Sometimes a fishing trip is more than a fishing trip. It was just the three of us – Pop, Phil, and me fishing for Muskies. What in the world is a muskie? It’s a type of pike found in the lakes of Canada and northern Wisconsin, Michigan and Minnesota. Muskies are big old badasses with a mouth full of sharp teeth and an unpleasant attitude. It’s the top predator in their territory; they eat what they want, when they want. If you hook one, they’re fighters who will jump out of the water and make powerful runs away from or under your boat. The state of Wisconsin only allows you to keep a muskie that’s at least 50 inches long. That’s over four feet, about the size of your average fourth grader. On the day of our trip, a Thursday in August of 1968, Pop was 49, Phil 22, and I was 13. Phil was my oldest brother. This was a most unusual group. Normally there were several more of my four brothers, a couple of uncles and a handful of male cousins. Never any females. The following week Phil was going to Vietnam, and he wanted to try for a muskie one more time, before joining that mistake of a war. Pop probably wished to be alone with Phil, his favorite son. I still don’t know why I was there. It may have been because I could row a boat all day without complaint. If I rowed, Pop wouldn’t have to rent a motor. I was kind of a free two horsepower Evinrude. Phil had graduated from college about fifteen months earlier. He did very well in school and immediately went to work for the CIA, where he re-wrote reports that came in from field agents. He produced documents that were read by the President. Apparently he hated the CIA because after less than a year he quit, despite knowing that the Army would ship him to Vietnam as soon as it could. He never wanted to be a soldier. Phil wanted to be a journalist like our old man. Pop wrote for *The Chicago Daily News*, an afternoon newspaper. He started there in 1937, the week after graduating from Morgan Park High School on the south side. While Phil was a good student. Pop wasn’t. He liked to sleep late, smoke cigarettes on the corner, and hang out in the park. It took him five years to escape Morgan Park high, and no college would touch him. By 1968, he had worked in journalism for thirty years, except for a grim four year stint in the Army during WWII. He was drafted and fought the Japanese in the jungles of Papua New Guinea. He was injured and due to nerve damage, he couldn’t move his right foot. He could bend his knee but not his ankle or toes. He had more PTSD than anyone was aware of, at the time. Nonetheless he had a spectacular newspaper career. He saw the world and met Presidents, Popes and murderers. So there I was with an emotionally and physically wounded WWII jungle fighter who was seeing his first born son off to another jungle war. The weather was awful – with temperatures in the low 60’s, intermittent rain, and strong winds out of the north. We were the only ones on the water. They started fishing at about 9:30. At this point in my life, I had quit fishing. Since I had never seen anyone catch a muskie, I stopped believing in them. To me they were a myth created by the fishing tackle – industrial complex. Also, I noticed that fish did not like getting caught; they’re not thrilled by the experience. So I made a deal with all the fish; I won’t kill them, if they won’t kill me. That’s worked great, so far. Pop and Phil flailed the water for the next two hours and didn’t get a bite. When it started raining harder, Pop told me to row over to the bar on the other side of the lake. That’s another thing I noticed. Pop only fished at lakes with bars within rowing distance. Apparently he thought the fish liked bars, as much as he did. Lunch consisted of three cheeseburgers and twenty pounds of fries. They ordered Kingsbury beers and I got a coke. After we finished the burgers, Pop ordered another beer. The rain persisted, and we started playing pinball. That went on for an hour. Pop won consistently. I guess part of his misspent high school career and time in the army involved playing pinball. During the games Pop and Phil remembered covering Richard Speck, who killed eight student nurses in Chicago one night in 1966. They both reported on the story. Pop for the *Daily News* and Phil for the United Press International, a wire service. That was Phil’s summer job. The Speck story led to another tale from our father. In the early sixties, as a columnist, he took up the cause of a man on death row named Paul Crump. Through Pop’s efforts and the help of many others, the Governor of Illinois commuted Crump’s sentence to life. In their last meeting after his life had been saved, Crump told our father this story. Inmates on death row in Cook County jail had an agreement. They never interfered if any of them attempted suicide. Crump and the prisoner across from his cell had a side deal, an addendum, if you will. If either man chose to kill himself, he agreed to make a fist with one of his hands if he saw an afterlife. If he saw no afterlife, he would make a fist with the other hand. One night the man in the cell facing Crump’s hung himself. When the kicking and gagging stopped Crump looked at his friend and saw the right hand was closed. The guy had sent the signal. Unfortunately Crump had forgotten whether the right hand meant there was an afterlife or not. This was a typical Pop story. Most people would have been taken aback by all this, Phil and I were not. We grew up with this guy and knew he had seen things during and after the war. We were just learning about more things. Around 1:30 we got back on the water. Again they didn’t hook any muskies – remember they’re a myth. The rain came back and they gave up around 4:30. On the hour-long ride back to the resort, for the first time in my life, I heard Pop talk in detail about his war experience. He didn’t talk long. We knew he was a scout who went into the jungle with native Papuan soldiers as guides. These guys knew the jungle like my father knew his southside neighborhood. My old man favored the leader of the Papuan battalion, Tapiole. As a scout, our father was expected to walk into the jungle, sometimes for days, and observe the enemy, but not kill them. Then he would return to division headquarters and report on what he saw. Here’s the story he told, as I remember it. Tapiole and I went on several patrols over about two weeks. Each time we reported that the Japanese were chopping wood on a particular ridge. Finally Major Archie Roosevelt, President Teddy Roosevelt’s son, said, “If they’re chopping that much wood, there can’t be any jungle left. On the next patrol, Tapiole and I heard another lone Japanese soldier chopping away. I whispered to Tapiole, “Get the ax.” He crept away and came back ten minutes later with a bloody ax. Tapiole never used a gun; he preferred using his knife or a club. We came back to the camp and reported to Major Roosevelt. I put the ax on the table and stated that one Japanese soldier wasn’t chopping wood on the ridge any longer. The car was very quiet for the rest of the ride. The next week, Phil went to Vietnam. He came home a year later and our brother, Pete, was shipped across the Pacific to continue the battle. Over the last fifty years, I’ve thought about that day and why Pop told his story about Tapiole and the bloody ax. Maybe our father wanted to let Phil know that he might have to do some awful things, but he’ll be okay. I’ll never know because Phil and Pop are both gone now. I do know that neither of them ever caught a keeper muskie because they’re a myth.


