The Buffalo wondered through the glade. It lapped from the fresh spring. It saw it’s herd moving. It followed. The Buffalo did not smell anything strange that concerned it. The Buffalo walked until he, like the others, stopped. They stood in a field underneath a large cliff and waited until sleep overtook them. When it awoke, it returned to the stream, further up now, as the herd had moved north. The Buffalo felt a release of pleasure as he drank. He heard a bird’s warning, no doubt sung because of him. He did not stop. He saw the water carry a pile of leaves down stream. He did not stop. He heard the sound of a branches breaking. He did not stop. It did not consider the position it had placed himself in. It had, like every other of his fifteen years, followed the Herd. It was older and felt more comfortable venturing further from the herd, in search of his preferred morsels. It did not smell anything strange on this day that concerned it. It returned to his herd. Nothing seemed to get his attention. Something should have gotten his attention. The Bison grazed along the path. It wondered to a small bush, away from the herd. It nibbled from the delicate ends of the branches. It grazed for some time. It watched the birds fly and fight over a tree. It returned to the herd. It slept by a snake den, around a mossy log. The Snakes did not disturb it. In the morning, it returned to the patch of bushes, determined to refine them of their delicious points. The sensation of chewing was pleasant. The food was good. The Buffalo suddenly felt pain. Immense stabbing pain. The Bison ran from the pain. Instinctual, and unknowable in source, the pain could be outrun. Of this it was sure. He noticed the pain was spreading as he ran. He stopped running, exhausted and feeling immense terror. This terror was new to him. He had not been injured since he was a baby. He could barely recall the pain felt then. This was too consuming. He was breathing too fast to lay down. He panted and paced in place. The pain subsided temporarily. He saw the source of the pain. He did not understand it. There was a long, hard branch inside of his skin, just below the hind leg muscle. He sniffed the branch. He sniffed too close. The branch once again drove into his flesh, causing him to flare with pain again. He began to run again. He ran through the foreign forest he had wondered into, howling and calling to the herd. He grew even more exhausted. He eventually was overtaken with sleep, it called to him more than even the pain did. He drifted through a world of fear and pain. He dreamed of his herd. He dreamed of his favorite berries. He dreamed of the mysterious pain, caused by the mysterious painful branch. The fear jolted him awake. The pain was reduced to a dull throb as he didn’t move. So he did not move. A timeless interval marked only by stabs of pain occurred. The hunger pain became stronger than the pain from the leg. He dragged himself upright. The pain dragged him back down. He limply pulled himself to the sound of distant water. He feebly lapped from the stream. He tried to eat the vibrant grass growing near him. He could not keep it down. He slumped over, and returned to his slumber. He awoke after another timeless interval. He had a thought of his herd. He could not remain here. This instinct was as ancient as the pain itself, and he aimed to follow the sensation. He tried to stand up. He heard a strange noise. The direction where The Buffalo had come running from was down hill. It was a random path, steered by pain and desperation, not safety. He could see movement coming from that way. The Buffalo, eyes wide in panic, felt a pang of adrenaline, piercing through his pain and attuning his eyes to crystal clarirty. He could see something that had terrified him to his core. He had seen a pack of predators. The slightly furry creatures, still presumably too far to see him, were strange and completely unfamiliar specimens of the wild to The Buffalo. He could make out they had long hair on their heads, inconsistent dark patches of skin hanging from their shoulders and backs, and large branches in their hands. Branches that the Buffalo feared immensely, though he could not reason why. The adrenaline tore him to his feet. He must run, he knew this. The strange creatures began to shout, hooting with strange noises The Buffalo had not heard before. The Buffalo began to run away from them, as branches flew through the air around him. He had yet another powerful strike of fear as he realized they had put the branch in him. This was the catalyst for his energy. He could not allow them to cause the pain again. He ran through the bushes. He ran along the stream. He bayed as loud as he could to his herd. He feared nothing except stopping. He had ran until he felt the heat of the sun inside his very muscles. He, without any plan or meaning, had returned miraculously to the place he had slept before the pain. He searched for his herd. He fell asleep on the ground. The pain had once again reduced to a dull throb. The branch was no longer in him. He longed for this terror to be over. He awoke to the calls of his herd. He felt a wave of pleasure unlike any of his life. He meandered toward the sounds of his herd. He saw them in the distance, not far from the forest he had run from. He brayed, louder than ever, expanding the last of his energy on the alert. He began, now safe, to eat as much as he could, then lay by the river, sleeping, When The Buffalo came back into consciousness, he was surrounded by his herd. The many strong bodies made him feel as he had since birth once again. Warm. Complacent. Safe. He limped along in the back of the herd. He could not know he was not safe. He could not know he was still in just as much danger as before. The Buffalo walked until he could not. The herd was patient. They sat down among the grass, or stood around the same area as he had. They watched for predators as The Buffalo slept. They spent the night patrolling the river tributary. The Buffalo awoke, feeling weak but not panicked. The pain was now a distant memory, only brought back into full on stumbles or when stepping on hard stone. The Buffalo followed the herd along the river. He saw them stop up ahead. He was further back then any of the rest. When he arrived to the stopping place, he saw what they had seen. The River split into two here. The few larger Bison were seen in the front, testing the speed of the water. The water was flowing strong. The herd watched for predators and food as the first few bison waded the river. The herd moved one at a time, waiting for The Buffalo in the back to approach. When he arrived, he noticed they had all been across. He followed. He slipped. The river overtook him, filling his nostrils with cold water. He felt the pain in his leg arc through his entire body. He felt the waves push him down to the river bank and below. He planted his hooves deep into the mud on the edge. He pulled himself, straining his legs in pain and howling to the herd. The herd howled back. They still remained motionless on the other side. Most were watching this desperate struggle, a few were pacing the front of the herd, clearly as worried as The Buffalo was. He pushed as hard as possible to remain above the water. He eventually pulled himself to the shore. He remained panting on the shore until the sun had gone down. He saw the herd sleep across the river. He slept on the bank he had crawled to. When he awoke, they were still there. He noticed no birds were chirping. The herd was not baying. The only sounds were of the river. He could not cross the river. He looked for another way over. He did not see where the river ended or was less wide. He howled to the herd. They sniffed and shook their heads in confusion. Another day of grazing and staring passed. The Buffalo could not risk the river again. He wondered along up the north the side of the river. He saw the herd in the distance. They had grown further away in the night. He knew he would return to them. He did not know it was impossible to return to them. He stood in a flower patch. His leg ached and felt hot again. He ate here, again noticing the lack of bird song. He moved on. He could no longer see the herd. This brought an immense feeling of longing. He was also struck with an indomitable urge to reunite with them. He continued to follow the river. When the sun went down, he stood by a fallen tree and rested under the protection. He woke a mere hour later. He smelled something strange downwind. He could not know the smell was ash and smoke, but he felt unsettled by it regardless. He heard something that set his hair on edge. He heard the same noises as before, in the forest. He heard the predators. He was, this time, frozen in fear. He had no the energy to run, and was unfamiliar with travel in the dark. He looked toward the dim woods in the distance. He scanned the forest, laying as flat as he could, still under the fallen tree. He saw nothing at first, then The Buffalo spotted the strange predators once again. One had come out of the forest, holding a pain branch. The predator crouched down on two knees, and looked below himself. The predator moved his hands on the ground, and then sharply looked upward. The predator stood up and looked far off. The predator ran to the edge of the river, not far from where The Buffalo had hidden. He could see him clearer now. The creature seemed