastures. The further we walked the further back in time we trod. As the North had forced the South back, Northern land became peaceful again. However the scars of the early war remained. We passed a crater two metres wide. Grass slowly regrown over where an explosion had once dug a hole in the ground. At a town I could see bullet holes peppering the building; hundred year old puncture marks etched as record. Yet today, children played outside the same walls. After a few hours we reached the Northern town. It was surrounded by a perimeter wall made of thick wooden poles, the trunks of spruce and pines drilled into the ground. There were two soldiers posted on the path as we approached, however they seemed more relaxed than those further south. While they still maintained their decorum, their eyes seemed less focussed, their backs less straight. They somewhat apathetically took our names and waved us into the town. The other side of the entrance, I could see the full settlement. The town descended a hill towards the coast, before reaching a long spit of land that stretched out, open seas on three sides, a half-dozen boats moored in choppy waters. The records building was about halfway down the hill. We entered and were greeted by a young woman with beady eyes, and sat behind a large oak desk. Behind her several rows of shelves stretched off to the back of the building. She stood up upon recognizing our clothes. “Welcome. We don’t often get neutrals in here. How can I help?” “We’re looking for a fugitive, from another island,” Kurbani replied. “We have reason to believe he may be on this island, and might very well be in this town.” “Have you had many boats arrive lately? Last couple of weeks?” I asked. The woman scrunched her face in thought. “A few. Just trading vessels mostly. One group offering to help with the war effort-“ “People come to help?” I asked. “Lots of people see cause in helping a just war. They’d glandly lay down their lives to support the Sun God.” A brief flicker crossed my mind. But I let it pass. “Do you keep a record of who arrives?” “Oh yes. I can get those files for you. I’ll be back in a moment” The woman turned and disappeared behind a shelf. There was the sound of shuffling books, and the noise of a frame a bit too short reaching for a shelf a bit too high. Eventually the woman returned, opening the ledger as she walked. “This is all boat arrivals in the past two weeks,” she placed the book in front of us. Kurbani and I leaned in to check the details. Only basic information was recorded. The size of the boat, and the given reason for the visit. We knew the rough size of Sannaz’s boat, but one quick lie as to why he was here and he would disappear. There were only a handful of boats, but even among those there were too many to be a possible alibi: come to help with the war, come to offer medical services, trading goods. The list went on. I grimaced as I finished the list. “Not seeing anything. You?” Kurbani studied the page for a moment longer. She leaned in, scouring each line carefully, before her face withdrew. “Nothing,” she sighed. “Thanks,” I said to the woman behind the desk as we left the building. My head sagged as I stepped back outside. This trek across the length of the island was all to discover how quickly and easily Sannaz could disappear. We had no description, no knowledge of where or when he landed. I looked around at the faces of the townspeople passing us by. Anyone of them could be the man we were looking for. He could walk up to me right now, stand within a metre of me, and I’d have no idea who I was looking at. I looked back up the street towards the town entrance when I was distracted by a voice. It was a man, shouting. But not with rage, but instead a controlled rhythm designed to get his voice as far as it could travel. I followed the sound to a crossroads of two paths until the words became distinct. “…the blasphemers in the South. They are mere weeks away from the solstice. A ceremony of utter filth. Of contempt for all that is good.” The speaker wore a thick yellow robe that must have stifled in the summer heat. Yet it was the fervour in his voice that seemed to make his brow red and slick with sweat. “We must do all we can. All of us. To make sure they cannot hold their celebration. While the brave men and women on the battlefield do their bit, we must do ours. Bake the bread that feeds them. Sew the clothes they wear. Mend the spears they use. And most of all, keep them in our prayers.” I walked slowly towards the man, but stayed a few metres away and kept to the shade as he spoke. With each punctuation he’d throw his hands into the air, his head tilting upwards to