By Chris Doerksen **Thursday August 9th** The printer whirred to life and began to spit paper. Jamie Kerr waited for the pages to finish printing. Scooping up the warm documents into his hands, he placed them in a Manila folder and brought them up to the top floor of the office building. While he could have looked at them, he knew it was best not to, as their information could be confidential. Jamie had been the intern for Dr. Hugh Carols, top researcher and head astronomer for NASA over the past six months. Throughout this time Jamie had met and began to work under Dr. Carols, though he found very little of that time was spent together. Jamie found that the word ‘intern’ had different meanings to the two of them. While he was very excited to be working for one of the nation’s most brilliant minds, never did he dream of that work being nothing more than a glorified secretary. Fetching copious amounts of coffee, filing paperwork, and being asked to leave most meetings due to “*classified information*”, was what the brunt of the (unpaid) job had included so far. With only six months left Jamie had wondered when he was going to be able to participate in some of Dr. Carols’ research. *Was this really where ten years of schooling had gotten him?* The master’s degree hanging in his apartment made each *2-cream-and-1-sugar* more belittling, and Jamie had slowly been working up the courage to ask Dr. Carols to let him take on something more, and to prove to him that he was there for a reason. Jamie’s growing frustration had only been accelerated by Dr. Carols’ increasing distance from him. The past month had seen Hugh buried in his work, often staying late into the evening, which Jamie found annoying since he wouldn’t dare leave before Dr. Carols, even if it was considered beyond the usual hours of working. What finally forced Jamie’s hand, however, was what happened on Thursday: As per the usual schedule, Dr. Carols received a weekly update from the team at Hubble, located in Baltimore. The updates included various information, such as recent diagnostics, prospects for new projects, and very occasionally new images taken by the actual telescope, which seemed ironic. Jamie brought in the briefing folder and handed it to the doctor, who began passively thumbing through the documents. Suddenly he stopped. Jamie could sense the change. Hugh began slowly reading the content of the folder, stopping every now and then to mumble something, as if needing to reaffirm what he was reading. As if something didn’t make sense. “*Is something wrong, Hugh?*” Jamie asked. Dr. Carols continued reading, not paying any attention to him. “*Hugh, if something is wrong I-”* Jamie started to say but was interrupted. “*No! No, it’s fine.”* Though it appeared to be completely the opposite. A few moments went by with neither of them saying anything. Dr. Carols continued to slowly examine the documents, until coming upon what seemed to be a set of images. He gasped, which made Jamie jump. Hugh then spoke in a low, soft voice: “*I’m sorry Jamie but I need you to leave the room for a while, I have to make a call.”* he nearly whispered, “*Perhaps you can join in on next week’s meeting.”* Jamie, who had never been heard Dr. Carols sound this way, was confused. “*Why?”* He asked. “*This is too important… too big. I-I’m sorry Jamie, but not this time. I need you to leave. Now.”* Jamie had no idea what had possessed Hugh but it seemed like it was serious, so he left without saying anything more. He returned to his desk which was across the hall from Hugh. The initial surprise from his removal wore off and Jamie began to become frustrated. *Wasn’t his internship supposed to include all the challenges involved with the job? What could be so alarming or important that Jamie couldn’t be let in on it, after having worked with Dr. Carols for the past 6 months?* This incident, along with the general dissatisfaction that had plagued Jamie since his first day there, was what pushed Jamie to decide it was finally time to say something to Hugh. Despite his gratefulness for the position, Jamie knew he was not being used to his full potential. He decided that once his call was done, Jamie was going to go back and speak his mind. The rest of the day passed and Jamie heard nothing from Hugh’s office. He went up several times and knocked on the door but heard nothing in return. The 5pm clock-out time came and went as Jamie continued to wait and speak with him. As the clock approached 10 Jamie realized that at this rate, he was going to need to sleep at his desk in order to catch Dr. Carols leaving, and that this conversation would have to wait. He packed up his things and headed home, picturing what he would say to him the following day. He didn’t sleep well that night, kept up by bad dreams. **Friday, August 10th** Arriving 15 minutes early as usual, Jamie had noticed that Dr. Carols’ car was already parked in its spot. He found this odd: Jamie usually got there a good while before him and began working on the day’s menial tasks. Thinking it was probably just another meeting he had not been invited to, Jamie sighed and hurried into work, hoping that Dr Carols had not expected himself to arrive early as well. Jamie had hurried up to the top floor to find that the door to Dr. Carols’ office was shut. Normally the cleaning staff left all the building’s door open overnight to air out the rooms, so the closed door labelled *HEAD OF OPERATIONS - DR. HUGH CAROLS* stuck out. Jamie approached the door to see that the light was on inside, but when he tried the handle found it to be locked. Jamie knocked and called for Hugh: “*Hello? Hugh? It’s Jamie. Are you there?*” Nothing. Jamie called Dr. Carols cell phone, seeing if perhaps he had stopped by later last night to pick something up and had left the door locked. He had just barely put the phone to his ear when he heard ringing on the other side of the wall. Whether or not Dr. Carols was in there, it seemed that his phone was. The phone continued to ring until eventually transferring Jamie to the voicemail. *Dr. Carols never missed a phone call*. This had been the case ever since Jamie had met him, and many a time did Jamie get interrupted when the phone would ring and he would suddenly be abandoned while his boss went into the other room for a twenty-minute exchange. For Jamie, this was the first thing to truly make him worry. Knocking harder this time, Jamie called out more loudly. Surely Dr. Carols could be asleep on the office couch, or perhaps using his desk telephone. Jamie continued trying to think of reasons that there would be no response at all to his knocking and calling, but this only caused his stomach to tie into tighter knots. After waiting for security to arrive, Jamie asked if they could let him into the office, explaining his ever-growing worry for the doctor. Accompanied with two officers he returned to the locked door and had them try knocking as well. After no response, the guards explained that the door was going to be forcibly opened, in case someone was hiding on the other side of the wall. Surely the threat of violent entry would be enough to force Dr. Carols to open door, to avoid causing a scene and even more forms to fill out and documents to sign, Jamie thought. Still nothing. Finally, the door was kicked in, and Jamie found Dr. Carols inside. Apart from the man hanging by a noose in the centre of the room, what Jamie noticed next was the mess. Dr. Carols had been an impeccable neat-freak, and it had not taken long before Jamie was used to being reminded about where to place certain papers, how they were to be folded, and that when leaving his office things must be left in the same place they were when he came in. What Jamie saw before him now was the den of an animal; folders scattered from corner to corner, papers ripped and thrown about like confetti for the mad, and all three chairs tipped over and left strewn in random spots. The blinds covering the windows were partially down and partially ripped off their tracks, causing a slanted sunrise to cascade itself along the corpse before them. As for Dr. Carols there was not much different aside from the rope keeping him from ever touching the ground alive. His hair was a bit messy, as though he’d run his fingers through it a few too many times, and his glasses were mildly askew. He almost appeared at peace, taking with him all the secrets of what had led him to his seemingly apparent suicide. The desk on the left-hand side of the room appeared to be the only things nearly untouched; the nameplate and lamp remained upright and in their usual position, and there seemed to be no clutter or mess on top of it. All Jamie could see was four pieces of paper, all of which were laid face down, their importance and contents unknown to anyone. The tidiness of it scared him, but not enough for him to want to see what was on the other side of those pages. These observations all flew through Jamie’s head before time felt like it sped up at an alarming rate. Suddenly he was in the hallway again, answering the same questions over and over to various police officers. He felt like each time he explained what happened the reality of the situation was getting further and further from him. His boss, who at the start of yesterday was completely sound and utterly unremarkable in so many ways apart from his mind, was now dead not ten feet from him. Now he was being walked out of the building by the police, being told that he may be contacted again, but that overall it seemed to be a cut-and-dry suicide. By the time he finally began to come back to himself he was home and in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to untangle his thoughts and go through them one by one: *What made him kill himself?* *Did he go into work planning on it? Why didn’t I notice any signs if he was?* However, one thought kept coming back to him, which he felt guilty about but his curiosity couldn’t help but come out on top: *What was on those four papers?* Again, he did not sleep well, kept up by nightmares. **Saturday, August 11th** The sky seemed to grow darker overnight, and when Jamie found himself tossing and turning at 5am he was surprised to see that the sky appeared blacker than it had been when he went to bed. Perhaps it was just because he was up earlier than usual, but still he found it odd. Finally succumbing to the approaching morning, Jamie grabbed his phone and was about to begin scrolling through various apps when he noticed a new email from one of Dr. Carols’ associates who worked in Baltimore with the Hubble team. The email had been sent at nearly 2 in the morning, so Jamie had missed it, but it seemed that the message was rather urgent: *To Jamie,* *I’m terribly sorry to be reaching out to you so soon following Hugh’s death, but there is a favor we need from you. We believe that on Thursday he received a report from one of our scopes with some highly classified information. From the forensic file we received from the police, it appears that the contents of the report are in that office. We need that information to be sent back to us as soon as possible, as they are time sensitive. Could you go into the office at some point today and collect the documents? There should be four pages, and please try your best not to look at them as they are above your level of clearance. We have someone who will be at the RRNA at 1800 who can meet you and bring the documents back to us.* *Forgive me again for the late email, but we can’t afford to have such sensitive information out in the open. Please let me know if you can do this, as I’ll be contacting other members at the DC branch if I don’t hear from you by noon hour today. I’ve made sure a key to Hugh’s office is available for you, just ask for it at reception, they were told you may be stopping by today.* *Thank you,* *Paul Geraghty* Jamie spent a few minutes reading and rereading the email, a pit forming in his stomach. *What information could be so valuable to require a personal courier and need immediate delivery? Why did it need to be done so soon, and why was Jamie supposed to avoid looking at them?