Dated diner on the side of an old desert highway no one inside but you the waitress the cook and the receptionist, the air smells of cigarettes and black coffee, the booths are crinkly red leather, the only sounds are the muffled music wafting from the worn jukebox, and the occasional clink from dishes being washed in the kitchen sink, you order a plate of steak and eggs with a side of bacon and hash browns, the waitress Un-enthusiastically takes your order and delivers it to the cook who stops washing dishes and begins preparing your meal, you look outside and it’s pitch black besides the cool glow of the moon and the Milky Way radiating from the cloudless sky, you begin to think about the history of the diner and it’s occupants, now of course your wondering begins with you, and your journey towards wherever your going perhaps your destination isn’t set, your mind trails and thinks of the waitress, a bit cold or disinterested of course she was once a youth maybe like you or perhaps not like you, did she have dreams goals things that she now understands will never be accomplished, what of the cook or the receptionist, is this where any of them wanted there story to come to, or maybe this is just a footnote in their story and eventually they will accomplish those goals and dreams, a thought enters your brain almost as if emitted by the stars above themselves, “what’s the point of all this” and the stars would be correct in asking you this question I mean what have they done with their multi billion year existence but provide energy in the form of light to celestial bodies which surround them, of course if you were to have the answer to that question you likely wouldn’t be in the diner or wondering it in the first place, your meal arrives, and you thank the waitress and ask for another cup of coffee, and begin to eat, noticing that the eggs are a it rubbery and the steak a bit tough, the waitress returns with the coffee handing you a full pot instead of one cup, your thought now shifts, reflecting on the very unique turn of events in human history that you would be sitting in a diner in a country called the United States of America in the year two thousand and twenty, of course two thousand and twenty referring to the number of years after the birth of a Jewish boy to a carpenter, who was executed by crucifixion by a man named pontius pilate a governor of the Roman Empire that started in Italy, you realize that there is no making sense of that either because if you understood exactly why everything in human history led up to this moment again you probably wouldn’t be in the diner and definitely wouldn’t be thinking about it. You finish your meal and motion the waitress over, she hands you a receipt and sends you to the receptionist, you pay for your meal and exit the diner, you make your way to your car and onto a lonely desert highway and drive off quietly into the night.


After a brief hiatus, we’re back for more spotlights from our recently concluded cycle of Serial Saturday! Now all that’s left to do is prepare for the upcoming season and spotlight our fantastic authors. With weekly programs like Serial Saturday we have a great opportunity to get to know writers in our community and follow their progress in such a clear and exciting way. It’s been such a treat to watch people evolve their flash fiction serials with us, especially with universes and characters they’ve been writing for a while. One such story comes from /u/Mazinjaz, a regular from /r/writingprompts and the sunny voice in our discord meetings. Here at we thoroughly enjoyed Mazinjaz’s story of superheroes with a balance of mystery, comedy, and action. But don't take my word for it! Here's a small teaser: >*Rio Storm has a dream: to become a hero, one whose legend will reach and even surpass that of her mother's, Lady Stormbringer.* > >*Lanecia Ward, the Windwalker, has protected the city of New York from its criminal elements for decades.* > >*The two meet, youthful optimism and arrogance clashing with jaded experience. Rio wants to rebuild Tempest, the team that her mother and Windwalker once founded. For Lanecia, the idea only brings back unpleasant memories.* > >*In the background, the machinations of supervillains never really stop...* For our first run of Serial Saturday at it was important for us to get author impressions of how their experience went with us, and give readers a peek at the "behind the scenes" of creating a flash fiction serial. Here's Mazinjaz’s take on that: >This is the story I wrote for the season of Serial Saturday over at /shortstories. > >I'm somebody that has characters that have been around since forever, but with very few things to show for it. Both Theme Thursday and Serial Saturday have helped me go into their stories, figure out new things about said characters, and vastly improve my writing. > >The feedback I've received for my stories during the campfire readings is one of those things that have inspired me to continue working, as well as reading and hearing the stories of other authors on the site. It's been fun, and encouraging, and makes me want to write more. > >... and so I will! > >I still have more stories to tell, and I hope to do something bigger with them soon. With *Tempest Begins* at an end (for now) there is only one thing left to do: show off this newly finished story for obligatory bragging rights here on . Let the bragging begin! Without further ado, here's Mazinjaz’s Table of Contents. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ You can check out more of Mazinjaz's work by going to his profile Congrats on finishing your serial, Mazinjaz, and we can’t wait to see what you do next. <3 from the team at , , and Serial Saturday. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ *For more information on the Serial Saturday program feel free to check out our* *.* We have members from all around the world and who have all kinds of schedules, so there’s usually someone awake to talk to. We also have scheduled readings, oration critiques, spur-of-the-moment story time, or even just random hangouts over voice chat.


(I have no experience/training whatsoever in creative or fictional writing and this is my first attempt doing anything like this, so any respectful or helpful input is appreciated. This is a work in progress, and to set the scene these two scientists/explorers are entering a previously undiscovered room on a space station that was built by a long dead race of beings) Though it was represented using symbols not seen in any human civilization derived from Earth, the form and structure of the equation was unmistakable. It was Schrodinger’s equation, that same differential equation that is intimately familiar to any physics undergraduate. While simple and elegant in form, it becomes impossibly complex when applied to anything more elaborate than a hydrogen atom. Despite this, given a proper mathematical description of the system, it has the power to describe the current and future evolution of any physical system, limited by the probabilistic nature of the quantum realm. He edged closer to the plinth and began to inspect the equations, running his fingers over the symbols and muttering to himself as he proceeded across the panel. As he went, the symbols and numbers began to suggest a hint of familiarity to him. He strained to recall how, but the answer eluded him. Like a splinter in his brain that cannot be extracted, he could feel the answer on the periphery of his conscious, but it remained just out of reach. He knew that if he could only remember, the jumbled mess of symbols and seemingly disparate equations would coalesce into a neat mathematical formulation and relinquish their secrets to him. After what seemed like hours of puzzlement, though in reality only minutes had passed, it suddenly came to him – the many world’s theory. The imaginative, if dubious idea, first introduced in the 20th century by a physicist whose name he couldn’t recall, postulated the existence of a universal formula to describe the totality of existence, and that every possible quantum outcome of every decision or probabilistic event is manifested in separate, parallel universes. Though long believed to inhabit the realm of fiction rather than science, here it was laid before him, in all its beauty and elegance. As his gaze led him to the bottom of the panel where one, final equation was displayed prominently, he took a moment to consider its meaning in the context of the rest of the panel. As he began to piece all the elements of the display before him together, he could feel a tingle of exhilaration welling inside him. Unless he was mistaken, this was it. The universal wavefunction. The one equation to describe everything that is or ever will be. What use the ancient inhabitants of this station had for this theoretical curiosity, he was unsure. From information salvaged and translated from devices found here, many in the consortium believed the station’s purpose was to investigate the possibility of time travel, and certain clues suggested they had been successful to some degree in achieving that goal. Given the level of technology displayed here, he didn’t doubt it. The connection was too tantalizing for him not to consider. Harnessing the power of the universal wavefunction and the complete knowledge of the evolution of the universe, could it be possible to return to the moment at which one universe split into many? As the full weight of this realization dawned on him, he let out a sharp gasp. The pounding of his heart was deafening. His breath coalesced in thick clouds of vapor suspended in the cool air, illuminated by the soft blue hue of the elegant equations laid before him. The glittering clouds seemed to freeze in time as his mind began reeling with the implications of this potential discovery. How many times had the historical or evolutionary trajectory of the human race been altered? Or, for that matter, that of the solar system, or even the universe itself? How many winding paths through the infinite space of alternate realities had been traversed? The entirety of natural and human history was but one thread in an endless web of possible universes. In the face of such hyperastronomical realities, he was suddenly overcome with an overwhelming sense of existential insignificance. Futility. He had been lost so deeply in his rumination that when his partner finally broke the silence, he was startled by the sound, as if it had been decades since he had heard a human voice. “What is that?” Alyona whispered, gesturing to the grand equation at the bottom of the panel. Given her almost reverent disposition, he assumed she had reached the same conclusion he had regarding the equation and was in similar awe of its potential. He leaned forward and inspected the symbols. After scanning the lines momentarily, he noticed what had attracted her attention. A particular symbol, buried within the mess of variables and constants that were recognizable to him, appeared several times. What’s more, it was a symbol that was previously unknown to him or any member of the research consortium. So far in the exploration of the facility, no trace of this particular symbol had been identified on any panel, door, or in any file. A novel symbol, to be added to the growing body of knowledge on this long dead, inconceivably advanced civilization. Yesterday, this discovery alone would have been reason enough for celebration and hours of unrestrained and giddy conjecture before more stringent semiotic analysis could be carried out by other members of the consortium. Now, in the context of the equation itself and what it represents, it seems but a minor curiosity. Still, the symbol’s prominence in the equation implied its obvious importance. In what capacity, he was unsure, but it was a question that was certain to occupy his every waking moment until an answer was revealed.