the sun that beat down on his face. While many people gave little notice as they passed him, there was a small crowd gathered in front, including two soldiers whose heads were bowed, listening intently. “We will make the South pay for their vile heresy. And those of us who truly worship the Sun god will prevail.” There it was again. That same flickering thought with the woman in the records room. This time it clicked. The South were meant to worship the Sun God, but here two people said they were the followers. Initially, I didn’t speak.My face just scrunched as I continued listening to the sermon and my brain fought to process what it was learning. “The Sun God does not want summer praise when it is strongest. It craves the comfort of its followers in the Winter when it struggles for power. That is when the most sacred of festivals should be held.” My mind snapped back to reality about two seconds slower than my mouth. “That’s what this war is about.” The man and his crowd turned to me. “And who are you?” I refused to respond, caught in the oppressive stares. My eyes flicked back and forth desperate not to engage. “If you have something to say, speak.” The man said, stomping his foot. “You both worship the Sun God? Both you and the South? You both want the same thing.” “The heathens in the South do not worship the Sun God-“ “They do.” My voice was calm, but my eyes closed as I concentrated on every syllable. “You both believe the same thing.” “They do not worship the God if they wish to defile it with a festival on the summer solstice. It belittles him.” “You are killing each other over when to hold a festival.” One of the soldiers in the group stepped forward pointing at me with jabbed fingers. “We’re fighting for what they did to us. What they did to our families. Our friends. We’re fighting for our freedom from murderers.” “But why did that war start?” The man in the cape raised his arms wide. “The Sun God needs our strength in Winter, that is when we should praise him.” “But is that worth death? Worth starving over and living behind walls?” The soldier took another step forward. “We cannot seek peace with those who committed atrocities against us.” “Yes you can.” I paused between each word, but as I finished I felt a hand land on my shoulder. I turned to see Kurbani, she leaned in, her face pointing to me, obscured from the crowd. “Leave it Ferdinand. If wars could be stopped by a man shouting in a street there’d have been a lot less bloodshed.” A small corner of my brain knew she was right, but the anger in my lungs fought it. I took a deep, slow exhale, trying to vent the pressure. “You’re right.” I looked back to the man. “I apologise. I spoke out of turn. I will leave.” “Do. Go. Get out of this town,” the robed man said. “If you do not believe the war is just then you are no friend of the North.” The rest of the crowd joined in with various jeers. I could see one of the soldiers tighten the muscles in his arm as he screamed at me to leave. I backed away and headed down a small side street. The first few steps were slow, but as soon as I was out of sight I picked up my pace, not stopping until it felt as though we were out of the vicinity. Kurbani quickly caught up to me. “You were right. The words you said. Problem is, being right isn’t always everything. It rarely is.” I grimaced slightly. “So now what?” “Searching for Sannaz here will be like trying to find a particular fish in the ocean.” She looked at the town around us. “One quick lie and he could be anywhere here. We’d never find him.” “So we give up?” Kurbani leaned her head to one side. “Not give up. But not fight a futile fight.” She looked down the alley at the road where we’d just come from. “Even if that does seem to be your specialty.” I pulled my shoulders back, ready to stand my corner, before I realised that trying to do so would, once more, be futile. “My suggestion,” Kurbani said. “Head back. Let’s reconvene with the others. Maybe they had more luck in the South.” “I just hate returning empty handed.” I sighed. Kurbani folded her arms. “Sometimes that’s just how it goes.” I paused and thought over what she had said. “If you don’t mind me saying, you seem to be taking this pretty well.” Kurbani smiled. “I want to see Sannaz caught so he doesn’t do it again. But I’m not going to just throw shit everywhere and see what sticks. We’ll find him. The smart way.” She patted me on the shoulder. “Sound like a plan?” I looked once more at the web of streets and buildings that surrounded us. I listened to the background conversations of a hundred different voices ricocheting off the homes. Eventually I turned back to Kurbani and gave a single, resigned nod.