* Despite his reservations, Jamie knew that this would look good for him in future career aspirations, as well as allow him some closure on the last twenty-four hours. He replied immediately that he would pick up the files and proceeded to shower and get ready. He left just after 7AM without eating, not feeling hungry in the slightest. Though only a few minutes by car, Jamie found that between leaving his apartment and arriving at the office, his shirt had begun to stick with sweat, and walking outside felt more akin to swimming with the humidity. Luckily for him the building had good air conditioning, and the thought of his damp clothes was soon forgotten about. July heat in Washington was a killer, and this morning was no exception. Still, today *did* seem different. The clouds appeared more than dark grey but instead black in the sky, looking more like wisps of smoke than average nimbostrati. There was little wind to be felt, and everything seemed to be moving slowly, as though the entire world was in the midst of taking one giant breath. Jamie kept thinking he heard thunder but looking upward he couldn’t make out any lightning. *Weird*, he thought. *It wasn’t supposed to storm today*. Due to it being a Saturday, the place seemed a little less cramped. Normally the hallways were bustling at this time: people going in between meetings, breaks being taken just a little too long, and the seemingly endless line of interns and students trying to get their feet into doors. Jamie smirked at this thought, being an intern himself. The smile quickly faded as he thought about why he was here on a weekend. Stopping by the front desk, Jamie asked about a package under his name, and the receptionist reached behind their desk and pulled out two items: one being the key to Hugh’s office, and the other was an empty folder. “*The man who spoke to me on the phone said that you’d know what to do with these.”* Taking the elevator, Jamie collected himself as he rode up alone. *Remember, all I’m here for is the papers, I should be in and out.* He knew that as difficult as it would be not to inspect the office or search the drawers for signs of Hugh’s sudden demise, he could get in a lot of trouble for not doing exactly as he was being asked. All he had to do was grab the papers, head back outside and proceed to the airport. Simple. After what felt like an hour, Jamie finally emerged onto the top floor, walking swiftly down the dimly lit hallway towards where his and Hugh’s offices stood. Perhaps it was the recent suicide in the building, but something about the place seemed ominous now. Though far from flickering lights and cobwebs, the beige paint and pale fluorescent bulbs made Jamie feel slightly paranoid, claustrophobic even. He picked up his pace and finally arrived back where he had been nearly twenty-four hours ago, though it felt like years. Jamie took out the key, and unlocked Hugh’s office. Never in his life had a lock felt more mechanical; a slow and heavy deadbolt that held behind it the place where a man Jamie had admired all his life had taken their own. Looking down at the key, Jamie thought for a moment he saw his hands tremble. Taking a breath and steadying himself, he pushed open the door. Following the police and paramedics, the office had been returned to a state of normalcy. Cluttered papers and office supplies had been placed back in their piles and in their respective holders, chairs once upturned were not back in their rightful state, even the overturned shelves had been placed back against the wall, with books mostly put in their original spots. Had Jamie somehow missed the events of Friday and Paul’s email, he would have returned to work on Monday and thought nothing had happened. Any trace of the uniformed officers’ visits, nor even the man who hung mere feet from where Jamie now stood, could be seen. Jamie stepped further inside, taking a moment to gaze around the room, looking for any sort of difference. Suddenly he realized that the four pages were still face down on the desk, perfectly placed and aligned, as though no one had seen them the day before. Hairs stood up on the back of his neck as he made his way over to the desk. Though he knew there was other people in the building, Jamie felt alone as his footsteps resonated on the cold hardwood floor. The windows looking out over the parking lot showed the dark sky looming over the city. For a second Jamie thought he heard thunder outside. Opening up the larger envelope, Jamie began to grab the papers, but before he could go through with it, he paused: *Is* *this what drove Hugh to kill himself? These four pieces of paper?* Jamie’s morbid curiosity began to get the better of him: *How would anyone even know I looked at these?* Jamie knew that the pages in his hands would eat away at him for the rest of his life if he didn’t turn them over. No matter how far he distanced himself from this event, the knowledge that he could have seen what possibly traumatized Dr. Carols would be in the back of his mind. He knew that he shouldn’t even risk it, but- The first page had already turned over subconsciously in his hands, and Jamie realized that he was staring at a letter addressed to Dr. Carols. The letter contained very little text: *Dr Carols,* *We received some very disturbing images from Hubble Telescope. We took three separate pictures and realized something is very wrong. We need your input on this, and we fear that our time is limited. Please respond as soon as you can.* *N: Currently at 30.31AU as of Sunday, August 5th.* *S: Currently at 10.12 AU as of Tuesday, August 7th.* *M: Currently at 1.4 AU as of Thursday, August 9th.* *Attached Photos taken Thursday, August 9th.* Trying to make sense of what these could mean. He knew that the AU numbers stood for astronomical units, referring to an object’s distance from the sun compared to the earth, but the dates and letters *N*, *S*, *M*, rang no bells. Jamie turned over the second page, where he saw a mostly black image, with a few fine specks of blue, scattered across the landscape. In the bottom left hand corner, the line of text from the letter was printed: *N: Currently at 30.31AU as of Monday, October 5th.* Jamie realized that this was a photograph from the many he had seen all throughout his childhood and into his schooling. This was a Hubble Telescope image. As he continued to study it, the numbers on the left seemed familiar to him, and suddenly he realized what they were: the location of the planet Neptune. This made no sense to Jamie, as his eyes began to dart between the blue specks that dotted the page: *This has to be a mistake, where is Neptune if this photograph is claiming this is the location? And why are these blue specks on here? Is this some sort of issue with the telescope?* He knew that the telescope could be finicky and there had been problems with the machinery every now and then, but this felt too authentic and urgent to all have been some kind of technical error. Jamie noticed that his hands had begun trembling again. Deciding to move on, Jamie turned over the second page and saw a second image, this one containing “*S: Currently at 10.12 AU as of Tuesday, August 7th.*” in the bottom-left corner. This time the image was much more obvious of what it was supposed to be: Saturn. However there seemed to be something very, very wrong with this picture. Inexplicably, only half of Saturn was visible, as though the entire gas giant had been cut in half. From the view of the telescope it seemed like the core was now split down the middle, a million jawbreakers worth of coloured layers all the way down to a dull silver centre. Long and stringy wisps of various chemicals and frozen rocks were coming off of the flattened edge, leaving behind a trail of haze and specks. Even the rings around the planet were strewn about, half circles which ended in frayed ends and slowly dipping into the endless depths of space. The axis clearly off kilter, the semi-sphere looked as though it were falling on its bottom, like an acrobat tumbling from a well-balanced trick. “*Tuesday, August 7th.”* Jamie dropped the second picture in his hands, trembling so bad he couldn’t hold it any longer. *There’s no way this isn’t some kind of joke. Some convincing doctoring of a photo, or maybe it just printed out completely wrong. This can’t be real.* Suddenly Jamie was very aware that there was still one photograph left on the desk, and that *M* could only mean one thing. He slowly picked up the final page, and turned it over, knowing what he would likely see. “*M: Currently at 1.4 AU as of Wednesday, August 9th.”* was unnecessary as Jamie instantly recognized what had been photographed: Mars was in the midst of what looked like an explosion. The only comparison Jamie could think of was the time he had seen footage of a bullet being shot through a watermelon, the entire thing splitting apart and spraying across someone’s lawn. This, however, was a lot larger than a fruit. Gigantic chunks were flying in every direction, as hundreds of smaller rocks trailed behind like a tail behind a continent sized comet. Maroon streaks of iron and nickel expanded beyond the borders of the page, and Jamie knew that if enough time were to pass, earth would see meteors the likes of which hadn’t been witness since the dinosaurs. Though a still image, he could almost see it moving if he looked close enough, breaking apart and becoming less and less recognizable as the red planet. Jamie’s vision blurred with tears as he continued to stare at the page, which trembled unapologetically now. The horror of what he was seeing made the room spin before him, and he nearly fell over just trying to make sense of it all. He noticed there was something different about this image. Looking at the torn apart sphere, Jamie could see that across the top right crust, the colour of the planet looked… darker. The one aspect still intact of what he knew of Mars was the red hue of its surface, except now a portion of the planet appeared almost black. Jamie suddenly realized that these three images were taken yesterday. He also realized that whatever was happening to these planets, it was closer to earth each time. Jamie looked at his hands and tried to stop them from shaking. He clasped them together before gasping: *It was the room that was shaking, not him.* It had begun just a few minutes ago; A tremor so faint at first Jamie thought it was merely his trembling appendages growing more out of control, but now the whole room was vibrating. Books falling off shelves, a lamp falling and its bulb smashing against the floor, Jamie could barely tell what was happening as he looked out the office windows to see the sky had gone from a darkened grey to a completely black backdrop, against which lighting flashes were erupting nearly every second. Thick clouds of what almost looked like smoke swirled and twisted as the office suddenly felt very small against the dark ocean above. Jamie saw people running out from the front of the building, trying to make it to their cars and drive off. Jamie suddenly was forced to jump back as the rumbling increased and windows began to shatter in Dr. Carols’ office, littering both the floor and parking lot below with shards of glass. Knowing that it was no longer safe to be on the top floor, Jamie grabbed the papers and ran. The long hallway back to the elevator suddenly seemed a million times longer, as though the camera tricks he remembered seeing in Hitchcock movies had come to life. Deciding that the elevator was unlikely to last the ride down, Jamie flew down the stairs as the rattling and cracking of thunder continued to grow and swell, even in the muffled stairwell. Finally escaping into the main lobby, Jamie sprinted for the front door and was able to exit into the parking lot just as he thought the entire thing would come crashing down. Suddenly the shaking stopped, and there was complete silence. The thunder ceased, and there was a sort of still calmness present that made Jamie’s hair stand up on end. He looked back at the office building to see it still standing; nearly windowless and a parking lot completely covered in glass but standing. Looking up towards the sky, Jamie saw that, remarkably, lightning was still emerging from the great black sky above him, twisting and curving through the air, but the thunder was no longer sounding. It looked as though some giant switch was being silently flicked on and off. Jamie noticed that in fact, he heard nothing. No light breeze, no birds chirping, not even the sound of traffic. For a moment, Jamie thought that he was the only man alive, alone in the parking lot. Looking down, Jamie saw that the pages from the office were still in his hand, haphazardly bent and