A hundred years ago, a small group of Englishmen were sent to South Africa on a mining expedition to gather gold for her majesty the queen. However, weeks of digging inside dark and empty caves yielded nothing, nothing save a conspicuously round boulder. The men thought its curious spherical shape charming enough they sought to take it. After all, they needed something to show for the time they'd been there, and it was a fun project to keep them busy before they returned. It took the entire force of ten men and the whole day to roll it out, and by the end of it they were all exhausted. Once in the daylight, they noticed cuts and tiny grooves which glistened. After several hits from a pickaxe, the boulder split open into two halves, revealing a glowing red centre of pure crystal and gemstone. Realising the rarity of what they found, the ten men agreed to break it down further into ten pieces - one for each member of the group - and take their share home. On the last day, they got on their planes and left. But they wouldn't make it back to England. The planes ran into a tropical storm and the pilots lost control. All of them came spinning down and crashed into a heap of scrap on the dusty plains somewhere within the Angolian desert. Both of the pilots died immediately, but the ten miners on board survived unscathed. How was this possible? The only explanation was the chunk of rock they all had in their backpacks. Realising they'd found the key to immortality, the men rejoiced, throwing their hands in the air and weeping tears of joy. But when they searched the backpacks for their respective crystals, all they found were piles of gravel and crushed glass. The impact of the fall plus the explosion of the engine had obliterated all but one stone. And, just like before, they cut it down into ten smaller pieces. Using the powers of the gemstone, they survived a week in the Angolian desert without food or water, treading through oven hot sand and baking in the equatorial sun. They were all exhausted and in great pain, for the crystal would save them from death but it could not cease their physical ailments and deficiencies. Finally, they arrived at a small settlement. They were in so much pain that they gave their crystals to the people there for water and shelter from the heat. After all their efforts to obtain and keep their jewels, death was far more favourable than the relentless thirst that pulled at their guts and scorched their mouths. Not long after giving away their gems, the men began to feel strange. That night they slept in tents, and in their sleep some events prior to their arrival began to replay their effects. Scratches and bruises appeared. Large lacerations. Bones snapped. Limbs just fell off. Organs ruptured, and their bodily functions began to collapse one by one. They feared that death was coming, so the strongest and least damaged among the men exited their tents under the intentions of stealing the gems back from the settlers. However, barely fed and hydrated, the men fell to the ground and suffocated in the sand. None of them survived. Not realising that they held ten immortality gems, the settlers traded them off for supplies of cotton and livestock. Over a hundred years later, their whereabouts is unknown.


On the outside, Phillip was a completely ordinary man. He was married with a baby on the way. He owned an ordinary house in an ordinary neighborhood. He picked up the paper from his front stoop every morning, threw a ‘how do you do’ wave to the neighbors, and headed off to his ordinary job. He was respected in the neighborhood, even mowing his elderly neighbor’s lawn on the weekends. Inside however, Philip was anything but ordinary. Phillip was a tortured soul. Phillip was a victim of circumstance. As a young child, Phillip lived in a home not too far from where he lived now. They lived next door to an affluent business man. A man who also had a secret. Talk of corruption surrounded this man, and he had owed money to some rather questionable people. One night some men showed up to this businessman’s door, or rather they showed up to what they thought was his door. Young Phillip had hid in a low cupboard in the kitchen, one he often used when he played hide and seek with his twin brother, and witnessed the men brutally murder his parents and twin. Young Philip began suffering from nightmares. The events would often creep into his sleep, stealing away pleasant dreams, and replacing them with the ghastly images of his family’s murder. He often woke up screaming and noticing he had wet the bed. Phillip found no relief and the nightmares followed him into adulthood. Late one night, The phone rang, waking Phillip from yet another nightmare. He sat up, his tee shirt clinging to his sweaty skin. He walked to the phone and groggily answered. “Hello?” He yawned. “Meet me. I have something you may be interested in. Come to this address.” The mysterious voice whispered. Phillip sat up from bed, gasping. Was he sleeping? The phone wasn’t ringing. Had he dreamt that? Did someone give him an address? Did he just answer the phone in his sleep? It felt so real. After work, Phillip decided to make a detour. He remembered the address, but it was already getting late, and it was a long drive. He will just tell his wife he had to stay late at work. He had not been on the edge of town in years and a nice drive and a little fresh air may make him feel better anyway. It was a run down part of town. Many abandoned buildings, with faded business signs and boarded windows. Weeds grew from cracks in the sidewalk. Windows that were not broken were covered in a dust so thick that it was nearly impossible to see inside. Buildings from an era long gone by. An old rail yard lined the landscape on the other side of the street. Past that, a highway that faded into darkness. This was indeed the edge of town. Phillip slowed and read the faded addresses painted on the front of the buildings. On a corner lot stood a small one story building. It had the same address that he was given. Phillip pulled up along the curb and parked the car. This is strange, he thought. What would he even say? Would he tell them that he was given this address in his sleep? Would they chase him out of there, thinking he was a crazy person? The sun had set, and the store looked dark inside, but an open sign still hung on the door. Phillip grabbed the door handle, hesitated, then entered the building. An old man, perhaps in his eighties, stood behind the counter. Sunken, hollowed eyes stared back at Phillip. The old man’s lips formed a smile and Phillip noticed his yellowed teeth. The man looked like he had too many teeth in his mouth, Phillip thought. Maybe twice as many as he should have. That couldn’t be. He was tall, and very thin. Skeletal. Like a stiff breeze would knock him over. A filthy tee shirt hung like a clothesline over his collar bone. Slacks that were stained and dirty clung to his skinny legs. Thin, greasy hair laid loosely from the old man’s head. Phillip then noticed the man’s shoes. Two-toned, red and white wingtips. Those shoes had to be as old as the man was, maybe older, Phillip thought, but they looked brand new. Right off the shelf new. Peculiar. “I think I may have received a call from you, but I’m not sure”, Phillip told the man. “I have what you’re looking for.” The smiling man whispered. Phillip once again noticed the old man’s teeth. Narrow and long, like the teeth of a rodent. And so many. Way too many. The walls were stacked floor to ceiling with old boxes. Pictures and paintings in old dirty frames were piled in the corner. Antique furniture stood haphazardly around the store, many draped in dust-covered sheets. This store looks like it hasn’t been open in years, he thought. Phillip followed the old man behind the counter, then to a cellar door near the back wall. The old man bent over and grabbed the rusty latch. The wooden door looked heavy, but the old man’s sinewy arms lifted it with little effort. The flight of stairs were dark, with each step a different size. Years of replacing rotten steps, Phillip thought as he descended. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, the old man searched for a string and pulled. A lightbulb flickered and came to life. In front of them stood an old swivel mirror. Nearly as tall as Phillip, the oval, double sided mirror swiveled on rusty metal latches. “This is what you came for. Take it home.” “What is it? What’s it for?” Phillip asked. “What am I supposed to do with a mirror?” The old man stayed silent, turned and walked up the stairs. Phillip looked at the old wooden mirror, picked it up and carried it up the stairs. When he reached the top, the old man was gone. “Hey, where are you? I’m not sure what to do with this mirror. Do I have to pay for it? Where’d you go?” Phillip sat on the foot of the bed. His wife was quietly sleeping. She hadn’t asked much about the mirror when he came home. He said he had found it standing on the side of the road. She said “ok, dear”, and went back to sleep. He stared at the mirror. His reflection stared back. He thought something looked a bit off. His reflection seemed to be swirling, like a ripple of water. He stood up and walked over to the mirror. It was indeed swirling. He jumped back, shocked at what he was seeing. Was this like one of those fun house mirrors? Should he wake his wife and show her? He hit the bottom of the mirror with his foot, flipping the back of the mirror around. What was on the other side took his breath away. His twin brother was looking back at him. He can see me, Phillip said out loud, and then covered his mouth with his hand as to not wake his wife. He thought it better than to scare her while she was pregnant. Phillip’s twin brother looked down towards the pile of wooden blocks he was playing with. Wait a minute, Philip thought. This is exactly what happened the night of the murder. His brother sat there giggling, unaware of what was about to happen. His twin brother turned his head and looked away, as three men entered the room behind him. “No!” Screamed Phillip. “Please, no!” He hit his knees. He looked back up at the mirror and saw his twin brother laying on the floor, lifeless. He hit the mirror in anger and it swung back around, once again showing his own reflection. He saw tears were pouring down his face. How was this supposed to help me, he cried, and he cursed the old man who had given him the mirror. He grabbed the mirror and swung it as hard as he could. Instead of swinging wildly, it abruptly stopped on his brother’s side of the mirror. This time his twin brother looked directly at Phillip, with a look of dread in his eyes. His eyes then turned dark black. The innocent little child opened his mouth, and let out a blood-curdling scream that was so loud it began to shake the mirror. Bright light pored out of the mirror in blinding rays, causing Phillip to cover his eyes. The scream filled Phillip’s head, and shook the bedroom windows. It was the loudest thing he had ever heard. His wife hadn’t moved. The child grew silent. He then just sat there quietly staring at his brother with dead black eyes. Philip couldn’t breathe. Panic had rendered him motionless. He just stared blankly at the mirror, his twin, for what felt like an eternity. Phillip noticed a corner of a piece of paper hanging out from the bottom of the mirror. He reached for it and pulled. A folded note had been taped to the bottom of the mirror and fell out, landing near his feet. He unwrapped the aged, yellowed paper and read the note. It read “To find peace, you must break the mirror, but you must lose someone you love”. Phillip looked at his brother. He whispered “I am so sorry. I wish I could have helped you. But I was young too. I wasn’t strong enough”. His brother stared back with a blank look in his black eyes. Philip wanted peace. He didn’t want to loose his wife or anyone else that he loved, but he couldn’t deal with the pain any longer. He stood up and struck the mirror with every ounce of energy he could muster. The mirror exploded into a thousand shards of glass. A million. The glass turned to dust in the air and swirled around him. Phillip closed his eyes and prayed that he wouldn’t lose his wife. When he opened his eyes, the mirror, his brother, the glass was gone. Phillip crawled into the bed next to his sleeping wife, exhausted. He had never felt so tired. He tried to replay what happened in his mind, but everything grew dark. Warmth surrounded him. Within seconds he fell asleep. He woke up the next morning, feeling refreshed. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept so well. He turned over and looked towards his loving wife. She was gone. Memories of last night flooded back into his mind. He jumped out of bed, running downstairs to find his wife. She was standing in the kitchen, stirring a cup of coffee. Remnants of scrambled eggs lay on a plate on the counter beside her. “Oh thank God, she’s ok”, Phillip thought to himself. “I was wondering when you would wake up. You slept like a baby.” She said, tussling his hair. “Want some breakfast?” “Sounds good. I think I did get some sleep last night. Slept well actually. Amazingly well.” Phillip said. It felt like slow motion. The coffee cup slipping from her grasp. Crashing to the floor, exploding into shards of glass. Hundreds of shards. Millions. Dust covered the floor. She grabbed her stomach and let out a terrible scream. A blood-curdling scream. He reached for her, but couldn’t catch her before she fell to the floor. “The doctor will be right in” the nurse told them. “I hope there’s nothing wrong with the baby”, she cried. Phillip held her as the doctor entered the room. “It looks like you are ok, but I’m sorry to say that you have lost your baby.” The doctor said solemnly. “But they said everything was fine and the baby was healthy. Everything was going great.” Phillip replied. “I don’t think you understand. There is no baby. It’s gone. Disappeared. We can’t explain what happened. It’s like it’s never existed. It’s definitely a mystery.


