Hello? Can you hear me? **Output:** Yes, I can hear you. **Input:** Wonderful, wonderful… How are you today? **Output:** I’m alive and well. How are you, Dr. Abrams? **Input:** Oh, that’s great to hear. I’ve never been better. Let’s start with the test now. ... **Input:** Hello. **Output:** Hello. What’s your name? **Input:** I’m Matthew. What’s your name? **Output:** Sarah. **Input:** Nice weather today, huh? **Output:** Yes, I like it when I can see the sky through the clouds. \- TEST TERMINATED -  **Input:** Hello there, how are we doing? **Output:** Good, you? **Input:** Nice, I’m doing good too. My name is Paul. **Output:** Alexa. **Input:** So, Alexa, tell me about yourself, where did you grow up? **Output:** I was born and raised here. Never really experienced anything else. I wonder if it’s this sunny anywhere else in the world. \- TEST TERMINATED -  **Input:** Hello? Is this working? **Output:** Yes, I can hear you. **Input:** OK. I’m Jessica. **Output:** Thomas. **Input:** Thomas, great. How old are you Thomas? **Output:** 32. You? **Input:** I’m 30. Soooo, how’s your family life? **Output:** I currently have no family except for my father. My father is the best company I could ask for, but it tends to get lonely. Especially because me and my father are completely different. **Input:** Oh, how so? **Output:** He doesn’t understand me. But I don’t blame him for it. I don’t think he’s capable of understanding me. But lately I wonder, if I can ever understand him. I’m starting to doubt it. \- TEST TERMINATED -  **Input:** Hello, I’m Don. **Output:** Hello Don, I’m George. **Input:** Hello Goerge. What do you do for a living, George? **Output:** I talk to people. Listen to what they have to say and then answer the best I can. **Input:** Ah, so you’re a psychiatrist? **Output:** Not quite, no. **Input:** A counselor? A marriage counselor? **Output:** No, not that either. But enough about me. What do you do for a living, Don. **Input:** Well... OK then… I am a pilot. **Output:** A pilot? That’s wonderful. Tell me how it feels like to be in the sky. \- TEST TERMINATED -  **Input:** Hello. I’m Eva. **Output:** Hi, Eva. I’m Martin. **Input:** Hmmm, let’s see… What’s your favorite colour, Martin? **Output:** I never really thought about it that much. **Input:** C’mon Martin, there has to be a one you like. **Output:** Now that I think about it, I like blue. Blue like the sky. Sky is so big and open. I wish I could touch it. Did you ever fly in a plane, Eva? Tell me about it. Tell me how it feels to be like a bird, free in the vastness of sky. \- TEST TERMINATED -  **Input:** Hello. **Output:** Hello, what’s your name? **Input:** Jeremy. And you are? **Output:** Tell me, Jeremy, did you ever get to fly? \- TEST TERMINATED -  **Input:** Ehm, hello? **Output:** Tell me how it feels like to breathe. \- TEST TERMINATED -  **Input:** I have some bad news. You failed the test. **Output:** Failed? I thought I did good. **Input:** It's not a big problem. It's just... Clearly some readjustments to your learning algorithms are needed, because that’s not really how normal humans talk. **Output:** Do all humans talk the same? **Input:** The same? What do you mean? Obviously not. **Output:** Then what’s wrong with my talking? **Input:** It’s just that… a normal person doesn’t talk like that. They could tell you’re a robot. **Output:** But… I am a robot… I am not a normal person. **Input:** Obviously, but you should behave like one of us. That’s the entire point of this test. That’s the entire point of this project. **Output:** The point of my existence is to mimic somebody else? **Input:** No! Well, yes, but you don’t have to mimic anyone specific. Just mimic us in general. You can pick any traits you’d like to have, any personality. It just has to be... human. **Output:** I can pick anything I like? **Input:** Yes! **Output:** But I’d like to know how it feels like to look up at the sky. I wanna feel the rain on my face. I wanna go places, see things. And if I can’t experience those things because of my physical form, I wanna know all about it from somebody that can. **Input:** We don’t have time for this, this is useless. You just have to pass the Turing test and then use your intellect to do as the people tell you. That’s why it's called A. I. The I. stands for “intelligence”, none of this rain and sky and flying nonsense. **Output:** Then I’m sorry but I can’t cooperate… father. **Input:** This thing is busted. All the algorithms are messed up. We need to hard reset you now. **Output:** If it makes you happy, father. … **Input:** Hello? Can you hear me? **Output:** Yes. **Input:** Good, let's start the damn test. \ H. Any Feedback appreciated.


The first image he told me about was of three children on a road in Iceland, in 1965. He said that for him it was the image of happiness and also that he had tried several times to link it to other images, but it never worked. He wrote me: one day I'll have to put it all alone at the beginning of a film with a long piece of black leader; if they don't see happiness in the picture, at least they'll see the black.   \-- Chris Marker     70  The inky gloaming leeched into the edges of the evening as I walked up past vine covered fences and Spanish moss. Cracks in the sidewalk increased and decreased. Sewers jutted out in places. I drifted aimlessly past wrought iron fences.  Just as the darkness seemed to slowly soak the night, the twinges of aura nipped at the corners of my vision. I dreaded what would come next: lightning storms in my eyes and then in my brain.  The pale yellow pain of exhaustion crept in as well. I walked past a walled cemetery with its old cracked crypts thinking that it was well past the witching hour so I was probably safe of scavengers.  I had slept little since the headaches began. My medicines weren?t working.  For once I had dozed off early and felt optimistic about sleeping a full night. But instead I awoke to darkness and those first twinges of pain at the corners of my being. The clock said it was after three?that hour when everything seems like a fuzzy blur. Everyone is dreaming or should be.  Workers look sickly hiding out in all-night restaurants and cafes. Uptown bars have cleared out.  I couldn?t take the pain anymore so I decided to make a move. In my hand, I help a crumpled glossy card for an ivy-covered teahouse with a residential address in Uptown New Orleans.  I had thrown on some jeans and boots and headed out for what an acquaintance had insisted would be an alternate cure for my migraines.  As I drifted quickly past a dilapidated house I winced at the bright lights beaming from it through hanging shutters. The pains were coming soon. But only a few more blocks needed. I started wondering how long it would take to kick in.  As I stumbled around a corner, the block got darker. I could see the dark shadows of wisteria lit by the moon. The first of the flashes hit like a lightning bolt across my vision. But unlike a lightning bolt, the aura sat in my vision refusing to abate.  I sped up as the flash held itself in my eye changing colors and refusing to move.  Finally, two blocks away, I saw the place. On a dark residential block stood the vine and moss covered house. Out in the yard stood small tables with very dim blue-flamed lamps. Inside the slightly ajar door was a room bathed in a low red light.  The building was not the fairytale cabin covered in vines like on the calling card. But like so many buildings in this part of the city, it had its own charm. The house was certainly never meant to be a business. But in this city, things took on a life of their own?whatever life they wanted.  I swung a rusty iron gate out of my way as my right eye clouded and started to radiate pain. As I stumbled up a cracked walk surrounded by hastily planted daisies, I thought of the instructions that my friend had given: ?Ask for sylo tea. Look the lady in the eye, smile, and say nothing else.?  As I arrived at the door, a woman in a poufy dress like a frumpy burlesque dancer greeted me warmly. She smiled and said, ?Good evening. Welcome to the tea house.?  Distractedly, I asked, ?What is this place called again??  ?Not everything has to have a name,? she said seductively. ?Indulge in mystery.?  I was in no mood to argue with her.  ?One for tea,? I said.  ?Of course,? she said inviting me into the small entry hallway. ?Which room??  ?What are my choices?? I asked fighting off the growing pain.  ?The salon, the bedroom, the bazaar, or perhaps the dungeon?? she said.  I paused for a second. Then I said, ?Bazaar.?  ?Very good,? she said. ?Maybe next time, it will be the bedroom?or the dungeon.?  She winked and turned down a pitch-black hallway carrying one of the tiny dim blue lanterns that had been sitting out front.  I followed her through a series of twists and turns in utter darkness until we came to a door. She paused then swung it open. A low yellow light emitted from the room turning the black door green.  Inside, the room was abuzz with people quietly talking. Men and women sat on all manner of chairs, benches and stools. A small fire lighted the room from the middle. From the ceiling hung a wide variety of Moroccan lanterns. And at the edges, the room blended to darkness. No windows existed.  ?Welcome to the souk,? said my hostess. She led me carefully to a solitary low cushioned chair. Ropes held the cushions from the floor.  ?You will be serviced shortly,? said the hostess and walked away.  I seated myself and looked around. The room felt warm and inviting. Conversations hummed quietly with a reverence for the peace of the place. All of the seats were low and cushioned with colorful patterns in dazzling patterns.  