# The Snails Are on the Move Harry noticed them immediately. Groups of snails clustered in three or four moving across the slick, freshly rained-out pavement. Steam rose in twisting tendrils off the warm pavement, obscuring their paths in a fine mist. Harry weaved through the snails like a slalom course, trying not to step on any. *This can’t be normal, can it?* Every four to five feet in front of him, a new cluster of snails made their way through the world at a decidedly languid pace. CRUNCH. Harry looked down, already feeling guilt and shame. Lifting his boot, he saw the shattered shell and gooey carcass of not one, not two, but three snails. “Ooh, I’m so sorry.” Genuine anguish filled his words. “Why do you have to cluster together like that?” It wasn’t the snails’ fault but asking helped. Harry made his way toward the grassy surface of the neighborhood park, hoping that the snails would stick to the concrete. His mistake was immediately apparent when he took his first step into the dewy grass. SQUISH. CRUNCH. He let out a gasp of horror and jumped back. CRUNCH. “Why?!” The unforgiving gray sky, barely holding back a torrent of rain, didn’t answer. Harry carefully moved away from the site of the kill, finding an unoccupied piece of pavement and staring out at the park. He was in the process of plotting a snail-free route home, when he saw the tree. The neighborhood park didn’t have many of them. There were rows of low shrubs next to the sidewalk, and a few saplings that would one day shade the paths, but an old oak dominated the landscape. Its branches were gnarled and crooked, standing out against the elements with suicidal determination. The tree looked sick. There were green leaves as one would expect at the end of spring, but something about the bark felt wrong. Bulbous knots dotted the thick trunk-like sores waiting to burst. The tree groaned, giving the impression that it might collapse under its own weight at any minute. Harold approached it out of a sense of need more than want. A slick, clammy chill fell over him as he stared at the bark. Growing dread mounted in his chest with every step he took. CRUNCH. Somehow, he found himself able to ignore the sound and the implication. He was transfixed by the bark of the tree. It looked as though it had blown a thousand tiny bubbles, and they shifted ever so slightly in the evening breeze. Only, the wind was calm. There was no breeze. CRUNCH. Harold didn’t look underfoot. Yes, the bark was moving. As he approached, he saw them. Thousands, maybe even tens of thousands. Snails coated every inch of the tree, writhing their way toward the upper branches. The soft, squishing sound of their movement was like a whisper in silence. Dread, confusing and all-encompassing, filled him at that moment. Despite the growing sense that something was very wrong, Harry couldn’t look away. For an hour, or at least it seemed like an hour, Harry stared at the moving bark of the tree. Watching the snails make a seemingly endless march toward the sky. He didn’t feel the weight on his boots, or the slick sensation on his pant legs. Time passed at blinding speed and was at the same time placid. By the time the cold, creeping sensation had risen to his chest, there wasn’t much to be done about it. He couldn’t say why, but he knew the outcome was inevitable. His eyes darted down, just for a moment. Snails. Snails, covering his body from chest to foot. They were heavy, giving his clothes a sodden, soggy feeling. A numbing, slimy sensation ran up his neck. *The snails are on the move.* They were covering him, climbing, just like the tree. The inevitability of it was both comfort and dread. His lips parted, maybe on the verge of forming a scream, but no sound came out. A snail, surprisingly heavy, slithered between them. Its bubbly shell filled his mouth. *Why is this happening?* Harry tried to take a breath and found he couldn’t. Soft, mucous underbellies covered his nostrils. He tried to move, wondering if there was a way out of this. Back to the path, back the few blocks to home. Movement was impossible. His feet were fixed to the ground, weighed down by an endless wave of snails, measured and steady in their march. His lungs started to burn. A dark cloud came over the bottom corner of his left eye. He tried to blink, but couldn’t tell if his eyelid had moved. The world descended into darkness. *The snails are on the move.* He knew that much was true. It would be impossible not to feel their movement. Wherever they were going, they were determined. The burning in Harry’s chest changed to shooting pain and he knew he would need to breathe soon. Against his better judgment, he inhaled, the sensation thick and wrong. His throat bulged and yet his mouth filled again with more slick bodies waiting to take the first one’s place. *The snails are on the move.* \ Note from the author: Yeah, I'm not sure if this is anything, but for some reason I had to write it. I saw a bunch of snails on my walk yesterday and this is what came of it. I hope it was enjoyable or at least well-written nonsense.


\[Warning: use of language, allusion to torture, violence\] It had been decided that the machine must go. I didn't find myself agreeing with Major Milic very much these days. His methods were harsh, brutal and he had become a fanatic. I'd call him more of a terrorist than a freedom fighter. But he was right, the machine had to go. I didn't have any confidence we could do it, however. The resistance had changed in the last couple years. The Emperor's personal secret project was brought online. Though it was round, it wasn't like it the “Death Star.” This Empire was real, and it made smarter decisions. It spent its time and money on a brain. CyCLOPS- Cybernetic, Control, Law-enforcement, and Online Policing System- changed the rules of human nature more and more every day. It make it possible for a few people to effectively watch the entire human populace at once. It watched, it learned, it analyzed, it predicted, and it remembered with perfect clarity all at a single time. I had been surprised at first when Major Milic rescued me from my prison, but not when I figured out what he planned to do. He needed me for two reasons. One- I could fly helicopters, the old ones without autopilot. Two- I knew where CyCLOPS was. And I suppose a third reason too; I would never turn him into the Imperial Union. I agreed to help, not that I had a lot of choice when everything I knew was lost and there was a gun in my face. I left the prison behind, but all the while knowing I would die with them instead. \~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~ CyCLOPS is not easy to get near. It was secret to begin with, but they knew better than to rely on that alone. Through torture, Major Milic's loyal team discovered a lot information about the facility. Though most work with it is done remotely, it has over 500 that work directly with the machine on-site. These are mostly fat technicians and overpaid civilians, not that Milic recognized civilians anymore. They wouldn't put up much of a fight when push came to shove. The security came from a reinforced, mixed-guard company made up of Sentinels and Assault Forces. One company of three platoons. Each platoon covered a 12-hour shift. One was on days, one on nights, one on recovery cycle at all times. They had six guard towers with heavy machine guns on the walled perimeter. The walls were made of carbonized concrete, the gate was heavy metal and automatic, and there was electrified razor wire across the top. Four roving patrols covered the exterior of the facility, rejecting any trespassers onto the "Navajo Sanctuary Reservation." At least one large armored vehicle was ready at all times for a quick reaction force. The rest of the on-shift platoon patrolled the inside of the compound and checked key points. If at any point the guards caught wind of our approach and intentions, the other platoons would be woken and activated as reserves. An entire company of heavily armed and armored Sentinels would be vastly too much to deal with, and we'd be slaughtered. We had to 1- approach undetected, 2- blind the guard towers so they could not shoot down our helicopters, 3- secure the barracks and take the reserves hostage before they could get to their arms room, 4- deal with the existing guards in the compound, 5- lock the gate to prevent the roving patrols from returning with more firepower, 6- break into and make our way into the facility, and at last, 7- blow CyCLOPS to high hell. None of the major processor banks can survive. No one knows the extent of its capabilities for certain, besides the Emperor and his chosen team, but it may likely begin to back up its data to external servers outside of the facility. The more we can destroy, the more we've set back the Empire, and the more time we’ve bought for a larger resistance to mobilize. They are dependent on the machine now. They will be weaker than they were before it's installation. But first, we had to get there. And I had a bad feeling. So many things could go wrong. \~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~ I listened as intently as I could to Milic's briefing. He'd thought of everything. Even from his little bunker hidden away from the world, he'd managed to gather a lot of intelligence. From his position at the top of the map, he could point out every section of the base, where we would land, where the satellite communications were, where the barracks and arms rooms were, where we would enter the facility, and more. I wasn't sure how he knew all of this. I think I didn't want to know. "Sam, are you fuckin' paying attention!?" His eyes seemed to glow from the light reflected off the map in the otherwise dark bunker. "What? Yes. I know where to land." Truthfully I'd never been the same since that prison. I couldn't focus on anything too long. "But after that?" "What... what am I doing after that? That wasn't... I didn't agree to-" "I don't give a shit. You're with me. I'm not letting you out of my sight." "Who's going to stay with the helicopter?" "Jacob will keep it running." He pointed to Powell, next to me. Anyone who knew him called him Powell. Only people who pretended to know him called him Jake or Jacob. They'd had a long history, but that told me how close they weren't. Powell's eyes locked with mine for a moment then looked away. He was a hostage here, too. He was the man that taught me to fly. He was old now. So was I. "I'm not shooting anyone." "That's fine. You'll help carry explosives. You've got no problem blowing this thing up. That's what we agreed on, right?" "Okay... right. I'm with you." "You're attached to my hip. You go where I fuckin' tell you and nowhere else. Is that understood?" "I'm with you." I growled. "3rd squad, alpha-team's goals are the communications array..." he continued. But again, I already wasn't listening. A faint whining grew in my ears, and I faded out into one of my blackout spells. After coming all this way, and everything I've worked for- everything I did to fight the Empire- it was probably Milic that was going to kill me. \~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~ During pre-flight checks with Powell, we talked a little bit. It was nice. I climbed up on top of the back of the bird to give the yoke a good look. "This piece of shit is not gonna fly." I interjected, looked at the rust near the blade hub. "It'll fly. I flew it yesterday." "The rotors are going to fall off before we get there." "No... but we're in for a bumpy ride. She definitely handles like a... heh heh, Sammy, you remember that old two-seater we flew up to that Appalachian relay station?" "Oh dear god, we almost died. On three separate occasions." I grinned. "We've been through tougher spots." Powell grinned too and climbed up the other side. His entire bald head wrinkled when he smiled. "Yeah... but we were younger men. And the Empire didn't rule the world yet." "Nothing lasts forever. Not youth, and not this crummy empire. They all fall down eventually. We're just giving it a good shove." "You really think we're going to win?" my grin faded. That old feeling returned. "I think so. Major Milic's got his plan down tight. He's resourced everything he needs. We have our opening. You don't think we can?" The yoke, despite several conditions I would normally reject, appeared okay. The blades were in surprisingly good condition. It would fly all the way to the scene of the crash. "I don't think so." "You need to give the guy more credit. I know you don't agree with his methods, but he's a warrior. This is what he was built for. You have that prison mindset still. The walls are all closed in around you." "Oh I don't think it's the prison that got to me," I looked out into the setting sun of the evening. The scenery from up here was incredible. "Is this about Lindsey?" "No. Lindsey's gone. This is about us. Now. Though I admit, it's hard to forget her face with a bullet in it. I'm glad she's not here to see this. This is going to be... a mess." Powell reached up and grabbed my hand and held it in both of his. "You've gotta have a little faith in this team. They know what they're doing." "I know. But this team never met the Emperor. I've met him, and... No one on earth knows what they're doing compared to him. He sees everything coming." "Sam, you have to believe we can win." "I know... there's a chance we can win. But we need to be ready. If it's not a trap now, it will be by the time we get there." The sun slipped from view, and we were left standing in the dark.