to have skin similar to The Buffalo already on it. This confused The Buffalo. The creature did not smell as his kin in the herd did. The Predator scanned the horizon for some time. He then returned his gaze to the ground, and casually walked in the direction of The Buffalo. Still frozen with fear, The Buffalo’s eyes were wide with terror. His heart was pounding out of his chest. He felt weak in the legs. He felt he would never be able to move again. The predator was nearing closer and closer to him. The predator stopped. He had heard a shout from somewhere behind him. He revealed his teeth, baring them in a strange manner. He turned around and waved his arms. Another predator of his species was doing the same motion. The Buffalo saw them embrace. He heard loud noises, as they walked away from the location of The Buffalo. The Buffalos heart began to subside. He felt energized by surviving the event, and knew he could not remain so close to the predators. He walked for the remainder of the night through the mud along the banks. He could not know that the mud would not lead him away from the predators. He could not know that the marks left in the mud were the very method these predators continued to find him. He awoke, this time unaware of when and where he had returned to sleep, along the edge of the forest. The Buffalo stumbled to the river. He submerged his face entirely on accident, and swalloed in large gulps as much as he could of the liquid. He looked around for the creatures that repeatedly had found him. He did not see them. He had forgotten the herd. He only considered food, water and an end to the pain. He wondered to a slope containing growing grains he enjoyed. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of the leg that had been in so much pain. There was no longer a branch there, but there seemed to be a large rock that had somehow found it’s way inside the wound. He did not feel the pain as intensely as before. He did not feel anything as intensely as before. He seemed to not even be as hungry as usual. After his short, meager meal of grains was done, he wondered in an aimless direction. He wondered without purpose. At some point, without any intent or thought, he found himself standing still. He could no longer walk. The pain had become a full body numbing sensation, far beyond anything he had felt before. He realized he was standing still, no longer moving. He turned around. He paced the clearing he had found himself in. He noticed he had been bleeding for some time. This did not strike him as a sign of good, and he felt a brief feeling of fear once again. This motivated him to continue on. He had no concept of time anymore, no intent or purpose in the heading. He simply walked onward. He was aware of the trail of blood behind him, and it did not occur to him that this, similar to the tracks in the mud, would be his downfall. He lost consciousness that day along a pond. While frogs protested his interference in their mating rituals, he dreamt of the sky. He did not feel the second branch enter his body. He was awoken purely by the familiar sensation of adrenaline empowering his nervous system to flair back into consciousness. He thought he had run. He had barely moved. The second branch was in his back. He felt where it entered him. He felt where it was inside him. This did not hurt, but it told every atom of his body he was in danger. He knew not what to struggle against, but knew he must. The strange predators were now around him, holding their branches of pain high, shouting to eachother, and baring their teeth towards him. The Buffalo felt darkness come over the sky, even in the morning he knew he was in. He fell to the ground, this time because he felt his body punctured by many more branches. His thoughts and even his vision itself became a formless, primordial mix of color and concept. The Buffalo felt infinitely larger. He felt his mind expand to the size of the great plains he had roamed since birth. He could picture every forest, every stream, every familiar Buffalo. He felt he could see his own herd, and the many herds they had passed before, visualized in front of him. He thought of these strange predators. He finally understood they had wielded these very branches for the explicit intent of harming him. His eyes jolted open at the thought of it. As he barely watched them, he noticed more about these creatures, now close enough that they were touching his skin. The predators had many skins of animals wrapped around themselves. They must have done this before. The Buffalo felt his mind empowered like never before. The world began to have order. The stream raced downward not as a creature like himself running, as he had momentarily thought once in his infancy, but as a natural object of nature, the same as a tree or cliff. He felt a brief sensation of hurt as he was flipped to his back. Another realization occurred, as his eyes bulged and the sun beat down on him. The birds did not understand his thoughts and wants, as much as he could not understand theirs. This explained why he could not ask them with braying to help him find a warmer sun spot to sleep, or a tastier breakfast in the early morning. His mind raced with an overwhelming rush of every sensation he had ever felt. He remembered the strange predators that were feeling his body and removing their branches. He remembered that these were not new creatures of the same species, but the very same he had seen leagues away, when he had first been injured. Somehow, these beings had found a way to him over and over. A single second had passed in the interim between these realizations and the last ones. Another second passed, and a new wave of insights on the world flowed. He felt one of the creatures pull their branch from his belly. He felt his viscera spill. His lunch and bowels alike, draining out of him as fast as the thoughts drained in to his mind. The Buffalo began to connect the timeline of his life. Specifically, his death. The sharp branch had been made to hurt him, by these creatures. He had been stabbed intentionally by them. They had not been dissuaded by the long march ahead of them to get to him. In fact, they must have simply *walked* toward him, as he had seen that night. Unlike the predators he had encountered before, these had known it was but a game of waiting and following. But how could they have followed. He thought to himself?! As he felt pulled forward by the horns by several predators, he had a few more seconds spent pondering. He watched his body reveal a stream of gore as he was dragged. This revealed the answer. They had found him because they had known to look at the ground. This sent a feeling of pure terror, followed by cold numbness along The Buffalo’s primitive spine. The grooves his feet carved into the soft mud, and presumably all surfaces, were followable. This was beyond any sort of cause and effect on the world his brain was possible of understanding until this life event had granted him understanding. He felt like his past self, a noble fifteen years of age, was simply a baby Bison, who had to still be taught to lick from rivers and chew their food for the first time. He felt he knew nothing of the world until these very instances. His mind was ever expanding in these few last seconds, even through the terror, and perhaps empowered by the terror itself. He considered the lights in the sky at night, thinking them to be creatures as well, perhaps also with plans to puncture his body and cause him pain. He considered if the large cats he had seen in the mountains at night would ever learn to make branches of pain to better hunt as well. The Buffalo saw one of the creatures pulling him by the horns stop and take a piece of animal skin out he had been carrying. The creature began to eat the tough food inside. The Buffalo was blasted with a strong scent of minerals and flesh. The scent reminded him of the strange scents from the night before, when he was almost found. He still could not fully process the act of fire making and preserving, but he intimately knew the smell of the meat as that of his own kind. He felt a dull throbbing numbness take over his entire mind, at the thought of being wrapped in his own skin and eaten leisurely later. With his mind racing ever stronger, he had the urge to reason with these predators. Perhaps this was not a fruitless endeavor of running, escape would not have to be the answer. He let out, with the full intent of explaining he understood their mission, a braying yelp. No sound escaped him however. He could no longer inflate his lungs. The Buffalo had only a few miniscule seconds of life left. The creatures brought him to their camp. They congratulated themselves on the successful hunt. They roasted the meat that night, prepared it and wrapped it for return to the tribe, and placed it all on their large sled. They rested well, they had been hunting for The Buffalo for two weeks. They had recounted it’s patterns of straying from the herd every day, learned where it ran and how far usually, and planned this execution expertly. They would feast for months off this harvest, and were struck with an immense sensation of pleasure that they no longer were hunted, but were the hunters. They all talked long into the night. They did not notice anything creeping in the dark. They slept around the fire. They did not smell anything strange that concerned them.