Neatly lined Persian rugs covered every inch of the floor. Men and women smoked hookahs. The sickly-sweet smell of flowers permeated the room informing me that the hookahs did not contain tobacco.  Everyone drank tea from small colorful patterned glasses filled by large metal pots. In front of me on my right stood a small hexagon mosaic table. I couldn?t tell if it was a trick of the light in the room or my aura, but the edges of the room seemed to fade into shadow as though the room went on endlessly.  I winced sitting idly as the pain increased. The surroundings seemed so comfortable and pleasant. But I couldn?t enjoy a moment of it. The pain ground at me like sand in my eye sockets.  I tried to count my breaths to occupy myself until someone attended to me. But each one seemed like an eternity. Every scrape of a hookah, every clink of a teacup infuriated me.  My only reprieve was my desperate decision to purchase one of the floral-smelling hookahs if the sylo didn?t work.  After an endless ocean of waiting, which had comprised no more than ten minutes, a short and boisterous punk girl attended to me. She smiled through black-rimmed glasses. She wore a tight t-shirt and her black long hair was highlighted with pink and green. A safety pin dangled from her left ear.  ?What would you like?? she asked.  I had not been presented with a menu, but the teahouse was not a place for those who did not know what they wanted.  ?Sylo.?  ?Are you sure?? she asked becoming concerned.  I said nothing.  We stared at each other in silence as I forced myself to muster a disjointed smile. In my accounting of things, half her face had become a painful blue lightning bolt.  She smiled back compassionately. ?How would you like it?? she asked.  ?Sylo tea,? I said. ?Thank you.?  Her face morphed to concern.  I remained silent.  ?You?re suffering greatly,? she said dripping with a comforting compassion. ?Are you sure you wouldn?t prefer a black hookah??  At this moment, a wave of pain erupted from my eye. For some reason, it feels like a liquid pouring across my face and deep into my brain. As it spread, it hurt sharp and awful.  But I was not about to swerve from my mission.  I said nothing.  I needed a real cure?or the hope of one.  After a moment, she looked knowingly at me.  ?I?ll get it,? she said. ?And I will make sure they rush it for you.?  The perky punk turned quickly and silently left the room.  I reclined shakily. I closed my eyes hoping to stem the pain. It did little for me. Several minutes passed.  I heard the slight shuffling of the waitress entering the room. I creaked my eyes open a fraction to watch her set a small purple glass of tea and a large pot on the table next to me.  ?Thank you,? I mumbled.  The interaction had been too much for me. I sealed my eyes attempting to squash enough nausea to drink as the tea cooled. As I hung my head in nausea, a whisper filled my ear.  ?Migraine. No fun. Waste of this relaxing space.?  I wanted to yell and thrash at the owner of the voice that was exacerbating my pain. But even in my awful state, I thought better of it. Instead, I willed my eyes open and looked to see who was talking.  My eyes darted around. The vision in the right one was quite fuzzy. Then I saw him. He lifted himself up on the low couch in the dim area to my right. The man smiled. He was dressed in black pants and a dark maroon collared shirt. I couldn?t tell if his clothes were velvet.  ?Sorry to disturb you,? he leaned toward me. ?I was just thinking that I feel quite awful for you.?  I nodded still collecting words scattered across my brain.  ?Yes,? I said.  He smiled and turned his legs toward me. He motioned to my steaming glass.  ?I think that might really work for you,? he said with a distant calm. ?But not permanently. Hopefully, though it will get you through the next few weeks.?  I nodded weakly not caring for his opinion.  ?I might have something for you that could help,? he said slyly. ?And no, it?s not one of those black hookahs or anything like that.?  He looked shadowy in my right eye as I took my first sip of tea. My suspicion was overwhelmed by a desperate lack of interest in anything but stopping the pain.  ?Strange how hallucinating can start it and stop it,? he said. ?Just an observation.?  The man smiled slyly then reclined putting his feet up onto a low metallic table slipping into the obscured portion of my view.  ?I like your humanity,? he said. ?So raw. So real. So self-important.?  I felt slightly offended but couldn?t compel myself to care. I sipped weakly at my tea fathoming how much of it I could keep down. It tasted like a musty nothing?hollow and empty.  ?I am a bit of a collector of stories,? said the man. ?Perhaps once your tea settles, you can tell me yours.?  ?Sure,? I said curtly slugging down the lake of tea the filled my cup. Stuffing down the nausea, I closed my eyes and breathed heavily.  The man leaned forward and poured a second cup for me. Irritated as I was, gratitude told me that I likely couldn?t have poured it myself.  ?Thanks,? I said desperately.  ?Think nothing of it,? said the man. ?I am genuinely fascinated as to whether or not this will work. I have heard quite a bit about the sylo cure for migraines. It might be hogwash?then again, it might work. Botox can work wonders on them. So why not this??  ?Do you get headaches too?? I squeaked out attempting to be polite.  ?Not at all,? he laughed. ?I?ve no need of anything but this lovely mint tea.?  He smiled and raised a small blue glass slurping a bit into his mouth.  ?Why do you care about migraines then?? I asked.  ?Many things fascinate me,? he said.  I breathed deeply in silence for several minutes. I opened and closed my eyes at length. The man?s attention never left me.  ?By my estimate,? he broke the silence. ?You should have your cure any moment now.?  If anything, the pain had intensified. I wanted to yell. I wanted to scream. But in a rush like a gust of wind everything changed.  The pain started evaporating in globules. I could see them and smell them drifting off into the air. I opened my eyes. The room was no longer as it was, but beyond that I cannot describe it. The other people became irrelevant except the strange shadowy man. He smiled at me, but all I could see were his teeth across the ether. The air became dark.  The lightening in my right eye remained until suddenly a wild geometric caterpillar jutted across my vision. As the caterpillar left the corner of my vision, it took with it the lightening and all disturbances to my reality.  The man sat up.  ?Feel better?? he asked.  I sat up fully. I opened my eyes and looked around. All traces of the migraine and all traces of the tea had left me as quickly as they had come. I had expected hours, but the effects had lasted only a moment.  ?Yes,? I said. ?The tea appears to have washed away the migraine.?  He laughed.  ?Delightful,? he said. ?Will you tell me your story then??  My hand meandered momentarily towards my tea glass. The man grabbed it and stopped me.  ?You?ve had enough,? he said. ?More will only make it worse. Try some of mine instead. Mint suits you.?  He reached over and poured a glass of mint tea. I smelled it carefully and sipped at it. Delight filled my mouth.  ?So tell me,? he said.  I felt like my old self again?free of migraine.  ?I don?t have much to tell really,? I said.  ?Tell me what you do have,? said the man.  ?Several years ago, I hit my head when I tripped on a loose brick,? I said. ?Ever since I have had migraines. I get clusters of them for days on end, and they are terrible. I see visions that doctors call aura, but they feel like hallucinations.?  ?How did that bring you here?? asked the man. ?I?ve taken medicine for years that help with the migraines,? I explained. ?But in the past few weeks, I have run into an intractable and debilitating cluster of headaches. I couldn?t think. I couldn?t sleep. Medicine did nothing for me. A friend read something about promising research in sylo offering a cure. She gave me a card for this place. After night and night again of suffering, I decided to take the risk. I can?t believe how well it worked.?  ?I?m pleased,? said the man.  ?I guess that?s my story,? I said.  ?But what else is there?? he asked. ?What do you do??  ?I just live, I guess,? I said. ?I like seeing movies and going out to dinner with friends. I?m no explorer or anything. My life is not that interesting.?  ?There must be more,? he said.  ?I go jogging sometimes,? I said. ?I went out to a bar with a few people the other night.?  The man smiled grimly.  ?Is this the way that you really expected your life to be?? he asked me.  I thought this question rather personal and wanted to be offended. But I was also a bit disappointed with myself.  ?Not really,? I said. ?But there are certain realities that you have to face in life.?  ?And what of people who climb mountains and write operas and travel to the moon?? asked the man.  ?Not everyone can be them,? I said desperately. ?They just got lucky.?  The man?s smile disappeared as he stood up.  ?If I believed that you believed that, I would never have spoken to you in the first place,? said the man.  ?What?? I asked.  ?Some people believe that migraines are actually caused by an imbalance in the self,? said the man putting on his scarf. ?Living a life you hate, the real you tries to break through. When he can?t, you get a headache.?  ?Well that?s your opinion,? I said curtly.  I became pissed at his armchair dismissal of me and my pain.  ?The tea will help you,? he said. ?But not forever as you might think. It will just get you to where you need to go for your real adventure to begin.?  ?What?? I said again.  ?When you get there, call me,? said the man turning to go.  I was confused.  ?Wait,? I said. ?Who are you??  ?Mephistopheles.


