Court Wizard Malagus the Fourth stood proudly before King Richard and the court. Behind him, the common rabble sat, amazed at the might of the wizard as he offered a curse worthy of the treason of the man kneeling before them. “You will never endanger this kingdom again, Margon the Black!” King Richard said and turned to Malagus. “And my court wizard will ensure it. Tell us, mighty Malagus, of the punishment you shall inflict upon this traitor.” “Yes, my King! I shall inflict the curse of eternal suffering upon him, a curse so terrible that it is only spoken of in whispers by most. But not by me, of course.” Malagus paused, waiting for cheering. There wasn’t. In fact, everyone looked… a little confused. Finally, King Richard coughed once and then spoke, “Yes, and what will this curse do?” “Why inflict eternal suffering upon this dog, great King! And then we shall place him in a coffin forged from iron, his body cast into it while the metal is still red hot! That shall be placed into an obsidian sarcophagus, and then molten lead shall be poured into the cavity to make it impossible to get to the coffin. And then a great temple complex shall be constructed around the sarcophagus, guarded by traps both mundane and magical!” “Errr…” King Richard stared at Malagus. “That is… rather more expensive than I thought. Wouldn’t it be better to just give him a small grave, perhaps let the family put flowers on it—“ “Oh no, my King! For should he ever be released, the curse of eternal suffering would then let him become an abomination, a being of pure hatred, a being capable of—“ “Getting vengeance!” Margon shouted. “Upon your children and their children!” “Hah!” Malagus laughed. “The crypt and the traps and the immortal guards that I will summon to defend it will ensure that you never—” There was a cough, and Malagus turned, getting ready to punish whatever *peasant* interrupted his speech. And the man who had coughed was a peasant. He was wearing stained and worn clothes, no doubt someone who had come to beg the court for mercy in some affair. “WHAT!” Malagus snarled. “Um, begging the court wizard’s pardon, but Your Majesty, if you think this is too expensive, I can help you.” “How, my good man?” King Richard asked. “I’m a logger, so I’ll whack his head off for a gold piece. Ain’t never seen anyone come back from that.” Malagus laughed. “Who do you think King Richard would trust? My sorcery or your ax!” He glanced up at the King. “Shall I have the laborers start on the crypt? It should only take a few months—well, building the physical structure at least, then come the traps and the magic…” King Richard stared at him. Looked back to the peasant, rubbed his chin... Then made his decision. \*\*\*\* “And they’re calling him a *headsman* now!” The former court wizard slurred out to his listener. “And the other kingdoms are also hiring them. I mean, nobody asks for a curse of disembowelment or a crown of eternal suffering anymore! They just get one of these, these, *peasants*, and whack, off goes the head!” “That’s rough, buddy,” the bartender said. “But… if you don’t have a job anymore, I’m gonna have to ask for some coins up front.” Malagus the Fourth, *former* court wizard, groaned and let his head hit the counter.


This is an idea I had this morning, I haven't read though it yet but it is the set up of a much longer short story than I've written before. **Castle Stalker** The bell tolled 12, thus marking the second day of my solitary confinement in uncles secluded estate, I haven’t a clue why I didn’t invite anyone to come here to keep me company, this place was boring as hell. Although disturbingly breath-taking, the 14th century castle sat upon its own island surrounded by a prison of deep blue water. The castle was originally gifted to King James to be used as a hunting lodge and I am unsure of how it came into my uncle’s possession. He’d moved here after his divorce and retirement citing escaping the hustle and bustle of Edenborough as his reason for departing. The whole family thought he’d gone mad, who in their right mind would want to live in such a desolate place, no neighbours, no shops, it was to some degree my idea of hell. But this was the place I had to call home for now at least, while sorting through his estate, you see last month the haggard old bastard had finally kicked the bucket, and not in the nicest of ways. No one was really surprised considering the letters aunt Gem received from him got more and more incoherent before eventually ceasing. Left it a month or two before deciding to make a visit, when Aunt Gem finally turned up she’d found him butt naked, face down in the bath tub, we’d come to the conclusion that he’d had enough and decided to drown himself. What a way to go out! I couldn’t think of anything worse, imagine, your last moments as your lungs filled with air, fighting the urge to come up and breath, to wonder what dark thoughts must be going through a man’s mind to commit such an action. Me and Uncle Josh never really had much of a relationship after he moved here, he never really had much of a relationship with anyone after, life ruined him. I remember back when I was a kid, we’d always visit him in Edenborough and have the best time. He was so kind, the entertainer of the family, you know, one of those people that seems to derive the pleasure of life from making other people laugh. He was full of tremendous one liners. I remember this one he always used to say about a penguin. Anyway, it went like this a penguin takes his car to the shop and the mechanic says it'll take about an hour for him to check it. While he waits, the penguin goes to an ice cream shop and orders a big sundae to pass the time. The penguin isn't the neatest eater, and he ends up covered in melted ice cream. When he returns to the shop, the mechanic takes one look at him and says, "Looks like you blew a seal." "No," the penguin insists, "it's just ice cream." To me it was as if he’d died a long time ago, I hadn’t even seen him in the last five years, even when I did, he was a shell of the man he was before, it’s strange when that happens, like the former personality had died only to be replaced by a strange withered old man, he’d aged terribly since the move both mentally and physically. I believe it’s because we’re supposed to be social beings, not those isolated from the tribe, with no interaction, that sort of thing could really change a man.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them using the new form!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Image: ** *Originally titled “Controlled Burn -Take 2-”* **Bonus Constraint (worth 5 extra pts.)** - Genre: This week’s challenge is to use the above image as *inspiration* for your story. You may interpret the image any way you like, as long as the **connection is clear** and you follow all sub and post rules. You do not have to use the entire image. You can use any part you like (i.e., the title, theme, subject, setting, etc.). The bonus constraint is not required. *** #How It Works - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them a comment on the thread with some feedback.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.** Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions. - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide verbal feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown. (A few adjustments have been made; note that upvotes will no longer count for points). - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points (not required) - ***Actionable* Feedback on the thread:** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Submitting nominations:** 5 points (total) **Note on feedback:** - Points will only be awarded for **actionable** feedback. So what is actionable feedback? It is feedback that is constructive, something that the author can use to improve. An actionable critique not only outlines the issue or weakness, but uses specific examples and explanations to describe why it may be doing, or not doing, what it should. Check out as an example.   *** #Rankings - **First:** - Submitted by u/ANDR01Dwrites - **Second:** - Submitted by u/katherine_c - **Third:** - Submitted by u/katpoker666 - **Bay’s Spotlight:** - Submitted by u/wileycourage - **Crit Star** - u/ANDR01Dwrites - **Crit Star** - u/FyeNite - And shoutout to u/wileycourage for being so supportive and encouraging to a new writer on the thread! *Note: Crit Creds are awarded to users who go above and beyond with critiques and can be used on r/WPCritique. Don’t forget in order to receive them, you also must have made at least one post on WPC *or* have linked your reddit account to the sub on our .* *** ###Subreddit News - Join in our weekly writing chat on . We discuss a new topic every week! New here? Come introduce yourself! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Someone is living in my attic and no one will believe me. One year ago, my mother died after a decades long fight with cancer. My long term relationship had ended and I wasn’t moving on, I had no children or pets, my job could be done remotely. When mom was gone, there was nothing keeping me in the big city and its many bad memories. I packed up and got out months after she took her last breath. My apartment lease was over and I decided it was time for a fresh start. I moved into a studio apartment in a small coastal town, vowing to move to a new city every few months and experience the world. Instead, I found a cheap house in the second town I visited and bought it. I don’t think things through, I just do what I feel like doing in the moment. And I felt like living in this house. It was small, a living room and a kitchen the perfect size for someone who cooks just to survive. An upstairs with two bedrooms and a bathroom. It was cheap for the area it was in, though I assumed that was because of its age. The sliding glass door in the back of the house led to a small sandy field before it opened up to the spacious beach and ocean air. It was perfect for me to settle into, get through my work days, numbly watch TV on the couch and then listen to the waves as I read at night and in the mornings on the porch. Every time I read I was joined by the local wildlife. During the day deer would amble across the fields, fed by tourists who didn’t know to leave them alone. Dogs raced by, with their owners racing behind trying to gain control of them. When the moon was high I could hear the nocturnal creatures scuttling by though I didn’t see them as often. My favorite of these critters was a cat I called Shadow because she didn’t wear a collar. The first time I saw her I only saw the round, amber eyes glinting in the darkness when I glanced up from my book. It spooked me because she stared at me without blinking and I couldn’t see anything but her eyes. A few nights of this and she finally slunk out of the shadows and approached me. She didn’t seem afraid of me like I had thought. She just hadn’t decided yet if I was worthy of her time. She sniffed me gently, flinching if I moved at all. The porch light illuminated her fur which was surprisingly shiny for an outdoor cat. She was small and sleek, mostly black except her underbelly, neck, and face which was gray, black, and brown tabby stripes. I wondered if