He was so cold. He was sitting on the bed that was the only furniture in the tiny room. He was wearing several layers of clothing, two pairs of pants, two sweaters and an overcoat but he still was freezing. He grabbed a blanket and covered himself with it and sat against the wall, as tiny as he could. He looked around the room, he noticed that the floor was dusty, sometimes he should sweep it. He looked up to the low ceiling, he saw spiders in every corner, going about their businesses in their webs. He won't clean that up; he didn't have anything against spiders. Recorrió la habitación con la vista, el piso estaba sucio, pensó que al día siguiente iba a tener que barrer. He fell asleep still leaning against the wall. He woke up shivering,his teeth bouncing against each other outside of his control. He realized it was the middle of the night and he was still in his room. He couldn't go on like this. The wind and snow welcomed him when he walked outside to the street. The cold was worst but at least he was moving. He walked a few minutes to the open 24 hr supermarket. He wandered through the isles searching for a few things he needed. Candles, a steak, a knife, some chalk. Once he had all those things he went to the self service checkout and pretended to check the items. He didn't have money to pay for them. He concealed the items in his clothes and calmly walked out. No one followed him. He walked back, he stared at the building from outside, it was falling apart. It was an old abandoned building. It was walled up but that wasn't an issue for him. He squeezed through a little gap in the wood and he was in. Inside most of the rooms were useless too broken, bits of the walls and ceiling everywhere. But he found a room that was ok with a bed and moved in a couple of months before. At the time he wasn't expecting the cold that he was suffering from. Back in his room he searched in the pile that were all his belongings and got a book, very old and warned out. He went through the pages until he found what he was looking for. With the chalk he drew a pentagram on the floor and placed all the lighted candles around it. He put the steak in the middle of the pentagram. With the knife he cut himself in his hand and let the blood soak the meat. He repeated the enchantment that was written in the book. A couple of seconds later the pentagram caught on fire and the flames from hell illuminated the room. A demonic shadow stood up over the flames and spoke in a language impossible to translate “Easy demon, you are trapped by my spell, you can't fight it. But i don't need much for you, just stay there until sunrise” He said and lay on the bed warm from the flames of hell and at last he slept .


A lone planet circled around its star, silent in space it followed its course. The calm of its rotation was only a front though, down on the surface chaos reigned. The surface of the planet is unstable, large deposits of charged crystals defy the gravity of the planet, lifting large chunks of it into the sky, while some rose to safe heights before stabilizing, others sailed far beyond, falling apart the dirt and stones came raining back down to the surface, destroying anything it landed upon. It did not matter if it was a hundred-foot tree, or a boulder, they were crushed under the immense weight of that which fell. Beneath the chunks of land were great craters which over the years filled with water and became lakes. The creator of the planet, Anodyne the mad god of chaos, spent their time in the pursuit of creating life, they started by making plants and single celled creations, they found themselves moving up the evolutionary ladder at a rapid pace, but when it came to creating a creature with sentience similar to a human, they achieved nothing. The already scarred surface of the planet was struck repeatedly as the deity let out their frustration. They created deep crevices, and reduced most of the mountains on the planet to a sliver of their original height. Their screams could be heard across every planet in his universe, vibrating through space and resonating on every planet. Anodyne continued to feel the crushing pressures of loneliness, they thought that by now they would be able to create life they could interact with, something that they could talk to as to stave off some of their crippling isolation. They cried and laughed at the same time, their hands shook with rage, as they giggled to themselves. “All alone, finally, everything we wanted as a mortal. To explore a universe, and here we lay in the dirt, weeping, laughing, incapable of dying.” Anodyne slammed their head into the ground, over and over again, screaming louder with each collision, then they stopped just shy of the ground. “I don’t need to create life, I just need to find developed life, I am an idiot. This universe must be covered in developed planets.” Anodyne seemingly vanished as they started to fly around their universe in search of sentient life. They darted between planets like a wayward pinball in the largest machine ever built. It reached a point when they started to give up on everything, they slowed down, and soon they were nothing more than adrift, staring blankly with their mouth slightly ajar. Their eye twitched as a small portion of drool fell from them, freezing in the cold of space as it drifted away, eventually finding itself falling to a nearby planet, evaporating upon entry it released a new biome of bacteria, and a new branch of life to develop. Meanwhile Anodyne was approached by another, there was a flash of light and a soft click that appeared behind them, they turned to see a shining individual, their ambient light fading slowly they stood before Anodyne upon a small chunk of earth with lush grass and flowers they sprouted instantly. Anodyne squinted, turning their head to one side, then slowly back to the other. “Are you real, or just one of my usual hallucinations?” Anodyne asked, as he covered each of his own eyes one at a time. The other deities mouth opened, but instead of words, came the sounds of crashing waves, cracking rocks, and morning bird calls. Anodyne stared blankly, but before he could say anything the other deity spoke again. “Strange, do you use language?” “What else would I use?” The other deity looked around them, squinting periodically before turning back to Anodyne. “With a universe this old, I assumed you would know other forms of communication.” “What, is the sound of nature supposed to be faster than just talking?” The other deity pinched dust that was floating past, look intently. “This is rare,” the deity brought their finger closer to their eye. “Oh, this is very rare, this place might be a good spot for mining.” “What are you on about?” Anodyne looked at the small pile of dust “It is dust how is that rare? It is everywhere.” The other seemed to stop momentarily before grinning. They then started to walk forward, and the small island beneath their feet grew to accommodate the new deities’ movements. They walked straight past Anodyne, Anodyne turned to watch him, but another light caught their attention, they turned back to see