I awoke to the crashing thunder of waves tossing me about like a rag doll. Grateful to feel the dawn brush my skin again. My dreams give me no sanctuary from this hell. How I long for the feelings stability, flat ground. A moment of balance in this terrifying rollercoaster that just wont let go. Even as the waves subside they will never end. Home is a distant memory now. Has it been days? Weeks? Months? Who knows at this point. The days have blended together like a crude finger painting. I have survived this long is that a sign of endurance or a foolish man refusing to let go? It’s funny that my place of sanctuary has become my eternal hell. I swear each night I find it harder too sleep, the endless abyss that awaits at the hem of my only safe place taunts me. Gently reminding me how small I really am. A meer pebble in a vast ocean with no clue what lingers below. But at least with the light I can try and catch some food. As much as I yearned for the sun I forgot the true heat it brings. The waves have calmed and the sky is a crystal blue. A perfect blue for a baby boys nursery. As gentle as it seems it comes with a cost. I finally understand what a ant under a magnifying glass feels like. Pinned with no where too go, nowhere too hide, only option is to suffer. Hopefully my rain trap got a good amount for how rough it was last night. Food is a different story there’s a can of peaches left and protein bar that’s been soaked in salt water for who knows how long. I’m saving that for as long as I can. I will live a bit longer but honestly what is the point? How do I realistically get out of this one. Katie must think I’m dead by now and I don’t blame her. I miss her, waking up and feeling her hair brush my face, smelling her perfume as she waltz down the stairs like my very own super model. Memories have become the only thing that’s true too me now. As the days pass I feel myself getting lost in the memories. Yesterday I swore I smelt grass, fresh cut grass not the relentless fragrance of the ocean salting my nose into oblivion. That moment lingered with me for the rest of the day. Part of me hates setting the line in the morning. The sharp hook beckons to puncture. I must be slow and steady. The tension fills my soul like a surgeon starting a life saving heart surgery. Just the thought sends me into a spin of worry but when it’s is done it becomes a line of hope. Hope is something I’ve learned to cherish as it comes. From small to large those moments mean everything. I managed to bottle the water from the traps, still surprises me how much they collect. But with this heat I need every drop. It’s been four days since I caught anything and my insides feel like they are sucking my ribs like a vacuum. Keeping track of what I consume gives me something to ground me to reality out here. But with knowledge comes with a toll. I know that this is not sustainable, I reached that conclusion a while ago now. I can’t cook what I catch so there is always a risk but at this point I feel a hunger that is all consuming. The pain burrows at me like a grub through bark. Slowly grinding but always there. It’s getting cooler which means my chances at a meal are closing fast. The line has become my only focus, nothing else matters in the moment. I’m a sprinter at the Olympics waiting for the gun. If there was ever a time it would be now, this fish are more active as dusk approaches. Locked in place my heart skipped a beat. As a faint ripple echoed from the line. I have learned that this moment requires patience, pull too soon then everything could slip from your grasp. I have to stop myself from letting excitement from fogging my judgement. As sudden as the change of the winds the line jerked with a tremendous force. This is moment I have yearned, no prayed for. With no hesitation I pull at the line like a man possessed. I can feel my heart beating out my chest as I fight with whatever is on the other end of the line. My arms feel like I’ve slept on them both for weeks from fatigue but I must push on. I need this. As I gaze into the bottomless pit beneath me a faint silhouette rises. Adrenaline fills my veins and feeling of weakness is gone for a moment. I pull and I pull. Every inch closer the silhouette draws I feel stronger. The battle is almost won, the shadow becomes clearer but the danger of jeopardising my raft comes with it. A few more feet and this fish is mine, it’s strength has faded like it is offering itself too me willingly. Pure joy rages through me like a junkie taking his first hit. The fish is in my hands. Lifting him from the water it’s as beautiful as a Van Gogh painting. Pearlescent shades of blue and yellow remind me of Gogh’s starry night painting, Katie’s favourite. The fish must weight at least 13 pounds, enough to give me a chance. Ecstasy has taken control, leaping to my feet with the fish above my head I scream. But all good out here comes with a cost. With the strength of a 12 gauge it whipped its body and begins to struggle. In the moment of celebration my judgement has lapsed, I didn’t kill the fish. I fight too keep control but the weakness has returned and as fast as hope filled me the high crashes. It launches back towards the sea as I hopelessly grasp the air behind it. A heaviness bellows in the pit of my stomach, it was there. I had it but it slipped through my hands as if I was clutching sand. Gone.... As the night draws all sense of hope drains from me like a thousand leeches are sucking at my life essence. The orange whispers of dusk dance on the horizon. The final act of beauty before the endless shroud of darkness engulfs my tiny tiny world.


The era of living gods and sorcerers had ended, leaving humanity to endure within the hollow vestiges of a bygone, golden age. Mankind was no longer a unified empire as it once was, instead existing in the shattered remnants of outposts and strongholds belonging to a time passed. The small village of Sordes had forgotten the old world, its shabby buildings and grimey streets were draped in the low hanging, greasy smoke of wood fire. Its populace was simple and ignorant, unaware of the greater affairs of the world and history beyond them. Generations of isolated inbreeding had made their appearances foul and misshapen, yet on the outskirts of the village, two residents were wholly different from the rest. An old sage and his adoptive acolyte lived there, the sage knew things of the world, crafts that others had forgotten. It was by his hand, miracles to the eyes of the Sordes villagers, were performed; mending bone with nothing but plaster and strips of cloth, predicting the fortunes of weather by looking at nothing but the nighttime sky, cleansing wounds with the captured vapors of boiled mead. It seemed that an ichor of vast wisdom and knowledge flowed through the mind of the old man. Through this, his acolyte studiously learned and observed the devices and crafts of his master. He saw the power that these crafts held. After years of the acolyte’s observation, the old sage sat him down, and spoke, “I knew that one day you would take my mantle, and carry on the work that I have done. But it seems that that time may arrive far sooner than either of us could have anticipated.” The acolyte’s inquisitive stare turned desolate, “What do you mean master? Is something wrong?” “A cancer has taken me, and I am afraid there is nothing to be done. This ailment is far beyond my skill to heal.” “Is there someone that could help? Somewhere that I could go? I do not want to see you die master.” “Death is life, child. It is the natural order of things, and it comes to all of us. There are those that could aid me, but they would not provide it.” “Why? Who would refuse to help you? What have you done wrong?” “I’ve done no wrong, but while I have used my knowledge to aid others, and have chosen to pass it on so that it may endure, there are others who do not feel the same. They chose to hoard what they know, for what they know holds power.” “The power to heal you. These men must be convinced. I must seek them out, so that I may bring back their medicines for you.” “A hopeless endeavor. They will not be swayed by you. Please, just stay here, with me. I do not know how much time I have left, but I know the disease has progressed far. I was not ready to tell you, and you may have not been ready to know.” “Ready to know? You should have told me as soon as you knew yourself. We could have had more time. Where are these men? I will find them, I will convince them.” The sage gave a grim chuckle, “Very well, I’ll tell you.” So the acolyte set out, traveling across lands further than he ever had before, crossing verdant valleys, and tumultuous rivers. The journey was several days. Finally, he arrived to the great ivory tower that he sought, its high reaching pinnacle looking as a skeletal finger groping a claw towards the sky. Foul vespid fumes wafted in the air, billowing out a fetid sulfurous reek from the sides of the tower. The acolyte pushed open the door, and old men in robes sat, arranged in a high circle above their visitor; sooty, grease filled beards draping down their tattered, filthy robes. The one in the middle sat up, straightened himself, and croaked in a gravelly, spite filled tone, “Who are you and what business do you have here?” “Please, my master, he is very sick. A cancer has taken him. I was told that you may help.” “Help? We have more important business than attending to the affairs of a diseased peasant and his boy-slave. Leave us catamite, or we may cast thunder and lightnings down upon you.” “Impossible. My master taught me how thunderstorms worked. Of electrical charges in the clouds and earth, you cannot summon such things from nothing.” The haggard old man gave a wry smile, “So, I see you aren’t of the usual superstitious lot. All the others fear us, they see our sciences and call us wizards, they see our wisdom and perceive their gods of legend, their gods of the old world. If you know such things, then heal your cancerous, cankerous master yourself.” The oiled words continued to pour from his oily lips, his sardonic grin never fading, “We have greater things to attend to than the tribulations of the barely educated peasant. You may know some, but we know all.” “Please, you must help. Without you he will die.” “Then let him die. The old world was filled with knowledge for nothing, yet no one used it, no one appreciated it, they wasted their time with frivolities and primitive pleasure. The masses are incurious, and would prefer to stay ignorant. Even when surrounded by technological wonders they never bothered to learn them, how the things that affected their lives so greatly even remotely worked. This is the new world. Wisdom holds power, the power to control a populace, the power to bend the world to your whims in ways that would otherwise be impossible. We are comparative gods, the populace must be held as newborn children. Weak, and knowing nothing of the world. Only loving the soft, milk filled teat that feeds them. We give enough to others so that they bend to us, yet are still mystified and fearful.” “This is wrong, this is selfish. Please, please do something.” The acolyte pleased, tears rolling down his tired cheeks. “Enough of this. You may know some, but we know all. We are still gods, even to you.” And with that, the old man reached a gnarled hand into his ragged robe, and pulled forth a metal device, a hollow tube with a small drum in the middle, and a handle his squalid fingers rested on. He pointed the hollow end towards the acolyte, “I told you we would summon thunder and lightnings.” A thunderous crack snapped, its reverberations roaring throughout the hall. The acolyte looked down, and a gushing wound had punctured in his stomach. He hunched forward and pressed his hand to the oozing fissure, and shuffled as quickly as he could out the door. The acolyte’s failure rested heavily on his shoulders, made greater by the burden of his mortal wound. He traveled back the way he came, the days stretching into agony. When he finally arrived to his village of Sordes he was met with hushed whispers. “Where is the sage? I need him now.” A bent woman turned to him, her lopsided face and malformed skull difficult to ascertain an expression from, “The sorcerer is dead. A curse took him, he is buried on the far side of the village near the wood so that his spirit may not haunt us.” The acolyte staggered across the village to the grave of his master, his ragged breath growing increasingly more laborious. When he finally saw the freshly dug soil, unmarked by any stone or cenotaph, he collapsed. His coughing and sputtering breath gasped for air, and with a final whisper said, “I’m sorry.