folded from the way they had been handled on the way out. His eyes drawn to the last image once more, what was likely to be the last picture of Mars, he could not help but notice that darkened area. He finally realized that it was a shadow. Suddenly, a sound emerged from the overwhelming silence; he nearly felt the sound before he heard it, a frequency so deep in nature that it rattled Jamie’s bones. It came from all directions, both earth and sky, a deafening pitch that nearly caused Jamie to fall to the ground and cover his ears. It was inhuman in nature, but for a second Jamie thought it sounded like a low roar. The ground began to shake again as the clouds rapidly dissipated, as though being swept away by something. The smokey haze gave away not to the blue sky as Jamie expected, but somehow the blackness of space itself, complete with twinkling stars and glow of the pale moon. However, Jamie realized something *was* moving away the clouds, and that his view of space was being interrupted by the waving of hundreds of shapes of some sort, blocking the darkness beyond. A bolt of lightning, long and jagged pierced the empty plane above, and Jamie finally saw what he knew had caused those planets’ destruction. The flash of light illuminated a creature, far beyond the comprehension of what Jamie could fathom. An amorphous being of pure black, which shone against the light as though it was wet with some sort of perspiration or other ungodly fluid. Eyes formed and unformed across its mass, blinking and darting back and forth before being swallowed back into the being. The forms Jamie had seen waving were tentacle-like limbs, flailing about slowly and in rhythm with one another, as though each movement was purposeful. Though Jamie could see the front of it, his eyes struggled to see the end of it as its body contorted and twisted through the sky like some sort of massive snake of unimaginable length. At the very front laid a mouth-like orifice, with a concave appearance and jagged teeth lining the entire circumference, row upon row until they disappeared beyond the line of sight. The lightning faded and Jamie realized that he was likely one of the only people to see what was up there; of the only people to *ever* see it. Another lightning bolt further away cast a dimmer view, but Jamie could see that it was already closer than it had been moments ago. The ground began to tremble as the deafening sound of whatever this was descended upon him. This was it. Jamie knew that everyone and everything was about to be scattered across the stars, forgotten in time and space, cold and dead throughout the cosmos. He now understood why Dr. Carols had killed himself, for he did not want to live as one of the only people to know what was about to happen.


Vampire movies make me laugh. In the movies, we can’t see our reflections in the mirror, which is absurd. You can’t kill us by stabbing us through the heart with a wooden stake. You can only kill a half-breed vampire with a wooden stake. My favorite myth is we burn up in the daylight. Why do they put these myths in movies? Oh, I’m sorry for not introducing myself. My name is Nina Vegas and I’m a vampire. I just moved into a lovely neighborhood with my husband and son. We purchased a nice four-bedroom home that has a glorious backyard pool. It’s sunny here all the time, and it’s perfect beach weather. I’m a financial adviser and my job pays well, but I have a second job that pays me another six-figure salary. I would say that my second job is morbid. It involves visiting funeral homes. I bought a new home in a suburban neighborhood that has plenty of funeral homes in the surrounding area. Sometimes funeral directors pay me to visit at night. Most of the time a loved one pays me to resurrect a family member. I can come out in the day, but I let people believe the myth that vampires can only roam the streets at night. You would never guess I was a vampire by looking at me. I look like a CoverGirl. I’ve had funeral director men flirt with me, and I have to tell them I’m a married woman. They see my curvy body, my scantily clad dresses, and my expensive jewelry. I’ve been told that I look like a runway model, which flattered me. Sometimes I wear a dark veil over my face whenever I visit a funeral home. I wear the veil to protect my identity and my family. There are people out there who want to kill me. I have a 4-year-old son and I don’t want to put my baby’s life in danger. We, vampires, are not completely immortal. We can still burn up in a fire. I’ve caused some funeral directors to lose their job and they’ve hired hitmen to come after me. I get paid mostly by the bereaved. A mother who lost her baby would gladly pay for the resurrection of her child, instead of a funeral director, since funeral directors make their business off the dead. If you resurrect too many people, you put a lot of funeral homes out of business. I’m not the only vampire who gets paid to resurrect the dead. There are other men and women vampires out there who resurrect the dead so they can flash their cash. It’s a great way to make extra money, but you gotta watch your back. Some vampires don’t just use their gifts to resurrect the dead. They also use their gifts to heal the living. An ounce of vampire blood can cure any disease. Doctors know this, yet they keep it a secret from the public because they don’t want to lose their job to an immortal. I’ve heard of vampires mysteriously dying after getting hired to do a few jobs at hospitals. Healthcare companies would lose money if they allowed every vampire to donate their blood to the sick. There would be no need for Medicare. Everyone would be immortal and free of disease, but the good old government won’t allow that. The government has investments in healthcare companies. They want people to stay sick so their investments can thrive. I know what it’s like to be paranoid. I’ve fought people sent to kill me. That’s why I’m always moving my family to a new area. You can’t be a healer or a resurrectionist vampire and live in the same neighborhood for a long period. Eventually, a paid reaper will come after you. I had to realize that concealing your identity can’t always save you from an assassin sent by an angry unemployed doctor or a mortician. A month ago, a man tried to shoot me while I was in my car. The bullet went through my windshield and it grazed my left ear, shattering my earring. My baby was sitting in his car seat right behind me and the bullet struck the headrest an inch above his head. I was taking my son to daycare when this happened. All I saw was a man on a motorcycle and the nozzle of a semi-automatic pistol aimed at my face. Only one bullet went through my windshield and I didn’t give this asshole a second chance to shoot into my car. I rammed my car right into his motorcycle. I drive an Escalade, which is an enormous SUV. So when I drove over his body, my tires squashed him. I heard his bones snapping beneath my car. I drove away after I saw that his body was flatter than the road. Later on, I found the funeral director who sent the hired gun. I executed him in his home. His wife was at work, so she stayed alive. Before I killed the funeral director, I made him apologize for sending a hitman to kill me. I forced him to get down on his knees. You should’ve seen the look on his face when I showed up at his house. He kept asking how I knew and I wouldn’t tell him. Vampires have a sixth sense. This guy didn’t know that because he was stupid. I made him pay for his ignorance. He died in his living room wearing nothing but his fucking underwear. I had no mercy on him, because the hitman he paid to shoot me, almost killed my child! I tortured him by biting off his fingers one by one. And then I sunk my fangs into his throat, putting a hole in his windpipe. I ripped out his throat, and I chewed on it. He had time to see my face before he died. Sadly, I’ve killed other funeral directors and the hitmen they paid to wipe me out. I killed a man who was twice my size. He thought he could surprise me by sneaking up behind me in a parking garage. I felt a needle pierce the side of my neck and I knew it was a tranquilizer. My body went numb, but only for a minute or two. When my attacker whirled me around, I saw that he had a black bandana covering his nose and mouth. He had a skullcap, and he wore a gray tank top. His arms were the size of boulders. Wow, you’re beautiful. It’s a shame that my boss wants you dead. This is what he whispered in my ear while pushing me against my car with his hand up my skirt. I told you the tranquilizer lasted for a minute. Sedatives do not affect a vampire. He made his mistake when he leaned his ear next to my lips, thinking I was trying to say something. I chewed off his ear and I spit it in his face. After I did that, I sunk my fangs into his nose. First, I ripped out his nose ring with my teeth and then I gnawed on his nostrils. I swallowed his nose, and it had a slight saltiness to it. He begged for his life, but I told him to stop talking. He didn’t, so I stretched his mouth open and I used my fangs to tear out his tongue. I dug my long nails into his throat and I lifted him off his feet. Yeah, he was a big guy, but a 6 foot 4, 240-pound man is no match for a vampire woman. I watched the life in his eyes disintegrate after I crushed his throat with my bare hand. A funny thing happened. My husband called me after I killed my attacker. We were discussing our anniversary plans. I kicked the hitman’s body away from my car and I got in, driving away while still talking to my husband. It was so nice to hear his voice. Later that day, I killed the funeral director who sent the hitman. It was a 42-year-old soccer mom and I hated killing her. I know you think my life sounds like the typical Hollywood vampire thriller. Let me tell you something, sweetheart, nothing is thrilling about paid hitmen coming after you and your family. This is my reality and I hate looking over my shoulder every time I'm out in public with my husband and son. I thought about purchasing a gun, but vampires don’t use guns. It's a dishonor to our ancestors. The only upside in my life is resurrecting dead loved ones. It’s not about the money. It’s about making people happy during death. Last week I went to a funeral home to resurrect a woman’s son who the police wrongly killed. The mother was African-American and I could see all the pain in her beautiful face. I understood how she felt because I’m a black mother myself. Well, I’m half black and half Latino. I knew how this woman felt because I almost lost my son. She told me that the cops shot her son when he reached for his phone in his back pocket. These idiots thought he was reaching for a gun. He was 17 years old and scared for his life. The police stopped him because he fit the description of a suspect. He wasn’t the suspect they were looking for, but instead of letting him go; they told him to get out of his car. He panicked when one officer tried to put handcuffs on him. The mother told me he reached for his phone to call her, and that’s when one cop shot him in the back. She wanted to know why God let a group of racist cops kill her only baby. The only thing I could tell her was that God sent me to bring her baby back to life. On this resurrection job, I told the mother to keep her money. I walked into a refrigerated room where I saw her son’s body lying on a table, dressed in a dark men's suit. I closed the room's door and locked it. When I saw the woman’s son, he was so handsome and young. I stroked my fingers through his short, curly hair while leaning over his face. I kissed his forehead, and I took a deep breath before sinking my teeth into the side of his neck. He had a beautiful lion tattoo on the side of his neck and I hated messing it up. If you bite a person longer than twenty seconds, you’ll turn them into a vampire and I didn’t want to do that. So I had to time myself. I reached into my purse to get my phone, and I set the timer on my phone to fifteen seconds. I gave myself enough time to resurrect him but not transform him. I do this with every human I resurrect. It’s euphoric for me when I feel a cold body turn warm. It’s like reviving a dead rose. I smiled at the young man when he opened his eyes and looked up at me. The sunlight coming in through the window made his eyes look like hazel colored diamonds. He had gorgeous eyes. He asked me who I was, and I