two other deities wander in. They both looked to one another and the sounds of nature came out, the first deity to intrude replied in kind. “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my universe?” Anodyne yelled. The other three looked to one another with furrowed brows. “Listen kid,” the first deity said, laying a hand on Anodyne. “This place has some rare materials, we are going to take it, then we will leave. We will only be here like a million factorial years, then we will leave.” Anodyne raised his hands and proceeded to count on his fingers for a moment before looking back to the newcomers with the same hatred in his eyes that he used to stare at the frozen being. “You will leave now, or I will kill you.” The three newcomers laughed at Anodyne before turning away and continuing their plan. Anodyne felt the rage boiling inside of him, he turned and struck the closest one, just to have his fist stopped by some kind of invisible force. “Okay, listen here child. We find you amusing, but if you try and get in our way, we will kill you, and we will continue what we were going to do anyway. So, know when you have no chance of fighting, and back off.” Anodyne waited for them to finish before he slammed his fist at the other deity a second time. “This is my domain, you will leave.” Anodyne proclaimed as he continued to stare. “Stupid, fucking child gods.” The invading deity said as he turned to Anodyne. He let a sigh out just before he struck Anodyne, sending him flying back to a nearby planet, like a stray asteroid landing upon a planet. Anodyne coughed blood, and struggled to breath through his injuries, his vision started to wobble, and then he fell still. The other deities did as they pleased, bringing strange machines into the universe they begun bagging the dust that was circling around the universe. Anodyne’s blood flowed out onto the planet, around his unconscious body was a small any colony that tasted his blood, returning it to their nest they began improving themselves in ways they were not prepared for. The followed the stream of blood, and moved their colony into Anodynes body, crawling in every orifice they could find they built their colony in his body. The more blood they drank, the stronger they became, until they were able to finally chew through Anodyne’s internals, carving their own caverns, not having to rely on his natural cavities. They dug deeper, ate more, grew in strength, and number, but it did not matter how far they dug, his body never seemed to end, even when they had burrowed further than Anodyne’s slim frame should have been able to hold. Anodyne awoke suddenly after only a few months with an intense ringing in his ears. His body had healed, and he stood to his feet, nearly falling as he went. “Odd, why is my body off balance?” He asked himself. Rolling his eyes backwards he looked inside, to see the sprawling nest of ants that now lived in him. “Pests. If it wasn’t my body you were in I would crush your home suffocating you, until, you, died…” Anodyne began to trail off, then looked to the sky. “I know what I have to do.” Anodyne started to amass every piece of matter he could lay his hands on, pushing it all together they soon collapsed under the immense pressure, creating a black hole in their place. He could feel the pull of his creation, but could still move freely around it, he knew he would have to do better. So he made another one, and another, until they started to chain react, sucking each other in, until there was one that ate everything that came near. Meanwhile the invaders were working on collecting all the dust from space still, but they stopped when they noticed that everything around them seemed to be drifting in one direction, then stop again. “That, was, weird. It was almost like there was an intense pull then it balanced.” They looked to one another before getting back to work, they made no attempt to look for the disturbance, and soon had forgotten that it had even happened. But after a while it happened again, pulling in another direction for a short moment before stopping. Then again in another direction. “Okay what is happening?” One said frustrated. “That is simple, I am going to kill you all.” Anodyne said, appearing in-between the three other deities. “What are you on about?” “I am bringing death to your door, this is your last warning, leave or suffer.” “Kid, you don’t know what you are talking about, you have never even left this universe, how do you expect to stop us? We have visited hundreds of other deities’ universes; you can’t hope to defeat us.” “I won’t defeat you; I even intend on dying with you.” The other three looked to one another, before noticing what was happening. Around them the universe was being consumed by a collection of black holes that were slowly encroaching on them. “Damn, take what we got and move out.” With that, all the strange machines disappeared, and two of the three deities reached out, grabbing door handles that were not there but a moment before, and walking through the appearing doors, for them to just vanish once they closed. “Smart move, but you can’t jump universes, good luck getting out of this. Out there in the Eterna-verse, they call getting caught in a black hole that is stronger than you as god hell. Have fun with that.” The last deity went to leave, reaching for a door handle that started to appear, but then faded, and Anodyne began to laugh. “Oh thank the stars, I thought I was going to die alone, at least you can join me.” The intruding deity began to panic as he started grasping for the handle, trying again and again. “What have you done?” He screamed as he looked at Anodyne. “I made black holes to destroy all your precious dust, turns out that somehow disrupts your little door thing which is a nice bonus. I actually had forgot you could jump universes, so I nearly completely fucked up. But hey, one out of three aint too bad for a kid.” The surrounding black holes all spiralled around another, encroaching on the two remaining deities, they could feel their bodies being dragged by the immense force of a nearly universe sized black hole. While the intruding deity screamed in horror, and tried to summon his door he could not help but see Anodyne allowing the pull of the black holes drag him around as he laughed. “You have no idea what fresh hell awaits us, you won’t be laughing then!” “I spent my first several billion, trillion, whatever years of existence suffocating in space, being burnt to dust, and dissolving in acids, I then had part of another being’s mind forced into mine. I don’t see things getting worse. I have done hard yards; this is just the next hurdle. Welcome to the life of the suffering friend. Let’s visit hell together.” Anodyne reached out, grabbing hold of the other deity, laughs and screams twisted, and wound around one another, spiralling into the immense mass of the black hole which was in its final moments before becoming whole. The other deity broke down into tears while Anodyne cheered the two of them into the pit of the black hole as it consumed the final pieces of matter from their universe.


#Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills and areas in which we excel, as well as places we’d like to improve. So I’d like to present a brand new weekly feature. This will be a weekly thread to discuss all things writing! And… to get to know your fellow writers a bit! Each week we will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion. Feel free to chime into the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, etc. You do not have to answer all the questions, but try to stay on-topic! *** #This Week’s Discussion Deadlines; they’re everywhere in the writing community, whether writing professionally or as a hobby. Some authors find they write better under the pressure of a looming deadline, or with constraints like a wordcount or required themes and phrases. But everyone is different. - How do you feel about writing under deadlines? Do you prefer having a timeline or goal to reach when you’re working on a project? Why/why not? - Do you prefer to have constraints to guide your writing? What about a wordcount to write under? - New to r/ShortStories or joining in the Discussion for the first time? **Introduce yourself in the comments!** What do you like to write? #Reminders - **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** - **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussion in any form will not be tolerated. - **Please try to stay on-topic.** If you have suggestions for future questions and topics, you can add them to the stickied comment or send them to me via DM or modmail! *** ###Subreddit News - Practice your micro-fic skills on or serialize your story on .


Hi, sorry if this is in the wrong place, but I really need some help. I am a Drama teacher and I want my students to engage more with stories, books, plays, scripts etc… I like using very short stories for them to create from. By very short stories I’m talking at the most 4/5 paragraphs. Something that isn’t going to take them too long to read. I am looking for anything that isn’t too childish really. I’m looking for anything from drama, horror, suspense, thriller, anything that will allow them to engage their creative brains into thinking about storytelling. Would anyone be able to recommend a book, site, some part of this sub or even their own work for me to use with my students? Any help would be greatly appreciated.


In a distant time, in a distant place, there lived a very old eagle. The eagle had lived a long life, but always thought that he was still a young bird. When his feathers turned ragged and gray, he insisted it was just dirt. When his beak and talons weathered away, he blamed the rocks of his nest for dulling them down. When his wings grew too frail to fly, he lied and said that he no longer wished to soar the winds. The eagle refused to accept his age and pass on, even after all of his other animal friends had gone away. Rhino. Elephant. Giraffe. Lion. All of them were gone now, but the Eagle was stubborn, and stayed. Every day, the eagle would take the long walk down the cliff to the murky watering hole nearby where he would take a drink out of his broken beak, and use his dull talons to dig through the dirt for worms. One such day, the eagle was dragging his talons through the mud when a dragonfly flew out from the marsh. "Sir eagle, I see you here every day but I must ask- why do you dig for our worms when there are rabbits that run through the fields?" "Because..." Began the eagle. "The rocks of my nest have broken my talons. I cannot hunt for rabbits anymore. I can only dig for easier prey." The dragonfly landed on a nearby rock. "That may be so, sir Eagle, but why do you drink from our murky waters? Surely there are many more ponds with fresh, clean, water to drink." "I do not wish to fly anymore." The eagle lied. "I grow tired of the winds and want to walk the earth. This is the nearest pond to my cliff, even if the waters are murky." The dragonfly hovered behind the eagle. "There is no need to lie, Eagle. Your feathers tell the truth. You are as gray as a thunderstorm, and your wings are brittle like dried grass." "I do not lie, insect. My feathers are simply coated in dust, and my wings are as strong as they could ever be. Do not insult me again or I will eat you like these worms." The dragonfly hovered upwards, out of the eagle's reach. "You may try, eagle, but we both know that it is not in your power to succeed. You may have been the hunter of the skies many seasons ago, but now you are weathered and aged. It is time to move onto the land beyond the horizon." The eagle began walking back to his cliff. "I am not an old bird like you suggest. I am noble, strong, and proud, and have many more years left." The dragonfly followed the eagle as he began walking up the cliff path back to his nest. "You are designed to fly and hunt down your problems, not run and hide from them. Do not keep tricking yourself into thinking you are a hatchling anymore." "I know that I am no longer a chick, but I have no intentions to lie down and die." The eagle crossed a log but was halted by the dragonfly blocking his path. "You need not lie down, sir eagle. I simply ask that you understand where you came from. Do you have children?" "Yes." Said the eagle, pushing past the dragonfly. "They travelled north towards more bountiful lands." "And how about a wife?" "Once, but no longer." The dragonfly hovered around the eagle's head. "What of your friends within the savannah?" "They too travelled beyond the horizon many seasons ago." The dragonfly dared to perch upon the eagle's feathered skull. "So you are the last member of your life, eagle?" "Yes." "Then why fight destiny? Why must you cling to a world for which you may provide nothing more? Your legacy will be carried on by your children, and their children, and their children's children. The scratch marks of your talons amongst these stones will forever tell your stories, long after you are gone. You have ensured that the world will remember you, so I ask again: why must you keep walking across the earth instead of soaring the skies beyond the horizon?" As they crested the edge of the rock and entered the eagle's nest, the eagle looked around. His grey, weathered feathers adorned the ragged mess that were the remains of his nest. He did not have the means to repair it, but as the twigs and branches fell away, he could recall distant, faint memories. His wife, with her beautiful feathers. The pair of eggs that sat in the center of this very nest so, so long ago. His friends that would look up towards the rocks and cheered when he flew down to meet them. The eagle's old eyes narrowed as he looked at the dragonfly. "Because I am afraid, dragonfly. I do not wish to forget the wonders of my life. They are the feathers that I scatter among the winds. They are the sun and moon, the stars in the night, and the clouds in the sky. They are my heart, my soul, and everything I was, am, and ever will be. I am afraid that if I move on beyond the horizon, I will lose my memory of everything that gave my life purpose." The dragonfly flew towards the nest, perched at the edge of the rock, and stared towards the sunset. "Sir eagle, there is not much more time for you to remember. I will not claim to know what lies in the land beyond the horizon, but I do know this. If you truly wish to remember, then those memories will never fade. In every world, in every life, you will always have the wonders of your life with you. They will stay in your heart, and move with you wherever you may fly. They will love you as much as you love them, and will never, ever let you forget them." The dragonfly turned to look at the eagle. "Everything that the light touches will eventually crumble in time, but love and memory will persist beyond every obstacle. If you wish not to forget, then you will always have what matters most wherever you go." The eagle stepped forward and ruffled a few feathers. "Then what do you suppose I should do next?" "Fly to the horizon, and proceed to the land that beckons you." "But I cannot fly! My wings are too brittle, my feathers too frail!" "You can." Said the dragonfly, who began hovering in the air. "When fate beckons, the breeze will carry you where you need to go. All you need to do is spread your wings, remember what matters most, and let the winds take you beyond the sunset." As the dragonfly smiled, gave a wink, and buzzed away down the rocks, the eagle took another step forward until his dull, broken talons scraped at the edge of the cliff. He felt the breeze pick up around him, and he flexed his frail wings. For the first time in many, many seasons, he was not afraid of falling. As the wind caught his feathers, they scattered amidst the gust and blew into the shapes of his wonders: His wife. His friends. And not now, but maybe later, after many more seasons have passed, his children. They all beckoned to him, and a smile crossed the eagle's face as he let the breeze lift him into the sky. While his wonders fluttered around him, he too danced in the wind and let out a mighty screech to join in their song of rest. The horizon grew closer, though the eagle's fears didn't return. He may have been on his last flight, but he flew all the way home.