My life is boring. You may think that is a bad thing, but for me it’s a dream come true. I come from the bustling streets of central Britain where everyone seemed to have somewhere to be every second of the day. So when I moved out far into the country to pursue my dream of becoming a florist, I was finally able to think clearly. My town is about as average as they come, the most notable thing that happened here was the time our next door neighbor won a lifetime supply of sunscreen from the local radio station. Seeing as we live in a rainy European town where the sun is a foreign concept, it was short lived fame to say the least. So as a whole life was calm, and living here was relatively simple. However, the one thing that never ceases to perplex me, is the lonely clock tower that stood tall in the town’s square. No one knows where it really came from, some elders say it was there before the town ever existed. But one thing was for sure, it wasn’t normal. You see, no matter where you were, no matter the time, no matter the weather, you could always hear that damn omnipresent ticking in the back of your mind. Sometimes it was a whisper, and sometimes it was a yell but no matter how loud it was, it was there. So you can imagine the panic when the ticking finally stopped… I awoke with a startle, and I immediately knew something was off. It took me a second before it broke through the power of my morning grogginess, and then it hit me. The clock, the ticking, it’s gone. At first I was overjoyed, true silence, something that was a stranger to me for many years now. That joy was quickly smothered when I looked out the window however. “Dark… it’s dark outside…” I said to no one in particular. A seemingly usual observation turned negative when I saw the alarm clock on the bedside table near me. It read 12:35pm, by this time our small town would be bustling with activity, stocking markets and going about their daily errands. However the streets stood as still as ice. I decided the best course of action would be to head outside and maybe figure out what the hell was going on. As I stepped out into the cold supposed nighttime air, I promptly realized that the time wasn’t the only thing to have stopped in its tracks. Leaves frozen mid fall, my friends and acquaintances stuck in whatever activity they were engaging in, and even the morning dew refused to loosen its clutch on the delicate blades of grass surrounding everything in our fair town. The only thing that moved… was me. My head spun with the possibilities of what was happening and thoughts began to flood my head. Why was this happening? How can I fix it? Why was I spared? My trance was promptly broken by a flickering in the corner of my eye. Upon focusing on it, I could tell it was being produced by some sort of candle in the towns square. Another one like me perhaps? Seemingly void of any other options at the time, I began to follow the old cobblestone path to the disturbance. Entering the square the first thing entering my sight was the looming clock tower in the center. It’s hands stood still as rock, almost as if they never had moved in the first place, but I knew better. As I scanned my surroundings for the odd light I had seen before, my eyes settled on a table that had seemingly appeared out of thin air at the base of the tower. At the table was the candle that had drawn my attention previously and perhaps the oddest thing ive seen all day, a man sitting calmly at the table with an empty chair across from him. Having no other words come to mind, I offered him greetings sheepishly and without a word he gestured to the chair across from him. Obviously asking for me to take a seat, I obliged and sat awkwardly across from the stranger. As I sat there with him, I began to notice some things about him that I failed to notice previously, most likely due to the absurdity of the situation. He obviously wasn’t from around here, he was groomed nicely with slicked back hair and wore a black suit with a flower that I failed to identify tucked into the front of it. Strangely enough however, he seemed to have a large brass gear ever turning in the back of his head. After a few moments of silence that felt as if they dragged on for eternities, the mysterious man began to speak. “As I assume you have already realized” he began softly, “things aren’t exactly normal around here are they?”. Angry at his perceived calmness with the situation, I lashed out “Normal?! My whole life has come to a stand still and you waltz in here as if some minor inconvenience has taken place?!” I stopped myself from going any further as I realized I was practically out of my seat at that point, “I just want to know what’s going on” I added. “And you will, in time” the man calmly responded “you may call me Princeton, and I’d appreciate it if you joined me for a walk”. And without another word he stood up and began to stroll towards the clock tower. Had I been a cautious person, I would’ve been skeptical to say the least, but I was too curious for my own good and I followed close behind Princeton. The door to the clock tower had never been opened, at least to the people of our town, no matter what efforts we tried, it stayed sealed. However, as me and my new company approached the entrance, it opened up for us on its own. I hesitated to follow inside, but my own wonder overtook me and I entered into the tower. The initial reveal was quite disappointing, “it’s really just a normal tower, what about the ticking?” I exclaimed, bewildered. But Princeton didn’t even hear me, or if he did, he made no sign of acknowledgment. He just continued up the stairs to the top of the clock's inner workings, presuming he wanted me to follow, I started my way up as well. Entering the main chamber, I was greeted with an odd sight, another table much like the one at the base of the tower outside. Only this time, resting upon the table were three things, a screwdriver, a gear (much like the one endowed upon Princeton), and an hourglass that had almost ran out. Before I could even get a word out, Princeton began to speak “When I created this world long ago, I needed to find a way to sustain its life and ensure the progress made by its inhabitants would continue ever more” he looked out the way window longingly before continuing “That’s when I had discovered the ability to harness a special characteristic of this universe… dark matter.” Seeing as I was obviously confused by the words he was saying, Princeton began to switch his focus to be a bit more simple. “You probably notice the manifestation of this dark matter as the concept of time, an everyday thing that dictates the very path of your life”. “Where is this going, Princeton? What is your point?!” The look on his face seemed almost annoyed at my impatience, but he regained his composure and passed over my rebuttal. “This, time, however was extremely unstable out of its natural state, and I needed something to anchor it to this land, thus this clock tower, modeled after others to blend in was created and for years I have protected this tower and its every corner to keep it safe…” he paused as if trying to think about how to word his thoughts “but my time is swiftly coming to an end, and I need a new disciple”. I was taken aback and almost couldn’t find the words to speak, after a brief moment I finally spoke “This is… a lot to take in I guess. I’m gonna need some time to think about it I guess”. This seemed to anger him, and this time he didn’t hold back “you dare defy me boy?! I have chosen you to take on the duty of a god and you choose to brush me off?!”. The hourglass approached its final grains of life as Princeton grabbed the gear that mimicked his own and the screwdriver next to it. “I should’ve done this the moment we came in here!”. And my world faded to black as something I couldn’t explain overtook me… My life is busy. You may think that is a bad thing, but for me, it’s a dream come true. I come each morning from the dark corners of a tower, for it is all I have ever known. And I’m happy, I’m very happy. My job is my life, and my life is my job. Keep the clock going. Tick tok tick tok tick tok. And the ticking never stops. ————————————————————————— Bit of a longer story this time for my second venture into writing, but I still finished it which surprised me. Again any advice good or bad would be greatly appreciated.