she had a home, if she just went from neighbor to neighbor looking for food and attention. She seemed comfortable with people. Shadow came around most of the nights that I sat on the patio and read. I started leaving my screen door cracked a bit when I was at home to see if she would come inside. Eventually, she did. Shadow was cautious at first, going room to room and sniffing furniture. After a while she owned the place. I put out cat food for her, wondering if a family was missing her when she spent all this time here. I didn’t want to take a cat away from some kid because I was feeding her. She was far too skinny though, so I kept putting food out. The house was the fresh start I needed. I spread my mothers ashes in the sand, kept some in an urn that I put on the fireplace in the living room. Made amends with exes and then never spoke to them again. I started to heal and move on with my life. I felt like my old self again. When I moved in, the house was peaceful. This lasted for a couple of months. I was tucked safely into bed when I heard the footsteps above my head. I had lived in so many apartments that the sound was unmistakable. Someone walked from one end of my roof to another. I shot up in bed, stories of Skinwalkers leaping from roof to roof danced in my head because I once traumatized myself by watching cryptid videos late at night. I listened to the deafening silence for a few moments after the steps faded but the quiet was almost more terrifying. I could feel a cool, clammy sweat pooling in the crevices of my body. Shadow flounced into the room like nothing was amiss, likely in her element since it was the middle of the night. She leapt onto the bed and I ran my hand across her soft fur as I listened for more of the sound but it was gone now. I felt comforted by the touch of another creature and was able to fall back asleep with Shadow curled into my side. A few nights later I heard it again while sitting in my living room. I had dismissed the first time as being a nightmare but I could not this time as I was wide awake watching television. The footsteps again, from one side of the house to another. This time there was some additional shuffling, the scrapings of moving objects. It was harder to hear it since I was on the ground floor but it was there and I was not dreaming. My heart raced in my chest as I reluctantly went to my front door. What would I do if someone was on top of my house? I had no weapons, the police in a small town could be many minutes away, and all I had was a small stray cat to defend me. I made sure to take my cellphone with me. My hand rested on the doorknob while I tried to stabilize my breathing. When I finally gathered the courage, rage also building inside of me as the sounds above me continued, I yanked the door open and sprinted outside while also yelling “Hey!” in the most booming voice a small woman like me could muster. As I wheeled around in the front yard to look back at the roof, I dropped my phone in the grass. No one was on the roof. It was completely empty and silent. I picked up my phone and retreated inside, which was once again eerily silent. Shadow greeted me at the front door with a waving tail, likely thinking I had abruptly left. I felt comforted by the sight of her. Throughout the time I had lived here, she had become a confidant. I could tell her anything and I knew it was safe with her. She was the only one there both the times I had heard the sounds which made me feel less alone and crazy. She was here more often than not, though I never barred her from going outside and back to whatever family she may have come from. The rest of that night was quiet, but I couldn’t shake what I had heard. I slept in hour long increments and the next day racked my brain for what could be happening. I struggled through work, giving my computer about 10% of my attention. After work, I started to look at my ceiling in every room. When I opened the closet door in the spare bedroom, I was shocked to see a door with a string hanging down. When I pulled on the string, the door pulled down with it and exposed a small staircase that led up into pitch black darkness. I didn’t have the courage to go up there so I shut the door quickly, shut the closet door and the guest bedroom door, and fled downstairs quickly. Someone was in my attic. I called the police as soon as I had my phone in my hand again. They took fifteen minutes to show up despite me telling them there was an intruder in my house which confirmed my fear that in a small town, the police department response time is lacking. They ascended the stairs while I waited outside by their direction. After a few painstakingly long minutes they came back out the front door and informed me the attic was empty as was the rest of my house. When I insisted I heard the noises they offered to take me up there to see it for my own eyes. They were right, it was empty. The attic was small, only about four feet tall so we all had to bend over to not hit the ceiling. It was dusty with no windows that would have provided an escape for my new houseguest. Shadow greeted the men on their way out and I shut the door behind them, alone in the house yet again save my tiny protector. That night the sounds were back again. Footsteps, shuffling, I was pretty sure I could hear the sound of the attic stairs coming down. As soon as I heard that I raced out of the house and called the police yet again. I had to wait even longer this time for them to arrive since it was late at night. They searched the attic again and when they came back out, they explained that it was probably just sounds of the old house shifting, it is windy on the coast after all. But I know what I heard. I spent the entire night in the living room, clutching a steak knife while Shadow laid on the couch next to me. The rest of the night was quiet but I didn’t get a wink of sleep. I called off of work the next day. I bought a lantern and a bright flashlight from the hardware store and ventured into the attic. With the space lit it looked even smaller up here. But it was no longer empty. An old, massively thick book laid on the floor next to a spread out blanket with unlit wax candles around it. I knelt down next to the book, running my finger over it’s cover. It was dark brown and tattered, with a symbol in the center and the words ‘Black Magic Craft’ written across the top in an old, italic script. I fell right on my butt and then scrambled backward across the dusty wooden floor to put space between the book and myself. With trembling limbs I climbed back down the stairs and practically glided down to the bottom floor I was running so fast. Another call to the police, another search of the attic. This time when they left, they suggested I contact a psychiatrist. They think I’m delusional. If I call again when I am in danger, they may not even respond. Feeling defeated and sleep deprived, I retreated back into the house. I slept on the couch, too exhausted to make it through the entire night awake this time. Shadow curled up in between my legs. There may have been more noises, but none were made while I was conscious at least. The next day, the sounds started up in the broad daylight. My houseguest was getting more bold and I was getting more afraid. I could no longer sleep and I lived in terror every day. This went on for a couple weeks, the cops no longer came, and I genuinely felt like I was losing my grip on reality. Maybe this was all in my head. Maybe my mother dying had been harder on me than I had thought. So I grabbed my phone and sat outside where I could have some peace. Then I googled my address. The list of times this house had been bought went on for multiple pages. Typically someone would move in and then leave just a couple of months later. The ones who stayed, died. Searching my address in another engine gave me the names of the people who had lived here so I pulled up any obituaries and social medias I could find. Every one had moved in seemingly healthy. Then their health deteriorated. Posts on social medias told me that one person had moved in, was looking for advice about rodents in walls, asking for help with sleep, and then suddenly the posts were from their family members expressing their grief over such a sudden loss. I hadn’t noticed the decline of my own health, both mentally and physically. No sleep was the main cause. The stress had caused me to stop eating unless absolutely necessary and I dropped twenty pounds that I couldn’t really afford to lose in the first place so now I was rail thin. I had started to see things that I don’t think were ever there, like shadows moving in my bedroom at night. Sometimes I would be coming to a corner and feel like someone was right on the other side but when I would pop my head around, Shadow would greet me with a meow and a wave of her tail. Tonight, I snapped. I was laying on the couch, waiting to be so exhausted that I would lull into a light sleep like most nights. My houseguest had other plans. The footsteps and shuffling started up again. This time, instead of fear rising from my chest it was anger. I am outraged. This is my house, my fresh start. How dare they take that away from me while squatting in my own attic? I am done. The police aren’t going to help me so it’s time to do it on my own. I grab my largest kitchen knife and slowly ascend the stairs to the second floor. Once I am at the top of them, I see the door to the guest room was ajar. I always left it closed. I put both hands on the knife, holding it so hard that my knuckles are white. I move to the closet, the doors on that also wide open. The attic steps were already hanging down and I could hear the shuffling louder than ever now. Whoever it is, they are just a few feet away. There are no barriers between us now. As silently as I could so that I could sneak up on them, I climb the stairs. I poke my head up into the door once I’m close enough to see inside. The candles are lit, the book in the middle of the floor. And sitting over it is a decrepit old woman. She looked up as my head popped into view, knowing already that I would be there. Long white hair hung in ratty locks around her wrinkled face, her skin glowingly pale. The eyes send a jolt straight to my heart. Round, amber, cat eyes. With just a wave of her hand, I suddenly feel out of my body, no longer in control of my own actions. My hand, by no control of my brain, takes the knife and plunges it directly into my side. As soon as the action is done, I’m shocked I had done it. I cough and blood spatters across my chin and the wooden floor. I tumble down the stairs and fall onto the floor of the guest bedroom. I was dizzy but through the fog covering my brain and vision, I watch as the old woman hobbles down the steps and crouches next to me. I look up into the amber eyes I had grown to know so well these past few months. She strokes my hair with a grim smile, as if this was a last resort she didn’t want to do. “You had so much grief.” She says. “So much fear and sadness. The best meal thus far.” And as my life drains out of my stab wound onto the floor below me in a dark red pool, I watch as the old woman transforms into a small, black tabby cat with large, round, amber eyes. I had been the houseguest in Shadow’s home.