told him that I worked for his mom. I took him by the hand and I watched him stand up. He was tall and slender. I told him how handsome he looked and he told me I was beautiful like the singer, Rihanna. That made me giggle. The best moment was taking him to his mother and watching her throw her arms around him. She cried so hard while kissing his face. She thanked me for what I did and she tried to pay me, but I refused to take her money. I messed up that day because I wasn't wearing my black veil, but I didn’t care. The funeral director was an elderly white woman who had a German accent. She had her silver hair tied up into a bun and she had a pinched up mouth. She rolled her eyes at me from behind these ancient-looking eyeglasses. She called me a freak under her breath and I gave her the finger before turning my back on her and walking out of the funeral home. I knew she’d send a hitman after me, but I didn’t give a damn. After I resurrected a young woman who died from leukemia, I packed up, moving my husband and son out of the neighborhood. We moved to a quiet little town in West Virginia. A few days ago, I went to a funeral home to resurrect a guy named Frankie Venza. That resurrection job didn’t go too well. I found out that Frankie was a gangster who had a lot of innocent blood on his hands. He had three sons, and they wanted me to resurrect him, but I refused. They offered to pay me 10 million dollars, and I still turned them down. All three of them pulled out their guns, and they aimed them at my face. They told me that if I didn’t resurrect their father; they would load my pretty face up with bullets. I never gave them a chance to pull the triggers on their guns. I was a small woman surrounded by three strong, armed men in black suits. These boys didn’t know who they were dealing with. I devoured them. Bullets tore through my body, but my vampirism gave me regenerative healing. I felt like I was killing the Backstreet Boys. All three of them looked like they belonged in a 90s hip-hop boy band. One boy wore a backward cap, and it amazingly stayed on his pretty little stupid head when I sliced it off using my fingernails. Blood soaked his black turtleneck and his suit jacket. To my surprise, I found out that these boys were human-vampire hybrids. One of them bit my shoulder and I saw he had 24 karat gold plated fangs, which matched the gold bling around his neck. Amazingly, I kept my cool when I saw their father rise from his casket, pulling a small-caliber machine gun from beneath his suit jacket. I realized that all of them were hitmen. It didn’t take me long to annihilate Frankie’s three boys. I wore their blood on my face and dress. There was nothing like executing three young men in their prime who were all part vampire. My hardest moment came when I had to kill their fat ass father. He looked like a Mafia Godfather. He had slick back white hair that touched his shoulders. His suit was impeccable, and he had diamond rings on each finger. I stood my ground when he started shooting at me. Bullets kissed my face and my neck. They ripped through my breasts. I could feel their steel jacketed tips piercing through my liver and my other internal organs. I played dead after Frankie emptied his clip on me. He had no more bullets in his machine gun and I knew his ass was mine. I had the advantage because I was one hundred percent vampire while he was a half-breed. Half-breeds are much more vulnerable. I kept my eyes closed, remaining perfectly still while lying on the floor. Frankie lumbered over to me and he walked with a limp. He kneeled over me and had the nerve to put his hard, truck-size hands on my breasts. I let him grope my boobs for a minute and then I bolted up, sinking my teeth into his double chin. The blubber in his neck impeded my teeth a little, but I finally reached an artery after three, agonizingly long minutes. He tried to sling me around the room, but I didn't let go. He punched me a few times in my ribcage, but I still wouldn’t let go. I wrapped my legs around his fat body and I dug my high heel sandals into his lower back. I had my arms locked around his neck with my fangs buried in his throat. I forced him to carry me in his arms like a little girl as I drained every ounce of blood from his body. It seemed like it took forever to suck him dry. He finally fell to his knees. I had a 300-pound gangster lying on top of me. It took all my strength to push his body off my chest. I was in an abandoned funeral home, so there was no director. It was just Frankie and his three sons. Somebody paid them to assassinate me. My sixth sense told me it was an old German woman, and I was gonna kill this stupid bitch. While I was lying on the floor gathering my breath, I thought about how I resurrected a woman’s 3-year-old daughter. Thinking about this relaxed me. I thought about how adorable the woman’s baby was. The baby had on a wig because her chemotherapy treatments caused her hair to fall out. She looked so pretty in her little black floral dress. Her name was Keisha. Keisha's mom almost fainted when I came out of the room holding her daughter. The baby’s hair grew back after I resurrected her. She had beautiful, gold curly locks. I could tell she was half white and half African-American. I stood there watching the mother hold her daughter while crying and thanking God that she was alive again. She thanked me and kissed me. I was still lying on the floor beside a 300-pound dead body when my husband called me. I told him the plans I had for our son’s birthday party next week. I also told my husband what happened to me at the funeral home, and that it was time to move to a new neighborhood.


My sister, the prostitute. I know because she comes home every night and tells me about the men she’s slept with that day. She returns in the witching hours, just before morning breaks, and whispers things like “you won’t believe the strange man who hired me tonight. He was the most handsome person I think I’ve ever met, right down to his hands. When he opened his mouth I knew why he was paying for sex, his breath was disgusting!” She strides across the room, talking. Glowing in the moonlight that escapes the paisley-patterned sheets pretending to be curtains. Clothes slowly roll off her body leaving only perfumed evidence of their existence on her skin. “Remember how it smelled on the right summer day when we lived in that old apartment above the god-awful fish market? It was like that plus ten-degrees.” Once her hair is down and face is unmasked she continues her stories. Wrapped up snug under our Little Mermaid comforter, a reminder of a childhood cut short. Now our only remaining security. My skin is still soft, muted, like uncut fleece. Hers is the kind of soft from ritually melting lotions and creams into it, all of them tainted with some romantic aroma. Lavender and vanilla butt heads against musk and a sour note of patchouli on too warm of a night. Peppermint from that time she only had soothing foot lotion to rub herself down with. A smell so pervasive our landlady still knocks on our door once a week, “I brought a humidifier for you! Works much better than peppermint or Vicks to loosen up a cough, I’ll just leave it at the door.” In a strange way, her gravelly voice feels motherly. But my favorite is Amber, the kind that comes in a small wooden container, a delicately carved top that unscrews to reveal the magical substance — like moist brown sugar. Sometimes when we lay together her voice is so faint you only know she is there is from the perfume dancing next to you. This is how we lay at night. This is how I know my sister. These are the lessons I’m learning about navigating life. Wide-eyed as usual, I wait for the first kernel to fall from her lips as though I’m starving. “Salt and pepper, business-dress. He talks casually like an uncle would instead of the head of an international company. Short for a man, one sock grey and the other pale pink. Commando,” she starts. “Was he kind?” I ask. “Don’t mistake shame or pity for kindness; they are *not* the same thing.” I push back the hair from my face and turn towards her hoping to catch some light on her face as she’s story-telling. “What did he want?” I ask, not willing to wait but unsure I want the answer. “Anna, there are things in life that you won’t want to do but you do them anyway because making money is more important than being proud of yourself... Tonight was one of those times,” she says without emotion. The light finally shows on her face, only the shape of her left cheek and the corner of her mouth. Neither turned up or down, but sitting straight as the hair on my head falls, and it remains silent before she turns herself away from me. She lays still as nature on a breezeless day, her feet locked tightly around one another refusing to play with mine. I wrap myself around this mannequin until I know she’s asleep. Her shallow, slow breaths pretend they know happiness in sleep. 4:00 AM blazes neon from across the room. I count the seconds as I relax my hold and steadily move towards the edge of the bed. Sitting up, carefully replacing the covers to hide the loss of my warm body next to hers. 4:07 AM now on the clock face. My toes naturally curl around the purple fingerlike shag. I shuffle across the floor towards her purse, passing our closet in its constant explosion of mess. A mirror of our lives. She claimed a regular bought the purse for her. The security tag still attached when she brought it home proved otherwise. Gold and purple and everything Gucci, inside and out, the purse could hold everything from a change of clothes to a 15lb terrier and even as many as eight hot DVD players, at one time. Pockets inside, but none in use. Everything is just thrown into the middle, a great meat pie. Sometimes when a tube of lip gloss gets lost, uncapped, and I pull something out covered in goo I imagine it’s Slime from an old Nickelodeon show. Key cards to hotels, too many to count. Most of them from places like the Holiday Inn and Marriott, once in a while an upscale boutique — The Blake, W., Crimson. Those key cards she always keeps; stacks them nice and neat in a wooden keepsake box under the dresser. Next to memories of our mother, next to the last small container of Amber. I also find books of matches. She gave up smoking but her clients always ask for a light so she steaks them by the dozen from a sleazy downtown lounge, The Trifecta. She says she hates everything Trifecta and the matches remind her to never smoke again. Pills of every color, stowed in mismatched prescription bottles. They keep her cocaine company, baggie hidden in its own fluorescent orange tube labeled “Amoxicillin”. Her wallet, not currently covered in bubblegum pink goo, keeps track of three twenties, a few pennies, and one lonely blackened quarter. Her license pictures a girl about 25-turning-33 with loose brown curls hanging around a politely oval face. Enough light crawls into the room and I spot a single bit of paper tucked in the side pocket that I originally missed. I pull it out to see my name scribbled and a phone number I don’t recognize below it. “Anna,” I hear her say. That perfumed body floating along the sound waves to reach my ears and nose simultaneously. This time it is the sour Patchouli followed by sweet Amber that hits me. “What’s this?” I point to the piece of paper that now seems to light up the room. The perfume pauses a moment. “I meant to talk to you earlier, I just had such a terrible night that I wanted to wait. Harold has lined up a job, for you… He thinks it’s time you got your feet wet.” “Kate…” is the only word I manage to let escape. Her words change from Amber to peppermint. “You’re gonna do fine, don’t think about what I said tonight because it’s really not that bad.” “I’m scared.” A few tears test gravity while her words course through me, burning my nostrils through and through. “I ask a lot of questions but I’m not ready.” My nostrils flare wildly. The rats start chewing at my stomach. She reaches down to my hand, tugging at it to pull me back into bed. “Let’s get some sleep, it’s late,” her hand squeezing mine with every vowel. Her body encompasses mine *under the sea* while her vanilla voice says, “you already know everything. Doing it is the easy part.” Her lips trace the nape of my neck until I feel her nose pressed against my hairline. The musk of her fingertips searches this body to coerce acceptance of fate.