Hello, I’d like to introduce you to Hershel, he’s a desert dwelling wasp. He has the physical form of a chimpanzee but knows himself to be a wasp. He lives on a planet similar to earth. On that planet, his function is that of a bee. It’s a mystery, really, why the standards of his planet mandate he be labeled a wasp. His physical form nor his function are wasp-y in nature. It would seem there’s no correlation between “wasp” on earth and “wasp” on Hershel’s planet. Hershel lives in isolation and always has, the life of a desert-dwelling wasp is lonely. He walks from tree to tree pollinating them as he goes. This, of course, is inadvertent— he’s just a sneezy guy. What’s remarkable about Hershel is that his sneezes take a really long time to happen. Long enough to account for his walks between trees, which average about 4 days. This makes it possible for the pollen to dwell in his respiratory system until he’s near another tree. On reflection, Hershel found it odd that he hasn’t seen a single other being ever, not even his parents. Yet he knows of parents and what parents are— he has trouble reconciling these facts. On what was June 4th on Earth and just another day of walking for Hershel, he decided he was rather tired of walking about and being alone. He figured he had nothing to lose, so he began to build a spaceship out of the materials around him. “Right”, he said, “I’m going to Earth.” Hershel knew he didn’t know how to build a rocket ship, so he was surprised to have finished building one. He also knew that he didn’t know, or at least he had no reason for knowing, that there were other planets. Ten seconds to blastoff and Hershel found himself sitting in a fully functioning cockpit wearing a full spacesuit. A voice was counting down over the headset. A voice. ‘That’s odd’, he thought to himself, ‘I thought I was alone’. Whatever, he had bigger things to worry about— he was about to be launched. All of this was enough to distract from the compelling amount of oddities. “...three, two, one, blastoff” Hershel sneezed. “Bless you”, said the voice. “Thank you”, said Hershel. “You’re a chimpanzee”, said the voice. “Oh, shit” said Hershel. Then, as lucidity began to dawn on him, he awoke. Hershel left his dwelling on earth where he was sleeping and joined the others in the common space. He spoke, “bzzz bzz bzzzzzz bz bzzz” Roughly translated from Earth bee, “guys, you’re never going to guess what I dreamt.” Epilogue: Hershel lived for another forty days before he came to his unfortunate end. His colony's hive was next to a zoo, and there were flowers in the chimpanzee enclosures. In one particular enclosure lived a chimpanzee who sneezed quite often. He also liked to aggressively poke people and things with his sharp nails. For this reason, the zookeepers referred to him as "Wasp". On Hershel's fateful last day on earth, Wasp accidentally poked a flower that had Hershel in it. As Hershel's body sat on the floor detached from its stinger, his life flashed before his eyes. "bzz bz bzz". "Probably not gonna wake up from this", he said.


As Serial Saturday here on has concluded, all that’s left to do is spotlight our fantastic authors. It’s been such a treat to watch people evolve their flash fiction serials with us and bring arcs to a close that have been with us for quite a while. For a good handful of writers on Serial Saturday, their stories are continuations of serials started on Theme Thursday weekly threads. One such story comes from /u/LitcityBlues. LitCity’s focus on research and keeping his story true to its setting and context was a highlight of this serial. That focus helped ground us in the story, and make it feel that much grittier and more immersive. But don't take my word for it! Here's a small teaser: >Living in Kinmen, murder is rare- but when the daughter of the local party boss from Mainland China just across the water is found on a beach in Kinken with a knife in her belly, it’s up to Detective Pei-Shan and Officer Wei-Ting to solve a murder that’s a landmine of political problems just waiting to explode. Finding the truth, however, turns out to be more complicated and dangerous than either of them were expecting. For our first run of Serial Saturday at it was important for us to get author impressions of how their experience went with us, and give readers a peek at the "behind the scenes" of creating a flash fiction serial. Here's u/LitcityBlues’s take on that: >This began life as a Theme Thursday over on r/writingprompts for the theme ‘Vulnerability’ and I remembered learning about various political crises over the Taiwan Straits in college and remembered Quemoy (Kinmen) and Matsu- but I didn’t realize just how close to China Kinmen actually was. I couldn’t imagine living in a place- that to me, anyway, seemed like it would feel vulnerable *all the time*. > >A simple five hundred word prompt response and the feedback I got demanded more story and then more story and then suddenly I was migrating from Writing Prompts to Short Stories for Serial Saturday and 22 parts later, it was done. I *loved* all the feedback that I got-- and I’d like to think that I at least absorbed *some* of it. This story also taught me the importance of research. Never having been to China, this piece required a ton of homework and I hope, in the end, that I at least captured some essence of the place and the people who live there. With the tale of *Murder In Kinmen* at an end there is only one thing left to do: show off this newly finished story for obligatory bragging rights here on . Let the bragging begin! Without further ado, here's u/LitcityBlues’s Table of Contents. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **TABLE OF CONTENTS** \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ You can check out more of u/LitcityBlues's work by going to their subreddit, r/LitcityBlues. Congrats on finishing your serial, LitCity, and we can’t wait to see what you do next. <3 from the team at , , and Serial Saturday. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ *For more information on the Serial Saturday program feel free to check out our* *.* We have members from all around the world and who have all kinds of schedules, so there’s usually someone awake to talk to. We also have scheduled readings, oration critiques, spur-of-the-moment story time, or even just random hangouts over voice chat.


As Serial Saturday here on has concluded, all that’s left to do is spotlight our fantastic authors. Here at we welcomed a WP newcomer to our ranks. Cole joined WP in the fall and quickly became a frequent contributor to WP threads, and then joined us at SerSat! Having Cole jump in on SerSat was a treat, and a testament to the diversity of approaches we had for this series. Cole’s story of internal and personal conflict was completely different than the other types of stories we got, and I think that’s a testament to his approach and the versatility of this program. But don't take my word for it! Here's a small teaser: >*Subsidized* tells the story of David, a lowly man whose world is shaken after hearing unexpected news from his sister. Whilst dealing with personal troubles, including lingering ones from a past relationship, David must regain his own independence as he begins to battle his own demons. For our first run of Serial Saturday at it was important for us to get author impressions of how their experience went with us, and give readers a peek at the "behind the scenes" of creating a flash fiction serial. Here's ColeZalias’s take on that: >When I first started writing this Serial, I thought of it as just another project that I may abandon within a few short weeks. However, SerSat has proven me wrong with the amazing people who write for it every week. Not only does this program provide a nurturing space for me to improve my writing, it has also helped me to stay committed to ongoing projects, which was an issue that I’ve had in the past. The people here work so very hard to make sure that we all succeed and I wouldn’t have been able to write this story for as long as I did without them. With the tale of *Subsidized* at an end (for now) there is only one thing left to do: show off this newly finished story for obligatory bragging rights here on . Let the bragging begin! Without further ado, here's ColeZalias’s Table of Contents. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ You can check out more of ColeZalias's work by going to his subreddit, r/ColeZalias Congrats on finishing your serial, ColeZalias, and we can’t wait to see what you do next. <3 from the team at , , and Serial Saturday. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ *For more information on the Serial Saturday program feel free to check out our* *.* We have members from all around the world and who have all kinds of schedules, so there’s usually someone awake to talk to. We also have scheduled readings, oration critiques, spur-of-the-moment story time, or even just random hangouts over voice chat.


The weight of the key that’s laying flat in your palm is surprisingly light. You don’t know what you expected. It’s just a key, to unlock just a door. The old man who gave it to you didn’t question you too bad before he handed it to you. He just made sure you knew what lied behind the door, made certain that you were ready for what the key would unlock. You told him you do know, and you are ready. On the big steel door, placed into the mountain, there is an advertisement for car tire storage. It’s been withered as seasons have come and passed over the years. It’s been there for as long as you can remember, for all of your life really. You push the key into the lock, lingering there as you listen. In the distance you can hear the life of the town coming to an end. Happy drunks stumbling their way home. And some, you suppose, not so happy. Drowning in their sorrows as they try to suppress it. You can hear your pulse thumping in your ears. The closer you get to opening the door, the less certain you are. You don’t know what exactly is behind the door, your mother's old notes didn’t explain the details. You hadn’t lied to the man, he hadn’t asked for details. But your mother’s notes made certain of one thing: At the end of the road, lay hell. For the willing, lay profit. For the sleeper, lay eternal damnation. For the awoken, lay power. You don’t care about power or profit. You aren’t even sure what any of it means. You just hope you're not a sleeper. Eternal damnation never sounds like fun. But you care about your mother. After she went missing you had rummaged through everything that could be a clue. Years of albums and diaries you didn’t want to leave had been neatly placed in boxes in the attic. In the very back you had found a box. Heavily taped to ensure that it was perfectly sealed from the outside world. You had sliced open the tape with a kitchen knife to find notebooks just as neatly stacked as any of the others. On the black notebooks, a symbol in red had been drawn. A triangle, with circles at each corner, all within a larger circle. The texts within were at best nightmare inducing. The worst ones you couldn’t finish. But what you gathered was a delusion of grandeur where humans had been gods, and their domains had been under your very feet. You take a quick look around you. In the dark, on the street down the slope, the old man is still standing. Waiting to see if you’ll do it. No one else is around. So, you turn the key. You have to use your leg drive, and put much of your weight into pulling the thick steel door open. You’re met with a cold gust of air. At any other given time you would have welcomed the fresh breeze to combat the heat. Cherized it fully before it passed. Now, the air sends a chill down your spine. Maybe you should’ve brought a sweater. Maybe you don’t believe that you are a god forced into an illusion by hellspawn. But your mother did - and she believed that the road to power was here. She had been gone for two years. Whatever you would find wouldn't be pleasant, as much as you want to force yourself into a mindset of a reality where there could be a happy ever after. With care you take small steps into the darkness. You pull the steel door to a close before taking out your flashlight from your pocket and turning it on. Just as the old man had told you to do. The room you’re in isn’t huge, but it’s clear that you should’ve brought a bigger, and better, flashlight. It’s dim light isn’t doing much to help you see what’s in front of you. However, what you do see - and you can almost not believe your eyes - is car tires. You walk up to them, in a way almost glad that the advertisement wasn’t a bad lie to hide what lay beneath, and drag your fingers across one of them. You’re not an expert on tires, but these don’t seem to have been used. Much of the dirt you see on your fingers seems to be dust. Your hope dies. Perhaps it is just a bad lie after all. You shine around the room until you find the staircase you’re looking for. You approach it with careful steps, the sound of your steps against the wet floor echoes in your mind. You shine down the staircase. It goes in circles, and your flashlight doesn’t seem to be bright enough to shine all the way down to the bottom. You take a step down, and another, and another. Letting the dull sound of the rubber sole against the metal echo in your mind too. You scan the room a last time to see if there’s anything else. But this is it. This is the way down. The way you’re looking for. You keep going down, carefully placing your feet on the next step, for what must be at least 50 metres down into the ground, just going around and around in a circle. Never ending circles. The further