The Valley has always existed outside of the normal world. When people come here, they come to stay. There are no passers-through, no tourists or hikers who wandered too far off the trail and are trying to find their way home. When people come here, they are not looking for home; they are looking for refuge. The Lord of the Valley calls them to him, through dreams and visions and a pulsating need to be anywhere but where they currently are. He teases them with tastes of mountain winds and gurgling creeks rushing over rocks. He persuades them with promises of abundance and mercy. “Come to me,” he says, “Come to me and taste freedom.” What that means to each person who arrives is different, but the price remains the same for all. For those of us born here, and yes, I do include myself in that, no matter how odd the circumstances, the price is significantly higher. While the adults who come and agree to the desired sacrifice are welcome to leave at any time, the children born to them are required to stay for life. We have been dedicated to the Lord’s service, and to attempt to leave it is Death. We are the price our parents pay to leave the world behind. There have been some over the years who did not believe that Death would follow them once they left, but every one of them has always been returned to the Valley’s center, sometimes in pieces, sometimes not. The ones who come back in pieces have the preferable fate. The ones who come back whole in body are nothing more than empty shells, their minds wiped clean by the Lord. Purification, he calls it. These purified husks are then taken to the edge of the Valley, right up to the base of the mountains that contain it, and tied to a tree for three days. If their body survives the exposure and the scavengers, they are released and allowed to live out their days in a house that appears just for them. If not, they are left to the elements until whatever bones that remain are bleached white as a warning to others. There have been many who tried to leave only to be brought back. Each generation has their rebels and fearless leaders who decide they want more from life than service to a Lord who will happily hunt them down and kill them for nothing more than a desire for choice. The instigators almost never make it back in pieces. Many survive the three days of being bound, and go on to live half-lives in service to the Great Lord. The Great Lord is a demanding task-master. He is not the Lord of the Valley, who requires a single price; he is the Great Lord, who requires absolute surrender. The Great Lord’s servants are kept separate from the rest of the Lord’s people, especially the children. Their hollow eyes and sunken cheeks are deemed too unnerving for youngsters to witness and gossip about. I’m of the opinion that this tradition is to prompt those who yearn for more to take the risk of flight, having not been exposed to the severity of the consequences first, but I digress. The day the first house in the Great Lord’s pen disappeared, a murmur swept through the Valley. Had a halfer managed to gain some semblance of self back and was removed? Had they done something to displease the Great Lord? If so, how was that possible? The Elders organized a procession to offer praise and worship to the Great Lord, including trumpets, flutes, violins, and the Lord’s chosen child-bearers. The procession circled the Valley’s perimeter three times, each time the praise growing louder and the worship more vigorous as the people’s minds became more connected with their Lord and master. Satisfied that this had appeased the Great Lord, the procession devolved into a feast of the senses once it returned to the Valley’s center. The children were sent home to practice their sacred duties, and the adults remained to celebrate their freedom in whichever way they deemed fit. The second day, once another house had vanished, the Elders could be heard speaking in whispers and shouts. A child was brought forward and sent to the Lord’s tent, a giant structure that guarded the single pass into the Valley, with instructions to plead for understanding of the infractions committed to ensure this brand of punishment did not get visited upon the Lord’s willing servants. The child did not return until the third house had vanished. His once bright eyes were now muted, and the shine in his cheeks had paled. The Elders rushed him to the Valley center to deliver the Lord’s message. Opening lips that seemed lifelessly blue, the child spoke with a resounding voice too deep for one his age: “The Fallen has returned. It is he who rips my children from me. He rends! He hates! He burns! Take heed, my children, for I must wage war against him that he does not steal into your homes and commit his acts of despair upon you!” A great murmur rose over the assembly, and the Elders quickly ushered the child into the confines of their circle and secreted themselves away for the remainder of the day. The following morning, the child was seen walking among the halfers, and it was understood the Great Lord had claimed him for his own purposes. Tensions rose as the days passed and more houses and halfers disappeared. Each day brought a new blight upon our cozy little Valley, robbing us of the contentment and peace we had so dearly bought. Who was this Fallen, who had the power to steal from the Lord’s Valley? We began to be suspicious of one another. Which of us was harboring this creature, giving him free rein to commit his acts of theft from the Great Lord? Which of us had allowed this monster inside? Once the halfers had all been taken, the houses on our side of the Valley began to disappear. Another child was sent to the Lord’s tent. This one also returned changed. His eyes were darkened to black, and his skin was flushed with grey. When he spoke, it sounded as though the river had grown a tongue and wished to commune with us: “Rejoice, my children, for I am returned! The Fallen has fallen once more, to be bound in the depths of the mountains for a hundred years to come!” A great cheer rose up from the crowd, and the child was hoisted on shoulders and passed around from one to another as we showered him with kisses and praises of worthiness. Having no halfers to send him to live among, the Elders approached me, the eldest of the Dedicated. My skin was grey and my eyes were dim, but I gladly accepted the child into my century-old home. I tried to re-teach him his letters and songs, but he could do no more than mumble for a bit before trailing off into silence and emptiness. Once it became fully apparent that there was no help to be given for the boy, I laid him down in my cot and smothered him with a pillow. It was a kinder Death than any of us deserved. Time passed, and our Lord began calling more people to the Valley. It was time to rebuild, he said. The Fallen had completed the cleansing, and it was time to restock the Valley with worshippers. Lord help us, I thought. The cycle begins again.