*By Nicholas Cakarovski* *“Hello to those below. We are not friends nor are we foe. So, remain closed or we shall release the horrid blow.”* It was the third one, and maybe the last and there it is not a singular hint to what these messages could be. Somehow they managed to gain control of all Phoenix televisions, radios, electronic billboards and the notifications on every damn phone and plastered this message for all to see. As I woke this morning it has become rather apparent to me that this last one had everyone acting rather strange. Too strange. To me it reads a threat, a threat to Earth, or to Phoenix, I’m not sure. What did we ever do? But my suspicion had become ever so enhanced when I found a letter within my mailbox the morning before everything changed. It was strikingly different from the typical fees, bills and other random letters I regularly receive. This one was small, smaller than average, and it wore a bright white coat of an intricate texture, patterned entirely with minute diamond shapes. It screamed of importance, urgency, though it remained textless. Within it the letter it read: *“To Duke:* *Meet Sophie, 47 Winning Street, 7:27 pm. Find Wearhouse 3.* *From, Us.”* I guess they called themselves *‘Us’*. The anonymity of their supposed population failed to intimidate me. I did not know Sophie and if she was dangerous, so be it. I normally sat at home with myself and my pallet. I entertained myself with painting, but sometimes making and hanging up my works triggered my boredom. I lived alone. It felt as if it was situated within perpetual hell so someone to talk to would have ignited quite a thrill. I *was* a social butterfly. It’s six-thirty. I was early because I was unable to contain my anxiousness, restless at the fact I had been invited to the unknown. I saw a pretty woman. She wore a blend of white and black hair and wore a bottom lip blemished by metal studs. It was Sophie. I spotted her sitting with her back against an old door directly below an empty red picture frame, dirty, with dry mud upon its glass, barely hanging by a wire. I walked over with class. *“Evening! You must be Sophie, I'm Duke, pleasure meeting you.”* *‘Whatever man lets just go inside and get this done.”* *“Did you receive a letter by any chance?”* *“Of course why else would I be here?”* *“May I ask what it reads?”* She had an attitude. *“To Sophie* *Meet Duke at 47 Winning Street tonight at 7:27 pm. The Question we ask is Red or White* *From, Us.”* Cryptic it was. It posed a question. It mentioned two colours, none of which typically match as black or white or red or blue would. It was an obscure message. Nonetheless, I let her in first like the gentleman I *was*. As we stepped within its threshold we were faced with two dilapidated doors, they were painted, though done roughly with old cheap paint, left one white, right one red. No lacker. We now were situated within a little room surrounded by four walls each dark in appearance, coloured with a thick blood red. Beneath us a light brown carpet soft enough to lose your ankles in. Every corner of my eye met a myriad of empty picture frames. Dozens of them placed within a symmetrical formation, like that of brickwork, a dense array. These frames, however, seemed useless. We could see directly through them as if the glass was missing leaving only a wooden rectangle, but, the glass was indeed there, barely visible. The room was illuminated from a warm bulb that remained seldom lit above. Each frame was identical, devoid of the slightest gossamer of distinction. Between the doors sat another letter upon the floor, similar in appearance to the others. It read only a single word. “Choose” *“Ok mister, I’ll open red you open white, we get this done and go home.”* *“But what if I said I wanted red. It's my favourite colour.”* *“Don’t do that. I chose first so I get it, this is already weird enough let's just get it over and done with.”* *“Woah! How about we get to know each other first!.* *“Fine, I'm Sophie, I'm 25, I'm from Inner Phoenix and I want to get the fuck out of here. Happy?”* Ill-mannered she was. Before I could say another word, she escaped, with what swiftest pivot of the feet. She grasped the knob and turned it, pulling it just enough for me to miss the contents inside. She removed herself from my company with an unnecessary degree of pettiness. I was left alone, judged by the simplicity of wood and glass upon the walls. *Harmless* panels. It was my turn. I was entranced in hesitation, a paralysing reluctance to commit. I was still. My mind spoke with itself: *‘It can't be that bad.’ ‘I bet this is some Halloween prank.’ ‘Damn kids.’ ‘Whatever, fuck it.’* The creak was something a lick of oil was not able to fix. Before me, a narrow hallway. It too had blood-red walls. Fading to a gradient of black, thick darkness that reached for some distance. Its end was invisible. I was also unable to escape the frames. They extended beside me head height for as long as my eyes could go. One step after the other my pores flooded, a tiny drop of sweat slid ever so slowly through the density of my beard before leaping off my jaw and onto the tip of my leather boots. This hallway was hot. Very hot. Too hot. Almost *intentional*. As I made my way away from the opening, the line of lights above me seemed to follow. Passing in succession. It was as if I was not moving, as if I was walking on the spot, however, the frames were passing one by one. Returning was pointless. It felt as if I were within a beast. The esophagus of the devil. Each step I took felt as if I were gradually being swallowed awaiting my landing within the pit of its stomach. These frames failed to desist. Like pupils, they judged me. I thought if I quickened my pace I was to reach the exit sooner however I received nothing but fatigue, calves like the tip of a matchstick. I built tension with myself and walls, tension thick enough that the world's sharpest blade would break in two. The frames judged me harder. They insulted me as I could not satisfy them. Its silence shrieked within my ears. Loud. Nothingness mixed with the thumping of my heart and the subtle brushing of my feet against the bristles of the carpet amplified in volume. It had no end. There was no end to the heat, to the lights, to the blood-red walls, nor was there an end to the darkness. There was no end to the sound of nothing and no end to the frames. No end at all. I felt as if I were dead as if it killed me. And I noticed that something I had once owned was now missing. At last, I had reached its gut. The exit was before me, but not before *me.* A letter sat beneath the door. It read: ‘Success!’ I let myself out, and I felt nothing. Now I am free and I am safe\*.\* They have no reason to touch me. Sophie was gone, nowhere to be seen. I was because Sophie *failed*. She does not fit. There are others, but they lack ‘self’. They have no human in them. They are the same, they are like me. Gone. Empty. I am no longer Duke. I am nothing. I am changed as fear has changed me, morphed me, manipulated all that I was. Forced to follow neither friend nor foe. I have been made to remain closed to escape the horrid blow. I am now theirs.