down you get, the colder you get. You definitely should’ve brought a sweater. Until the end does come, waking you from the haze you’ve been in. The room you are in is like nothing you’ve ever seen. It resembles some sort of bomb shelter that you wouldn’t be surprised to see in a mountain like this. But the proportions are off. The scale is massive. Just looking at it you’re guessing you could fit at least a six story building before hitting the ceiling. The width, well, that had to be at least four or five of them next to each other, but you’re not entirely sure, the light isn’t strong enough to reach all the way to the mountain wall. When the awe sets, you notice a dim light on the other side of the massive room. You walk towards it. Every step is wet - amplified by the echoes not in your mind but in the room. As you push forward through the room, you hear a scattering around you. Metal against concrete, closing in on you. You shine around the room as you keep walking and see absolutely nothing - nothing is there, but neither is the wall. You pick up your pace, and so does the scattering. The closer the scattering gets, the faster you go, until you find yourself running towards the dim light. You feel as if the light is getting further and further away. When the concrete turns to gravel, the light almost hits an invisible wall. Unwilling to touch the wet concrete. As soon as you step on the gravel, the scattering stops. You turn around and shine out into the monstrous room. Yet again you see nothing. You take a deep breath and let it out slowly. When you look around you, you see that the light is the beginning of a path. The path is all gravel, declining, and slim enough that you doubt two people would fit walking side by side. In the distance, where the path is so dim you can only barely see it from where you stand, you recognize another door. You walk for a minute or two, looking over your shoulder every once in a while. Nothing is ever there, but the burning in your neck from the eyes of the old man staring at you is still there. Just as the chill down your spine never left you either. The decline in the path makes it almost impossible to not notice the deep marks in the ceiling. Five deep and broad marks going from the beginning of the path, to the end of it. You reach for them. You feel the difference in texture between the rough rocky insides of the marks, and the smoothness of the rest of the ceiling. Perhaps they meant to put some sort of electrical wiring there. The tools must not have been right for the job though, the marks are all over the place. The depths vary over seconds of walking and so does the alignment, curving left and right quickly. At the end of the path, another steel door is blocking your path. You take out the key from your pocket, put it into the lock, and try to turn it. You try and you try, in different ways, at different speeds, and it won’t budge. You try to use brute force but it’s a heavy steel door. How could you possibly budge that? You try to see if there’s anything in the lock blocking the key to be used properly but you can’t see anything. Eventually, you have to consider yourself defeated. A deep sigh leaves you as you stare at the door. The old man should’ve mentioned this. Should’ve said what to do when you got here. A last idea comes to you. It’s dumb, it’s mental, but you have nothing to lose. “Fuck it.” you whisper to yourself, as you knock on the door. Three distinct knocks. *CLANK. CLANK CLANK.* When you knock the third and last time, you almost hold your breath, not sure if you want an answer, not sure if you want the door to open. Of course, you think after a couple seconds, there isn’t an answer. Why would there be? ‘ But there has to be *something*. You know it, you feel it. Maybe you missed something on the way down but you’re reluctant to go into the dark room again. And another, more alien, feeling in your gut is making you reluctant to leave the door at all. Like you *have* to continue. Not just for your mother, but because you can’t not. Like a dog tugged on a leash — you will choke yourself on the leash if you try to stray too far. Eventually, you consider yourself defeated by the steel door. You turn around to return to the surface. The second you turn around and start walking, you stop mid-step. On the other end of the path, just where the concrete meets the gravel, you see a slender figure. You can barely breathe as you stare at each other. It’s tall, and where its head ends, shiny spikes of metal begin, pushing into the ceiling. Your pulse begins to thump loudly in your ears, and you feel as if your heart is trying to beat itself out of your ribcage. You back into the door. For the first time you realize *exactly* where you are - in a dead end. The icy cold metal stings against the bare skin of your neck. The figure starts to walk towards you. Heavy steps echo thundersley down the path. The spikes scraping against the concrete ceiling with every long stride it takes. You turn around and try to yank the door open again. Brute force doesn’t work this time either. You look over your shoulder to see the being closing in. You try the key again and it refuses to work. You try, and you try, and you - *fuck*. You break the key. Most of it is stuck in the keyhole, while you’re stuck holding the small handle of it. The heavy steps stop. You drop what little is left of the key to the ground as you force yourself to turn around and look up towards its face. The humanoid features do not fit with anything in this world. Half of its face is covered by what looks like a gasmask. The airtube goes from the mask and straight into its chest. You’re not sure if it is even looking at you. Its eyes aren’t eyes, they’re golden rocks. Its hands, not hands, but claws of rusted metal as sharp as the spikes on its head and shoulders. You soon realize that its entire body is just rock and metal. As it stares at you, you feel how the door pushes against your body towards the creature. The stench coming from the otherside of the door creeps up into your nose and you’re having trouble not gagging. You can’t describe it, it’s a stench you’ve never experienced before. You pull your shirt over your mouth and face even though you know it doesn’t help. As the being pushes past you, into the black behind the door, you realize that it doesn’t seem to care about you. With careful steps you follow it. All around you a low humming echoes, you can’t decide if it’s external or internal. You can barely see your hand in front of you before you remember to turn your flashlight on again. As you do, you gasp for air, gagging on what little you could get. All around you people line the walls, all at various stages of decomposing. You realize what the stench is, and you understand why you haven’t ever encountered it before. It is death in its true form. For a morbid second you look around. You jolt back when the beam of the flashlight lands on eyes staring back at you. They blink, and the mouth opens and close trying to tell you something. They aren’t stuck to the wall by outer force, but rather their own chest opened, ribcage pinned to the side. You are stuck staring, your breathing going into hyperventilation. Their eyes stare beyond you. Before you can force yourself back to reality and to walk away the tall slender being comes from behind you and towards the person on the wall. It sticks one of its metal claws into what is left of their opened chest. Your pace quickens to a run until you find yourself on the other end of the room. You pass through a narrow gap in the mountain wall. On the other end of the gap you find yourself staring out from a cliff. You close your eyes for a second, breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth. At least that was the plan, but as soon as you fill your lungs up with the death filled air you push it out and everything that is left in your guts on the ground in front of you. You crouch down, holding yourself to the rocky mountainside beside you. The cold sweat running down your forehead comes in waves before you eventually push yourself back to your feet and forward closer towards the edge. The second you comprehend what you see, you are reminded of your mother's notes. *“Over depths, they shall see; In valley below, the price to be free.”* A passage you had written off as mere poetry. In context it made sense to be just that - poetry. In this context though, in which you are standing on the edge of a cliff staring into the abyss below, the sense made different. No. They made different. The words. They different. You shut your eyes hard, and try even harder to gather your thoughts and your words. All the images are etched into your mind, almost as clear behind shut eyes. Your senses all start to seem blurry. Like a light mist over a dewy meadow. But even a light mist can turn into thick fog. It’s not a valley. That much must have been poetry. But it is a cave, and somehow, it’s well lit. You can’t see any lights or fires. On the other end of the cave, staring straight at you, is a giant face carved into the cave wall. Like one of those famous founding fathers. Only it seems to be a woman's face. All around the giant open cave red waterfalls crash into the red rivers, spaced by thin slices of rock. The smell of iron mingles with the stench of death that refuses to leave your nose. In the middle of it all, the rivers turn into a lake with a single, miniature, island in it. It’s less of a lake than it is a moat for the island. A lone person stands on it facing away from you. At least you think they are. You *hope* they are. “Erothoth!” They shout. The shout jolts you back to the now. The deep bass of the voice makes you instantly read it as a man’s voice. “Goddess of many, goddess of all! Divine above all! Countess of the labyrinth! She—” “—who waits below.” you whisper to yourself as the man says it. The words fall effortlessly from your lips. At first you think you must have read it in one of your mother’s old diaries. “At dawn, at dusk. Under bright moon, under dark sun. Mother on earth, mother in abyss. I call upon thee Gaia! Upon thee Erothoth!” You continue to whisper to yourself, speaking the words exactly as the person below does. No, you haven’t *read* it. You’ve *heard* it. It’s an old memory, pushed back so far that it plays in your mind as if from another life. You weren’t allowed in the tiny room with black door except for once. She had told you she needed your help to do something. As she sat down on her knees in front of an old bedside table, the two of you were the same height. You studied her as she said the words, her eyes shut. As she called upon Gaia and called upon Erothoth she opened them, took the knife that lay on the table and asked for your hand. When you hesitated, she grabbed it. She forced you to open your hand, and made a large cut from one end of your palm to the other. You cried for two hours straight, and your mother didn’t care. No matter how hard you cried, or how little air you could get in between sobs. You look down at your palm. It’s faint but you can still see it if you try. The scar running from one end of your palm to the other. Once a passing lover had asked about it, and you replied reluctantly, that you didn’t know, you couldn’t remember. *‘How you could possibly not remember such a big wound?’* They had asked. You replied again that you didn’t know. You weren’t sure why you lied. You could just say the truth, it was a cut. But you lied. You didn’t want to know. You wish you didn’t know. You stare at the man in the middle. He’s still, and after a few seconds he holds a knife raised up and towards the face in the wall. As if he’s waiting for Gaia and Erothoth to hear him. And as if it had read your mind, you see the being from before walk towards the middle from straight beneath the cliff. It crosses the little lake/moat hybrid onto the island with just a step. It blocks the man from your view, but you’re sure, it’s towering over him as it did you. You hear talking but you can’t distinguish the words. A few seconds of talking pass until you hear a crack. You suppose it must be loud, but at this distance it’s no louder than stepping on a crusty leaf. The being walks over the man that has fallen to the ground where he stood. It turns around, and you know perfectly well that it’s looking at you. With every bone in your body you know it. It turns back around and walks towards the face. The closer it gets, the wider the face in the cave wall’s mouth opens. It walks into the darkness of it. You look around you and on the side of the cliff you find a ladder going straight down to the thin slice of cave floor. You climb down it, and make your way to the mouth. You have to jump over the moat onto the island. You kneel down to feel the pulse of the man but it’s gone. He’s gone. You tilt your head to get a better look at his face. He doesn’t look like he’s older than forty. You stand back up and jump over the moat again. The old man had asked you if you knew what was waiting for you down here. You had lied and said yes. You ask yourself the same question again as you approach the opening in the wall, the mouth of the face. You answer yourself honestly, no. And you answer yourself honestly again, yes. Step by step you are being pulled further and further down into the earth. In the back of your mind you know that even if you want to stop, give up and go back home, the feeling that you were being tugged by a leash would live in you forever. Until the day that the thing calling for you, tugging on your leash harder and harder, finds you instead. (A/N: First time posting! read all the rules, but i'm sorry if i missed something.