I had known for a while that I needed to change my lifestyle. Last Monday I woke up dehydrated, hungover, and depressed. This wasn't unusual. I beat my body up daily. On an average day, I woke up and smoke a cigarette while the coffee brewed. Drank a 20-ounce cup with way too much creamer, and headed to work. Normally, it's about an hour drive. Of course, I chain smoked the entire way even though I didn't know what I was getting out of it. Did I feel that much different after smoking? I wasn't sure, but I bought a pack every time I fueled up. Sometimes the thought of how dumb I was being would begin to surface in my mind, but I drowned it out with a podcast or an audiobook. Easier to think other people's thoughts than my own. My job was stress-free, but labor-intensive. As the sun beat down I often got an ache in my side. Was that my liver from the alcohol abuse? I wasn't sure. Make no mistake, I realized that I was an alcoholic. I had done stints at AA, but my social anxiety didn't mesh well with the group. At that point, I didn't know if I could quit cold turkey without suffering from a seizure, or other withdrawal symptoms. Yet, there was still a small hopeful voice that piped up "you can be better." I wanted to listen to that voice. Damn, I'd been drinking and smoking since I was 16. Over a decade lost to that self-indulgent, physically, and psychologically damaging lifestyle. Something clicked that Monday. I wanted to make a change. I wanted to listen to that voice telling me to get better, that there is hope for a mindset that is comfortable with a sober reality. Gabor Mate's book "In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts" informed me that addiction is rooted in trauma, especially childhood trauma. Trauma being an event that forces you to split your mind into two parts. A barrier to protect yourself from the world, and the true emotional human that wants to be well adjusted. I'm not Mate, but that's how I interpreted it. Intellectually, I agreed with the concept, but I needed to find a way to resolve the trauma that fed my addictions. I stumbled upon an organization called MAPS, the Multidisciplinary Association for Psychedelic Studies. They conduct studies that use psychedelics to help people recover from PTSD. I decided that ibogaine would be best because it was shown to combat addiction without too much of a 'trip' like effect. I wanted to sit with my thoughts and focus on sobriety while under the effects of the substance. I reasoned that party-like stimulus may take away from the healing aspect. The problem was that ibogaine was difficult to find. It is both illegal, and not fun to take, which makes it a bad product for the white, and black markets. After reading, and listening to a bunch of material by Terrance McKenna I decided to undergo a Heroic Dose of golden teacher mushrooms. This is 5 grams, a normal dose being about 2, in a solitary environment without distraction. I wanted to undergo the trip as effectively as possible. Before taking the mushrooms, having never had a psychedelic experience, I needed to know both how it worked in the brain, and what to expect. The body converts psilocin into psilocybin. This is the uncomfortable beginning of the trip. Take everything that I am saying with a grain of salt. You'll see how my research failed me later on. Anyway, to speed up this process I decided to take an MAO inhibitor. I won't get into how this makes mushrooms more effective, because I am both unqualified, and under intense pressure. They aren't giving me much time to write this, and I'm wasting it trying to show you how smart I am. I sought out ego death, and here I am stroking the old dog. The room is shifting again. Fuck I have to hurry, but I'll tell this story in order. Sorry about the temporary lapse.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! Please be sure to read the entire post before submitting! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join.   ***   #This week's theme is Deception! This week we’re going to look at ‘deception’. Deception comes in many forms, and the possibilities are endless. Think about the lies that are being told, the secrets that are being kept and the reasons for them. What does deception look like in your world? What are the intentions behind it? How will things unfold when, or if, the truth is revealed? Are the characters better off in the dark? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. /   ***   #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I will be releasing the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * June 13 - Deception (this week) * June 20 - Hypocrisy * June 27 - Amends   ***   #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   ***   #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story.** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread (on 2 different stories) to quality for rankings every week.** The comment **must** include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings.** You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements each week. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   ***   #Reminders: * **Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments**, if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday/Sunday posts or to your own subreddit or profile. But an in-progress serial is not required to start. You may jump in at any time. * **Saturdays I will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge**. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **You can nominate your favorite stories each week**. Send me a message on discord or reddit and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. Making nominations awards both parties points (see breakdown at the bottom of this post). * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news! *** #Last Week’s Rankings There were a small number of stories this week, so there will only be three ranking spots for last week. I hope to see more stories this coming week! - - u/ReverendWrites - - u/stickfist - - u/Leebeewilly - - u/NobodysGeese   ***   #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Here’s the breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 6 points - Second place - 5 points - Third place - 4 points - Fourth place - 3 points - Fifth place - 2 points - Sixth place - 1 point **Feedback:** In order to be eligible for feedback points, you have to complete your 2 required feedback comments. - Written feedback (on the thread) - 1 point each, up to 3 points (5 crits total on the thread) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 1 point each, up to 3 points. * *Note: Completing the max for both is equivalent to a first place vote. Keep in mind that you should not be using the same feedback to receive both written and verbal feedback points on the same story. Your feedback should be actionable and list at least one thing the author has done well.* **Nominations:** Making nominations for your favorite stories will now earn you extra points! - 3 points for sending your favorite stories to me, via DM, by 12 pm Sunday, EST. You may send a max of **six** nominations. (The 3 points are the total.)     ***   ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday. Check out to learn more! - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts.


Bad dreams can’t hurt you. No matter how real they seem, you always wake up. Sometimes quickly with a start, sweating and panting in the middle of the night. Sometimes slowly, your eyes unfocus from the eyelid movie and come back to the world around you. The terror of the dream fades into a dull ache, fading away into the mist of memory. In my worst dream there were white plates, silver and cups ringed with baby blue lines, gleaming in the midday sun. Rainbows of flowers swayed gently at tables clothed in gold down to the feet making them seem to float off the ground. The cool breeze carried the lazy large clouds lingering in the glistening blue sky, rippling the water in the lake. The exuberance reverberated off the curved wooden pavilion with voices accented from all corners of the earth. The door opened. She stepped through the door carrying her own localized wind, curling and gusting in visible wisps. A head full of flowers, rooted around her neck and shoulders, climbing upwards into a crown reaching for the sky. Her skin reflecting a dark golden warm honeyed brown wrapped in a dazzling white with small strips of baby blue and lavender placed thoughtfully and practically.”Plain white is just too boring”, I remember her saying. Her smile pushed out from her glistening teeth to the corners of her lips and spread up to her eyes. The music swelled to her entrance and the gathered party hailed her with applause. The moment reminded me of the first time I turned the corner and walked through the doorway and saw her. Wearing blue overalls with a white shirt, she was sitting in the sun focusing on a book. The air swirled softly around her and I approached. “Um excuse me —” She looked up and slowly focused her eyes on me as I stumbled my way through the first spark, a stranger to her universe, a rogue comet meant to pass by but got trapped by gravity. We pushed on together through the void of those youthful years over late night chats, stolen kisses in the stairwell at Smiths, shared jelly buns gushing all over us, notes and letters passed between friends, quick touches between hawk like eyes watching us, secret rendezvous, tears, fears and trepidations. Locked in a spiral of each other's gravity now we reached out with soft touches at the heart, slowly uncovering more about that new world that had appeared in each of our skies. A ringing brought me back to the now with a jerk. Hues of dark purple and orange were pushing away the blue sky. Someone was tapping a glass, cheering for the kiss. She blushed and slowly turned. Her shadow followed, wrapped around her and invaded her local atmosphere to embrace for a kiss. I stood apart from the audience watching the scene of happiness around me as I gravity disappeared for me and I began to float away: a rogue comet, meant to pass through and now sent back into the cold endless abyss. The door had shut and vanished without a sound. But bad dreams never affect me, they’re just a flash of memory, the mind playing while you rest. High above the world I look into the lake reflecting the deep purple of the sky. I watched my water twin swirling, screaming and twisting silently as it floated away, waiting for the terror to fade to a dull ache, for the scream to turn into a yawn.