"Never forget,” is the mantra of that day. These 33 eighth graders from Duke Ellington Middle School, wandering through the newly opened museum dedicated to that day, will never forget- because they never remembered in the first place. They were only one. The youngest were still crawling, unable to communicate in anything but babble. The oldest were running, jumping, talking, even beginning to count. But they were all one-year-olds on that infamous day twelve and a half years earlier, and as such, have never known the world to be any different than it is now. Airport security has always been a hassle, terrorism has always been an omnipresent threat, and there has always been an eerie solemness over the first few days of the school year. Zara is one of the oldest, nearly two then and already fourteen now, but she has no better memory of that day than any of her classmates do. According to her parents, she'd had her own commentary on the events of that day as they unfolded: "What happen?", “I scared", and "no go, Daddy". She had started talking quite early, though, and ever since she has always been either the loudest person in the room or the quietest- no in between. Today she is the quietest; she lags at the back of the small group she has been assigned to, following her classmates as though not quite certain of where she is or what she is doing. She flinches slightly whenever a particularly distressing image comes up, but although her teacher has asked twice if she is okay, all she says is, "I'm fine"- an utterance so simple that she could have formed it on that day. The other students share generic answers to the generic worksheet that they were given, but there is no joking or teasing like there usually is. Even though they were only one, they know how serious this event was, and they know that any idiot who decides to joke about it will be reprimanded and shunned. They will all be obnoxious kids again the second they leave, but they are all able to feel faint stirrings of sadness about this event, although they were only one. Zara feels everything more intensely than average- another eight years will go by before she has a diagnosis for this- but even knowing how she is, her near complete silence today has baffled her teachers and peers. She has a piece of paper folded up in her coat pocket, which she occasionally takes out and examines for a few seconds. Her friend Jessica glances over and is able to catch a glimpse of it- a photograph, an old one but not black-and-white old, of three young men and two young women standing on a pier with the then-standing towers in the background. One of the women looked quite a bit like a grown-up version of Zara, about ten years older or so. “Who's that?” Jessica asks, but Zara immediately folds the photo back up and puts it away, so she decides not to ask again. The group comes upon two recording booths, where people can record their own memories of that day and have their stories become part of the museum. The students pay no attention to it- it’s not on their worksheet, and there are no memories that they can share because they were all only one. Jessica feels a tap on her shoulder. “I’m going to stay here for a bit,” Zara says. The rest of their group has gone on to the next exhibit, but Jessica can copy their answers later anyway. “Okay,” she says. Zara waits in line, and Jessica awkwardly lags behind, wondering what someone who was only one could possibly have to say about that day. She hopes the crueler boys in their class don’t see this; they bully Zara because her sensitivity makes her an easy target, and she doesn’t want to have to go to the guidance counselor's office to support her when they return to school- it seems that Zara ends up in the guidance counselor's office quite often these days. There is a vacancy in one of the booths, and Zara quickly fills it. She hesitates for a moment, taking the picture from her pocket. She places her finger over the image of one of the men, the one standing next to the woman who resembles her. With her unsteady hand, she presses the record button. “Hi, Mr. Goldstein,” she says. “It’s Zara. Robyn’s baby. Well… Robyn's *daughter*. I'm obviously not a baby anymore.” Jessica remembers that when the class was walking around the memorial pools outside, Zara stayed in one place for some time, her finger on one of the names engraved in the marble. The name was Mark Goldstein. On the permission slip each student had been given for this trip, it asked whether their family had been personally affected by the tragedy- if they had been, they could choose to stay home, or they could choose to show up and be treated with kid gloves the entire day as though it would make the slightest bit of difference. Everyone had shown up, and no one had been treated with kid gloves, so the assumption had been that this trip would be a more contemporary version of a trip to the Holocaust Museum or Arlington National Cemetery- a place of education and solemn respect, but not of personal pain. "I'm sorry that I don't remember you," Zara says. "I wish I could. Mommy says my personality reminds her of you- maybe that's because you were a preemie, like me. She says that, when I was a baby, I was afraid of most people that weren't her and Daddy, but I liked you. Maybe I knew somehow that the both of us were miracles." Zara takes a shaky breath that sounds more like a sob. "She says that, when I was little, I used to tell her stories about a man that comforted me at night when I was scared. I told her that he said he and I were special so he had to protect me. The older I get, the harder it is to believe in stuff like that, but… maybe that really was you. I always felt so affected by what happened here- not just to you, but to everyone- even though I was only one when it happened. After all, the youngest person who lost their life here was just a few months older than I was. Her name was Christina, I think- the same name as my best friend from elementary school. She... she was on the plane that... that killed you." The rest of the group have come back to see where Zara and Jessica have gone, and now, unbeknownst to Zara, are listening as she talks to the first of many missing people in her young life. "Uh... I'm starting high school this year," Zara says. "Lilac is starting college. She's going to Columbia- she wants to be a lawyer. She said that she promised you when she was little that she was going to go there one day. She's so happy, but… it still hurts her that you're not around to see it." There are a few older teenagers, alumni of Duke Ellington Middle School, who sometimes meet Zara after school, and Lilac is one of them- a highly animated redhead who always wears an American flag-shaped locket around her neck. Now it is apparent why. “Mommy told me about the bombing… the first bombing,” Zara goes on, “how The Five were all trapped in an elevator when it went off, and you all pried the elevator door open to get out. Mr. Smith and Mr. Bates said that, because you all found a way out once, when the towers fell, they told themselves that you must have found a way out again. But there was no time- the plane crashed right into ParkShed's offices. Eleven employees inside at that moment, and eleven names on this memorial. If they hadn't both been running late to work that day… it would be thirteen, and I wouldn't have any memory of them either." She is starting to cry. “I didn't see much of them or Ms. Baxter when I was little. The ParkShed Five couldn’t bear to face the fact that they were The ParkShed Four now. But when Mommy got sick, they started coming by again, because they didn't want to meet for the next time as the ParkShed Three…" A third of Zara’s class is now watching from a tentative distance, and other