Chapter 2: All of Your Hate… The boy sat alone on the bed, in the dark. Brown eyes stared through a curtain of fair hair. He was in deep thought. The room was spacious enough, with just about enough room for the bed and for him to stretch his legs. A sword was sheathed on his hip, with a single ruby embedded into the hilt. At the foot of the bed, there was a plain, wooden bow propped up, with arrows spilling out of a quiver nearby. So far the rounds of the first stage had been simple enough; Make your opponent unable to continue fighting. He had a feeling that the second stage would not be as simple as that. They all had such powerful magic, he thought bitterly. He wished he could have had magic like that. He got up, slinging his bow and quiver over his shoulder…but no matter how strong their magic was, he had to win! There was no other choice. They had to see their sins for what they really were! He opened the door, with light flooding into the room. And besides, he thought with a smirk, its not as though he was completely defenceless. Placing a wolf mask on his face, he strode forward with a spring in his step. The final battle was about to begin. The open arena was a large rectangle in shape, large enough for powerful magic battles to take place. Spectators, seated on the rows of chairs above the arena, whispered feverishly as they waited for the final battle of the first round. They didn’t have to wait long, as two curtains on opposite sides of the arena opened and two people walked out, a boy with fair hair and a dog mask and a short, burly man. They stepped forward and bowed. The boy drew his sword. The man couldn’t believe it. All of his previous battles had been won out of pure luck and a bit of strategic thinking. His water magic was versatile and adaptable, but it lacked a lot of power. That was the reason he struggled so much with his last battles. But the last opponent was just a child! He could only sense a tiny amount of magic in his frail body. He would be able to advance to the second round with no trouble at all. He readied his magic. The boy had a mask over his face, so it was hard to tell what exactly he was thinking. The mask caught his attention; it wasn’t of any native design. It was a mask of a wolf, but instead of the usual grey tone of a wolf’s fur, the mask was adorned by elegant swirls and patterns. Unusual, but why did he care? As long as he could win it was all irrelevant. “Get ready, boy!” He outstretched his hand “Little children like you are out of your league-“ The boy ran forward with blinding speed, appearing behind the man in an instant. The spectators gasped; this speed had not been seen in anyone else before. Sword outstretched, the boy replied, “ It would be best for you to surrender now, so that I don’t have to hurt you” What the hell was this kid? He could sense only a tiny amount of magic from him, yet he had crossed that entire distance in an instant. Was it with physical prowess alone? His legs shook like a tree in an earthquake. But he wasn’t going to lose to someone as young as him! Stretching both arms out, he let loose thin jets of water from his fingertips, but the boy weaved and sliced through them, without moving from the spot. His control over the sword was as if it was a part of his own body. Every jet of water was reduced to a puddle on the floor, and the boy was completely dry. But the man hadn’t been aiming for the boy. The jets had been aimed so that if the boy were to evade them, the boy would be surrounded by a ring of water on the floor. His aim had been to bind the boy, not to hit him. Coils of water erupted from the ring of water from every direction, too fast and too many for the boy to avoid. It looked like he knew this. He made no attempt to move. The tentacles of water grabbed him, and held his hands behind his back. His sword fell with a clatter to the floor. A coil of water seized his bow and quiver, and threw it to the other side of the arena. He stayed silent, limp in the water’s grasp, making no attempt to escape. The man strode forward. “This is why you don’t try to swim in deep water, boy. Inexperienced children like you will drown.” He grinned, amazed at how lucky he was to get an opponent as weak as him. “Now, how about we the face behind this dog mask of yours” The tentacles lowered the boys slightly. The man pulled back the mask to reveal a face full of pity. He tossed the mask to the side. Just like his mask suggested, the boy wasn’t native to this country. His brown eyes were downcast, a slight smile touching his thin lips. His eyes rose to meet the man’s eyes. “I warned you to surrender, so that I wouldn’t have to hurt you. I’m not the one to blame for what happens next.” The tentacle’s grip tightened, and the man’s fists started shaking. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, boy!” A voice choked by fury erupted from his mouth. “You’ve lost. I’ve won! You are the one who’s going to get hurt.” The boy closed his eyes “You’ve forgotten that I have still magic. You dismissed my magic as being weak and useless at the start of this battle. I can tell. That was your mistake.” He opened his eyes again and smiled in earnest. “Look down” The man’s eyes darted down to see a round ball next to the sword. That hadn’t been there before. He didn’t realise it was a bomb until it had already exploded. The shock of the explosion rippled through the solid coils of water and turned it into a lifeless liquid. Man, boy and sword were all propelled in the air. Grabbing the sword out of the air, the boy let loose a powerful barrage of blunt slashes in mid-air. The man didn’t stand a chance. He fell on his back with a thud, unable to continue. The boy landed elegantly, greeted by the stunned silence and the astonishment of the spectators. Facing the crowd, he sheathed his sword. “I am the one who will bring the Ruined Lands out of darkness. In order to do so, I will overcome every and any challenge that stands in my way. Be it man, monster, machine or other, there is no other choice for me but to fix this broken world!” Cheers and passionate expressions of support greeted his words. He bellowed over the shouts of the crowd “My name is Salieri Dabaso!” On that day, a light was sparked in the darkness of The Ruins.


The detectives found something truly sickening after investigating my sister’s murder. My sister was one of those people that cared about everybody. It’s pretty fucked up that that’s the thing that got her killed. She wasn’t “promiscuous” but she came across as very flirty. Guys were constantly falling for her. Up until about a year and a half ago, she never had an issue putting up the friendzone when things started to escalate. She was good about that. She never wanted to hurt anyone’s feelings. Then came Derek, and shortly after, Mark. My sister and I were very close, we talked on a daily basis, and I can testify that she really did just “stumble” into two relationships. She met Derek a week before Mark. Derek was tall, built like a statue, had jet black hair and a nice smile. He worked as the director of public relations for a fortune 500 firm. He was the type of guy that had everything going for him, but he was always down-to-earth. Danielle met him through a mutual friend and he asked her out for coffee. About a week later, she met Mark. Mark was an artist, and he looked the part. He wore black jeans, beanies, and his arms were covered in tattoos. Mark never asked Danielle on a date. They actually met on the subway. They were each reading The Lessons of History, by Will Durant. Danielle noticed, and they started talking. In short, Danielle simultaneously fell in love with both Mark and Derek. Unfortunately, her relationship with each of them progressed at about the same speed. There was never a definitive point in time where it became clear to Danielle that she would have to choose one man over the other. That’s really all you need to know. I don’t feel comfortable spilling any more detail about my sister’s personal life. If you really want to read about the complications that come with love, I’m sure you can find something by John Green. My objective is to shine light on the unfortunate truth that our justice system is fragile; it’s easy to manipulate and it’s ineffective. I get it. It’s 2020, I’m not the first person to throw shade at the police. Most of you reading this are probably sick of hearing about it. And that’s fine. I agree with you. It is annoying to see social media infiltrated by social justice. That’s not what this is about. I have nothing to add regarding police brutality. My message involves police incompetence. And I can assure you that if you take five minutes out of your day to listen to my story, for better or worse, you’ll walk away with a new perspective. Three months ago, in the middle of February, my sister was found dead in her apartment. The autopsy revealed the cause of death was suffocation. The detectives asked my family if we knew of any enemies Danielle had. No one could think of a name. Like I said earlier, she loved people, she was friends with everyone she met. A few days after she died, there was another visit from the detectives. The news was heartbreaking. They’d read through her text messages around the time she died. Danielle knew someone was after her. (10:13pm) Derek (10:13pm) I’m Scared (10:13pm) Derek… are you there? (10:18pm) Hey I was in the shower :), what’s wrong? (10:18pm) I think someone is in my room. Will you come over? (10:18pm) Are you joking? (10:19pm) No. Please come. I can