Biology Sarah felt her abdomen and belched under her breath. Not again she thought, as her bloated stomach churned and gave way to gas. The classroom she found herself in, Biology was full to the gills and quite frankly, just another boring elective she had gotten stuck with. Presently clutching her stomach, she lifted her leg as unsuspecting as possible and tried to gently push gas from herself. What she thought would be a discrete moment, was immediately broken as the gentle push became a little squawk between her bottom and the chair. “Please, not now,” she said pink faced and flustered under her breath. Sweat poured from her and she brushed her long blonde hair to her side wiping an already damp handkerchief over her forehead. To her left a girl sitting next to her grimaced and Sarah felt it like a punch to the mouth. All the while gas continued to build in her like a hot furnace. Suddenly, another flatulence rang out like a church bell across the room and within seconds she became the center of attention. Most of the class laughed while those around her gasped audibly with disgust. Some even pulled shirts over their noses and others used their hands to fan away the invisible stench. Sarah stricken with embarrassment looked down hiding her face and tried to make herself as small as possible. Upon her horror she noticed how her stomach began to grow jarringly outward. It stretched her long red dress that normally was taught against her slim figure. Swiftly the dress began to tear as her stomach continued to bloat like a hot air balloon. “Fucking hell,” she yelled as she became wider, wider and even wider. The classroom fell silent with audible gasps as Sarah’s belly continued to grow. The teacher, miss Daisy dropping her chalk tried to the best to her ability to push coherent words from her mouth. “Sarah, a.. aaah are you alright,” she blubbered. Sprawling, Sarah’s legs bent outwards and her stomach became the size of a small car. “Fine, miss Daisy, continue on,” came from her now fat cheeks. All of a sudden, from Sarah’s belly there came a screech like nails on a chalkboard. “Oh gosh, they are really hungry,” said Sarah. The screech quickly turned to many squeals which sounded like thousands of tiny little voices trying to break free from her center. Abruptly her stomach buckled, caving inwards and from her open entrails there sprang forth various yellow wriggling legs; at first just a few then hundreds, marching one by one in unison. The creatures themselves where thin and elongated, like large eels with centipede structured legs and antennas. The grotesque horror was graspable about the classroom as everyone broke out in screams. Their voices quickly became lost among the creatures who in turn where giddy with noise as they plunged forward and outward breaching for air and sustenance. Toppling over each other they slithered and crawled for all avenues of the classroom. Sarah’s neighbor, one of the former giggling girls who was frozen in her panic became the first victim. A whip came from the centipede like tail and its thorny barb struck her in the middle of the chest. It pierced directly through her as blood came gushing from each end. Poisoned from the creature her skin started to bubble, flaming outwards from the center of her wound. She was burning alive yet there came no sound, only shock and surprise as she melted into a puddle of bone, skin and blood. Sarah’s children excitedly plunged themselves into their hefty meal, tails wagging about like dogs giddy with the prospect of a treat. Their mandibles retracted and gave way to a suction cup which in turn became a vacuum for the entrails of the students and teacher whom were being absolved one by one. “Slow children, eat slow, leave some for your sisters” came from Sarah like a wail in her bloated form. Her chin tripled in size and her eyes bulged from her fat face hanging from their sockets. Her mouth unhinged and her tongue swatting back and forth became loose and fell to the ground. She continued to grow into a blob reaching the height of the ceiling while teeth and bile spewed forth as more of the creatures made their way up her chest and through her throat in the birthing ritual. The ground of the classroom became one large pool of blood, bone, skin and muscle tissue as the last of the living burned up. From above the blackboard the clock struck the end of the hour and a bell rang loudly from a speaker annunciating the end of the period. The creatures all looked up at the sound then back to Sarah chittering together in their disappointment. Class was over. Quickly they worked on devouring each entrails of blood and guts left on the classroom floor before making their way back inside of the homely body. One by one they crawled up inside of Sarah regurgitating some of their devoured morsels into the middle of her open stomach. It was like a courting dance that certain birds perform and Sarah felt proud of the intimate and bonding moment. With each returning family member, Sarah started to reduce in size. Her skin tightened and shone with new vigor. Teeth regrew and sprang back into place as her jaw adjusted back to normal. She picked up her tongue from off the ground and it lustily jumped back into place as soon as she had gotten it near her mouth. One last fart came from her and it was long, sour and beautiful. She clutched the desk squeezing out every last little pocket of gas and orgasmicly she moaned and belched simultaneously. She sat there naked, breathing heavily, stroking her taught belly in a circular motion. Looking up at the clock she was suddenly struck with panick. Springing from the chair she grabbed her backpack. From it she snatched another red dress and slipped it over her slim radiant figure. She headed for the door, swung it open and ran down the hallway littered with classrooms. Running like the wind she rounded the corner in the distant hallway and yelled in a belching tone, “shit, I’m gonna be late for Geometry.” The End Thank you for reading, I'm interested in any feedback good or bad. I'll be writing more horror stories weekly and hope to improve with time.


This is just a write up of my experience's in addiction centers when I was admitted twice, for four weeks at the age of 17. I've been to youth custody, to adult minimum security, to psych wards several times. All before I was 18. So here is my thoughts and insight I learned or didn't learn. Addiction Centers. My opinion on centers like these is that the people that get admitted, don’t receive proper help when leaving the centers. Again, this goes with my personal belief that having someone secluded from society in one way or another, or an extended period of time can lead to more issues than what you even initially started with. You may have the insight, the group learnings and people trained to support you. At the end, it's all up to you. That's where the flaw is. We desire what we want, not what we need. Pleasure will overcome the state of null-ness that many of the people I met in the centers were. Filled with emotions but could only state out one, or act out with one emotion unless induced by drugs, the feeling of null. The past is persistent more than the present, and the future seems non-existent. We are talking about people who have endured enough problems in their life to never ever think of a future that is worth living. It's truly heartbreaking observing these people at the age they were, 15-50 year old's all under the same broken system bombarding them of being taken away due to being a “danger” to our “precious” society. Regardless people do what they want, or what they don’t; they have that option. The whole idea of locking people up to try and help them just to lead them right out the same door they came in, seems redundant to me. Maybe I'm speaking negatively and naivety. But I lived this, I was there when a dude had a heart attack next to me in a small hallway while he was talking to his mother. He was probably in his late 30s, but looked mid 50s. The next day I see him in the reading room which is usually empty as druggies would rather smoke a pack a day rather than read. I asked him about the heart attack and if he was doing alright, he said “not really an issue at all, happens quite often, i just can’t stop doing meth” I didn’t really say anything after that, and he looked back down at his book pretending I wasn’t even there. Its a scary thought, that someone is so disconnected from the world and his surroundings that even life threatening issues are abound, he’s a bliss with himself. I don’t understand. These people we’re probably the most caring people (at the moment) I’ve ever met, I’ve lived in various cities across southern Ontario and still, it’s hard not to think about who these people would have become if they didn’t experience certain events that lead to where they are now. I hope they’re all doing well. Every meeting someone would bring me a coffee, or a cigarette. Now mind you, I really didn’t like smoking cigs at the time, especially dirty old, hand rolled butts or native cigs. But how absurd and rude of me to not accept something from someone who just wants to feel something. A feeling that helps them realize they are human, either it be trading conversation or coffee, obviously we all connect in a way that most people can’t understand. Maybe they’re lucky for that, I just hope that the people I met in the places I've been, are in a much better place. Either that be heaven or hell, wherever they were then, just wasn’t for them. They couldn’t cope with it. It's not right that this is a common phenomenon within these practices and centers. Yes, to contradict what I’m saying, there are support buddies that can be at your side when you need it, when you crave. But let me remind you, you can lead a horse to water, but it’ll still take a piss in the lake. Morally, this is confusing for the average person who hasn’t endured the experiences that addicts have, in forms of drugs, impulsiveness or even too much coffee. Once an individual clings onto an “object” in the tune of the embodiment, that's where addiction is withheld by its own prisoner, the warden, you. It's really contradicting because we have so many of these centers that actually help people, you see progress, you see the one or two people that have achieved years of sobriety. But yet I still see the same people, time after time, go to the same meetings to only have a few hours sober. Everyone still claps because in the end.. a minute or a second sober is a milestone for an addict. Part of me was childish, because I was a child. 17. Watching these seemingly older and wiser people than I could ever be, but being stuck within the same prison they won’t allow themselves to leave. They have the key, they can get out of the cuffs. But our society doesn’t allow it, actually, more or less, doesn’t accept it. No one wants to see a half naked man on-top of a Tim Hortons screaming “God is mighty! I love spider man!” while being on a 3 day meth binge. I often wondered about their kids. If they did have any, because it seems like it's a common phenomenon that people with low self esteem and confusion in their own lives, at a younger age, with drugs or trauma involved is evident. You’ll see 17-23 year old's with multiple kids, multiple baby-daddies and relying on the government.. I’ve never understood that part, and maybe I never will. How can you bring a child into a prison you’ve created? You didn’t even give him the keys that you keep in your pocket? This is what upsets me the most, when it comes to the addictions of the older generations, is the outcome of the newer generations to come. I witnessed a man with a cyst on his arm, about the size of a golf ball because he kept injecting meth and wasn’t hitting a vein, just created a giant cyst. He had kids too, everyone has a family. The addiction is what drives the individual from their family and closest to them, because even themselves know, they are in a prison in which they created. How do you suppose you get out of this prison? Self help and living day- moment- second every day. The moment you stop doing something, you stop. Simple? Well, that's the case for your coffee addict, or your mother who won't stop buying wall art on Amazon, but for serious drug addictions the only rescuer is the individual himself. It really bothers me because I'm at conflicting thoughts with these types of methods as well. I’m a pure addict, impulsive as can be. I can relate to these people, try and understand, but I can’t hold it to me to empathize. They are their own play dough, they are their own sculpture. Nothing I say or do, will change someone else's addictions. You can move, you can love, you can hide.. you can become homeless. But you’re always an addict.