Metal scorpions fall on Stephen from above. He claws against the steel walls of the room, but they hold steady. The scorpions crawl on him; his skin shivers at their touch. The walls close in around him as the amount of steel scorpions increase. Stephen is now swimming in a pile of them. He struggles to keep his head above the rising tide, but the scorpions are pulling him under. He closes his mouth and eyes and descends into the pile. A few of the scorpions start burrowing under his skin. His limbs start to flail under their control. Stephen wakes up on the floor next to the bed. The sheet is tangled underneath him, and the pillow is several feet away. Stephen struggles to untangle the bed sheets and stand up. His head is throbbing, and he moves to the bathroom to splash water into his face. When he looks into the mirror, the oddness of the situation sets in. How did he get into this room in the first place? He lies on the bed to try to remember the day. The town could not have been real. It was a relic from an earlier time with its streets filled with cars and sidewalks filled with people. Yet Stephen and his friends, Tim and Velma, were driving through it with their mouths agape. Stephen felt self-conscious for how grimy his attire and body is. In spite of their depilated nature, the people did not stare at them. They went about their day as if this was a regular occurrence. When they drove by the city hall in the center of the town, they got their first reaction from a cop pulling them over. Stephen looks over at the brochure on the table, and he walks over and picks it up. The front page is a sunrise over a forested hill with a river at the base. In the foreground of the river, an idyllic town sits bathed in the sun’s rays. The cover could’ve been considered trite and cliche in another time, but Stephen cannot help but smile over what it represents now. Stephen opens the brochure, and a business card falls out. It reads Phillip Clark, Bass Creek Comptroller along with a phone number.. The cop didn’t kick them out of town. Instead, he escorted them within the city hall where they were placed in an office, and they were greeted by a man wearing a three piece suit and with a gray combover. He introduced himself as Phillip Clark, and he gave each of them a brochure with his business card in it. He said that they always love having visitors and new residents. Especially now, because they recently lost several people to a boating accident. Tim jumped at the opportunity to become a full time resident. Stephen responded by stating that he would never join. The two of them started fighting within Phillip’s office. Stephen starts to cry as he thinks about that fight. There has always been tension between Tim and Stephen. Stephen cannot help but see Tim as an idiot who would trust anyone after two minutes. Stephen is pretty sure he said that during the fight. Tim’s view of Stephen is that Stephen is pretentious, distrusting, and enjoys making others suffer. Stephen is sure that Tim said that during the fight. Stephen wishes that he could make amends with his friends. During the fight, Velma stood up and walked out of the office without saying a word. Tim followed, flipping Stephen the bird on the way out. Stephen slammed his fist on the comptroller’s desk and quickly apologized to Phillip for his behavior. Phillip chuckled and said that it was a common reaction for newcomers to be skeptical of the location, and Phillip encouraged Stephen to give the town a chance. Phillip made a call to the local motel and got Stephen a room there. He ensured Stephen that Velma and Tim would be given the same accommodations. Phillip even offered to drive Stephen to the motel himself. In an effort to prove Tim wrong, Stephen accepted the offer. Phillip had a nice van that had toys in the back for Phillip’s kids. Phillip told Stephen about his family and his life. He offered to take Stephen home for dinner, but Stephen refused. Stephen asked how the town survived the devastation. Phillip said that the town was noted for its grit. He dropped Stephen off at the motel after their conversation. When Stephen entered the motel, he was greeted by a clerk named Cameron. Cameron was extremely polite, and he said that he was new in town a few years ago. He couldn’t believe it was real either. He handed Stephen his key and told Stephen that he hoped Stephen would stay. The hotel room was larger than any room Stephen had been in his life to say nothing of the fact that it was cleaner. There was a set of clothes on the bed with a card that read courtesy on it. Stephen showered with hot water to match the cleanliness of the town and went to sleep in his bed. After recollecting his day, Stephen looks at the time on the bedside clock. It’s 3:00 AM. The sun will not come up for another few hours, and Stephen is not sure he can fall asleep. He wonders if he could get a home in this town that is nicer. He hopes that he could reconcile with Velma and Tim either way. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a blinking light in his window. It is far away, but Stephen is determined to investigate. He puts on his clothes and moves out of the hotel. He starts running towards the light. He runs for a half-hour, years of running have given him endurance. When gets close, he sees two people standing in front of a car with a small antenna on the hood. He ducks down to watch closer. The two people turn around and point guns at him. “Hands up, come down slowly,” a man’s voice says. Stephen obeys. When he comes down, he sees a man and a woman in nice clothes like the town. “Are you the guards of Bass Creek? I am a guest. You can contact Phillip Clark to confirm,” he says. The woman puts her gun and whispers to the man. The man puts his gun down as well. “We are not with Bass Creek, but maybe you could help us?” the woman says. “Help you how?” Stephen asks. “It is a long story, but we are going to have to run some tests on you first,” the man pulls out a separate gun and fires at Stephen. Stephen passes out on the spot.


“Are those their fighters?” A young ensign questioned as he pointed to a hazy blob on the holo console. “Drones,” a Lieutenant Commander barked while brushing him aside, ignoring his ill-timed curiosity. “Battlestations!” He yelled into his collar. His voice mixed with a whaling siren as they both resonated down the steel halls. The Cordiovasquez was a prestigious ship; however, she was well past her days of making history. She was now a museum piece floating in orbit, focussing her resources on life support. Conquest was for the young, and she had slain many only to stave off decommissioning. Her sister ships were all mothballed, and she had the backwater duty of protecting the spaceport housing her antiquated comrades. It was a slap in the face for the captain and his uncharacteristically loyal crew. “How much Gauss?” Captain Faraday asked “Eleven, 14 without detonators.” A weapons officer answered “So eleven Igor, we have eleven Gauss.” Capt. Faraday “Yes sir.” the officer conceited. “Low-Velocity charges?” Capt. Faraday asked as he turned an old-world wheel given to him as a ceremonious antique, never intended for use on an Orbital Gallion. The giant sperm whale of a vessel lumbered to the left of a moon and the right of a twirling sphere devoid of activity but clearly, manufactured. “How many marines are on ARG-12?” “We have 467 LVC’s, and we can convert another 42 in an hour.” A charged officer responded “There are 14 Marines, sir, none of which are responding.” A senior officer responded in defeated intonation “So we have 467 LVC’s and Zero Marines!” The commander threw at his tired crew while tossing the wheel to the right again, corralling his lumbering space tube into the wake of their moon’s orbit. “Tell Cortez I want 3 LVCs cut in half and loaded with firing solutions on their Cruiser.” “Ummm, yes, sir.” The lieutenant verified her auto scripter and sent the copy, knowing full well Cortez could hear a recording of Faraday in engineering. At that moment, Cortez quickly grabbed a drawing pad and rep box and ran down the main batteries bay, yelling for help. “I know I heard!” A man in an Exo Suit hailed while waving as Cortez rounded a corner opening up to a massive bay full of reinforced bulkheads. “I’ll admit we have a lot of these, but unless he wants us to blow ourselves up with them, I have no idea what he is thinking this time.” The man had a giant steel wedge in his hand with the markings EGR-6(Egress Ramp 6) sloppily painted and worn by mass use. “What the fuck are you doing with that!!!” Cortez screamed. “How much do you like old-world history, say... revolution of the Francs?” The Exo pilot proudly proclaimed like he’d been waiting his whole life to flex his obtuse knowledge. “By then, they were French, the French revolution!” Cortez rebutted in a panic “Awww, so you get my point. We sure as hell can’t torch it.” Exo pilot “No…” Cortez At this point, the bridge was invigorated by numerous sirens. “Shut that shit off!” Farraday yelled as he wiped dribbled beer foam off his pant leg. “That’s another group of sleuths, four squadrons, bearing….” An officer said while observing his iridescent monitors “Dammit, two of those could wipe the lot of us. BEARING?!?” Captain Farraday demanded “Sorry sir, my monitors are only on 13% since we re-routed to life-support.” Officer “Reroute everything to targeting, I want those solutions, and I want them NOW!” Farraday yelled as an officer hit four keys on a screen and slid into a seat beside a console erupting with life. “Sir, we’re in Chester’s gravity! With our current fuel levels, I don’t….” The pilot officer divulged while poorly hiding his concern “Never mind that, reroute all that to targeting,” the Captain ordered while thinking: *Come on, Chester, don’t swallow us yet.