My face exploded across a wall of screens. *Tonight, we honour the life and career of Rattlesnake Rick Houston*. A silent split-second, then the crowd damn near blew the lid off the stadium. Jack Ascot walked out in a suit and talked some smooth shit about what a legend of ‘wrestling entertainment’ I’d become. Managed not to mention how he’d sharked me for every last dime in every contract, or how he’d run me down in a golf cart, batshit drunk and coked to hell in his wife's dressing-gown back in ninety-three. The footage they replayed from the eighties summed up that whole time pretty well, though. Fake hair, fake teeth, fake tan. Everything fake but the scars. The good folks in the crowd just wanted me to come out, strike the old pose, shake Ascot’s hand and gracefully retire, but I didn’t do any of that because I was nine drinks and five shots deep in the darkest corner of a San Antonio dive at seven-thirty pm. Missed the ceremony, missed my last six AA meetings, missed baby Adelaide’s birthday party, again. Rattlesnake Rick was *The Greatest Fighter on the Whole Damn Planet*, but plain old Richard Collins wasn’t. Life hit hard, and it didn’t agree the outcome in advance. It was maybe five-am, sprawled cold and hungover in the dumpster out back, that a piercing light forced my eyes open like revelation. Fierce, white, raining down from on high and making a far-off racket like somebody taught an Apache helicopter to sing opera. I tried, painfully, to peel myself off the wet bags, then felt my stomach fired up into the air about ten feet before the rest of me followed on. ‘Jesus’, I thought. ‘I mean, Jesus. Jesus Goddamn Christ, Jesus’. Might not have been eloquent, but it’s truthfully what I thought at the time. Caught in a beam of white light, I whipped up through the air too fast to make out much beyond stars and a blue glow, and blacked out quick. Came around inside of somewhere with red walls curving upwards from where I lay, in pretzel patterns and with texture like sand - but that low opera-whine still resonated through everything and the light felt artificial. It was either a submarine or a ruined temple or some head-on collision of both. “Rattlesnake Rick of Houston,” a voice said. “An honour it is, to meet the greatest fighter of your planet.” Which was, y’know, weird. The guy who said it had four arms, purple skin, pitch-black eyes and a robe draped with the kind of multicoloured beads new-age folks hung from their doorways in the sixties. “And an honour it is for you, to be chosen,” he said. I felt my arms strapped to some kind of table, or maybe an altar. Panic boiled up in my stomach, and I told myself it was probably a waking nightmare brought on by sleep paralysis. My shoulder still triggered those off sometimes. “For centuries, the Zan’Kil Empire has taken world after world into its embrace,” the guy said, drawing closer to reveal multi-bladed teeth. “But we are not barbarian slaughterers. We offer each planet a chance.” He rasped on for a bit about how every civilisation in the sights of their spacefaring empire got the ‘opportunity’ to pit their toughest champion against the Zan’Kil Crown Prince, and those who won the fight got their people spared. I was fighting down last night’s chili dogs so it didn’t all compute, but I guess they did a scan and somehow figured Rattlesnake Rick actually was The Greatest Fighter on the Whole Damn Planet. I already knew the answer in my churning guts, but I asked him how many times somebody had knocked off a Crown Prince. “There is,” he smiled, “a first time for everything.” I got the feeling this guy was kind of an asshat. They unstrapped me from the table a little while after, five guards with twenty arms between them. Blow to the head. Blacked out again. Bladed teeth in my nightmares. That messed-up smile. That little pony toy, the one I’d forgotten to buy for Adelaide. *** They dragged me to my feet in a long tunnel and left me there to wait, the shape of an archway swimming hazy at the edge of my vision, far-off and blinding orange with whatever alien light was outside. I heard the breaking-wave rush of a distant crowd. That part felt kind of familiar. “If you win, they will not let you live,” said a voice close behind. I near shat my pants to see another four-armer standing there, staring dolefully at the archway. “If you defeat me and your world is spared, tradition demands your own life in return.” The guy I figured for the Crown Prince had about four feet on me, with thick armour and fists the size of beer kegs. “That’s not really the outcome I’m worried about,” I said. “Just so. I too grow weary of smashed innards staining my soul and fingernails,” he said, looking exhausted and sad. “But should I relent on the field and spare you, the ancients would know my blood had turned the pale blue of a sickly Zan-calf, and no longer blushed the fierce, rich mauve of a larger and more vigorous Zan-calf. My own life would be forfeit.” He smeared two thick lines of red warpaint onto his forehead, and it reminded me of El Noche Fuego’s godawful comeback costume from ninety-six. “If I could fairly lose this fight to a worthier warrior, and leave this world in peace, I would do so gladly,” he sighed. A thought fluttered wildly through my brain. “Say I wasn’t really The Greatest Fighter on the Planet,” I blurted. “Say it was all a lie, and your ancients got wind. What would happen?” “They would return you to your home and choose the true greatest warrior, as tradition demands.” That was it. I could tell them it was all staged - show them the backstage docs and trash-mag clippings on my phone if they didn’t believe me. Get home, let this forlorn bastard smash some Navy Seal’s head in, wait for the apocalypse and have a drink, have a lot of drinks, have all the drinks. On Adelaide’s fourth and last birthday. Jesus. Goddamn Christ Jesus. I turned to the Crown Prince. “Got an idea,” I said to him. He really did look kinda like El Noche Fuego in that warpaint. “An idea?” “You want to lose and I can't win a real fight, but this shit-for-brains empire hasn’t clocked onto what ‘wrestling entertainment’ means so we might have a shot at something here. If I pretend to hit you, think you can pretend like it's really painful?” “To counterfeit pain and distress? Yes, a simple task.” “Then keep close and just play along with my instructions, your highness - and when I tell you to stay down, stay down.” I stepped out to the edge of the arena, and the crowd’s roar swelled up around me. Took a little moment to say my goodbyes. Then, for the first time in a long time, I smiled like I did back in those old videos. “This is gonna be one hell of a show.