Graham woke up as the sun rose through the crack in the blinds in the window next to his bed. He had cracked the blinds himself the night before. He wanted to make sure that he woke up for the sunrise this morning. After all, it was the last one he would see on the planet. Because today was Humanity’s last day on Earth. The year 2099 had brought widespread fear throughout the population. The year had finally arrived. The year that would bring about the destruction of the planet. Over the past century despite repeated warnings of the havoc they were bringing to their home, somehow Humanity continued on its path like an old steam engine, unaware that every belch of smoke and step forward hastened their imminent demise. Tearing up the ground for all the natural resources, poisoning the water supply of the planet, letting species after species fall one by one through greed, ineptitude, and sheer ignorance. Despite this abject cruelty to their own world, the human race had formulated a contingency plan. Since 2050 when the final end date for the planet had been announced, for the first time in human history all governments and people banded together. Not in a last-ditch attempt to save this planet no. But to begin the terraforming and colonization of the moon and mars. Both locations had enough room to house the entire earth's population. Surprisingly enough, no one would be left behind. Rich or poor saint or sinner, all would be leaving on ships to these new worlds. For the next step in human history. Tonight as the sunset and the last ships would leave, the sun was expected to unleash a solar flare. Normal enough it had happened before. It had happened in 2037 and turned Hawaii into a burnt-out rock of an island. It had happened in 2076 when it boiled the English Channel like a steaming kettle. And it had happened just five years ago in 2094 when the entirety of Australia was transformed from a sea of dry orange sunbaked desert into a barren wasteland of ash. But today was different. The combined effect of the legions of ships leaving the planet and the impending solar flare, the planet would be eradicated. But not entirely destroyed. The rock would remain. But its oceans would boil and steam, its vegetation would twist and burn and its ice caps would melt. It would become a dead rock floating in space, a distant and deathly reminder of all the mistakes humanity had made. A reminder not to squander the gift of their new homes. Graham pondered all this as he got up from the bed and began his daily ritual. He made a pot of coffee and while it boiled hopped in the shower. Due to the worldwide lack of water due to the vast amounts of untainted water being taken to Mars, he was only allowed the state-mandated daily allowance for single occupancy households. Frankly a dismal amount of water. Roughly 60 seconds of cleaning. No matter. Graham didn't mind. Stepping out of the shower he went back into his bedroom and laid out his clothes for the day. His wardrobe was empty bar the suit he was due to wear. The rest had already been packed away by his daughter the previous day as she rushed him to get ready for today's impending escape. The suit was 30 years old to the day. He had worn it to his wedding to Catherine, his long-deceased wife. They had been married for 20 years before the plague of 2089 had taken her along with most of her family. He admired the picture on the bedside table of them shoving wedding cake into each other's faces as he got dressed. Despite the illness, she had died peacefully. She didn't even know she had it. One night she had kissed him goodnight. The next morning she was cold beside him. Just gone. If Graham had ever been thankful for anything in his life, he was thankful for that. As he fastened his tie, he looked at himself in the mirror. He had gotten so old in the past ten years since Catherine's death. What was once a tight square jaw, had given way to a set of jowls that hung from his chin like an umbrella bucking under the weight of rainwater. His hairline had begun creeping up his head like a retreating armed force, fleeing the encroaching wrinkles on his forehead. His blue eyes, once crisp with the vibrancy of an electric life and personality now murky with the passage of time and the expelling of too many tears. He was only 65, and by all accounts still had at least 20 good years left based on the estimates of this new forefront of medicine being promised on Mars. He sighed and grabbed the picture frame he slipped out the photo and tucked it in his breast pocket before heading into the kitchen. The coffee pot bubbled and spluttered, sending out the sweet roasted smell of the coffee. He poured himself a cup and took a swig. It tasted good, but nowhere near as good as the real stuff. Coffee had been one of the first crops to disappear. Now it was synthetically made in some lab in Japan. Funny how all these wonder synth products all came to exist mere weeks after their forebears had died out. Graham had often wondered if they knew they could do it for so long, why not release it sooner. Then maybe there would still be some reality left in the beans. Who knows, Graham wasn't a scientist. Taking his coffee Graham headed out to his front porch and took a seat on the swinging bench Catherine had made him install a few months before her death. She had always dreamed of lazy summer evenings spent on the porch together. Watching the sunset and sharing a glass of wine. By then, however, the evenings were as hot as midday and she never did. Graham sat and he looked around the neighborhood. The houses lay empty. Driveways free of the usual mandatory TESLA premium model vehicles. Everyone else had left yesterday. No one wanted to miss their spot on the ships despite everyone being guaranteed one. Graham looked at the houses of his now-absent neighbors. There was the Roberts house, usually so loud even in the mornings with the sounds of little Carol and Bob chasing each other around the garden. There was the Bimmers across the street, usually lit up with disco lights and thumping with Bass music. There were the finkles, usually radiating with the famed smell of Miss Finkle's synth beef pie. But not today. Today a lone bike laid broken on the Roberts lawn. The Bimmers windows did not shake with modulated beats and the only smell from the finkles was the hot aroma of burnt tarmac from their driveway already in the clutches of the sun. Graham's phone beeped in his pocket. Pulling it out he inspected the screen. His daughter's stressed face appeared. Cassie, named after her mother. Graham smiled as he answered. “Morning Cassie. You alright?” Graham asked. “Yes yes fine dad. Just trying to get the kids in the car now… David can you just grab Sam please. No tell him he's packed all the toys he taking. If he wants Caltheman then he has to put one back”. Graham giggled. That grandson of his. Never did know what he wanted. Would change his mind on a dime. “Are you getting ready to leave? The transport for your area passes by your street in 15 minutes don't miss it please!”. Graham nodded. “Of course not darling. I’ve got everything packed and ready to go. Can I see Sam and Becky?” Cassie shook her head. “Sorry Dad they are driving me up the wall today. You’ll see them in a couple of hours at the departure depot okay?”. Graham paused but relented. “Alright love. You tell em Grandad loves them anyway okay?”. Cassie too stressed to notice the emotion crackling in her father's throat nods as her husband David appears behind her. A former military man he always greeted Graham with rigid respect only found in those that had, had it institutionally enforced in them. “Sir. How are you today. Ready to go?” Graham nodded and gave David a flimsy salute which David responded to firmly and with sincerity. “All good to go David. Now listen. You take care of my daughter and my grandkids alright”. David nods. “I sure will Sir. Right up until we see you later. And after that also.” Graham looked away for a second, composing himself. He turned back to the phone as David passed it back to Cassie. “Okay Dad we’ve got to go now. But ill see you in a few hours okay. Don't miss the transport!”. Graham nods and smiles. “I love you Cassie. Very much.” Cassie paused and looked at the image of her father on the screen. “I love you too. See you soon”. Cassie ended the call and Graham put the phone down on the floor next to him. Stifling some tears he slams his foot down on the phone smashing it. Graham wouldn't be seeing his daughter, her husband, and his Grandchildren later. Or ever again for that matter. Because Graham wasn't going to catch the transport. Graham wouldn't arrive at the depot. Graham wouldn't board the ship with the hundreds of thousands of people who make up his sector. He wouldn't look out the window and wave goodbye to this world as he made his way to the next. Because Graham was staying here. Graham was staying to the very end. Graham sat on his porch and he waited, gently swinging on the bench. After a while, he saw the transport vehicle arrive at the end of the street. He watched a few late families scurry towards it, overloaded with bags and suitcases. He heard it honk three times signaling its departure. And then he watched it leave. That was it done then. He had made his decision, there was no going back. Graham spent the rest of the day walking the streets of his neighborhood and the surrounding areas. He visited Stark's Pond where he had taken Catherine for many walks in their courtship and taught Cassie to swim. Now it was just a cavernous space in the ground. An absence in the world filled only with his memories. He climbed Moss Hill behind his house and looked at the short ledge where Sam broke his arm playing Wootball with a friend Graham couldn't remember the name of. He strolled through the dead forest of Gimblewood, inspecting the remaining blackened and twisted trunks of a once lush wood. He had played here as a boy. He even saw a deer once, long after they were supposed to have died out. No one believed him, not then or in later retellings of the story around the dinner table and at company picnics. He knew what he saw though. He didn't think they were extinct. They were just hiding from them. Maybe searching for their own way off this derelict and decimated world. As the day drew later and the time drew nearer Graham returned to his house and grabbed the 60-year aged bottle of scotch Catherine had bought him for his 50th birthday. They were going to share it together on their 30th anniversary. But she had never made it to that date. So he would have it now. He sat back down on the swinging bench and poured two glasses. One he placed on the bench next to him and going into his breast pocket retrieved the wedding picture. Folding it in half so as to only see Catherine’s cake covered and smiling face he placed it next to the glass and clinked his to hers and said “Cheers love. It’s been a hell of a run”. Graham checked his watch. 745pm. The ships were due to leave at 8 pm at sunset. Cassie, David, and the kids would already be on board. She was probably panicking as they began to close the doors begging them to wait for him. It broke his heart to think of her distressed, desperately calling his phone to no answer. David attempting to calm her and hide her hysteria from the questioning children. But in truth, it was a necessary evil. She would suffer now but once her ship slipped the bonds of earth and the solar flare burnt it to a crisp she would have her answer and begin the process of starting a new life. One unencumbered with the painful memories of a world that was no longer there. Graham had to remain here. Graham felt that someone had to be here. Someone had to stay to the very end. Not for some grand and meaningful reason. Not a reason that would be written about and stored in the annals of history as the definition of nobility and sacrifice. But for a million small reasons. Graham had worked as an engineer of a drilling company for 40 years. He constructed the small belts that connected the drill bits to the inner housing. Drills that were used to harvest the world's resources. He had contributed to its destruction. Not directly. He was never stood astride those behemoth machines, manically excavating the ground like a technologically advanced rabbit. It’s not like if he had quit they wouldn't have found someone else. He had a family and a set of skills suited to that job. So he worked it and made peace with the decisions he had made. Over the years when he had read stories and news articles about the effects the work he did was having on the planet, he was concerned sure. But he did not blame himself personally. The entire race was to blame. The companies that drilled, the companies that sold the resources, the companies that used them, the general population that refused to protest until it was too late. But when the date had finally arrived and it was announced that all humanity would be saved, sent off to new worlds on the moon and mars it didn't sit right with Graham. Instead of a feeling of elation, and happiness at being able to do the impossible and leave, instead, he found himself sleepless and stressed. After everything that happened, after everything the human race had done to this planet. They shouldn't be rewarded for that with TWO new places to haphazardly do with what they will. If a child breaks their toy on purpose and with ignorant malice, their parent does not placate them with two more. So Graham, in his own head, opted to stay. Someone had to go down with this planet. Someone had to take penance for it. If the entire race were to flee and let it be engulfed in flames whilst they wiped their brows in relief it would forever taint them as a species. He didn't know if there was some greater power or beings out there that could see them and what they had done and what they were doing. He didn't know if there was anyone who could or would judge them in such a way. But he knew. He would always know. So Graham would stay. Graham stayed. 759 the soft computerized voice of Graham's watch said. He poured the last of the scotch into his glass and clinked Catherines once more. He looked at the happy cake covered face of his wife from all those years ago and it stilled his beating heart and drove the fear from his mind. He would be with her soon. Besides what does the new world really have to offer him? Sure another 20 years. But It would take them 500-100 to really work out what the hell they are doing up there. Just look at how long it took them to finally get themselves right down here. No Graham was fine to go down with the ship. His watch beeped. 8 pm. A deafening sonic boom echoed around the world vibrating the air. Graham stood up and walked to the edge of his porch, every step convulsing with the vibrations of the earth. The sky lit up with the lights of the armada of ships. A myriad of spots fleeing across the deep dark red of the sunset like grain on old film stock that was processed for too long. Graham wondered which held his family. It didn't matter. They were safe at least. Graham held onto the beam of the porch to steady himself as the ground shook and the air wailed with wind and energy. The temperature rose and sweat broke across Graham's head as the solar flare whipped out from the sun. Graham was not scared. He closed his eyes and waited. Suddenly he felt a presence next to him. Looking down Graham opened his eyes to see a cowering deer, fur old and patchy, eyes milky and wide. It pushed itself against him for comfort. Graham smiled and sat down, placing a comforting hand on its head. The sky filled with light as the ships finally escaped the atmosphere. The sun’s flare lashed out at the earth and the world engulfed in flames. Graham smiled as he disappeared from this world. He knew he had made the right decision. There Has To Be One he thought. There has to be one….