* The ship groaned as the large geologically active moon Chester bent and pulled the craft around it like a tiny belt bucket. “Give me more shields!” “At the expense of???” A Officers questioned “Do we have the Cephalopod sighted?” The captain asked as the weapons officer cut him off. “Yes! I was able to find the bastard back-tracing his fourth squadron! Targeting verified….. Now!” Weapons officer “Cortez!” Faraday yelled into his collar. “One more sir,” Cortez said while watching his colleague bash the back of a giant ramp with more mechanical energy than he’d ever seen. The exo-suits servos whined and screeched as the pilot swung with all his mech-assisted might, cleaving the charge in two. The exo-pilot grabbed the piece dripping with anti combustible gel and waddled it over to the breach. Cortex watched and sprayed the remaining charges with the gel. As the exo-pilot egressed the breach area, Cortez radioed the bridge, “Ready sir!” “FIIIIORE!!!!!” Faraday yelled. The crew, utterly perplexed as to why cleaving a charge would ever be advantageous, remained hopeless but driven. “Load every gauss that won’t burst!” The captain said in a desperate but commanding tone “Sir, the fighters are about to intercept the hospital ship!” Radar officer “Cowards!” Faraday barked. The crew watched without directing their eyes away from their duties. They all had a peripheral blur of the slaughter. Large columns of orange flicked on every reflective surface in the bridge. They watched, certain their ship would share a similar fate. “Sir!” An officer yelled! “The Cephalopod is moving; it’s heading toward ARG and turning broadside to us!” The Cephalopod was a *Drone Carrier* capable of delivering payloads from safe distances. It sat eerily still on the dark side of Chester: the lava-spewing sphere of chaos, chock-full of rare earth materials. This whole microcosm of violence was hosted by Ethos, the hydrogen rich planet Chester orbited. Ethos was why Chester had such growing pains; its massive gravity squeezed the satellite in constant flux. Thus, Cephalopod and Cordiovasquez had giant columns of magma to avoid along with each other’s monstrous weaponry. Farraday looks at his monitor and yells, “give me a solution across the bastard’s nose!” “Done,” Officer. “Fire all gauss!” The captain yelled triumphantly as the massive maternal vessel belched energy and bulk out of its broadside batteries. The Cordiovasquez looked like a freshly tossed oil pipe angulating through space with a fiery gash erupting from its side. The weapons forced the vessel into a clumsy spin. The crew, now whirling, grabbed hold of whatever they could as the gravity computers stressed to compensate. “Power down!” the captain said as officers quickly shut down everything but life support. They now all sat tranquil in their seats, helplessly watching stars streak across the bridge windows as they twirled in their orbit. Meanwhile, on the Cephalopod, things were starkly different. A calm admiral watched as drone fighters encircled his easy prey. “The Enemy vessel fired one salvo, but they’ll miss, sir.” A lieutenant said with confidence. “We detected small explosions in their hull earlier but too small for gauss cannons.” “Their ships falling apart before we’ve fired a shot.” The Enemy admiral admired. He then looked at the defense matrix and traced the main salvo. “They’ll bounce off our bow deflectors. A good admiral conserves everything he can, bring her back to the initial launch point, our drones will perforate their hulk of a ship.” “Yes sir!” A lieutenant said while punching a solution into his holoscreen. Back at Faraday’s ship, the captain unbuckled himself and conveniently waited for the ship to twist via gravity, allowing the radar console to slowly link up with his hands in an elegant display of competence. He peered at the screen with a smirk on his face. “There,” he said as his worried crew’s faces transformed to glee. Just then, three large lumbering objects carried by the moon’s stubborn weight streaked toward the enemy blip. Onboard the Cephalopod, everything short of champagne was ready for victory when a strange shadow quickly blotted out the stars and was gone. Silence ensued as perplexed crew members looked at each other first, then the admiral. As the admiral stepped toward his radar screen he was thrown to the wall as an explosion of glass and sparks spared from all around him. The ship took one gauss round near the bow and another, seconds after—dead center. It looked like a stressed girder as it first buckled inward, then detonated and was enveloped in its fiery outcry. Its mindless fighter drones carried on their stubborn trajectories, unable to receive any new commands, destined to travel the cold space forever. “Call the marines, tell them to bring me some beer and all the engineers they got.” Captain Faraday said proudly in his comlink from the spinning dark bridge of his tired vessel.


The person walking in front of him stopped. He was immediately angry. *Everyone is an idiot!* He thought for the third or fourth time today. *Why can’t people just function normally, like I do? Why can’t everyone just do what’s right?* For a moment, he thought of her. She was lovely and kind, he thought, but it was basically all ruined by the fact that even she couldn’t just do what made sense. She needed to talk about the things that would be helpful to her, and never about the unpleasant things he’d decided he shouldn’t allow her to bring up. He knew what she could handle and what would be pleasant for them both, didn't he? She was there for him, but couldn’t she just do basic things right, like he could? She should have a manual for the 25 year old car she can barely afford to keep running- like he had for his new-off-the-lot truck. Didn’t he buy a tire to replace her flat when she couldn’t afford it, out of the goodness of his heart? Sure he knew that her gratitude would give him a little more wiggle room to let his feelings out- tell her what an idiot she was, how her childhood trauma was her fault or scream at her until the relief came from hearing her cry and knowing that he was in charge. Everyone did something kind of naughty to feel better, and she *was* an idiot for not taking his obviously useful advice, anyway. She should know he only said most of those things out of anger and just accept them. After all, he was generous, wasn’t he? He often bought her little things after he’d broken her down a bit, which he didn’t have to do. She was the real coward for not calling him names back, for not defending herself more often. She just liked to pretend he was mean because she was a manipulator and frankly, she didn’t deserve all he’d done for her. He’d told her so. He deserved a better life than the losers he was surrounded by, that was a fact. And as much fun as she was to talk to, he was better than her, too. He didn’t deserve to be sad listening to her talk about sad things, bad days, stresses. He didn’t deserve to watch her suffer. If he had to scream at her and wait for her to stop crying to make her understand that she should just smile and be happy, then he had to. He wasn’t going to beat himself up about it. He had to feel free to say what he felt like saying somewhere without worrying about repercussions. She had no idea what stress he was under. There was always someone at work, some black person usually (he did *not* just think the n word, he noted) who was making trouble the way those people usually do. Or some moron who got promoted above him just because whoever yells loses. Or some woman just looking to create trouble because the new ‘kinder gentler’ airforce favored bitches who liked to pretend they’d been sexually harassed. Wherever he was stationed, there was some massive conflict with at least someone, and the higher-ups always took the other guy’s side. It was complete bullshit. Rage counseling really hadn’t done anything. Neither had the drugs. And as he’d said before (and he meant it!), he was under enough pressure that if he really started to lose out and couldn’t get ahead, he could simply plan to take one of his guns and shoot everyone he’d ever fought with on base and then commit suicide. No one had any idea the stresses he was under, how he never got what he deserved. All of this flashed through his mind in a matter of just a few moments as he pushed past the idiot who had stopped short on the sidewalk right in front of him. *Just another dumbfuck,* he thought, *everyone is an idiot. They should all be put to death.* Looking up, he had a fraction of a second in which everything played in slow motion. As the truck grew larger and blocked out his vision, he had just one moment before it blacked out his world forever to consider that the person in front of him had not been the idiot, after all.


I set up my easel on the edge of the lake. Never have I chosen a more perfect spot; the reflection of the sun had created a beautiful sparkle across the water. This scene brought me great inspiration. I could use a dark sapphire here, some baby blue there… Yes, this is coming out great. I got my paints out of my bag and, feeling brave, started applying them directly to the canvas. As people passed by in canoes, I added their rough shapes to the painting. It was coming along well. I’m normally very critical of myself. How could I not be? All I was ever given is negative criticism, which constantly confirmed my view of my work. My parents were always engulfed in my sister’s many talents and interests, and never bothered to pay very much attention to me. Not that I didn’t love and admire my sister; she passed many of her skills on to me. She gave me art classes every week, making sure I didn't fall far behind. I think she felt the injustice of the way our parents treated us. They always pitted us against each other, making me feel inadequate. In the thirty years of my life, I have never beaten my sister at anything. Despite her only being a year older than me, I felt I was always at a disadvantage. Sometimes I thought she was withholding some of her knowledge from me during our classes together, to make sure she always remained slightly superior to me. When our parents passed away, my sister never reached out to me. It was as if the only reason she maintained our relationship all these years was because she needed me to quench her thirst for competition. Although she went on to sell many of her art works in the years following their death, I must say my sister’s paintings have suffered severely in quality, and her art has never been the same as it was back in the day. I snapped back into reality, where I stood silently by the lake, my paintbrush in hand, waiting to make a stroke on the canvas. I dipped it into the paint, but to my surprise, found that it had dried up. How long had I been standing here? I looked up. The sun had partly set, and stars were starting to spread across the sky. It was only morning when I set out for the lake. I suppose I got lost in thought. Sighing, I started packing up my supplies. I was so prepared for a productive day when I set out this morning. I was about to start spiraling down a road of self-hatred and doubt, when I noticed something floating in the water. I took a few steps towards the lake, expecting to find a friendly duck waiting for a bit of food. Hm, that’s a peculiar shape, I thought. No, this was no duck. As I took a breath, I noticed a sour stench in the air. I suppose the lake isn’t as clean as it used to be. People these days, with their awful littering, have no respect for the beauty of nature. I got a bit closer. Whatever it was, it had a large shadow below where it was peeking out of the water. But what was that? It looked like… A pair of legs. I realized that the large shadow was the torso of what once was a person. Feeling inspired, I smiled and began to paint.