By : No One of Consequence I started my career as a run of the mill soldier, but I somehow managed to find myself stationed in a top-secret underground government facility. For security reasons I won’t go into too much detail, partly because most of what they do there is hard to follow. On a daily basis I have interactions with scientists that constantly refer to me as a layman. For the most part, I guard people who work with whiteboards, reference books, and complex mathematical equations that would give average scientists a headache. In order to even get into these offices, one has to adhere to a retinal scan. However, that’s just the upper floors of the facility. Teamwork isn’t a word these people are entirely comfortable with. They tend to work within their own minds, and alienate those around them, especially those they think of as inferior. Not so much because they’re assholes, their brains just function differently. Now, put a bunch of these people together, and the results can be disastrous. So far, over the last five years, there have only been minor dustups. Well, minor might not be entirely accurate. One incident did end with several scientists being taken to the infirmary. Nothing too serious, a few stitches here and there. I hadn’t wanted to break up the fight, it was too hilarious to watch. I’ve been confined to the facility for a few years now, getting leave isn’t the easiest thing. High security clearances come with some serious drawbacks, but the large paychecks are hard to pass up. Technically I still get paid as a Private First Class, but I also get a sizeable ‘hazard’ pay. Not that I’ve seen any real hazards, it’s more of a way to classify the additional pay to the bean counters. Government work is loaded with all kinds of double talk and misleading information like that. Honestly, I don’t understand why a particle accelerator needs to be this secret. They’re more common than people think, some thirty thousand exist throughout the world. Maybe it’s because this one is larger than the Large Hadron Collider. The work is largely complicated, and I can’t begin to comprehend it. The one bit of science I do know is the controversy behind the work they’re doing. Certain people in the science community think they’re going to open a black hole and destroy the planet. The likelihood of this happening is like fifty-million to one. With such long odds, you’d think there wouldn’t be death threats, but there are. After years of research and fine tuning the science, they’re ready to turn on the accelerator. I’m in one of the control rooms when they start the sequence. I have no idea what’s going on, but they say all the readouts are within the predicted ranges. That is until alarms start blaring. All the readouts begin to spike, and next thing I know, all hell breaks loose. Monitors begin flickering, the scientists start panicking, and literal sparks begin flying as electrical components are overloaded. The power spike surges even more, and suddenly everything goes dark, but not silent. If anything, there’s more conversation now than ever before. Emergency power comes online, but most of the equipment is fried. The smell of burnt wires and melting plastic fills the air, wisps of smoke drifting from all over. Engineers scramble around attempting to get things back online, but with this much damage there’s little hope. With all the computers down, my radio is the only means of communication. The scientists work to assess the damage when we hear it. Thanks to movies, TV shows, theme parks, and deployments to active combat zones, I have noticed there are different kinds of screams. Even though they generally sound the same, there are subtle differences that can be detected. What I hear over the radio isn’t anything like what you hear at theme parks from people riding roller coasters. The closest I’ve heard came from a secret mission when an insurgent was caught off guard before a knife went between his ribs. The man on the radio died painfully, but never saw it coming. Following it are the panicked ramblings of those in close proximity, trying to figure out what just happened. More of them start to die, and the remainders lose their shit. Three soldiers with automatic rifles come into our control room, and sweep the area. They ask me if I’ve seen anything non-human, and after the typical ‘are you kidding me’ reaction, I tell them I haven’t. On standard guard duty, a guard is armed with a pump action shotgun loaded with beanbag rounds, and a 9mm sidearm. These three having M-4s and a full basic load of ammo would be a cause for concern, but more so when they hand me boxes of buckshot shells. Panicked conversation over the radio punctuated by gunfire fills the silence as I load my shotgun with lethal rounds. No one knows what the hell is going on, and in a military run secret facility, that’s a really bad sign. Finally, news comes on over the radio. It’s the base commander, “There is a containment breach within the facility. A level five quarantine is about to go into effect. All personnel must evacuate the facility immediately. Once the blast doors close, they will not be opened again.” Basically, if we don’t get out of here in the next five minutes, we’re getting locked in with whatever is killing people. Even if there are four of us armed, I don’t want to find out what is loose in here. With those screams still fresh in my mind, I’m trying to keep my imagination from running wild. I bring up the rear as we escort the scientists to the exit. Rear guard is important so enemy combatants can’t move in behind you and catch you unaware. The corridors are normally so brightly lit that nothing can go unseen. However, with only emergency power running, the lighting is extremely sparse and flickering. I sweep the areas behind us as I walk backward, the flashlight on my shotgun shines on overturned and discarded equipment. It looks like a fucking hurricane blew through this place. Even if a hurricane hit, we wouldn’t have felt a thing. The facility is several hundred feet underground, and impervious to everything short of an earthquake. In this part of the country, earthquakes aren’t a concern. As we near the exit, bodies start littering the ground. The wounds that I see look to have been made by some kind of blade, or some kind of sharp implement. At one point, it looks like something had been gnawing on one of the bodies. I don’t know what kind of teeth make damage patterns like that, but the amount of clear liquid around the wound appears to be saliva. I have been all over the facility in my time as a guard. There isn’t a single room I haven’t inspected at one time or another. So, I know for a fact that there’s nothing in this facility that could be responsible for what did that kind of damage. We carry on in silence, or the closest we can for the amount of people in our group. For me and the other soldiers, it’s the silence of concentration while moving through hostile territory, keeping an eye out for the enemy. The scientists, it’s the silence of people scared shitless. None of them signed up for gunfights, and deadly situations, outside of an experiment going very wrong. Me, I had been in combat a number of times by this point, but even I’m a little scared. Seriously, I couldn’t think of a single thing on this planet that could chew on an arm like that. Predators tend to have sharp teeth so they can tear through flesh. What I saw looked more like blunt teeth that crushed the limb with such tremendous force that the flesh split apart. I catch sight of movement behind us, and fire off a shell before I get a good look. Traditionally, you identify a target before shooting so you don’t accidently hit a friendly. This wasn’t a concern at the moment. The movement I fired at wasn’t on the ground, but the ceiling behind us. Something small scurried out of a open vent, and I didn’t want to risk letting whatever it was to get close. No one could tell us what was killing people. In my book, this was a ‘if it’s not human, kill it’ kind of situation. By the time we made it to the exit, there was only seconds left before the lockdown would commence. We get all of the scientist through, and the first soldier. The other two were getting panicy at the sound of the alarm, and trip over each other trying to make it out. I’m forced to stand there and watch as they fall into the doorway, and are crushed by the blast doors closing down. Up to this point it was the worst thing I ever saw, but the day isn’t over yet, and I’m still inside the facility. A buddy of mine, Gordon, had been on the other side of the blast doors when they closed. He calls to me on the radio, letting me know I’m the only one still inside. The only way the top brass is going to open these doors is if I managed to close the containment breach. Since no one has told me what the breach was, I have no clue how to close it. There was so much confusion after the spike that I don’t even know where to find the breach. Gordon says he’s going to try to get me some information to work with. In the mean time, my best bet is the cooling system. It’s the first place he knew of that suffered any casualties. The cooling system is located on the other side of the facility. Having only emergency power is going to make it difficult to get to. The flashlight on my shotgun is only helping so much, what I would give to have full lighting. However, the spike blew out more than half the electrical systems in the facility. There is no way a grunt like me is going to figure