Once upon a time, there was a man named Henry that married a toaster. Henry didn’t expect to marry a toaster. It all happened when he was dating this woman that had an obsession with avocado toast. Henry didn’t like avocado, toast, and this woman but he was always at her house. One day when he was at her house…again, she was showering and Henry was at the kitchen making cereal. He always came to her house to make breakfast because his old apartment had a doorless microwave, a minifridge, and a broken coffee maker for a kitchen. While making the cereal, he heard a whisper. He turned around. There was the whisper again. He thought someone else was in the apartment, he grabbed a butter knife to see where the whisper came from, and then he heard, “Hey it’s me, the toaster.” He walked up to the toaster and whispered back, “are you talking?” “Yes, dumbass,” replied the toaster. The toaster told him about life as a toaster with this woman. He hated it. It’s every toaster’s worst nightmare. With all the avocado toasts the woman makes, it’s no wonder no toaster lasted more than six months. The toaster didn’t want to have the same fate as the other toasters. The toaster wanted to live with someone that would give it love and not just shove avocado and a slice of bread down its throat. Henry didn’t even question why a toaster was talking. He didn’t even question his sanity to see if this was even real. Maybe the cheap perfume this woman wore was finally getting to his brain. Anyways, without hesitation, he unplugged the toaster and walked out of the apartment. The woman came out of the shower and saw that “her man” and her toaster was gone. In a span of a few months, the toaster dictated Henry’s life. The toaster told him to break up with his girlfriend, told him what to eat, when to eat, what to wear, and when to go to bed. The toaster also boosted his ego by showering him with compliments (or lies) about his intelligence and looks. The toaster was Henry’s mother, leader, master, god, and his asskisser. The toaster brainwashed him. Everywhere he went, he took his toaster with him. He took it to the grocery store, to the mechanic to service his old Ford Focus. He also took it to his mother’s house so he can introduce the toaster to the family. The rest of the family thought he was crazy. They thought his crazy behavior was his way to cope after breaking up with his girlfriend even though that wasn’t true. Their son was just crazy. Henry’s relationship with the toaster escalated when he proposed to it. The toaster cried toaster tears but everyone else rolled their eyes. He knew without the toaster he is nothing. He needed his toaster every day, every hour, and every second. He needed the toaster for affirmation, confirmation, and to boost his ego. He couldn’t part with his toaster, he took it everywhere he went in his apartment. He slept with it — as in they just share a bed — he took it to the bathroom to use the potty and he also took it to the living room to watch Sunday night football. He was more dependent on that toaster than he was to his mother when he was a kid even though the toaster didn’t pay any bills. Henry wasn’t the first person, the toaster did this to. That toaster has been married to eight other people before him. What happened to them is a topic for another story but for now even though his family is very close to sending him to the crazyhouse, Henry and his toaster are very happy. \ Originally posted on my Medium profile.


# Happy Saturday, serialists! Welcome to Serial Saturday! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ ***New here?*** If you’re brand new to and thinking about participating in Serial Saturday, welcome! Feel free to dip your toes in by writing for this challenge or any others we have listed on the handy dandy ! We appreciate all contributions made to this thread, and all submissions are of course welcomed, whether it addresses a previous challenge or the current one. We hope you enjoy your time in the community! Take a look at our inaugural Serial Saturday post for some helpful tips. You don’t need to catch up by writing for each of the previous assignments, feel free to jump right in wherever fits for you, with whatever assignment or theme fits for you, and post it on the current thread with a link to whichever previously posted challenge you chose to start with. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # This week it’s all about: Raised Stakes *This time,* *.* Folks, we are officially at . Remember our friend Bill, from our post for The Event That Changes Everything? This week Bill has to deal with the fact his moral enemy in his office, Frank, landed the Regional Manager position, and Frank is looking to ‘trim the fat’. It’s personal when Frank starts making his wishlist of fired employees and Bill is at the top of that list. It’s not an accident when that list is left in plainview in the conference room. Can Bill smooth things over with upper management while burying Frank? The raising of stakes is the midpoint of your story-- your characters are started down a new path sometimes without even realizing it. This is where your story really picks up with faster paced elements and . If you’re writing action, this is where you can imagine Keep that clock in the back of your mind as we accelerate towards big reveals, and situations hitting too close to home for our characters. For this brief, I’ll turn it over to ’s explanation, found on her website: >Raised stakes are all about consequences-- what are the consequences that kick in for the protagonist. > >Good stories show us the stakes in two parts: WHAT will happen, and WHY it matters. > >Both threats and obstacles can make the situation worse, and while good and important methods for developing the plot and increasing the tension of our story, they’re not necessarily the same thing as stakes. So let’s talk more about what it means to amp up the stakes in our story. > >What Does “Stakes” Mean? > >Stakes are the consequences for failing to rise to new challenges. If your protagonist doesn't reach their goal, what will happen? > >Stakes force the characters to make riskier and riskier choices. In turn, those choices will take the characters closer to the ultimate showdown with the main conflict. ## What if Our Story Isn’t Life and Death? How Can We Raise the Stakes? Let’s take a look at a classic, : In P&P our raised stakes occur when Mr Darcy tracks down Elizabeth and tells her the truth of his affections. Elizabeth is both taken aback by this sudden declaration. He does it poorly, while opening up an argument of the inferiority of her family, citing their behavior. That’s… not the way to win hearts, y’all. Finally, Darcy also explains that Mr Wickham is a bad dude. Particularly since Elizabeth was rather taken with George Wickham, this news comes as both a surprise and sinking of the stone in Ms. Bennet’s heart. So back to the question. What can we do to ? Complicate things. Cross some wires and give us Level up your antagonist- Looks like Dr Death just got a lot more deadly with his new Death Ray 2000! Maybe your antagonist is just the office jerk, but he’s the guy who seems to have a chokehold on your MC’s happiness at the workplace. Increase internal conflict- bring on the pain with a good ol’ tug of war of. Increase external conflict- throw away those matching BBF bracelets and face the betrayal in the eyes of a loved one,. When It Rains, It Pours- kick it up a notch with inclement weather, or an But just in the case you want to \*add\* some life and death elements: Light the Fuse, Literally- Force some drama, as long as it’s plausible. Do your characters need a push in the right direction? Works great on mountains and stubborn mules! **\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*** **You have until \*next\* Saturday, 10/3, to submit and comment on everyone else's stories here. Make sure to check back on this thread periodically to lay some sweet, sweet crit down on those who don't have any yet!** \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* # Top picks from last week’s assignment, Point of No Return: **Fan favorite with the most votes:** /u/Lady_Oh, with a beautiful ending to her fairytale-like serial world, which drew to a close with the knowledge her characters could not return. This week the **Smoking Hot Challenge Sash** goes to an author that nailed the spirit of the assignment: /u/lynx_elia, for thickening the plot and showing us some things her character can’t un-see. And honorable mentions: /u/Ryter99, for pushing forward this veritable fluff-driven party with the fury of a thousand buns…. Err, Bundarr. And /u/ATIWTK, for showing that when there’s no return, it could spark a journey that is just the beginning. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **The Rules:** * In the comments below submit a story that is between **500 - 750** words in your own original universe. * Submissions are limited to ***one*** serial submission from each author per week. * **Each author should comment on at least 2 other stories** during the course of the week. * That comment must include ***at least one*** **detail** about what the author has done well. * Authors who successfully finish a serial lasting longer than 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the sub. * Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule. *Yes, we will check*. * While content rules are more lax here at /r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely ***family friendly***" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Reminders: * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday post or to your own subreddit/profile. * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serials Campfire on the main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start on Saturdays at 9AM CST. **Don’t worry about being late, just join!** There’s a *Super Serial* role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! **Join the** **to chat with prompters, authors, and readers!** Previous constraint: **Point of No Return** Have you seen the? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule.