museum-goers are beginning to notice as well. It is far from the first tragic spectacle that has happened in this museum, and it will be far from the last, but moments like these are always far more impactful than any artifact pulled from the rubble. “A few months ago, we found out that Mommy’s tumor is growing again,” Zara says. “She doesn’t remember much anymore, but she still remembers you. She… she doesn't have much of a filter anymore either, so she’ll just blurt things out to me that I don’t think she would tell me if she was all there. We were talking about love the other day, and she… she said that she's been in love with three men in her life, and that… just one is still alive. I assume the living one is Daddy, and I know the man she dated right before him died last year, but I wondered… I found this picture, and… I noticed that she's looking at you in the same way that she looked at Daddy in their pictures later. I always knew she'd loved you, but… I never would have thought it was because she was *in* love with you once." Zara's hands tremble so much that she can barely hold the picture. "That would explain a lot," she says. "If part of her was still in love with you all along. But it wouldn't even matter now. You're gone. You've been gone. But sometimes she doesn't even remember that. Sometimes she’ll get confused and think you’re still alive, that none of it happened. Yesterday she promised to take me to Windows on the World one day, and I didn't even bother reminding her that it's gone. She forgets that Grandma and Grandpa are gone now, too. Every time someone reminds her that they’re gone, or that you’re gone, she cries like she just found out. She forgets so much, but when she forgets you, we’ll know it's over. But when she forgets you, it won’t matter anymore…” The recording has shut off, but no one dares to move. Zara’s sniffles turn to sobs. “...because when she forgets you… it won’t be long until you’re together again.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I post a theme to inspire you, along with a related image and song. You have 500 - 850 words to write your installment. You can jump in at any time; writing for previous weeks’ is not necessary in order to join. After you’ve posted, come back and provide feedback for at least 2 other writers on the thread. Please be sure to read the entire post for a full list of rules.   *** #This week's theme is Innocence! | This week we’re going to explore the theme of ‘innocence’. Two weeks ago we took a look at guilt, and what that meant for your characters and the world around them. So, let’s flip that. What happens when one of the innocent are pulled into the storm, punished even, for the crimes of another? Who is to be believed in this situation? What happens to a person’s trust in their friends, their family, their system? Do they stand strong, ready to fight injustice with everything they have, or do they give up, feeling broken and defeated? We, as people, often feel guilt, even when the events aren’t necessarily our fault. But how does that affect someone internally? Externally? How does this change someone? These are just a few things to get you started. This week, please keep in mind the subreddit rules, and treat the topic of mental health with respect. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. **Please remember to follow all sub and post rules.** You can always modmail us if you’re unsure.   *** #Theme Schedule: - September 11 - Innocence (this week) - September 18 - Jealousy - September 25 - Knowledge   *** **Most Recent Themes:** | | | | | ***   #Rules & How to Participate Please read and follow all the rules listed below. This feature has requirements for participation! - **Submit a story inspired by the weekly theme, set in your self-established universe. Use to check your wordcount.** Stories should be posted as a top-level comment below. If you’re continuing an in-progress serial (not on Serial Sunday), please include links to your previous installments. - **Your chapter must be submitted by Saturday at 12pm EST.** That is one hour before the start of Campfire. Late entries will be disqualified. - **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to recognize your serial and add each chapter to the SerSun catalog. Do not include anything in the brackets you don’t want in your title. (Please note: You must use this same title every week.) - **Do not pre-write your serial.** You’re welcome to do outlining and planning for your serial, but chapters should not be pre-written. All submissions should be written for this post, specifically. - **Only one active serial per author at a time.** This does not apply to serials written outside of Serial Sunday. - **All Serial Sunday authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread each week (that’s one comment on two different stories).** The feedback should be **actionable** and include something the author has done well. You have until **Saturday at 11:59pm EST** to post your feedback. Those who go above and beyond (more than 5 actionable crits) will be rewarded with “Crit Credits” that can be used on our crit sub, r/WPCritique. - **Missing your feedback requirement two or more consecutive weeks will disqualify you from rankings and Campfire readings the following week.** If it becomes a habit, you may be asked to move your serial to the sub instead. - **Serials must abide by subreddit content rules.** This includes, but is not limited to, explicit suicide or suicide-note stories, pedophilia, rape, bestiality, necrophilia, incest, explicit sex, and graphic depictions of abuse or torture. You can view a . If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask!   *** #Weekly Campfires & Voting: - **On Saturdays at 1pm EST, I host a Serial Sunday Campfire in our .** Join us to read your story aloud, hear others, and exchange feedback. We have a great time! (And Campfire is feedback is worth extra points!) You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Grab the “Serial Sunday” role on the Discord to get notified before it starts. - **Nominations for your favorite stories can be submitted .** The form is open on Saturdays from 12pm to 11:59pm EST. You do not have to participate to make nominations! - **Authors who complete their Serial Sunday serials with at least 12 installments, can host a SerialWorm in our Discord’s Voice Lounge, where you read aloud your finished and edited serials.** Celebrate your accomplishment! Authors are eligible for this only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). Visit us on the Discord for more information.   *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points (but its interpretation is entirely up to you)! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by other users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Actionable Feedback:** - Thread feedback (at least 2 required) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap) **Nominating Other Stories:** - Voting for your favorite stories - 5 points (total) **Looking for more on what actionable feedback is?** Check out or these previous crits from Serial Sunday: | |   *** #Rankings for “Heartbreak” - **First place:** - by u/Zetakh   - **Second place:** - by u/mattswritingaccount   - **Third place:** - by u/rainbow\-\-penguin   - **Honorable Mention:** - - by u/Loki_7000   *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires and a few other fun events! - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