out how to restore power. Tripping on the third body I hadn’t seen, I’m getting really tired of the subpar lighting. Just when I’m about to express my frustration with an ill advised scream, something moves in front of me. My shotgun speaks instead of my mouth, and a splatter of fluid paints the wall. With the light trained on whatever it had been, all I see is a small mass of flesh, completely unrecognizable from the buckshot enema. The only thing I can tell, it had been small. About the size of a infant, but the damn thing moved with the speed of a predator. The fluid on the wall is a dark blue, but there appears to be copious amounts of a clear substance. For something so small, it sure as hell does drool a lot. On my way to the cooling system, I duck into a security checkpoint. Normally there’s a rack of weapons, stacks of ammo, body armor, and other assorted supplies. Most of it is gone, but what I do find will help. I take an NBC mask bag, attach it to my thigh, and fill it with the flares that no one thought to take on their way out of the facility. In order to get to the cooling system, I have to get to the emergency stairwell. I’ve already seen these things crawling on the ceiling, so a narrow space like the stairwell is going to be a nightmare. If these things are intelligent in anyway, I could be walking straight into an ambush. Popping one of the flares, I open the door and immediately toss it in. The blinding light illuminates everything as I sweep the area with the 9mm. Nothing moves, so I proceed inside. The stairs continue on for several flights down, but thankfully I only need to go down one level. Not surprising, the door is locked, so I try my keycard. It doesn’t work, which isn’t that surprising. As a security guard I don’t have clearance to go into restricted areas, but I escort those that do. Calling on the radio, I ask Gordon if he can get the base commander to override access points for the entire facility. With the power issues there’s no guarantee it’ll work for everything, but he promises they’ll do what they can. As I stand in place, shotgun constantly searching for anything that needs to be shot, I hear something odd. It’s an echo of sorts, continuous and wet sounding. Not so much like water dripping from a leaking pipe, but like slick bodies squirming in the mud. It’s the last thing I want to do, but I do it anyway. Popping another flare, I drop it down the shaft. I watch it descend each floor, until it lands on the bottom. The flare doesn’t land on the floor, but the squirming mass covering the entire bottom level. I’ve snuck into this stairwell many a time over the years for a smoke break. At the end of each I would flick my still smoking butt down the shaft, and watch it’s descent to the bottom. I know there’s a floor missing under that mass, and I feel my chances for getting out of here diminish. It’s hard to pinpoint what each thing looks like, there are so many, and they’re swimming around each other. It's like a cross between a slug and shrimp, with varying sizes from a Chihuahua all the way to a Doberman. That mouth opens to let out thin tentacles that act as feelers, but there’s no teeth. Just a solid bridge of blunt bone designed to crush and grind. An electronic click sounds behind me, and I quickly open the door. In the span of thirty minutes, those things swarmed in from wherever the breach is, and flooded the entire bottom level. The room I end up in is only slightly better than the stairwell. Bodies litter the entire area, at least I think that’s what they are. Mangled and crushed all over, it’s hard to determine one body from the next. On the upside, the coolant tanks are intact. Liquid helium isn’t combustible, but the freezing capabilities still make it a hazard. Maybe there’s a way I can use that to my advantage. In my search for a source of the giant slugs, I find an open access panel to the center of the accelerator. Climbing up, I see a few of the slugs, and blast them into oblivion. As quick as I can, I fire shell after shell, stopping only to reload as the slugs just keep coming. There’s a break in the action where there appear to be no more slugs coming, and I survey the area as I reload my shotgun. In the center of the open space, I watch as a slug falls from a spot seven feet off the ground. Blasting the slug right away, I get as close as I dare, but there’s nothing to see. My flashlight shows nothing, but empty space were the slug fell from. Popping another flare, I toss it into the space they appear to be coming from. I watch as the stick of burning red light goes into the spot, and completely disappears. Seconds later, the flare reemerges in the mouth of another slug. Another blast from my shotgun, and the slug is nothing more than a mass of dead flesh. Standing directly underneath, I put the end of my shotgun to the spot. Extending my hand out completely, I see the front end of the shotgun with the flashlight completely disappear. Pulling it back, it comes back as if nothing happened. Aside from calling this the source of the breach, I don’t know where to begin explaining this. Gordon talks things out with me, trying to understand what I’m seeing, but I don’t just stand idly by. There are small, portable tanks of liquid helium in the cooling room. I drag one of these tanks through the access panel, along with a ladder. Opening the ladder up, I put it directly underneath the breach, and place the tank on the very top. Half the tank is on the other side of the breach, and I get as far away as I can while still being within firing range. With the 9mm, I pop off a few rounds. The bullets rupture the helium tank, sending the ladder crashing to the floor, and a cloud of frozen liquid explodes out. Watching with the shotgun at the ready, I hope my quick thinking pays off. For five long minutes I wait for a slug to drop down, but none do. Just as I key up the radio to tell Gordon the breach is closed, half a dozen slugs drop to the floor. Instead of the wet plop I’ve heard from previous slugs, they land with a loud shatter. The helium didn’t freeze the breach closed like I had hoped, but it did freeze the next slugs coming through that space. Before firing off at the next batch of slugs falling to the ground, I watch as they skid off. Following them with the flashlight’s beam, I see them disappear down an access shaft I hadn’t realized was open. At least now I know how they got to the bottom level. My choices are extremely limited at this point. I can either stay here and keep killing the slugs until they get the better of me, or I can use the ladder to go through the breach, and try to take them out at their source. Either way, I’m probably not going to see the light of day again.


A young man decides life is no longer worth living and climbs to the roof of the municipal hospital with a calm mind. This causes traffic. I, luckily, am not a car so traffic has little effect on my comings and goings. I tend to walk on two legs and, when this is impractical, I am carried by kind-hearted muscular men in the fashion of pallbearers sans coffin. I detest crowds but am magnetically drawn towards all things suicidal. I once spent six months in Barcelona following Joselito Montalbán, the renowned matador, until his death at the horns of an unnamed half blind bull. I sometimes convince myself it was the most important thing I have ever done. So, it will come as no surprise to you, dear reader, that at the sight of this young man on that horrible ledge I canceled my afternoon appointments and sat patiently at the Café Almirante across the street. A proper Café is a difficult thing to establish. There must be enough space to move about yet not so much so that it, even when empty, feels empty. The men amongst the patrons must be haggard and seated alone while the women are required to have a minimum of one (1) child at their hip or stored in carriage. Breastfeeding is, of course, permitted. The server’s gender is unimportant, yet it is imperative that they are unattractive and rude—to keep away the hobbyists and weekenders. Espresso is to be served at one hundred degrees centigrade and be entirely unpalatable. I believe one needs to earn the right to comfort. Back to the dying boy. Blonde hair stuck against his sweated brow. A true blue horror show. The police begin with their song and dance. Tourists crowd. Some are weeping into the breasts of their lovers while others take photographs with their telescopic lenses. I order a pastry and the server spits in my face. Perfect. I cross one leg over the other and breathe in the dead summer air. The blonde boy says something for some reason. He might as well have been God. And me, here watching, might as well have been nothing. A dog urinates on a police car and continues about his business; not even thinking to look up. I am sure this all serves a purpose. An old man sits at the table beside me and rolls a cigarette. The server lights his beard on fire. The old man and I share a laugh. He tells me he is one-hundred and sixteen years old and has seen it all. I ask him how the years have been. Hard. I ask him what he treasures most. Automobile accidents. The police play Sinatra over the bullhorn and the boy takes a step forward. My pastry arrives. Peach strudel burnt to a crisp with a saucer of crème fraiche. I crush it between my hands and feed it to the pigeons. The old man tells me someone ought to get a gun and shoot that damned fool up there. I disagree. We do not laugh. The ants take what the pigeons leave behind.