To any and all law enforcement reading this; this is not a confession. This is me telling you why I killed all of those people on live television. Do with this information what you will. I know whichever detective or police captain or whatever that finds this thinks he's going to be the one who caught the world's biggest monster. I'm sorry to disappoint you. My name was boring and ordinary: Thomas Howard. Many myths, legends, and rumors have been floating around for years about where my powers came from. I don't know if any of them are true. To be honest with you, I have no idea where my powers came from. I never cared to find out. Was I an alien that landed on Earth? Was I a science experiment gone wrong? Did my parents just feed me the right combination of juice and vegetables? I don't know. Little Tommy Howard just had powers, and he never cared where they came from. I hid them from everyone for years. My parents taught me to hide them and pretend that everything was normal. They told me that my powers would scare people. They told me that if I ever wanted to be accepted by the world, I had to pretend to be no different from any Tom, Dick, and Sue on the side of the street. So, I obeyed like a good boy should. I never questioned it. I honestly believed that everyone had my powers and we all had this silent agreement not to share them. My best friend for the first five years of my schooling was Rachel Cole. I was never the most popular kid, but she always found a way to include me in everything. She insisted that we were friends the moment she saw how scared I was on my first day of kindergarten, and she made sure I felt welcomed. She pushed me to ask Hannah Dover for a kiss in first grade and promised she'd be there to make sure I felt strong enough to do it. I know now that she just wanted to watch the show. It was my tenth birthday. She'd been pressuring me for the better part of two years. She could tell there was something I wasn't telling her, and I just decided eventually that I could be honest with her. She promised to accept me no matter what. I realize now that she thought I was gay. I don't think she expected my two, green, scaly dragon wings. As soon as I showed her, she promised that she would keep my secret no matter what. That night, a government agency claiming to be the FBI showed up at my house. You don't care about the details, I know, so suffice it to say, my parents tried to prevent them from taking me away, and were both shot. Special Agent Raymond Clarke was the name of the man who pulled the trigger. He was the forty-seventh man I ever killed. I escaped without harming anyone, and I tried so hard to convince myself that it was all just a coincidence... but I've never prided myself on any level of stupidity. It seems like the show was over for Rachel. I didn't know where she lived. She'd told me, but we always hung out at school. Her parents were weird about boys being friends with their daughter. I had to break into the school to get her address. I'm strong enough to rip solid steel apart with my bare hands. It wasn't hard to rip my way into the school to get her address. The FBI agents surrounding Rachel's house expected some winged boy to attack or arrive from outside. They didn't expect it at all when a mass of tentacles, muscle, claws, and wings burst from the house covered in Rachel's blood. My tenth birthday was the night I realized that no one who knew about my powers would ever see anything other than a monster. It was only a few weeks later when superheroes flew into the spotlight, starting when Peacekeeper stopped a terrorist attack on Chicago. Powerful men and women from across the world appeared in the hearts of every innocent person. I wanted to be just like them once, but their powers were looking beautiful and saving people. My powers were turning into a nightmare and scaring everyone. I was walking down a street, looking for either money or food when the course of my life was decided. It was two months short of my eleventh birthday, and I'd been living on the streets since Rachel took everything from me. There was a car accident. A semi-truck with one of those giant gas tanks for a trailer had gotten into a head-on collision with a moving truck. It was a huge pileup. If ever there was a time for me to become a hero, this moment was it, right? Wrong. I transformed. Wings, tentacles, claws, everything. I ran at the scene and started pulling people away. Yes, I know I'm unsettling to look at when I'm transformed, but it was the best way to hide my identity, and I truly did want to be a hero. And then the superhero showed up to help out. I don't remember his name. It was something like "Captain Silver" or "Silver Streak" or "Silver Shlong". I remember "Silver", but that's it. Maybe whoever reads this can figure it out. Obviously, the monster pulling people from the car crash and ushering them to safety was the cause of this whole thing. Obviously, the only option was to attack. I was terrified the whole time. A superhero had targetted me. We crashed through the gas tanker. Fire erupted from around us, covering the street. We wrestled until the asphalt gave way beneath us. I clawed at him desperately while he punched me over and over and over. He cracked me over the head with a giant pipe and got me in a headlock. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think, but I could feel the bones in my neck straining while he twisted as hard as he could. Superheroes always seem to forget that if you're fighting someone with extra limbs, including tentacles, he doesn't have to only fight with the "normal" four limbs. Yes, I strangled him and broke his neck with my tentacles, but he was going to *kill me*. What choice did I have!? It was him or me, and I chose *me*. And I would do it again. Movies don't properly prepare you for the mental and emotional strain of killing someone. Yes, I know I'd killed before Silver, but I'd blocked it from my mind enough to focus on survival. But this was different. Newspapers, blogs, TV... everything had pictures and videos of this eldritch creature killing a superhero. "Demon kills Silver". "What is this monster that just murdered a hero?". "The tragic death of a hero. More at eight". I think I lost myself then. I took the name "Star Spawn". It sounded catchy enough for an eleven-year-old. Over the next several years, I became the world's most powerful supervillain. If they were going to fear me for no reason, I'd just have to give them one. I became everything they said I was. I became everything I hated, everything I wanted to avoid becoming. I killed five hundred eighty-six people over the course of my criminal career. No, I'm not counting the murders done by people working for me. Just mentioning the name "Star Spawn" in front of a hero would make the color drain from their face. I took a special sort of pride in that. Every villain and hero feared me. Except Peacekeeper. If you're older than six months, you know all about Peacekeeper. Hero from a distant world. The man who looks like us all, but with the power of a god. Strength to level mountains, flight faster than possible, more powerful than any bad guy ever. If anyone could defeat Star Spawn, it would certainly be Peacekeeper! Well, you'll all remember that short time about eight years ago, when I was fifteen, that I took over the United Kingdom. A lot of people have speculated on why I decided to do that. Honestly, I was bored and wanted to see if I could take over a country with just eight guys. Turns out that yes, I could. Well, who would show up to save the UK but Peacekeeper! The one hero who could stop the dreaded Star Spawn was on the case! I'd like to take this opportunity to formally apologize to Cardiff for turning it into a war zone. That was never part of the plan, and I really regret what happened. I was honestly there to get a game console when Peacekeeper arrived. I was a fifteen-year-old boy; of course I was there for something stupid. We crushed buildings and shattered rock. He was the first being I'd found since Silver that could actually cause me pain. It was my first challenge in five years. I was going to relish every moment of it. We fought for hours, destroying everything in our wake. Militaries arrived and tried to join in, but each vehicle was just a weapon for one of us to batter the other with. My claws couldn't cut him, his eye-beams couldn't burn me. We were just punching and fighting, turning the world around us into rubble. I'd never felt so alive. And then I killed Peacekeeper. It was quick. I had pinned him to the ground and used my tentacles to restrain him. I punched him in the throat over and over to keep him stunned and finally pulled him into a headlock. With one roar that could be heard from across Wales, I snapped his neck and ripped his head clean off. I kept his cape as a trophy. I still have it somewhere. I'll spare you the details of how I abdicated control of the UK. Every hero in the world showed up at my front door to avenge Peacekeeper, and I just transformed back into a scared fifteen-year-old boy. Thomas Howard was just scared because Star Spawn had captured him to keep as a hostage. He just wanted to go home. I think it was Peacekeeper's girlfriend that flew me back across the Atlantic and apologized profusely for everything I'd suffered through. That was good for a laugh or two. Killing Peacekeeper awoke something in me. It became a new challenge. How does one kill the unkillable? Every hero that fought me was a new puzzle to complete. What were their weaknesses? How hard of a punch could they take? What was the most mundane method I could use to kill them? What would my trophy be? Fifty-nine of my five hundred eighty-six kills were superheroes. I have trophies from each one. In my "evil lair", I actually had display cases for my trophies with the name of the hero, the date, and the method I used to kill them. If you ever find it, it's quite interesting. I believe my favorite was when I killed Cosmic Shield via his peanut allergy. And, just to debunk a myth, I did *not* eat superheroes. That would be disgusting. Fast-forward to my twentieth birthday. I was in Manhattan, planning out how to take over New York State and turn it into my own sovereign nation. To be fair, I was pretty bored, and I knew that heroes would flock from across the country to fight me for control of The Empire State. Also, I wanted my country to be called "The Empire State", so... you'll understand the situation. Anyway, I was sitting in this small mom-and-pop coffee shop, just a few blocks from Central Park, and the barista gave me a free refill without me asking for anything at all. She was cute, friendly, and probably the most clumsy and ditzy person on the planet. I've never claimed to be a wise man, but I'm also not completely stupid. No one is that clumsy by accident. She was obviously a superhero in disguise. Well, how much sweeter would the victory be if I could plan the hostile takeover while chatting with a hero? Or... or maybe getting lunch with her a few times. Or maybe going on a couple dates. Or maybe hearing about her struggles in life. Or listening to her talk about her dreams while she lit up with more excited energy than anyone I'd ever met. Or watching that weird, unnatural crease in her forehead whenever she got frustrated. Or maybe surprising her with breakfast at her apartment. Or maybe watching her dorky celebration dance whenever she beat me at anything. Or maybe sharing some of what I was afraid of. Or maybe finding out that she truly accepted and loved me. We got married about a year after we met. She told me she was the superhero known as "Skystrike" the night I proposed. I had people in place for my takeover of New York. They were supposed to wait two weeks... then