# 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. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Hey all, sorry for the delay in getting last week's results up, I'm a bit under the weather but I hope that some extra news at the bottom of this writeup can make all well. =) # This week it’s all about: Victors Well, we’ve done it, people. We made it to the penultimate beat for our stories. It’s been a wild ride, and not without costs. Victory can be subjective. Now is the time to think about those goals/wants/needs that we established in Act One. Protagonists don’t always get to “win”-- sometimes it really is all about characters getting what they need, or something more valuable. As we wrap up these beats, consider the setup and promise of the premise we spent time on earlier in this series. This week’s beat is one I know we’re all familiar with so I won’t belabor the point \*too\* much. What does it mean to have victory? Does this change of the winds affect your character’s outlook, or facets of their personality? Do they come out of this smelling like roses, or with a couple battlescars? I hear chicks dig battle scars and roses. Tough call. Just a couple things to think about for this installment: Did your protagonists reach their goals? Did their goals change? Same question goes for their wants and needs. Are all those things still important? At the end of this installment is there ? What’s the most important feeling your character is experiencing at this moment? What do they smell, that they’ll never forget that scent again? What does victory taste like? , or the sweet taste of homemade apple pie, or a and a glass? What are the flavors they may or may not be savoring? The sound of a gunbattle still ringing in their ears, , or the ? Bring us into this moment. The time is nigh. Show us what victory looks like. **\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*** **With the ranks whittling down as we close in on our final chapters, a boon has been granted from the writing gods on high! I give you:** ***FIFTY! FIFTY MORE WORDS PER INSTALLMENT!*** *(insert The Count chuckling here.)* **That’s right, folks. For the last four chapters you now may write \*up to 800\* words for the rest of the beats. I hope that helps wrap some precious words up, make ‘em count!** **You have until \*next\* Saturday, 11/7, 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, The Second Wind: **Fan favorite with the most votes:** /u/ATIWTK\*\*, with a beautifully crafted ending that complimented the writing style down to the final lines. Well done, Oeri!\*\* This week the **Smoking Hot Challenge Sash** goes to an author that nailed the spirit of the assignment: /u/Kammerice, who continues to keep us endeared to the story of the marshal and a case that's now personal. And two honorable mentions: /u/mobaisle_writing, with a story that just upped the stakes and showed us what kind of people his protagonists are up against. And /u/Mazinjaz, for continuing to heat up Act 3 with a character digging down to find the grit for a second wind. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **The Rules:** * In the comments below submit a story that is between **500 - 800** 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: **The Second Wind** Have you seen the? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule.


The cold shoulder  Harv grabbed a handful of wheat with his offhand. With his other hand, a quick swoop of his sickle the wheat came free of the ground that birthed it. He released. The wheat floated to the ground. Harv grabbed another handful. Cutting wheat was hard work. Especially this wheat. The wheat in Harv’s land grew short. One had to bend in order to get low enough to cut the short wheat. That bend had to be at the waist, not the knees, in order to move fast enough to cut the wheat in time. If the wheat wasn’t cut in time, the cold and the rain would destroy it and many in Lowville would go hungry or starve. Harv wouldn’t have it. He grabbed another handful of wheat. Calling it Harv’s land, was not technically incorrect, but it was misleading. In the town of Lowville, everyone owned the land together. Everyone planted together. Everyone harvested together. It was backbreaking work. Not that Harv minded. Another handful of wheat. Another swoop of his sickle. Always away from his body. The sickle was sharp enough to take a finger as easily as a grain of wheat. Harv had no desire for that. He liked the way things felt in his fingers. Harv stood and put his knuckles into the small of his back. They massaged and worked out the soreness to the extent possible. Everyone always had muscle tenderness in their backs and the backs of their legs for at least a couple of days. Sometimes, for a week. This was a good year for harvest. Tonight’s celebration would be one to remember. He turned side to side, scanning the fields. A hundred other men, of all ages, separated wheat from the land. A hundred women, of all ages, bundled the wheat and tied them together into sheaves, using straw. Harv didn’t pay attention to any of them, except for one. Sonpra sheaved as fast as Harv cut. Her golden hair spilled about her shoulders. Over the summer, the sun had burned her skin red before settling into a light bronze. Like everyone else in town, Harv couldn’t relate. His hair was black, and his skin stayed bronze year-round. They were made for each other. Tonight, he would tell her how he felt. Harv looked around some more. Sonpra’s father cut at a good pace for a man of his years. His hair was also black and his skin bronzed. He was not really Sonpra’s father. No one knew who her parents were, but the man had raised her as if she were from his own seed. It wasn’t the first time Harv had worked alongside the old man. Earlier in the summer, he had helped re-thatch Sonpra’s roof which was also a lot of hard work. He had said he had done it out of the goodness of his heart, but really, he had just wanted to be closer to Sompra. They were meant to be together. Harv looked around some more. Chad was the last person to catch Harv’s eye. Not a fortnight ago, if you asked anyone in Lowville, they’d bet the entire village harvest that Chad and Sonpra would be betrothed in time for a spring wedding. Within the last week, that had all changed. Rumors circled that Sonpra’s parents were not human. Harv didn’t believe that nonsense, but Chad did. It was enough for Chad to sever any involvement with Sonpra as easily as Harv’s sickle severed the wheat from the ground. Harv had been there as a shoulder to cry on. They were meant to be together. Shortly before the sunset, the cutting finished. There was still some sheaving to do, but that work was done by the women and Harv needed to appear as manly as possible tonight at the feast. After one last glance at Sonpra, he headed home for a nap. That night with the harvest behind them, the people of Lowville celebrated. Harv had overslept and by the time he arrived the harvest festival was in full swing. He had to be the last person to arrive. A great fire, fifty paces in diameter and a hundred paces high, lit the otherwise night sky. Accompanied by the music of the lute and drums, the fire danced, and the villagers danced in step. Mugs of fermented drink were passed around. A couple of people offered the drink to Harv, but he declined. He needed a clear head tonight. Although, the drink would help with his courage. Chad was there. It boggled Harv’s mind that Chad believed the nonsense about Sonpra being the spawn of a non-human. Oh well, Chad’s loss and Harv’s gain. Sonpra’s dad was there too, but not for long. Harv waited until the old man left the festival to retire for the evening. A day of work that hard was enough to exhaust a man of his years. For a young man like Harv, it energized him. Then he spotted her. Sonpra wasn’t dancing. She wasn’t drinking either. She didn’t even appear to hear the music. With her ankles crossed and her hands clasped around her knees, she sat and stared into the fire. It mesmerized and terrified her. Harv could tell by the look on her face. Harv sat between the fire and Sonpra, facing her. He crossed his ankles and clasped his hands around his knees, mirroring her position. He studied her blue eyes and curled up lips. She was perfect. They were meant to be together. Harv took a deep breath then let it all out. Everything. He professed his love or her, how he had always loved her, and how he would always love her. Sonpra’s eyes went wide. The silence was too discomforting. Harv filled it with babble. He explained how he had helped her father repair the roof so he could be close to her. How he had been there for her when her relationship with Chad went sour. Sonpra was as still as a statue, her eyes so wide they nearly went out of her head and her mouth was agape. Harv elaborated how he had been hoping that Chad and she wouldn’t last. How he had been elated when they separated. How he had been waiting for his chance to be with her. Sonpra stood then walked away. Harv was stunned. He jumped to his feet and chased after her, all the while professing how good he would treat her, unlike Chad. Sonpra picked up the pace of her walk. She asked him to leave her alone. Harv had to jog to catch up with her. He told her how he knew she would be so happy with him. Sonpra warned him not to touch her then ran from him. Harv broke into a run to catch her. He yelled to her that he deserved to be with her. That he had earned it. He caught up to her and grabbed the back of her shoulder. Harv dropped in pain. A pain so great it knocked him unconscious for a minute. His hand throbbed and his other hand caressed it. It was as frozen as if he touched the skin of Mendax. In the light of the fire, his hand was as white as snow. A stark contrast to the bronzed skin of his other hand. Sonpra was nowhere in sight. Harv wobbled home, ashamed and confused. His hand stopped hurting. It stopped everything. He could feel nothing at all. When he awoke his hand had returned to normal, except his palm and fingertips were black. The black parts of his hand could feel nothing. Harv could use the hand, but never regain feeling in it. He also never went near Sonpra again.


“Me, me, me, me, this attention I am an unable escape. I don't think they can get enough of me. Cameras, like the pupils of a full crowd, attached, hooked deep onto my curves, fixated on this face with a smile big enough to lay upon. “Yes Honey, just like that, anyone would die just to step foot in those shoes.” These shoes, Ha! Just these twenty thousand dollar babies, the diamonds like blades made from ice cut deep into my ankles but, it's fine, I'm not walking for too long in them, I'm just standing, standing tall for the eyes of the world to witness. These shoes, no, I didn't buy them myself how could it, they were given to me just for this shoot. I've never stood in extremely expensive shoes. Now I hope I get this job because there would be nothing I want more than to stand in extremely expensive shoes! “This dress!, am I staring at an angel or what?!” This dress, saturated with the smallest iridescent sequins, shiny enough to mock the sun with its outstanding glisten. \*Flash\* One snap after the other the reflections off my chest, act as a strike of lightning, splitting the pupils of all who are standing before me. A fire burns within my heart. “Not long now! keep that smile up, put that makeup to use. Guys, we have gold before us here!” Well, Gold. I'm indeed flattered. So the thick plaster-like paint on my face makes me comparable to one of the most valuable elements on Earth? Yeah, I can see it. No, I'm not pompous, it’s just that the people here are in constant awe of me. It's like I'm the goddess who has, at last, brought their long-awaited gifts of unattainable happiness. Ok, maybe I'm a little. “Ok sweetheart, the job is yours come back next week and we will get you started with some exciting stuff!” ***It's Far From A Dream!*** Delighted at the results, however, these plastic compliments are not strong enough to fool the most foolish of fools, I'm too smart to be fooled. I believe these people expect girls to be those dumb, ‘being rich is fun because look how good I look!’, type girls. Ha! well I ain’t that. ‘Whatever Shauna!’ I would tell myself Don’t get me wrong, being a genuine human being among the stupidity of this industry comes to my advantage, although I was starting to feel as if I'm being used, used as the shrimp on the fisherman’s hook for another person's fortune. Argh, ‘Shut up Shauna, you're just overthinking it, enjoy it while you can. Think about it, you can become famous!’ You will become famous. ***Curse NOT A Blessing:*** It was 2018 and the time finally came for me to have the photo shoot of my dreams, the shoot for a, no, *the* most beloved magazine, my debut in fact! The cameraman fulfilled his words. Ever since I was a little girl my singular desire was to be featured on its cover. Funnily enough, my dreams became a reality, as cliche as it sounds. *Unlucky* me had at last been selected. Unlucky me, you ask? Well… ever since that day onward life has been the utter epitome of hell upon Earth. No amount of chocolate could fix this, and chocolate can fix everything. How does one get famous with such speed? Honestly, I'm going to say this now, and you might think I'm crazy but I absolutely rather live on the streets than be involved in this shit anymore. Yes, I did say that being featured on the front cover of my favourite magazine was my childhood desire, though I am unable to locate any hint of decency to come out of it. This is indeed a dream for the ignorant. Just if I knew being treated like a little girl's God damn barbie doll was the reality behind my idyllic perception of happiness, I'd still be working at fucking a deli. ***This Is How It Really Is:*** What's there to fancy about being forced to sit still for hours on end to have your little face painted with a thick acidic substance. A substance powerful enough to corrode the pillars of the golden gate bridge, let alone the skin of a human being. ‘*No*’ isn't an option at this stage, I wanted it and I got it. What's there to admire about having a fist full of sharp syringes pumping what feels like a tone of plastic into your lips because they are too small? Okay, may as well call me a fat fucking pig while you’re at it. What's there to love about being forced to stand still for hours in a tight ass dress limiting any blood from circulating through to your legs? Didn't expect to have that *big shiny dress* pierce deep into my back and chest with the slightest micro-movements. Just the thought of moving my arms in this current state was a temptation by the devil himself. What's there to enjoy about having your feet moulded, kneaded like dough in high heels steep enough to crawl under? Glitter particles, a glamours substitute for fucking sandpaper eroding away at your poor ankles. O' the joy this brings me. ***Yeah, It's Nothing Special:*** Ever since that day forward, the day when the director at the audition has been that big fat ’yes’ I blew a kiss filled with a melancholy heartache to say goodbye to my dear precious normal. It didn't occur to me at the time because was entranced by success, go me! Wow, go, fucking, me! Having all the money in the world is not enough to replace this artificial smile, this plastic expression which has stretched my face into what I view today as a day old half-chewed piece of gum. Not even if your room service bill can sometimes cost some people's entire life savings. Yes, I know I sound like Earth's most ungrateful piece of shit and yes I agree to the fact I'm that whiney white bitch who has literally everything one could ever want and yet remains dissatisfied. But fuck, how I miss my dear precious normal.