As she made her way down the staircase, Madeline started to wonder if she was making a terrible mistake. Leaving a child alone — even without so many Poiloogs around — felt wrong. It tied knots in her stomach that twisted and turned and tightened with every step she took. The only thing that kept her going was the memory of Liam’s resolve. Though he may be young in years, he certainly wasn’t in experience. She had to trust that with her gone, the Poiloogs would move on, making it safe for him. That he would manage by himself. That he would find her again. When she reached the bottom of the stairs she paused, taking a few deep breaths. Tears pricked at her eyes but she blinked them away, fighting off the rising flood. Before she could indulge in her emotions, she had to get as far away from here as possible. Otherwise, the Poiloogs would find them again all too easily. She wished she understood how it was they sensed humans, and what about being close to another person made that easier. She wished she knew the range of their abilities, and how sensitive they were. She wished she knew if Liam would be safe alone. But wishes would get her nowhere. They had a plan. Now, they just had to stick to it. She crept over to the door and surveyed the street outside. Though she could still hear the hum of multiple ships, everything in the immediate vicinity looked clear. For now at least. After a quick adjustment of her backpack and the book under her arm, she dashed outside, pausing only when she reached the shadows cast by the buildings on the far side of the road. Glancing back at where she’d come from to orient herself, she set off in the opposite direction to the meeting point they’d agreed upon. If the Poiloogs were still able to track them even once they’d separated, she didn’t want to lead them straight there. Keeping to the balls of her feet, she maintained a light jog while minimising the sound of her footsteps. At each side street and alleyway, she paused, peering around the corner before darting across the gap. It wasn’t long before she noticed a hum from up ahead, steadily increasing in volume. A jolt of terror ran down her spine. If they were still tracking her, converging on her position… She had no hope against that many of them. And worse still, it would mean that they could find Liam just as easily. She picked up the pace, heading towards the sound. She could only hear one frequency — one ship. But she had to know for certain. When she reached the end of the street she came to a halt and peeked around the corner. A single ship was hovering there, speeding straight towards her. She ducked back around, pressing her back flat against the wall just as the ship zoomed past the junction. And past her. A sigh of relief burst from her lips. It seemed the Poiloogs couldn't sense lone humans. Or at least not very well. That gave this plan a chance of actually working. And it meant that Liam should be safe. When the sound from the ship had faded to a distant hum, Madeline set off once again. A couple of blocks later, she started looking for somewhere to rest for the night. Though there were still a few hours of daylight left, she was more exhausted than she would like to admit — or than she’d have admitted to Liam. And now she knew they were far enough away from each other to avoid being detected, she wanted to be close enough to keep an eye on the building she’d left him in. At least for the first night. It didn’t take her long to find one. Another soulless office block with the same grey carpets and plastic plants. After a quick sweep of the building, she settled in on the top floor. Choosing a window with a good view of Liam’s location, she slumped down next to it, placing her book and bag beside her. As the sun sank below the horizon and the last vestiges of orange that hung in the sky faded to black, Madeline finally let the tears flow. It started slowly, the pinpricks in her eyes breaking free and rolling down her cheeks, the *drip, drip* as they hit the floor punctuating her loss. But simmering underneath her sadness was fear — not of the Poiloogs, but of losing Liam forever. Soon, sobs were wracking her body as she struggled to heave in shaky breaths. Calm only came when exhaustion overtook all else, dragging her down into a fitful sleep. \ She awoke with a start to a humming sound, strange surroundings setting her on edge. The sky outside the window was still dark, peppered with stars. Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she hauled herself up to look out the window, seeking the source of the sound. In the street below, the bright white light of a Poiloog’s ship drifted past. *Only* one, thankfully. It looked to be going more slowly than the one she’d seen earlier in the day. Perhaps due to the dark. Perhaps because they were conducting a more thorough search after the last had failed. Madeline watched, heart racing, as it continued on around the corner. When it turned in the opposite direction to where she’d left Liam, tension seeped from her muscles. With a sigh, she sank back to the floor, wondering how many hours it was until morning. \ For the rest of the night, she drifted in and out of sleep. Every time she woke, she glanced around the office she was in, expecting to see Liam lying nearby. It tore at her heart when she remembered — she was alone. To ease the pain, she’d check the streets below, squinting through the darkness towards where she hoped Liam slept before attempting to return to slumber herself. As the hours wore on she grew more and more restless. An anger which burnt in her chest flared brighter and brighter. Every ship that went past fanned the flames. When she thought of what the Poiloogs had made her do — what they had turned her into — she couldn’t bear it. With no one there to complain, she hardly even realised her leg was bouncing up and down, an outlet for the pent-up frustrations. Eventually, morning was approaching. The first of the sun's rays crept over the horizon, tinging it with pale blue. After a few sips of water and a handful of nuts, it was time to move on. She had to get as far away from Liam as possible, or she knew that she would go back for him — endangering them both. Madeline hoisted her bag onto her back and tucked *A Study in Scarlett* under her arm. \ She made good progress as the sun rose, jogging through the streets painted gold by the early morning rays. But her journey was slowed by the frequent stops. Each time she paused to duck out of sight of a passing Poiloog ship, the fire in her chest burnt a little stronger. Not for the first time, she found herself wondering what had brought them all here. Not to the planet — she’d given up on that question long ago — but to this area, at this time. Was all this effort just for her and Liam? This many Poiloogs searching for just two humans. If that were the case, there really couldn’t be many people left at all. Madeline pushed the thought away. It didn’t do to dwell on that sort of thing. It wasn’t like she could do anything about it. Her focus had to be *her*. And Liam, of course. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder. She turned the corner— And found herself facing an approaching Poiloog ship head-on! She cursed silently. This was why it was never a good idea to let these thoughts cloud your mind. She ducked back. But it was too late. The hum of the ship was winding down as it came to a stop. Madeline grabbed the book from under her arm, took a deep breath, and charged around the corner. Holding the novel aloft, she ran straight for the Poiloog climbing down from its ship. Before all eight of its legs were on the ground, she brought the book round in a wide arc, crunching into the creature's neck — or the section that joined its abdomen and its head. It shrank back from the blow, limbs flailing in panic. A claw grazed Madeline but she paid it no heed, leaping onto the floundering Poiloog to finish the job. Her breath became heavy as she hit the alien again and again, her rage at the creatures crescendoing to a frenzy. She landed blows with fists and feet and knees and elbows. Every ounce of strength that she had she poured into the violence, letting it all out. She kept going long after the body had stopped twitching — until the tang of copper burnt in her throat and sweat stung in her wounds. Finally, when her limbs had no strength left, she sagged into the purple goop, sobbing. But there was no time. She’d wasted too much already, caught up in the catharsis of the moment. Hauling herself to her feet, she wiped a hand across her face. Red from bloodied knuckles mingled with the purple of the Poiloog’s insides. As she ran, her eyes streamed, tracing tracks down her cheeks in the swirl of Poiloog and human blood.


#Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills and areas in which we excel, as well as places we’d like to improve. So I’d like to present a brand new weekly feature. This will be a weekly thread to discuss all things writing! And… to get to know your fellow writers a bit! Each week I will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion. Feel free to chime into the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, etc. You do not have to answer all the questions, but try to stay on-topic! *** #This Week’s Roundtable Discussion Give your writing its own spirit animal. Let’s take a mini vacation this week and step away from any serious discussions. I want you to think about your own personal writing style and explain (in any amount of detail) what animal you think it embodies. That’s it! I can’t wait to see everyone’s answers. *New to r/ShortStories or joining in the Discussion for the first time? Introduce yourself in the comments! What do you like to write? *You don't have to answer all the questions to join in the chat! #Reminders - **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** - **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussion in any form will not be tolerated. - **Please try to stay on-topic.** If you have suggestions for future questions and topics, you can add them to the stickied comment or send them to me via DM or modmail! *** ###Subreddit News and Happenings - Come practice your micro skills on or experiment with long-form writing on - You can also post serials directly to the sub! Check out for more information.


Blum was a duck. He lived in a small pond in Salem. Blum loved this pond, and he loved the town, but Blum did not like the people in the town. Blum only liked one human in that town, Sabrina. Sabrina was a young woman, maybe early twenties, that lived in a small hut near the pond. Oftentimes, she would come outside, and toss some seed into the pond for Blum. She had been the one to name him. Blum never particularly disliked the people of Salem, until February. In February, there were many hoards of people who would show up to Blum’s pond, and toss a defenseless young woman into it, and yell “Witch!” whenever she would resurface. Blum did not like it when they did this. It would ripple the water, and awaken Blum when he tried to rest. They would drag the kicking and screaming woman back to shore with a rope, and pull them to a large elevated wooden post, with a rope necklace hanging from it. They would put the necklace around their neck, and drop them. This was when Blum had developed his hatred towards the people of Salem. They would ripple his water often, keeping him from sleeping, and it was annoying to Blum. One day, Blum had reached his breaking point. Blum was sitting in his pond, trying to get the rest that the people of Salem would intrude on. He was sitting, hidden in the weeds and moss, when he heard the approach of a mob. He sat and braced for the splash in the water, when he heard a voice that he recognized. He peeked through his patch of weeds, and saw none other than Sabrina. Arms and legs bound with a rope, about to be thrown into the pond. Blum shouted, and begged for the villagers to stop, but they didn’t understand him. Or they just didn’t care. They threw Sabrina into the pond, and waited. She resurfaced moments later, just like all the others did, and just like every other time, they cried,”Witch!”. They dragged Sabrina away with the ropes. There was nothing Blum could’ve possibly done to stop it. As it tends to do, life continued for Blum. The water continued to ripple with every “Trial”, and the only thing he cared about was gone. A day or two later, Blum noticed the window to Sabrina’s house had been left open all this time. Being curious, Blum waddled his way up to the side of the house, and climbed a pile of rocks stacked by the window. Once he got to the windowsill and looked inside, Blum saw the whole house was ransacked, and torn apart. All except one thing. A large book, lying open on the floor. Still rather curious, Blum hopped down from the windowsill, and made his way over to the book, and looked at the page that was open. Blum didn’t fully understand all the symbols and words on the page, but he understood enough. At the top of the page, read one word, in big bold letters. “NECROMANCY” Blum chuckled to himself, this was a grimoire. He could get his friend back. The villagers wouldn’t be rippling his water anymore.