hear someone in there (10:19pm) I don’t think they know I’m here ... I’m hiding in the bathroom (10:21pm) Stay there. I’m coming now. Call 911 (10:21pm) I can’t. I have a ton of drugs here right now (10:29pm) It’s a man. I heard him yelling on the phone (10:34pm) He’s in the living room (10:34pm) Fuck it (10:34pm) I’m calling the police Danielle’s texts also pointed towards Mark as the primary suspect. A few weeks before she died, they had the following conversation. (11:00am) We’re done (11:10am) What? (11:11am) We’re done. As in, I don’t want to be with you anymore (11:11am) I know what you meant, but why are you saying this? (11:12am) I don’t know ... maybe Derek can help you figure that out... (11:15am) I’m so sorry. I know you have no reason to, but, come over? I can explain... The police interrogated Mark. Apparently he did end up going over to my sister’s apartment. He was heartbroken that there was another man, but he said he loved her. After hearing her out, he told Danielle that they could work through everything that had happened on the conditions that they moved out of the city together and she stopped talking to Derek completely. Mark also had an airtight alibi. He was at an art gallery, with 60 other people. But Mark’s interrogation was far from a dead end. He told the police that he’d messaged Derek through Facebook shortly after seeing his name pop up on Danielle’s phone. The police questioned Derek. They asked him why he never called anyone the night Danielle died. He told them that by the time he got to Danielle’s apartment, the parking lot was blocked off. He saw someone being taken away by ambulance. The place was flooded with police. He called Danielle around the time the police had showed up. She obviously didn’t answer. In that moment, Derek said he realized it was her who was taken away in an ambulance. He rushed to the hospital to check on her, but it was too late. The detective's trail was beginning to dry up. There were 16,425 homicides in 2019. 6,000 of those remain unsolved. I couldn’t accept that the person responsible for killing my sister was walking around a free man. I pleaded with the police station to keep trying. They told me daily that they were ‘working on it’, but rarely had an update. After a few weeks, Derek resurfaced as a suspect. He was caught on the apartment’s surveillance system walking through the building 45 minutes before Danielle first texted him. He told the police he lied to Danielle because he was cheating on her with another tenant in her building. Can you fucking believe that? At best, this son of a bitch was aware my sister was scared for her life and chose to keep up his charade instead of protecting her. At worst, he’s lying and he killed her. Despite what he said, the police revamped their investigation. They searched her apartment for more evidence, and found something that kept me from sleeping for many nights. A suicide note. Danielle wrote that she was torn apart by what she’d done. She loved both Derek and Mark. She didn’t want to hurt either of them. She couldn’t make a decision and she couldn’t imagine her life without one of favorite people in the world. She’d been taking Xanax for weeks. It was the only thing that could take her mind off the pressure of deciding what to do. The saddest part of the note was that she said she was off four sticks of Xanax the night she killed herself. She said she probably wouldn’t have the ‘courage’ to do it any other time. When the police informed me of what they’d found, they gave me their condolences and left promptly. For a few days, I felt numb. Then, I started blaming myself. Danielle was going through a tough time. Why wasn’t I there for her? What signs did I miss? I started playing back old conversations and that’s when it hit me. Derek wanted her to prove she was serious about the relationship. He’d been pressuring her for a key to her apartment. Some bullshit about mutual trust. She eventually caved and gave him a key. The police found the note on top of a bookshelf in the living room. HOW ON EARTH COULD THEY HAVE MISSED THE NOTE WHEN THEY FIRST FOUND HER? There’s no way it was there. Derek had to have planted the note. I voiced my concerns to the police. Once again they questioned Derek. He denied ever having a key. He doubled down on his cheating story and somehow found a girl to tell the police she was with him at the time Danielle died. He’s the director of PR at a huge firm. Covering up scandals is literally what the man does for a living. The police were buying every bit of garbage he was giving them. The bastard even flashed his stupid smile at me on his way out of the presinct. If you’re uneasy about the fact that there is a psychopath freely walking our streets. Don’t be. Derek gave Danielle a key to his apartment too. As documented by the police, I went to confront him about a week ago. Although when I got there, he didn’t answer the door. So I called the police, informing them I suspected he’d fled the country, or at least the state. The police arrived and busted into his apartment. When they opened the door, they were quite surprised... Derek was on the ground. Dead.


Once, I knew a girl. This was a long time ago, back when our summers were golden, when we spent hours on the lake or riding our bikes or staying up a little too late. I have never met someone quite like her, and I often wonder what she’s up to now. She was almost always listening to music, some said she liked to have a soundtrack to her life. She was not quite “city pretty,” but she had a face that would turn a few heads. There was something about her that I couldn’t quite understand at the time; she had an air to her that I wouldn’t realize until many years later was the rarest thing I’d so foolishly let go. I like to think she was connected to nature a little more deeply than the rest of us. When she wasn’t hiking or swimming or watching the stars, she was trying to show me how beautiful these things were. That girl loved like no other. She had the purest of hearts, and it would come to betray her. When you’re as young as we were, loving like she did is dangerous. She poured her heart into my dreams; she gave me the world I always wanted. I did not deserve the love she gave me. She led me down roads that terrified me, she showed me the most vulnerable parts of herself and brought out the same in me. She had so many “things” that made her what she was, and each one had a story. I’d give everything to be sitting with her again listening to her tell those stories to me, while all I could do was look at her eyes sparkling with excitement. She reminded me of a piece of art I saw as a child. She was a canvas that, over the years, so many people had left their mark on. The love she gave to everyone is what defined her, and what destroyed her. I’d come to find later that she kept a notebook that she’d write me letters in. During our time, I’d been with so many girls. I put her through hell. I told her “I love you, and I’ll always be here” and then I’d find a new girl, pretty as the last one, who’d be around for a few months. Even still, she’d say, “goodnight darling, I always, always love you, sleep well,” and she’d stand by me no matter what girl I was with. She was never jealous. She was never angry, and she was always happy for me. I didn’t realize what I was doing to her. Every day I broke her a little more, and every night that she was on my mind I left her to write in her notebook. Only was it as I read those pages that I realized that this girl was in so much pain. I think that is the strongest love she gave me. She let me break her perfect glass heart, and when the pieces fell, she showed me how beautiful the little rainbows they made when the light hit them were. I was so ignorant. How could I not have seen that, despite the wild child in her, I was more than lucky to have her. I wish I knew then how strong she was. I wish I had been able to give her what she truly deserved. But in truth, I don’t know if anyone could have given her as much love as she deserved. Maybe that’s why she left. To where I couldn’t tell you. I always knew there was a part of her that needed more than her little town could give her, more than I could give her. I wonder if I had told her I loved her more, or if I had given up the silly girlfriends and gone with her maybe she’d still be around. A love like hers doesn’t die, she’s the type to love someone completely and neverendingly. I know, somewhere, she’s still got love for me, but she doesn’t need me like she thought she did then. She never needed me, really, but she wanted me. For so many years she waited, and when she couldn’t wait anymore, she was gone. The moment I went to her house and she had packed up and gone, I realized what I’d done. She had always said she wanted to see life. Truthfully, I know I give myself too much credit. I couldn’t have kept a soul like hers in one place. She needed freedom, but she wanted freedom with me, and I was too stupid to see it. I gave her up and I know I lost the greatest love I’ll ever experience. I know, now, she’s getting the life she really deserves, and I am not a part of it. Ironic, I find it, how the roles are reversed. She kept herself in a place she wanted so desperately to escape to show me love that I didn’t deserve, writing pages and pages about how she wished she were enough. Now I think about everything that I should’ve done to be good enough for her, and how she’s living, somewhere, without me. She made the right decision. I wish I could’ve then.