The pungent mixture of chlorine, piss and shit hit his nose. His mouth tasted bitter, itchiness encompassed his entire body, head pounding, heart racing. He reached to his side clawing at the metal bowl turning away to hide his shame, he let out last night's prison sloop. The three men looked away as if to say there was no dying man in sight. As if the puke had disturbed their sensibilities. Ageing, coughing, choking and dying that's all that was left and they couldn't stand to look him in the eye. One man sat in his pretentious black suit, the other two had their officer blues and their nice shiny gold badges. On their arm, a badge read Dallas police. To him, the officers were the law. Muscles bulging, barely squeezing into their shirts. They were what you saw in the movies. The kind that would kick in the door screaming police get on the ground and do some unnecessary flips and spinning kicks. They even smelt of the law. But the man in the suit, he was not like that. Petite with scruffy hair. Not built like a brick house more fragile looking. A leaf that could be blown away by a breeze. The man's eyes contained a deadly mixture of contempt and lust. Anger lay behind the thick and fogged eyes. DI Taylor was the man's name. From the queen's native land. He had travelled over four thousand seven hundred and seven miles to be here and he had done so on the promise of one thing, a confession. A growling, agonizingly sleep-deprived detective had been woken at the dead of night on some big news, some groundbreaking revelation. The butcher of Bradbury street had been found. When that phone rang and the news broke a piece of DI Taylor began to rejoice, rejoice and dance-ready for his life's nightmare to be over and ready to go back to the days where he could sleep at night. That one thing he had travelled so far for was laid out in front of his eyes, five sheets of childish handwriting scribbled on both sides. Signed and dated. It was all there, dates locations, details only the detectives, forensics and the killer could know. As the man continued to cough and sprawl out what remained of his inners, DI Taylor read back over it for the third time. He had caught his guy, the one guy he had been obsessing over for twenty years. The one who had wormed his way out of the grip and slid calmly away into the whispering night. The one who had killed time and time again but was too clever for capture. The man in front of them was old, sick, wrinkly. Every breath he took was an agonising pain if he had turned paler he would disappear into the bright white sheets. the ones that his frail carcass laid upon. The man's eyes were dead to the world, glazed over, rolled back in their sockets. It was hard to believe just twenty years prior, the same man had taken countless lives, not just of his victims but of all their loved ones. He had destroyed hundreds of lives for little more than a thrill. Behind those dying eyes lay the Bradbury Butcher. Anyone who lived near Bradbury Lane in West London between the late eighties and early two thousand would have been scared to go out during the dark winter nights. Named after the street where he slayed his first victim, the Bradbury butcher was known to strike a wide range of victims, there seemed to be no motive, no particular victim. The only thing that linked the victims is the way their bodies were displayed. Each limb was cut from the body into smaller fragments and scattered around into a pentagram, where the body parts wouldn't make up the broken pentagram blood was used to fill in the empty lines. Placed in the centre of each body was some kind of piece of profanity. Some kind of symbolic thing that would cause the victim a world of embarrassment. A sex toy, pornographic novel, a stolen watch.Something the person who lay dismembered wouldn't want their loved ones to find. He did this to taunt, haunt and torture those who surrounded him. The killings started back in June of ninety-eighty-eight on Bradbury lane west London. The body of a priest was found inside his small church. The church had three lines of pews and was built in the early seventies. A small brick built with a flat that made up the vicarage above . It was a church that held small gatherings yet there was something special there. Those who went loved the priest. An eccentric white man in his forties John Hampton was energetic and loving. He let the homeless lay in the church on cold winters days and ran a makeshift food bank and soup kitchen in his church on the weekends. All paid by his donations. No mountain was too high to climb. The shock and horror took over the faces and lives of all who attended his church. It was an old lady who found his mutilated body. One of the old-timers, she had been there the day he opened up till the day he had taken his last breath. Even the highest trained psychotherapist couldn't mend the broken heart and shattered mind of mary. In the middle of his gingerly placed body were four porno mags and a bright red pair of lingerie, DI Taylor always speculates over why he would do such a thing. Why lay it in the pentagram and leave obscene photographs at the moment. He always thought the butcher wanted to try and take every last ounce of dignity from those who he killed. From those who he drained the blood. DI Taylor was young and inexperienced when he first went to the crime scene but from that moment of a kind of blind fixation took him over. Sleepless nights, angry calls and disappointing trails that led to nowhere. A smirk grew at the corners of his mouth all the pain and suffering this case had caused him only to take him a thousand miles away to see the killer take his last breath. He didn't even have the satisfaction of arresting the man. But part of him knew if the man wasn't already dying, DI Taylor would have seen to it. Deep behind the cold dead eyes, he knew the killer was still the sadistic bastard. A loud swing of the door from behind them jolted DI Taylor out of his staring competition. The doctor whispered into the Texans' ear and left the room. "We got to go. The family are here to say their final goodbyes." DI Taylor wanted to make the family wait and make them wait until it was too late, just like this murderous bastard did but the two Texans were there and he knew he couldn't do it. "I hope the devil treats you well down in hell you cold heartless bastard". With that last word lingering on the back of his tongue the detective inspector left the room. As the door swung shut behind the officer's, tears ran down the old man's cheeks. Tears of pain and agony, lust and hatred. When the tap started flowing he could not help but open up the entire damn, tears poured down his cheeks by the bucket full. The emptiness of the heart overtook him. One he had never felt before. The pain ran so deep his soul began to bleed. This would be it for him, his lasting legacy. His good name dragged through the shit and plastered on the billboards. He could only hope God would forgive him and that God would unhinge the pearly gates and allow him through. He had always been a good Christian, a good father, a good husband and the most upheld member of society. Not a dent in his criminal record, not a single dent. But now all of this has fallen on to his weak arms, something so big that he couldn't help but cry, the thoughts were traumatising making every wink a nervous dance. As DI Taylor walked into the clinical hallway he spotted a strange-looking man. The man was wearing a black leather jacket and had a baseball cap pulled a little too far down. He was not much taller or wider than the man who had just confessed. Taking a deeper look he could see the same dirty eyes as the man who had just relieved him of his work. Deep down those eyes were evil to the core. They were the eyes of a criminal but at that moment DI Taylor passed it off. There was nothing he could do and what he was going to do was tell the two Texans that he had hunch that the man in black was a criminal. Not his job nor his jurisdiction. He had come and conquered and knew it was his time to leave. DI Taylor had all he could take off the dirty Dallas air he needed to go back to dark and rainy territory back to the place he called home. He had a ticket for the next flight to London and he was sure as hell wasn't going to miss it. He wanted to be home already in his cosy apartment, to charlie the cat and his wife. The only thing in his mind at that moment was the 30-year-old dark bourbon, he was going to finally open the bottle as he had promised to do when he caught the butcher. As DI Taylor got in his car, the man in the leather jacket walked into the room and placed a chair to jam the door shut. The man proceeded to the windows and shut the blinds. Darkness engulfed the two men the dying man took a deep breath in and coughed out the rest, " Where are they?" The dying man said with an air of desperation and a need for the answer. The other man began to smile slyly as he gently sat down beside the bed. In a whisper, he responded, "They are fine, did they get the confession?" "Of course they got their fucking confession, the Detective was mighty pleased with himself. Now I did what you asked where are they I need to see them I don't have long left" An even wider grin took hold of the man's face, a glimmer of light in his dark cold eyes. "All in good time little brother, all in good time. They believed you?" "Of Course they did they lapped up every last word, they were practically dribbling when they saw it" " That's good, Patricia and Carolina will be with you in due course." The man stood up ready to make his exit. "I guess this is my Goodbye brother. You know I have always loved you" The dying man began to tremble inside. Every last inch of his wanted to get up and strangle him, make it his last ever thing he did on this earth. But he couldn't. In the calmest tone he could muster he said "Promise me you will see that specialist down in Mexico. I want to know you will get help for this devil inside you. I want to know you will never do anything to harm anyone again" A deep wheeze escaped his lungs. "I never break my promise brother" The man smiled and left the room leaving the blinds shut. The waterworks began once again as the dying man reminisced on their childhood. They were twins after all they had a saintly childhood yet something evil had taken over the other twin. The thought alone of the bodies and what he had confessed to made him sick to his stomach. It ached more than it ever had since the disease had taken hold. The man didn't have much time left as he watched the time go by a sinking feeling took over. Patricia and Carolina never came by. At ten o'clock he inhaled his last breath. At 9 45 pm, the coroner was called to a house at the corner of willow avenue, at the scene lay the final victims of the Bradbury butcher.