###A Few Notes from Bay - Late submissions are **not acceptable**. Repeated late entries will result in your **serial entries being removed**. If something comes up and you can’t make the deadline for some reason, please DM me. - Authors are **required** to post at least **2 feedback comments** on the thread **every** week they submit, by the deadline. Feedback should include something the author has done well, and something that could be improved. If for some reason your entry is late, you are still expected to meet this requirement. - If you cannot meet the **weekly time and feedback expectations**, you may be asked to move your serial to the subreddit. Give back what you get! #Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join. Each week you are required to provide feedback for at least 2 other writers on the thread. Please be sure to read the entire post for a full list of rules.   *** #This week's theme is Heartbreak! | *(And have a this week, a little darker, but I just love it!)* This week we’re going to explore the theme of ‘heartbreak’. We all experience a bit of heartbreak in our lives, in different ways. A broken heart is one of the worst kinds of pain because it’s emotional, and it usually feels like it will go on forever. When a person is hurt in this way, whether by a romantic partner, a friend, a job, or circumstance, they often cannot think clearly and rationally. And they often want to act *now*. How does this affect their decisions? The people around them? Everyone's experience with heartache is unique, as is their coping mechanism. How does your character(s) deal with such pain? What happens when those that are hurt seek vengeance? Or when someone takes their suffering out on another? These are just a few things to get you started. This week, please keep in mind the subreddit rules, and treat the topic of mental health with respect. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. **Please remember to follow all sub and post rules.** You can always modmail us if you’re unsure.   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I post the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. You can even vote on the upcoming themes on the Nomination form! - September 4 - Heartbreak (this week) - September 11 - Innocence - September 18 - Jealousy   *** **Recent Themes:** | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 12pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Come back later in the week and leave a feedback comment on at least 2 other stories on the thread.   *** #The Rules: - **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme.** You can interpret the theme any way you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and sub rules. Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. - **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track each installment and add them to the SerSun catalog. Do not include anything in the brackets you don’t want in your title. If you don’t use the correct titling format, your serial will be automatically removed by the bot. **(Please note: In order for the bot to recognize your serial, you must use the exact same title each week.** Titles can not be edited in after the fact. Should you make a mistake or forget, you will need to repost.) - **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you should wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt or post is not allowed. - **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. Stories outside the wordcount will be disqualified, so don’t forget to check! **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, it will not count against the wordcount.** - **Stories must be posted by Saturday 12pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will be disqualified and will not be eligible for rankings or Campfire readings. - **Only one active serial per author at a time.** This does not apply to serials written outside of Serial Sunday. - **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread each week (that’s one comment on two different stories).** The feedback must be **actionable** and should include at least one thing the author has done well. You have until Saturday night at 11:59pm EST to post your feedback. Those who go above and beyond (more than 5 actionable crits) will be rewarded with “Crit Credits” that can be used on our crit sub, r/WPCritique. - **Missing your feedback requirement two or more consecutive weeks will disqualify you from rankings and Campfire readings the following week.** If it becomes a habit, you may be asked to move your serial to the sub instead. - **Serials must abide by subreddit content rules.** This includes, but is not limited to, explicit suicide or suicide-note stories, pedophilia, rape, bestiality, necrophilia, incest, explicit sex, and graphic depictions of abuse or torture. You can view a . If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask!   *** #Reminders: - **If you are continuing an in-progress serial (one that you began off of Serial Sunday), please include links to the prior installments on Reddit.** Our bot will not be able to log these. - **On Saturdays, I host a Serial Campfire in our .** Join us to read your story aloud and hear other stories. We provide feedback for all those present. **We now start at 1pm EST.** You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join! - **Nominations for your favorite stories can be submitted .** The form is open on Saturdays from 12pm to 11:59pm EST. You do not have to participate to make nominations! - **Authors who complete their Serial Sunday serials with at least 12 installments, can host a SerialWorm in our Discord’s Voice Lounge, where you read aloud your finished and edited serials.** This is to celebrate your wonderful accomplishment and provide some extra motivation to cross that finish line. Authors are eligible for this only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). Visit us on the Discord to check out more on that! - **There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server!** Be sure to grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news, including new posts and Campfires!   *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points (but its interpretation is entirely up to you)! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Thread feedback (at least 2 required) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap) **Nominating Other Stories:** - Voting for your favorite stories - 5 points (total) *Note: In order to receive feedback points, your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well (i.e. “I liked it, great chapter” style comments will not earn you points or credit).* **Looking for more on what actionable feedback is?** Check out or these previous crits from Serial Sunday: | |   *** #Rankings - **First place:** - by u/katherine_c   - **Second place:** - by u/rainbow\-\-penguin   - **Third place:** - by u/MeganBessel   - **Honorable Mention:** - - by u/OneSidedDice   - **Crit Star:** u/rainbow\-\-penguin *Crit Creds are awarded to users who go above and beyond with critiques on the thread and can be used on r/WPCritique. Don’t forget in order to receive them, you also must have made at least one post on WPC or have linked your reddit account to the sub on our .*   *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires and a few other fun events! - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


“All is fair in Love and War” I may or may not have several mental issues that originated from my Middle school and High school times of which I am highly ashamed of. I was a very dumb kid, like impressively naive and hopeful. Many of my friends would say they were the same way and that it’s not worth thinking about, but I just can’t stop thinking back on my younger self with nothing but harsh judgement toward him. My first kinda real relationship I had was… not successful to say the least. It was back in Middle school so it was bound to fail, but it’s easy to be blind to imminent failure when your hormones are off the charts and you believe you’re on the brink of striking gold. Her name is Murphy. Murphy was kind of “the hoe of Pendleton”, which is a sad and concerning title to have at 13. I didn’t know that though, and it probably wouldn’t change what I thought about her very much if I did, it’s just food for thought and a little important to mention. Most of that relationship isn’t really worth talking about. We met, she had a crush on me, nobody liked me so knowing someone liked me like that won me over, blah blah blah, dating. You couldn’t even really call it dating though, we never went out together other than to smoke weed. No parks, or dinners together, we just ate frozen food, junk food, laid around in my room smoking weed and constantly having sex. After 2 months of “dating” she told me she had cheated on me but it was when she was drunk and that she loves me. I kind of shoulda seen that coming because she cheated on a different guy to get with me, but I was also 13 and very romantically influenced by whatever dumb HollyWood movies I was watching at the time, so it felt like we were vigilantes of romance, or at least I felt like a vigilante. Instead of breaking off the relationship after that violation of trust, I believed she still loved me and shrugged off the emotional damage that caused. She proceeded to cheat on me two more times in our one year relationship, one of those times being with my bestfriend at the time. After that bad experience dating and smoking a brain damaging amount of weed during that, I found myself paranoid and untrusting of everyone unless given an unhealthy amount of reassurance. I still need it to this day, less now than before, but I still find myself uncomfortable even in rock solid relationships if I’m not given a weird amount of reassurance. I’m not very bothered by that though, what I’m more bothered about is the ending of that relationship. Toward the end she told me for the third time that she had cheated on me again and that she was sorry. I was seething with a full range of negative feelings, some really vile, toxic shit, but instead of breaking up with her and distancing myself from that mess, I told her it was fine. The very next day I cheated on her, then a week later I broke up with her after I told her what I did in the most unapologetic way possible. The first and only time I really took pride in being an asshole. I turned into the thing I hated most, something that to me was unredeemable in any scenario, I had done out of spite. Some hear it and say “All is fair in Love and War” then tell me what I did was bad but justifiable, but to me there is no justifying that. She didn’t sink me down to her level, I got there all by myself, she just showed me how easy it is to fight fire with fire. That’s Pendleton for ya though. Everyone wants to leave this place and it’s obvious why. Pendleton is just a sad hole in the ground that turns everyone rotten, maybe not as rotten as Murphy, or maybe more. You can’t really predict how negatively this place will affect someone, all you can really know is that this place is cursed, and just being here for even a moment will guarantee that you lose a bit of your niceness. Or if you don’t have any of that, you’ll just become like the main majority of Pendleton. Mad, untrusting, and mentally feral. This is the first thing I’ve written in a while so it’s not very great, but I’m proud of it. I’ve used a fake name to protect the person I wrote about, but they know who they are.