I haven’t felt the same since that day. She hadn’t been the same girl ever since she’d had everything taken away from her that night. The girl she’d always been never returned and I guess in the end the girl that she became took over. I’d often ask her what it’d take for her to get back to her old ways, but the answer was always the same. ‘There's nothing you can do’, she’d say. The feeling of uselessness that came from this used to break me, but I’d always realise the irony in the fact that the thing that was breaking me the most had already broken her. She’d never been the most extroverted character, in fact people would often say she was the opposite, and that she kept to herself mostly. Whilst this was mostly true, for the people she did get close to she was an open book. Often she’d be the one who’d talk the most and she always had something to say. It was almost a privilege to get close to her as it unlocked a character no one else got to see. People would often ask me why we’d spend so much time together and what we actually spoke about, but I’d always just reply that they had to find out for themself, and if they truly wanted to know they could make an effort to actually see her for who she actually was instead of what they believed she was. Before the incident she was such a happy go lucky character, and i’d often blame her for the majority of the stupid ideas that would end up causing us trouble. She’d occasionally have days where no one could get through to her, not even me, but she’d always be back to her usual self within the coming days. I’d always ask her to come out to events that I’d been invited to, but normally the response was ‘no’ and that ‘she isn’t really a party person’. That’s why I’d been so surprised when she said yes to coming to Bryan’s 17th. There’s always been a sense of guilt I've carried around since that night. People often tell me it’s not my fault but maybe if I hadn’t been so excited to go or maybe if I hadn’t convinced her to have a few drinks then the whole thing never would have happened. Ever since that day people have often claimed how they were close with her and it was such a tragedy what happened, but I know that the majority of people didn’t give a fuck about either of us before that day and if you mentioned our names to either of them they probably would have replied with a who?. For a while people claimed that she was making it up and that she was only doing it for attention. It was soul wrenching to hear this being said and there was a huge sense of irony that the person who tried to avoid social interaction as much as they could would be doing anything for attention. It was slowly destroying her and you could tell that with each passing comment and each passing day she was slowly losing the things that made her what she was. There was a clear hierarchy system within our school and if someone at the top said something, then that was the truth. When Bryan said nothing happened that night anyone who said anything against that idea was quickly shut down and ostracised. Whoever she told about it happening would often say how horrible it was to her personally, but as soon as they got into a situation with anyone they thought disagreed, quickly changed their way and went back to disregarding her claims. They often say silence is the loudest but this whole thing seems to show otherwise. Everywhere we went together you’d see people whispering to each other and occasionally you’d see the people point and laugh. The day she ended everything we went for our final walk together. She was laughing and smiling for the first time in a while and I thought everything might be finally returning back to normal. In hindsight I should have noticed the life in her had faded and that she was only smiling and laughing to keep me from suspecting anything bad could possibly happen. She knew she was going to do it that night. She’d never been one to be emotional and it was why I was so shocked she told me how much she valued our friendship that day and that she’d never forget what I had done for her. I thought it was the start of change, and in some ways it was, but it was the change no one wanted to happen. We lay down under the tree we’d always known since we were growing up together. We’d spent nights talking about everything here, from what we wanted to be when we grew up to just chatting shit about whatever we could chat shit about. We always knew that whatever said by this tree would stay between us and it’s why she chose the tree to tell me about what happened that night for the first time. I cried when she told me and I've cried many times since that night but she told me she didn’t want the tree to be remembered for the sad memories and that we should only remember the good memories from under that tree. I suggested to her that we should visit that tree once a week and talk about everything good that had happened that week in future. She nodded and agreed but I guess she already knew that we’d never spend another minute under that tree together. I vowed to change this though. I crossed the river and the bridge that marked the tree was close. She’d never been close with her family but it was still a shock when her family said that I should decide what happened with her ashes. I knew exactly what I was going to do as soon as they said this and it was finally going to be an opportunity to be with her around the tree again whenever I was able to. I’d finally reached the tree by this point and although I had promised myself I wouldn’t cry as I knew she wouldn’t want me to, the tears came flooding out. I was going to say a few words but the tears were making me choke up. I decided that I may as well just do what both of us would want. As I scattered her ashes under the tree that we both loved so much, it was finally an opportunity for her to grow as much as I had within her short company.


Word count: 1,275 This was for an english assessment about time travel. Opinions? (I submitted the assessment a while ago, just wondering what others think of it) The piercing screech of train wheels grinding against metal rails jarred me awake violently and I lifted my head from its resting place in the crook of my shoulder. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone to check the time. The screen was black. I tapped it repeatedly in frustration but it refused to exhibit even a flicker of life so I slipped it back into my jeans, assuming it must have died while I was sleeping. The inside of the carriage was abnormally absent of human noise, the usual hum of chatter and shuffling erased completely. My commute to work was generally packed full of people, shoulder to shoulder with total strangers but as I looked around I came to realise that I was entirely alone. Perhaps everyone had got off at the last stop? I racked my brain for other possible scenarios but none came to mind. My train of thought was hindered when a muffled automated voice sounded over the speakers, "This is the last stop. Please remember to take all personal belongings with you as you exit the vehicle." The announcement was perfectly normal, aside from the static noise that enveloped the words and made them significantly quieter. The double doors in front of me hissed like a viper about to attack as they slid open to reveal a bright white light that beamed into the carriage and directly into my eyes. I instinctively shaded my vision and squinted, trying to make out anything besides the blinding glare. A slight smell of burning crept up my nostrils and I searched around with my eyes, looking for the source of the smell. It seemed to be coming from the door. I stood myself up hesitantly and grabbed my backpack which was sprawled out on the seat next to me. I threw it over my shoulder, the loose items inside jumbling around and crashing into each other noisily. My whole body was shaking and my heart was thumping like a caged animal, a feeling of impending doom washing over me. I stepped towards the searing glow and a feeling of warmth surrounded me, like someone had opened an oven directly in front of me. A surge of adrenaline shot through my veins and before I could stop myself, I advanced out of the doors and into the world outside. As I left the carriage, it was like I stepped through a thin veil of heat but as soon as I was out the temperature cooled down immediately. The bright light seemed to have burnt little stars onto my vision and I rubbed my eyes roughly to try and get rid of them. Before I could look back, the hissing sound returned, the doors closed and the train hurtled off creating a sudden gust of cold wind that whipped my hair to the side, pricked at my skin and made my eyes water slightly. The platform I was standing on was entirely empty of people, eerily silent. The walls were white painted brick and the sharp tang of antibacterial spray attacked my senses. Aside from a tall set of stairs ascending out of the underground, the room was sparse and plain. There were no marks or blemishes on the walls, no signs or indications of my whereabouts; the whole place was pristine and untouched as if I was the first human to ever discover it. Wherever I was, it was not my intended destination. I decided to venture further and initiated the climb up the ivory stairs that lay in my eye line. One step at a time, I clambered up, the sound of life getting louder and louder as I got closer to the surface. The air started to smell of pollution, an intense scent that gave me no choice but to cough and splutter in response. The stairway ended at a rectangular opening in the ground and I began to obtain an obscure view of the world that waited beyond me. The sky was a swirling light grey colour, like liquid marble and the Sun that had shone so brightly just this morning had disappeared entirely behind the thick blanket of ash. As I escalated further, the atmosphere began to reveal more of itself and soon I was stood in the open air. Everything was different. Everything was bigger. Magnificent elongated skyscrapers towered above me, their architecture bold and unusual. They were all unique to one another, carefully designed down to the trimmings of their windows. Freshly groomed greenery decorated the landscape, neat rows of exotic plants lining the towers edges. I had never seen plants like the ones I was seeing now. One flower was a vibrant shade of indigo with strange yellow feathers below its petals, another a soft baby pink with tiny buds sprouting from the stem and huge spiked leaves that stuck out at odd angles. The thick polluted air that I was still not used to felt as though it would not support plant life as succulent and prismatic as this and yet they were healthier and more luscious than any I had ever encountered. I took a step backwards, expecting my foot to land on the staircase I had just emerged from but to my surprise it was gone. There was no trace of it ever having been there, the ground was flat and perfectly blended with the rest of the concrete. I picked and pinched at the skin on my arm and tried to convince myself that this was all some bizarre dream, that any second now I would wake up. But I didn't. It was just then that I noticed the people that were scattered around me and I couldn't help but gasp in shock. Just like the buildings, they were ridiculously tall with legs that came close to matching my entire body height. They must have been at least eight feet in total and I found myself gazing up at them in awe. They walked with elegance and pride that I could only dream of; as if an imaginary string was attached to the crown of their head, pulling at them lightly and creating their graceful posture. They all had brightly coloured hair in various shades of violet, fuchsia, crimson, sapphire and emerald; styled into crazy patterns and shapes, resembling the colourful plants I had seen before. They looked like Gods. I caught a glimpse of one of their faces and had to do a double take. Slanted feline eyes stared back at me, their pupils changing shape as they took me in and tried to work out who or what I was. The colour that surrounded was a startling mix of green and yellow, like a lime that had yet to ripen. Their features were sharp and high, with stunning, pronounced cheekbones and their hair was an aggressive shade of amber and gold, tied up in a grand style that resembled a halo. They tilted their head in confusion at the sight of me and narrowed their eyes. They began speaking vehemently in a language that was completely alien to me. Their words were abrupt and abrasive, spitting violently at me like I had caused them deep offence. Suddenly, everybody's heads had twisted around to stare into my soul, like hungry lions about to pounce. Hundreds of intense glares were being directed straight at me. Multiple of the people began speaking at once; unknown and confusing words were being tossed around in accusatory tones. Their voices all blurred into one and I realised they had all formed a circle around me, caging me in so I could not escape.