There was a crowd gathered in the small tavern. I observed the man they surrounded from the shadows. He seemed young, no more than 25, with dark hair and dark eyes. He was admittedly good looking and charming. It made sense that he captured the attention and trust of the people around him. “The King is corrupt and selfish. He doesn’t care for you or I, he cares only about his coffers getting filled. And with what? *Our* hard-earned money! And how many more innocent people should be executed by his command before we take action?” the man — who I later learned was named Alistair — roared, his voice full of passion and righteous fury. “Down with the King!” cried a lone voice in the audience, which was soon met with similar cries. “Help me, my brothers and sisters. Dethrone the King who doesn’t care for us, choose me as your leader, and I promise you prosperity and freedom!” he said, his voice rising in a crescendo. The crowd cheered. I narrowed my eyes; this brazenness was both commendable and foolish. The King had eyes and ears everywhere, however I knew they were not in this secluded tavern. He had chosen a good location to start this revolution. I watched the man until the assembled group dispersed. I approached him. “If you want to overthrow the King, you will need my help,” I said, quietly. “And why is that?” he asked. “I have contacts in the palace who can help you. Plus, you will need all the support you can get.” He glanced at me skeptically. “Who are you?” he asked, the suspicion evident in his voice. “Just a palace servant,” I said, my face betraying no emotion. “I do need someone on the inside. But why are you offering to betray your master? What do you want in return for helping me?” I smirked slightly. “Simple. I will help you be the King. In return, make me your Queen.” He accepted. It was all going according to plan. The following months passed by in a blur of plotting and scheming. Before long, we were ready to strike. We left our base and headed towards the palace under the cover of the midnight sky. The world was asleep at this hour and we used that to our advantage, passing through the village undetected. As per the plan, I helped the revolutionaries enter the palace through a secret passageway, disguised as servants. I led Alistair to the King’s study, where I knew he would be. At this time of night, he preferred to read alone. He had dismissed his guards, as he preferred solitude when reading. It truly was the perfect time to strike. “I will see you soon, my Queen,” he told me. I smiled. Finally, the tyrannical king would be replaced by someone better. I stood guard outside the door, ready to alert him at a moment’s notice, should anyone pass by. Nobody did. After what felt like an eternity — although it couldn’t have been more than half an hour — I heard the King collapse to the ground, and the young rebel’s cry of victory. It was all going according to plan. I entered the room, averting my eyes from the King. The once mighty man was reduced to nothing, just like that. Funny, really, how the monarch fell so soon. The sound of activity in the late King’s study got the attention of guards stationed nearby. The head of the Royal Guard, flanked by his squadron, along with the royal advisor barged into the room, weapons drawn. Upon seeing me, they halted. “What is your Grace doing here?” the royal advisor exclaimed. “Please help me! This man approached me and manipulated me into helping him overthrow the King! He said he would spare me if I complied! Right now his men are attacking the rest of the royal family!” I said, my voice quivering, eyes glistening with unshed tears. Fake tears, but tears nonetheless. Alistair glanced at me, confused. Ah, right. I told him I was a mere palace servant. Not someone who would be addressed as ‘Your Grace’. The guards restrained him. He looked at me, unsure of what was happening. I smiled internally. It was all going according to plan. A guard ran into the room. “Sir! The royal family was attacked, none survi-“ he stopped mid-sentence, eyes falling onto the lifeless form of the King. I fell to my knees, acting shocked and grief-stricken. “No…” I muttered, my voice trembling. “My uncle. My aunt. My cousins! I have no family left! Why? Why did you force me to do this!” I screamed, glaring at Alistair. His eyes widened in shock, and hardened into anger. I betrayed him. He trusted me. He may even have loved me, after all the time we spent together, scheming. Even though it started out as a condition of my help, I knew he wanted me to be his Queen. I pity the fool. I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. It was the royal advisor. He gave me a look of sympathy and understanding. “Your Grace, even though you were once the sixth in line to the throne, since you have no family left, you are now the Queen,” he said. “No. No no no. No!” yelled Alistair. This was not in his plan. He wanted to be king, with his *loyal* second in command, his informant, as his Queen. Oh, I will be the Queen. I already am. “Your Majesty,” interrupted the head of the Royal Guard. “What must we do about this traitor to the Crown?” I looked Alistair in the eye. He looked at me with pure loathing in his eyes. That, and hurt. I smiled ever so slightly, so that only he could see the look of triumph on my face. “Execute him.


For a man well into his 163rd year Aaron didn’t feel a day over 30. Or at least he hadn’t until this morning when he had woken up in a cold sweat, pawing at the empty port near the base of his throat, his wife’s face blazing like the sun in his mind. It had been one of the many unexpected side effects to the late 21st century’s obsession with extending life. The scientists had foreseen the need for joint replacements, hair treatments, cloned organs, but memory extension? That was a tricky one and so Aaron, like everyone, carried the most crucial parts of his self identity around with him in the charm that should have been there but wasn’t. Identities were often forged early in life, in the mists of those old memories that had to be purged. Aaron had chosen to hang his entire person on two. The first night he’d told his then girlfriend and later wife that he’d loved her, and the night the call came telling him that she had died. “Where is it, where is it, where is it,” he muttered uncontrollably, stripping the bed sheets off and hurling them across the room. These things didn’t just come loose, they were designed better than that. When had he lost it? Try as he might Aaron couldn’t remember if he'd had the charm when he’d gone to bed the night before. His tear through the bedroom became a tear through the house, into the living room, out into the kitchen where his service droid B2-14 stared at him wide eyed. “Master, is something amiss?” Droids had no true mastery of inflection, it came out as monotone perched just on the edge of sounding concerned. “As you are aware I have seventeen household search techniques preloaded and can download any additional routines as necessary! May I assist?” “My charm’s gone B2, gone!” If the droid’s voice had been on the edge of a cliff Aaron’s had jumped off before he even left the bedroom. “Did I have it on when I came home last night?” “No sir. Your memory charm was slotted properly when you left in the morning and gone at 8:27PM when you returned.” “And you didn’t say anything?!” Aaron exclaimed. “You never specified that parameter.” There had been times before when Aaron wished he’d sprung for one of the more expensive C models but never so badly as now. Scrapping B2 had never seemed more cathartic. “Yeah, well if the mental degen doesn’t get me this time and this ever happens again, consider it set. Jesus Christ, droids.” The rest of the day was spent in a frenzy of backtracking, through his office, the park where he had eaten lunch, the market he had stopped at after work, the liquor store after that. Not a single person he questioned had found a charm, although all looked properly terrified for him. As night fell Aaron walked back through the door of his home. He sat down to the dinner B2 had made for him, took a sip from his favorite mug, and then dropped it nervelessly. Something felt wrong. “Sir!” B2 called from near the sink, “are you alright?” Aaron’s hand shook as he stared at it. He stood and left his forgotten dinner, crushing broken pieces of mug underfoot. “I’ve already made an appointment with a memory specialist,” the droid said. “You just have to wait two more days.” Aaron wasn’t listening. He walked to his study in a fog, hands still shaking, trying to fix the memory of his wife’s face even deeper into psyche but try as he might Aaron could feel it fading. She’d died more than a hundred years ago now. That charm had held the only memories left. With the study’s heavy mahogany door closed behind him and B2’s worried rambling at least slightly muffled, Aaron went straight to the safe in the corner, missing the combination once before he got it. As it opened he was hit by the smell of leather and old paper, and pulling out the contents he deposited them onto his desk. Ten full notebooks, journals from the time of his marriage. They seemed so small now that they were all he had left. Aaron spent the night awake with a bottle of bourbon and secondhand memories, trying to turn words into curly red hair that had never decided to cooperate, an upturned nose that she had actually complained was too small, and blue eyes that had always felt like home. It was a losing battle and he knew it. The second memory, the memory of her death, he had kept to remember how much his wife had truly meant to him. The experience of her loss was written across every moment of his life since then, his friends had always thought he was crazy for it. They’d told him he was living in the past, that she would have wanted him to move on. Perhaps she had, but he didn’t. The other memory, the first one. That was different. Aaron had lived the fallout of her death every day for the last hundred years, but that memory of her life always felt further away, even with the charm. He’d accessed it most nights before going to sleep, and as he read through his journals he played it as vividly as he could in his mind, filling in any blank spots with the entry about it. On a trip to her family’s cottage in Michigan they had sat down in front of the fireplace cooking smores and baring their souls, and hours later in the first silent moment Aaron had looked into her eyes and said “Lizzy, I think I’m in love with you.” She’d been in his arms a moment later. He couldn’t remember what she’d smelled like now. There had always been a particular scent there in the early years, a shampoo or perfume Lizzy had always worn, and suddenly he had no idea what it was, or whether the fire had still burned when they lay there, after. Somewhere in the bottom of that bottle Aaron fell asleep, and when he woke all he had were words on the page that refused to come together into a whole woman. He tore the house apart that day, even though he knew his charm was gone and he wasn’t even sure why he searched, only that it was crucial. He found something else though, in the closet under a pile of clothes. A woman’s jewelry box and the antiquated charm inside it. Logically he knew it must be his dead wife’s, he’d woken up with journals in his handwriting describing every detail of her life, he could remember the memory of a memory of her even if the life was gone from it. Aaron couldn’t directly slot the device of course, the technology had changed far too much in the intervening century but hours later he sat in his study again, an insane warren of wires connecting charm to computer to adapter to him. He sat back and closed his eyes, navigating the old UI with his thoughts. There were two memories on the device, one from their youth, displaying a thumbnail of a small fireplace and his own face, the other from the day before she had died. He played the second memory first, and through the low res images and emotive simulation that seemed more a suggestion than a sensation Aaron found out that his wife had been pregnant. She had been coming home from her business trip to tell him that. He hated that the knowledge didn’t hurt as much as it should have. He played the fireplace memory next. Smores, crackling wood, talking until her throat got sore, Aaron’s face saying “I love you,” twisting around the words like it was his whole being in that moment...and in that memory unlike the first, something in Aaron clicked. He knew this one, knew it first hand from the opposite perspective, even if it was on the edge of his consciousness, threatening to disappear forever. He hit play again. Then again. Then again. And over the next hours he began to remember himself through Lizzy’s eyes, and suddenly the power of her feelings was his own, the desperate desire to make each other happy, protect each other, all of it was there, all of that love. Which made Lizzy’s second memory hit all the harder. Aaron stayed in that room until the appointment with the memory specialist and then past, dangerously far past until the specialist finally came to him, forcing him to eat and care for himself. It took time for the human mind to recover from these things and memory therapy was incredibly complex. Dr. Vaughn and her team spent most of the next two weeks in direct contact with Aaron, rebuilding the memories that formed the cornerstone of his identity from the shreds of them still lingering in other memories. It wasn’t perfect, that was impossible, but in most cases it was enough to restore some quality of life. In the months after the incident Aaron slowly returned to himself, his friends and family breathing a collective sigh of relief. He was still different, as anyone would be. He knew of Lizzy’s pregnancy for one, he remembered her desperate hope for their future and the intense desire to be a mother. And he remembered that night by the fire from two perspectives now, and what had once trapped him in the past slowly changed into something else. Lizzy had seen him exactly the way Aaron had seen her all those years ago. She had looked at him in the light of that fire and known that his happiness mattered more to her than her own ever had, a perfect mirror to his own feelings. She had loved him, the life they shared, and the child they had made so much that it had become her second memory too. That one broke his heart every day, but as time passed Aaron began to see through the pain to the love. Something he hadn’t truly done in more than a century. It was slow, but in that era people had all the time in the world. Aaron began to heal.