It started at around 11pm; I was aimlessly looking through BBC iplayer contently browsing top gear, Sherlock etc looking for something to fill the volatile silence which consumed my bedroom. I bought my TV 4 months ago ish, off an ad on eBay, it was cheap for a smart tv. The remote isn’t the most amazing and the tv sometimes crashes which, as expected, comes with an older tv- but I don’t think this thing has come from the previous owner. It was a quiet night, the best way I can describe it as the quiet before a thunder storm, the gut wrenching quiet in which you know something is coming but you don’t know when, a foreboding sensation. All of a sudden my tv crashes, not exactly unheard of, I start to reboot it as usual and all comes as expected however I hear a tapping at the window, a patterned tapping which almost makes me jump out of bed- I am the sceptical type so my heart felt like it was going to leap out of my chest. I turn the light on and wait for it to go, it did after maybe 20 seconds and I assured myself it was rain coming, the weather did say scattered showers and my window was shut, along with my blackout curtains. I shook it off and returned to my tv, turning on BBC iplayer when all of a sudden the screen becomes distorted, the suggestions all scattered in disfiguring pattern with the words taken from the top suggestion spotted amongst the random colouration of different shows, the words “seeing is deceiving” in red moving In an unusual way, almost as if the words were trying to escape whatever was holding them capture. As you can imagine, I was horrified and immediately tried turning off my tv, it wouldn’t budge, trying and trying again for a good minute, hearing my heartbeat course through my eardrums, until finally the tv turned off- I again, trying to reassure myself and keep that part of my mind from overthinking at bay I turned the tv on again, holding back my stomach from turning itself outwards it turns on as normal and I was happy again. I switched on an episode of top gear and it played as normal. Now I am an insomniac and I really struggle to go to sleep at night, I try to drown myself with boring stuff to help me sleep as part of my routine and at this point, maybe 11:30/11:45pm I was not tired, like, at all. Sitting bolt upright in bed I get the urge to go to sleep, which is unfamiliar, and if this happens I would usually thank the lord and try go to sleep but for some reason, my gut kept telling me not too, this time I listened to that but I just couldn’t help it and I shouldn’t have fallen asleep but I did, still completely upright in bed I passed out I don’t remember what time but god, god I shouldn’t have fallen asleep with the tv still playing. When I woke up, it was maybe 4am, still that quiet, still, humid darkness outside my bedroom that I had grown familiar with, I was confused and out of it and realised was still sitting upright (absolutely unheard of, I never sleep upright- not on planes, cars, chairs, anything) the glaze over my eyes started to fade and a horrible realisation came over my body and I started to tremble, my organs in my body swilling around in there like they were in a rollercoaster, instead of top gear still playing, there in my tv, was a face, staring at me. A face I can best describe as human, however the features were pervert and warped in a way a child would draw a human, not quite right but with the intention of looking like a human, it’s smile was too wide, blonde hair sprouting out like a scientist, glaring black eyes that were not level nor the same shape staring into mine, I knew it was looking at me, analysing me; with the same red words bouncing around the screen “seeing is deceiving” I leapt up and scrambled looking for the remote, bedsheets flying through the air, clothes going every way possible until I spotted it, underneath that window which made the tapping noise. All while that thing, that creature, analysing and evaluating me through the screen. I grabbed the remote, breathless and exhausted frantically turning the tv off. It is now 5:30am while I wright this, I haven’t turned my tv back on and I want to burn it. I don’t know what to do, that gut curdling feeling hasn’t left my system and my parents will look at me like my last brain cell has left if I try to explain to them what’s just happened. But for some reason, deep down, that thing wants me, I don’t know what for, but it wants me, and I feel like it’s already advanced; I just don’t know what into yet.


David walked into the pub, looking around in search of his mates. Not seeing them, he sat down at the bar to order a pint while he waited for them to turn up. “Lager please” he said as the barman came round. “Where the hell are they…” he thought to himself. He pulls his mobil out to see if any of them had rang him. They hadn’t. He sent a text to the group “You said meet up at 4 it’s nearly 5. Where are you?” *Send* An expression of confusion came across his brow. The message says sent, but not delivered. “odd..” he thought to himself again. Finishing his pint, he thought might as well have another as I wait. The pub was eerily dead for a Saturday so the second pint came quick, the glass glistening under the soft warm lights above the bar. He drank hastily as he sat there miffed that no one has shown up yet, Or at least responded to him. He looks again, still says sent, but not delivered. “Where are they?” He thinks, as he takes another large swallow. He calls Michael, but it goes straight to voicemail. He looks at the clock behind the bar… nearing 7:30 now, and he realizes he’s completely sloshed. On 2 pints? Oh wait there was a third…and a fourth? Shit… how many had he drank? six? He’s groggy, and a little disoriented as he stands up for a wee, and for the first to really looks around. “Where…where am I?” He half mumbles to himself. He doesn’t recognize anything. Nothing seems right. It’s all familiar, but not in a recognizable way. He grabs his mobile from his pocket, but right as he’s about to try Jon’s phone, he hears someone calling his name. They sound far away, almost as if they were calling from up the stairs. He starts to look around and again he hears it, “Daavid. Daaaaavid” almost a whisper, but somehow incredibly loud at the same time. His head starts to pound. “FUCK!” he yells, someone turned on all of the bright florescent overheads. He looks up, shielding his eyes a bit from the harsh white light “Now who would bloody do that!?” He says, again mostly to himself. “David. DAVID” He hears again. More stern this time. “I know that voice” he thinks. “Dad?” He mutters out as he looks around still blinded. Suddenly he hears sobbing, again it sounds almost as if it’s coming from up the stairs. He looks around the room again, when he sees a figure moving towards him … he can’t make out who it is, still partially blinded with this light… he closes his eyes for a second to try to readjust “David. Oh my god David. We thought we lost you” he hears, his eyes still closed. Suddenly, like a deer right before impact, his eyes open wide, looking up into the increasingly bright light. His dad looming over him, his mum draped across him, in the best embrace you can give in a hospital bed. He looks down, he’s in a hospital gown. Suddenly the world comes alive in his head. The buzzes and beeps from the machines he’s hooked up to, hospital staff outside the room rushing around, his own nurse checking something on a monitor nearby. He’s in hospital, this much he can gather but what happened? “Where am I? What happened? Why am I in hospital?” He can hardly get the words out, his mouth dry, his lips tight and cracked. “You’re in hospital David, there’s been an accident” his dad says, trailing off at the end. He notices his mum starts sobbing again. Suddenly like every bad teen movie cliche he’s transported back as he remembers, they were coming home from a football match, Chelsea had just won 2 nil against Brighton. Michael was driving his mates and him home after the match. They were just passing through Hammersmith and the last thing he remembers is screaming as huge lights from a Lorry were seconds away from making contact with the side of Michaels car. “How’s everyone else?! Are they okay? Are they at Charing Cross too?” Michael asks frantically as he tries to sit up. His mum, who was already barely holding it together loses it. His dad who until this point had stood their stoically, turns away to try to hide the tears as he says, “they… they didn’t make it David.