The Old Man shuffled around his cabin, collecting papers he’d laid out the night before. Having found his writings, he moved to the back of the cabin and tossed them into the fire with a lazy flick of his wrist. In a few days, they wouldn’t matter anymore. His cabin wasn’t large, consisting mostly of counters and shelves stocked with curious objects he’d collected over time. An oak table stood in the middle of the room. Now that it was empty, it seemed to take up even more space than before. Standing in front of the fire, the Old Man spent a single, silent tear from his one good eye. “I wished to spend more time with them, but it seems they aren’t as accepting as I’d hoped.” The old man said to the fire. As it wrapped around the papers, erasing them, the fire crackled its response. “Thank you, old friend. I always enjoyed your company when visiting.” The Old Man murmured to the flame before becoming lost in thought. “Funny how you were one of the first, yet I still haven't grown tired of you. I only wish the others were as welcoming as you. You are respectively complex and simple, the villagers could learn a thing from you. Most of them believe you to be best suited for destruction, though you are meant for maintaining life.” His eye glazed over as his mind wandered, straining to grasp the nature of all the people he’d met. “It won't be long now.” The Old Man knew they would be coming for him since he had been chased out of the village hours before. He couldn't allow them to discover anything he had lying around here, for they wouldn't be prepared for the secrets they'd find. Healing them didn’t gain their trust, and sharing knowledge wouldn't gain their pacifism. Humans were like that. When something they don't understand approaches them, they are quick to deny, ignore, and even hate it. The Old Man had searched for a village that would understand him, even welcome him and his teachings. After all, he was a mentor, and what is a mentor without a student? One who's meant to guide others struggles when there is no one to guide. The flame did not respond. “Oh my, I am truly sorry.” The Old Man said to the ashes. He had lost track of time, the sun was now rising to burn in the sky. Left unattended for too long the fire burned through all it had, extinguishing its own life simply by living. There was something to be learned here, even for the Old Man who knew so much. Before he could grasp it and hold that lesson close, the sounds of shouting pulled it away from him. “Get out here!” Miss Ava screeched from outside. “You, you, and James get ready to go in there and get him if he wants to be difficult.” “Yes, Mistress.” James nodded. James was Miss Ava’s personal henchman, and plaything. He was a stocky butler who had served the family for years. Even before her husband's passing, Miss Ava was known to have the not too occasional affair, her favorite often rumored to be the butler. Now it was practically common knowledge, though no one was brave enough to bring it up. They had all been there when the executions took place. James had pulled the other end of the noose himself after throwing his weighted end over a tree branch. He pulled those men off the ground and held them there as they squirmed. Those were the lucky ones. The other two men were just part of the crowd Miss Ava had gathered in the square last night. She hadn’t expected such a large turnout, but mob mentality had its advantages. Even those who didn’t help with the dirty work, wouldn’t want to miss the execution. Miss Ava had been married to the late mayor. His sudden passing had left the seat of power empty, and though she was slow to mourning, she was quick to sit in that position. A woman mayor wasn’t unheard of, her husband’s grandmother Grace once ruled here. Miss Ava claimed she was always Grace’s favorite, a lie of course, and she had no problem taking advantage of the people's naiveness to gain her throne. The mayor's son was working to take his father's office, but shortly after his passing, the boy fell ill. He was too weak to rise from his bed, and the staff was forbidden to see him. Only his step-mother was allowed to treat him. Those who opposed her found the noose shortly after. She swore off the position of mayor, a Queen would rule here from now on she declared. Whispers of revolt hung from a tree, and hope burned shortly after. With nooses and torches in hand, the mob surrounded the cabin. Miss Ava made her way to the front, hands empty. “My boy was getting better.” She shouted. “You show up in My town and claim to be a healer, performing “miracles” trying to steal My people’s trust, and now look where you are. You wanted what was mine, well now you can have them.” Throwing her arms forward, the townspeople swept towards the cabin. The Old Man sat in the center of the cabin facing the door. His good eye was closed, and his composure seemed calm as three men burst into his cabin. Immediately, the villagers began sweating profusely. Their vision blurred as they attempted to stand on shaky legs. They all clutched their heads in pain, and James fell to the floor, convulsing. The two villagers ran from the cabin, fleeing the furnace, leaving their fellow man on the ground. Behind them, the Old Man closed his blind eye. “What are you two doing!” She screamed. The two men stumbled past her and back into the crowd. “Fine, remind me later that you two will be joining him.” Miss Ava strode towards the cabin. James stumbled out of the door, vomit covering his chest. He collided with Miss Ava nearly knocking her over. “Disgusting.” She snapped. “I'm sorry.” James managed to get out. “Move, you big idiot.” She turned to address the crowd. “Is there no one here competent enough to drag a crippled old man out of his cabin?” The crowd gazed past her. Startled by the imposing figure behind her. A man stood in the doorway, upright rather than hunched over. His broad shoulders filled the doorway, and where a blind eye should have been, was a burning sun. “Crippled?” The Old Man asked from behind her. “I’m only missing one eye, and sure, my legs don't move quite as fast as they used to. These long years may have hunched my shoulders, but I’d still consider myself less damaged than you.” Miss Ava spun around. “How dare you speak to me like that.” She spit, and slapped the Old Man. “James, get yourself back up here and deal with this.” Having barely recovered, James gathered up some of the more willing villagers, most of whom were imprisoned by the previous mayor. Violence wasn’t common in this town, and crime was often punished with labor. However, it did have a small jail for crimes too harsh to be ignored. Together they dragged the Old Man from the cabin, forcing a noose around his neck. James tossed his weighted end over the limb of a nearby tree, and the gang hoisted the Old Man into the air. “Now, Now. This would be a far too easy end for a man like you.” Miss Ava said, walking with a chair in hand she grabbed from the cabin. She sat the chair just under the Old Man's feet, gesturing for the men to let him down far enough to stand on it. “This should be more fitting, you’ll hang yourself rather than let your feet burn. Everyone does.” With a snap, unseen by anyone else, she set the chair ablaze with a soft yellow flame. The Old Man didn’t cry out in pain. He stood in the fire wondering if this could have been avoided somehow. His thoughts wandered to earlier days, had Father known his creations would become so lost? Of course he did, Father had created his Keepers after all. Embers, such as Miss Ava drifted away from the Flame, and it was The Old Man's job to return them. As a Flame Keeper, he was expected to control the damage a drifting Ember could cause. Though, Embers weren’t an issue before Father left. Could it be Father’s fault their society had all but fallen apart? The Old Man focussed, he could not allow himself to doubt everything now. A boy, barely past his fifteenth year, pushed through the crowd. He woke up to an empty town and remembered The Old Man's last words to him. He’d been told that his step-mother would come by again tonight and that if he didn't trust the Old Man then he wouldn't live to see the next morning. All the heat had been taken from his body, he remembered growing cold, and suddenly aware of his own pulse slowing. Miss Ava had entered the room that night, shocked to find his heart already stopped. She’d been slowly raising the boy's fever through her control of The Flame, planning to make his death look like the result of an incurable illness. That morning, a comfortable heat had come back to his body, just as the Old Man promised. A heat that reminded him of winter nights by his grandmother's fireplace, when she would tell him stories of her travels. It was nothing like the miserable heat of his stepmothers. “Old Man!” He yelled. Miss Ava’s mouth hung open, speechless. She spun at the sound of the boy, and watched as the townspeople collectively wiped the sweat from their brow and collapsed. Except for the boy. The sound of screams turned her head towards James and her other henchman. They fell to the ground, rolling in the dirt as a golden flame roared around them. Their cries stopped, and the wind carried their remains over the collapsed villagers. “No.” She began to sweat, not from the heat, but from her nervousness. “I've been so careful not to be found.” “Your misuse of The Flame could not go unnoticed by me.” The Old man declared. “In our Father’s absence you know it is I who keeps you stray Embers in check. We are not meant to control humans like this. You've manipulated The Flame for too long, and it’s time you returned home.” “Come with me, young man,” Grace said, suddenly standing next to the boy. “you have much to learn about your grandfather and me. Just let him finish here.” The Old Man’s flame crawled up Miss Ava’s legs, turning her body to ash as it climbed. She wondered who was screaming as her voice filled her ears. Her gaze drifted up to the Old Man standing on the chair, and his blind eye burned bright.