"Is there any meaning to this?" she asks, turning over the last page of my book. "Well that depends." I respond, pouring myself another drink, "Do you think it's good enough to have any meaning?" I set my drink down at the table, it's my fifth tonight, she's still half way through her second glass, I sit down and take a sip. "I think giving it meaning is what makes it good." she puts the book down, I saw her glance at my drink, I wonder if she's concerned. "Are you saying it would be good if it had meaning, or do you think that the meaning that it has is what makes it good?" I pull the book towards me, it's not large but the older leather cover gives it some weight, the lamp on the corner of the table highlights all the wrinkles and creases inside the cover and I'm reminded just how long I've had this book, how long it took me to write anything. She takes a small sip from her glass and lights another cigarette, that's her fifth tonight, I quit almost a year ago but I don't mind, the smell of years of cigarette smoke has already stained the walls of my apartment. "I'm saying that when something has meaning put into, it doesn’t really matter how good it is objectively, it means that whatever it is has care, time and some soul put into it" She takes a draw and blows the smoke out the window, the cold air outside carries the smoke high and away, floating with snow. "But does that mean that it does have meaning?" I pick up the book trying to remember everything I wrote as I adjust in my chair, it creaks in pain, it's old and unstable, ready to give put at any moment. I think I cared about what I wrote, and it definitely took some time, does that mean that part of my soul is in there? "Yeah, I guess it does." I put the book back down and take another sip, a snow flake flies I through the window and lands in my drink, I think about whether or not if flew through her smoke before coming here, and is now melting into my drink. I glance up at her and she's staring at my drinking, smiling at the snowflake that just landed in it. "So what's the meaning then?" She takes another draw and ashes out the window, it flies away with her smoke. "I don’t know really know." I take another sip, it's getting difficult to have straight thoughts but I think that's when they become more honest. "Time maybe, inevitability, putting off the inevitable, hiding from it, wasting so much time hiding from the inevitable that you forget that it's inevitable and that you should have been preparing for it instead" I look up from my glass and she's smiling at me now. "There you go, there's that scary existentialism I knew was in there.


I dislike the neighbour across the road, a certain Mr Hammond. He has two extremely small dogs and a hunched and offensive stance. I have never seen him smile, and to be honest I don’t think I want to. A demonic influence plays havoc with his face as it is. Mrs Talbot from number 62 has a granddaughter she couldn’t be prouder of. A banker from the city with all the trimmings. She ignores the bad press of Miss Innocence like an ignorant mule, only with stiffer lip. She declares no shortcomings of her own either and is often a case to avoid. The London family had no number on their house, but a name for it was considered of taste and fashion. The London’s were made up of 7, the parents and 5 children. Everyone wore the same style of glasses, even Henry the 2 year old. Their dog, a Dalmatian even had two large sockets of black around its eyes. Number 54 was empty, except for the remnants of an empty sort of life. Mr Dane was a hermit of no affection or infliction. His life, or presence on this planet made no difference to himself or others. Now I see that it did. The Hunting by name, and hunting by nature, family lived at another named property. They had acres of land attached to their garden, where they grew organic produce and set free wild game for hunts. They were eccentric like a family of dukes, but they were of common product. At number 2 lives Mrs Shrew (as blind as one too). Of Italian lineage, Mrs Shrew was a retired schoolteacher and part time mafiosa. She wanted for nothing as was as quick witted as she was evil. Number 33 was the house painted black. The windows were bordered in white, and the garden was always immaculate, even more due to the religious statues. Here lived the Lessons. Mr Lesson liked to see himself a philosopher, with a Socratic approach to life. His wife owned a flower shop specializing in funeral wreaths. There is no logic to the numbers down this lane. The residents chose them as they forged their foundations. I am a fisherwoman by trade, and I only come home after months at a time. This house was my fathers before me and his mothers before him. And so it is all down the lane, houses of the matriarchs. All except number 16. My house. My house was a poor affair, a sad place for a child. I would walk in the woods that surrounded the lane and its fields and wonder where all the happiness was. Was it in number this or named that? I had to believe it lived somewhere because it didn’t live with me. I grew up in the middle of a country that bordered land to the north and south, and sea to the east and west. I chose west. The ocean became my refuge, the waves my mothers embrace. My boat has no name and my life has no number. Number 16 is now nothing but a pile of bricks and scattered bones.