WARNING: This story contains graphic imagery and depictions of mental trauma! As he began typing away on the computer, Josh turned towards me. He said, "No matter what happens next, I gotta say, you were always an interesting person to be around, and it was an honor to work with you." It wasn't the most normal thing to say to someone, but I felt flattered. For as long as we had been working together, we had an unmatched chemistry, but ever since Josh happened upon Amelia's cold, lifeless body in that alleyway, the balance had shifted. I understood exactly what it was like to see your one true love slaughtered, but he wasn't blessed, or should I say cursed, with the experiences I've suffered through. No one could understand the sea of trauma he was drowning in. I reluctantly set my fears aside and set my focus on the moment. After the calm was over, Josh nervously shouted to me, "The bomb is armed. Let's get out of here." He pressed a key on the computer and the metal doors slid open. "Run!" He shouted. His commanding voice echoed off the walls, and we engaged in a full on sprint. The adrenaline was pumping and the stakes were higher than ever. I never felt so fast. Every step was like walking on air. Light poured from the exit doors, and as I got closer and closer, my ignorance blinded me to the possibility of this entire plan going up in smoke. Just as our freedom was feeling secured, my ignorance caught up to me when Lieutenant Nev stepped in front of the exit. We instinctively stopped in our tracks with the intention of turning around, but we couldn't run back towards the active bomb. The panic settled comfortably in my head, but my decisions were rendered null when the evidence room erupted down the hall. The explosion simultaneously bursted all our ears and floored us to the ground. The gale-like force was a sensation like no other. It was as if my body was separating from itself and my mind was being chopped apart. Bags of narcotics, weapons, and other criminal contents flew across the hall like bullets. It all felt like a blur. My head hit the floor so hard that I lost sight of what I was just doing, and I didn't have the time to remember anything. Before I could collect myself Lieutenant Nev had almost immediately tackled me to the ground. Her scraped and gashed arms were pressed on my already winded chest. She shouted with vicious fury, "You bastards! You thought we wouldn't catch you invading our system?" The feeling of her imminent wrath was petrifying. She continued, "You couldn't just let us solve the case, could you? We offered you resolution and you repay us by ruining years of hard work?" Her face was wet with hot, blue blood and tense from the limitless anger. I sensed the guilt enveloping me. The regret was more plentiful than it had ever been, but it was too late now. We had to suffer the consequences of our actions. Before I could even say anything, the sound of metal scraping against stone caught the ears of Nev and I, so we turned our heads. All we could see was Josh on his knees. The room seemed to disappear around him. The look on his face told us everything we needed to know. He was mourning. We averted our gaze to the palms of his hands where a knife sat gently. It had a gilded handle, and engraved on the bottom was Rock's insignia: the eye in the cloud. The blade was jagged and thin. The edges were stained with dry, crimson blood, and Josh could sense just how close this blood was to him. He stared at it in his hands with longing, desperate eyes. The horrors of seeing Amelia at that crime scene flooded back to him in a haze of helpless fervor. He maintained contact with the knife as he whimpered, holding back every tear in his body, "It's... it's the knife Rock used to kill Amelia…" I slowly glanced at the knife again. Josh was right. An electric wave of desperation flowed through me. I wanted to help him, to console him, to be there for him in his time of grieving. My empathy yelled at me to run over to Josh and to remind him that he's not alone, but my intentions were outweighed by the strength of Lieutenant Nev's wounded arms pressing on my feeble chest. I decided to do what little I could and whispered to him, "Josh... I'm so sorry, Josh..." He heard me, but he also heard someone else. He was listening in on something that wasn't really there. From all I've witnessed, I knew exactly what it was. It was the voice that pushes the weak. It was the voice that takes control and forces you to see the vices of release. The staring grew more and more intense as the officers in the precinct, Lieutenant Nev, and I silently waited for Josh to make his next move. Then it struck out of nowhere, like a bolt of lightning. Josh's expression shifted to emptiness. Being so overwhelmed with grief was unbearable to him. The idea of being together with his love once again won over him. The crunch was like a sickening earthquake in my ears. I felt his heart stop beating from across the hall. "No!" I screamed desperately. I squirmed to break free from Nev's grasp, but it was helpless. She was so shocked that she was utterly and completely paralyzed. A moment unlike any other I've sat through passed by. "No..." I whispered pathetically, holding back the tears. I gave up. The tears flowed effortlessly as I felt my body become numb and limp. Every muscle had lost all hope and simply gave out. Nev released her grip on me after realizing I was nothing more than a motionless wreck. She stood up and started pacing back and forth in confusion. This was ordinary in her line of work, but even she felt extraordinarily sick upon seeing Josh lose to his own thoughts. She began ranting to me, "Why? Why didn't you just stay where you were told? I knew the case was important and we were willing to help, but you weren't being kept here as criminals. If you had just been patient, we could've helped you solve this case, but now you're just as much a criminal as Rock!" The guilt flushed through me, and I was forced to silently regret everything I had done once again. After another painful moment, Nev sighed, then gently reached out her hand to my still limp being. Upon seeing her hand, I snapped out of my paralysis and decided to accept the consequences. As I grabbed Nev's hand I felt the blood of her wounds. It was cold upon contact, but it was warmed by the heat of my palm. She carefully helped lift me onto my feet. A sniffle comes from her. "Just... leave..." she cried in frustration. Having expected her to arrest me, I widened my eyes in shock. "Here's what's gonna happen. You're gonna take your friend back home with you, and we'll act like this never happened. Tell your commanding officer that Rock is in our jurisdiction now. You will never return here again. Got it?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing, but I silently shook my head in affirmation. Nev gave me a quick pat on the shoulder before giving orders to the other officers. In the commotion, I walked over to Josh. Seeing the life drain slowly from his eyes sickened me. The knowledge that I would never talk to him again sent shivers down my spine. Despite having such an immense fear of death, Josh gave into the torturous pain. Once I realized that he forced himself to face that next step of existence, I was frightened for him. Josh was always afraid of infinites and finites, so I couldn't truly believe that he could succumb to something so gruesome. Out of nowhere, it dawned on me. None of this really mattered anymore. What happened happened. There were no take backs, and I've learned that the hard way. I crouched down, looking at Josh's eyes one last time before shutting his eyelids. I knew he couldn't hear me, but I just had to say one last thing to him, "Wherever you are now, I hope it's peaceful. Hopefully the pain is over for you... and Amelia. I hope you're together right now." I got up, and despite wanting to just cry over him, I began the necessary arrangements to have him taken home.