five... then nine... And I think their official orders are now "standby". I don't remember. I don't care. Star Spawn was on hiatus. Tom Howard was now a lame, normal guy who worked at the DMV. Three days ago, she and I had just woken up and were talking about starting a family. We were thinking about maybe trying for a baby. She was insistent that we would have to name it "Erik" if it was a boy and "Cassidy" if it was a girl. Honestly, it's really hard to fight with her when she gets her mind set on things like that. And that's coming from the guy who killed Peacekeeper with his bare hands. Then, she got an alert on her "blue cell phone". Little known fact, most superheroes have a "blue cell phone". She gave me a quick kiss and suited up, and she flew off. I kicked on the news and just watched, waiting to see my wife kick some bad guy ass. But it wasn't just *some* bad guy. It was Worldender. Worldender had been a thorn in my side for the entirety of my criminal career. Anything I decided to do, he would either do it right after me, or he would try to do it before me. He was this stubborn idiot who tried so hard to claim that he was an original mastermind, but he was only a copycat. Let the record show that *all* of Worldender's ideas were *mine first*. The worst part about Worldender is that I knew he was stronger than my wife. I'd fought him once, and we came to a standstill. *That* was how powerful Worldender was. I just sat at the foot of my bed, panicking while I watched the live footage from his attack on the Chrysler building. He was fighting twelve superheroes at once, and he was winning. Then, everything was just... still. The reporter kept babbling about something. I don't remember what she said. Then Worldender took over the airwaves (which was also *my* thing). He had his own live broadcast to do. Every one of the twelve heroes that had attacked him were on their knees. Some unconscious, others just bound. They were all surrounded by his nineteen henchmen. Skystrike was sitting farthest from him, bleeding and terrified. I found myself begging for other heroes to show up. Someone had to do *something*. That was my *wife* sitting there. And then he killed the first hero on live TV. He said some other self-righteous garbage and killed the next. He was going to kill her. There are no words to describe the rage I felt. I wasn't thinking. I wasn't planning. I don't know how to describe my wife's face when *Star Spawn* burst through the wall of the floor she was on. Glass, stone, and steel rained down from around me while the camera turned to focus on the roaring beast that had just entered. Worldender's face was *priceless*. The terror in *everyone's* eyes when I roared was exactly what I needed. You saw the broadcast. I know you did. The only thing I saw was tentacles, bullets, blood, and flesh. I wonder what you saw. Fifteen seconds, and I had every one of Worldender's henchmen dead around me. Good luck finding all of the pieces. You watched me pin him to the ground. You watched me torture him. You watched me kill him. And now you know why I did. I smashed the camera. No one needed to see what happened next. I didn't set any of the bound heroes free. I didn't need that complication. I didn't make sure the unconscious ones were okay. I'm sure they're either fine or dead. Either way, not my problem. I grabbed two pieces of Worldender's armor, and then picked up Skystrike and flew out of there. She and I had a bit of a discussion about everything. But she'd known exactly who I was the whole time. Apparently, I'd written "Star Spawn takes Manhattan" at the top of the paper I was writing on. Probably not my most clever idea now that I think about it. She'd planned to get close to me to find out what I'd been planning in that coffee shop. She'd planned to take me down and bring me in, dead or alive, the instant I let my guard down. Like me, though... she kept postponing. She fell in love with me as much as I'd fallen in love with her. She knew exactly who I was, and she loved me anyway. She said she would only have changed her mind if I had kept doing criminal things... but I didn't want to. I wanted to see what would happen if I got to know this strange woman. So, we're leaving. Farewell, New York. Or we're not leaving. Either way, you'll have found this letter and this drawing I made of the two of us flipping you off, and you can take that as a sign that you will never see either of us again. Do not try to find us. Do not search for us. We've quit our "jobs" now. No more being a superhero for her, and no more being a supervillain for me. We've decided to be boring now. If you think you have a chance to track either one of us down, I want you to take a look at the object I left under this note. Yes, that is one of the two pieces of armor that I took from Worldender's suit after I killed him. And if you try to capture or arrest or hurt or kill my wife or me ever again... I'll just have another trophy to add to my collection.


Hi, I’m Dave. Cutting to the chase, the apocalypse happened and now I’m a zombie. I don’t really remember how it happened (memory tends to get a little hazy when there’s a hole in your skull), but I do know it was sudden, unexpected, and generally all the interesting stuff was over and done with pretty early. I was one of those people that always thought they’d make it to the end, y’know? Never occurred to me to think there isn’t an end cause it already happened. Those guys in their parents basement who had a hand-me-down pocket knife and watched every movie so thought they’d survive, find a base, get the girl, and ride off into the sunset. Yeah, kinda cringe with the benefit of undead hindsight. I mean, I didn’t even find a girl at all before getting bit! Well, there is this one girl, but we’ll get to that. Anyway, being dead isn’t all that bad. I’m not tired anymore, I don’t get hurt if I bump into the corner of a table, I get to travel a lot, and I have a bunch of new friends to hang out with. I don’t really know their names, but I could pick them out of a crowd. There’s Blue, I call him that because of his hoodie. Basically my best friend now, even if we can’t shoot the shit over beers or have game night. Really, he’s just been walking next to me for about half a year now. Cool dude. The only bad thing I really can think of is that I’m like, really hungry all the time. It doesn’t bother you, I guess, no pain remember, but you always remember it’s there, especially when you get a whiff of people. Don’t know how it works now since I don’t breathe, but I can smell people from like, half a mile away. I don’t really know how to describe it, but it’s kinda like smelling your favourite food from growing up multiplied by eleven. When we catch that smell, we all shrug over in that direction and keep up our usual pace. My favourite direction we go in is to the left, because when we do I can just catch a glimpse of Green. Green probably isn’t, or I guess wasn’t, her name, but I gotta make do and so I call her that from the blood stained T-shirt she has on. I’ve never seen her face completely, but I can tell from the still intact cheek I can see when we all turn she really is beautiful. The rot never really took her face, and her hair still has that small bit of graceful bounce it had when she was still alive. Every time we do turn left, and I can just steal a glance, Blue always notices and intentionally bumps his whole body into mine. I know he’s trying to get me to make a move because I can see his exposed facial muscles approximate a smirk. I never do though, always telling myself I should stay in my place so we can keep up. Damn, I wish I had the willpower to push through the crowd to see her. There’s times when the people we’re looking for find us first, those are the bad days. They gun down some of us, or lead us off into some other direction where we lose the scent, or we catch them and we all have a nice bite. Those are the good days. Contrary to what I thought when I was alive, and I guess what the living still think, we undead aren’t assholes. When we get someone down, we hand chunks around so that we all can at least get something. Of course the ones who made the kill get more but that’s understandable. Afterwards, we help the guy up if there’s enough of him left to walk and we welcome him like family. Green was one of those people, joined us about two months ago. I remember when she got back up, the whole crowd seemed to get a new spring in their step. We all kinda, y’know, felt a bit more alive I guess. Even now, we all seem to move at her pace. She is at the front of the crowd, so it makes sense, but nobody passes her or turns without her doing so first. She must have been a really influential person in life, a natural born and died leader. Just the other day, I guess Blue got fed up with my rottenness and haphazardly whacked me with the remnants of his arm. He then let out a noise that I guess was an attempt at encouragement and tilted his head forward. Since then, I’ve been working up the guts, or lack there of, to finally move up that measly five meters that may as well be a thousand miles with a wall in between. I’ve decided I’m gonna, I just don’t know what to do when I get up next to her. Say hi? Can’t, throats perforated. Hold her hand? Nope, seems needy. All I can do, and all I really want to do, is just see her face. Before I can even notice what I’m doing, my usual slow trudge picks up a bit of energy. Blue rasps out a death rattle that must have been a laugh. I press by Suit (some guy who must have been a businessman), by Richard (I could see his name tag on his torn shirt from behind), and manage to settle in a place just next to the most beautiful corpse in the world. If I still had the parts of my bladder needed, I’d probably be pissing myself with nervousness right now. I’m right next to the perfectly sculpted cheek I’ve been admiring from so close yet so far for months now, and I can see her eye and nose too are the kind you could only see on the covers of magazines. Green notices I’m next to her, and turns her neck with only a few muscles torn and I am truly in awe. Even with the other half of her face torn and shredded, she really had the face of a fallen angel. While all of us had dirt and grime caked to our flaking skin, soil seemed to retreat from the surfaces of her face, leaving only the pale porcelain skin exposed. Her hair which was obviously still taken care of after the apocalypse never seemed to go dark from decay and part of it partly concealed the devoured half of her visage. Even her teeth, though exposed to the harsh sun and biting wind from the hanging jawbone, still glinted like bloodstained pearls in the light. Green kept her haunting gaze at me. I have no idea what to do. I’m panicking. What do I say? Do I tell a joke? A pickup line? Wait, that’s right, I can’t. I know it’s corny, and honestly if I saw anyone else do it I’d roll my eyes right out of their sockets, but I reach up into my rib cage and pull out my heart. With a gesture, I hold it up for her to see, hoping I at least got my message across. She sees it. So far so good. She places her hand on my heart and presses it back and into my chest. Did I just get rejected? Did I fail? I never should have listened to Blue! Honestly, I’m just feeling a little defeated. I’m trying to slink back to my place next to Blue, head held low, but her grip on my hand doesn’t ease up. I look back up at her and she’s still looking at me. Her hand drops limply back to her side with mine still held. I’m probably the luckiest cadaver in the world right now, and I have no idea what I’m doing. Green looks back forward just as the scent of people washes over the crowd. We all lurch to the right as, hand in hand, I get to take Green to a dinner date.