I hung out with my sister today. My sister and I met at the entrance to the cemetery today. We don't hang out a lot, but once a month we make our way, walking miles through the silent twists and turns to the mausoleum in the middle of the cemetery. "How's the last month been? Any news?" she asked as she picks at her split ends. At this moment, I am very jealous of her luscious hair. "Fine" I say, dodging a stick in the middle of the path, trying not to embarrass myself. We typically have to fit the last month of our lives in the short window. We try to keep the updates brief, making sure not to reminisce. I love my sister, but reminiscing hurts too much. Despite our long, hard lives, she looks youthful - her skin less weathered by the sun as opposed to mine, which is covered in sunspots and wrinkles. I’ve aged a lot in the past few years. “How are the kids?” I ask her. Her kids are teenagers now, I take a second to consider that I should stop calling them kids, but the thought quickly dissipates. “I don’t see them too much, unfortunately. You know how teenagers are, always so wrapped up in their own lives. I’d like to say I taught them well, but Mike has always been the strong one. I don’t know how he does it somedays.” “Mike is a good man,” I respond, “and you’re a great mother, Millie” She looks at me with doe eyes as we continue on the path. “No one talks about how hard it is to watch your kids grow,” I turn to her, “just last week my Sara turned 13. She’s starting middle school. At least I get to see this graduation.” She sighs but doesn’t continue the conversation. I think it’s hard for her, too, and I understand. The usual suspects are out and about. The graveyard keeper waves, and I wave back, still pouting from the thought of our kids getting older. The mausoleum comes into view. As we approach, she looks at me and asks “Do you remember the house we lived in growing up?” and I stop in my tracks. I did remember it, very well. We were poor, and we lived by the steel mill. “Yes – I do. Why do you ask?” I look at her, puzzled, as she breaks our unspoken rule. “Someone was dropped off here today and grew up down the road from us. I talked to them earlier today. They had the same brain cancer I did. I know our parents tried the best they could but living by the mill was bad news. I always knew it.” I burst out into tears. I didn’t want to tell her about the article that came out in the paper a few weeks before regarding recent deaths and how the families insisted a study be done on the drinking water in our hometown. We know enough now to know that the environment was the cause of her brain cancer, but that didn’t need to weigh on her. I continued to walk into the mausoleum. I turned to the spot where she stood to tell her that my chemo was unsuccessful, and I’ve only been given a few months to live, but she no longer stood there, her spot replaced with a chill. I walk to the grave on the wall and read the engraving. “Camilla Teeter – Mother, Wife, Sister, Friend. Fighter.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: Summer has (mostly) come to an end, school is back in session, and the weather is cooling. is on its way! Let’s get into the season with a bit of story fun. **Simple Prompt: And just like that, summer fell into autumn.** **Bonus:** Include at least 3 of the following in your story. Points will be awarded for each included action/item. **Note: You do not have to include them all.** | Included Item or Action| Points| |:--:|:--:| |The smell of apples | 1 pt. | | A ball is thrown | 1 pt. | | An oversized sweater is worn | 1 pt. | | The color orange | 1 pt. | | The word “stuffed” | 1 pt. | | A pencil breaks| 1 pt. | | A family recipe is used/mentioned | 1 pt. | | A friendly deer| 1 pt. | | The sound of crinkled leaves | 1 pt. | |A character who dislikes the cold | 1 pt. | | A bittersweet moment | 2 pts. | | A pumpkin patch | 2 pts. | | The feeling of nostalgia | 2 pts. | This week’s challenge is to use this simple writing prompt as **inspiration** for your story. You may interpret it *any way you like*, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules. The bonus is worth an additional 15 points this week! But as always, it is not required, just a fun challenge. **Don’t forget to after the submission deadline!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting.   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST**, I hold a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown. (A few adjustments have been made; note that upvotes will no longer count for points). - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points, unless otherwise stated (not required) - ***Actionable* Feedback:** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Submitting nominations:** 5 points (total) *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 5 detailed crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.*   *** #Rankings - **First:** - Submitted by u/ANDR01Dwrites - **Second:** - Submitted by u/katherine_c - **Third:** - Submitted by u/katpoker666 - **Bay’s Spotlight:** - Submitted by u/DailyReaderAcPartner - **Crit Star** - u/ANDR01Dwrites - **Crit Star** - u/katpoker666 *Crit Stars: Don’t forget in order to receive your credits, you also must have made at least one post on WPC *or* have linked your reddit account to the sub on our .* *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires and other fun events! - Join in our weekly writing chat on . We discuss a new topic every week! New here? Come introduce yourself! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


**If the Moon Was My Lover** "If the moon was my lover I'd never uncover My nakedness during the day. The sun might get jealous and angrily tell us to keep our love hidden away." **His Moon, His Lover** Jan the psychercosmemtolergist drank a drink and took a toke and swallowed a couple of pills. A computer was turned off, some clothes were installed, and keys were jammed into the right front pants pocket. A door was opened, the outside world tried to come in, but the inside world pushed it roughly back. A door was slammed, and Jan set off for a midnight rendezvous. Night had seen this scene many times before. She was warm, if breezy. Oak pollen was aggravating asthma and allergies all over the neighborhood, but especially here and now. Jan sniffed and his eyes watered, and he wondered if he would be dying soon. He put on his coronavirus mask. That seemed to help. The sky was scanned, though obscured by buildings and trees and dimmed by streetlights. "Where is she?" he wondered. "She better be there when I get there." And a couple of blocks passed by, unnoticed while preoccupations preoccupied and obsessions obsessed. A low wall caught his attention, blocking his way. There was a fence above it, with hedge behind. The cemetery fence was more decorative than effective, and the hedge had an almost imperceptible gap, well-known to Jan. He clambered through, and made his way to the willow tree. He was almost afraid to look, if she wasn't there he had no idea what he would do next. But the terrible dark shadow of the weeping willow betrayed her presence. His eyes were enraptured by the glory of her face. He removed his mask and his clothing, laid down in the grass, and let her have her way with him. In the morning, the sun angrily rose early, and burned Jan with his beams. The earth was soon covered with roiling rising breaths of steam, and Jan hastily wiped himself off with some dirt and leaves, got denakefied, and ran back home. **Are His Thoughts Trying to Kill Him?** He tried to lay down, but he thought of the moon, and got up to go to the bathroom. He sat on the toilet, but could not perform, because the thought of the moon left him impotent and constipated. So he took a shower, coming out still unclean, because he forgot to wash himself. He had no appetite left, except for her ladyship, so he turned on the news. It wasn't uninteresting, mostly about the latest atrocities of the pandemic. A commercial came on, allowing Jan to return to pondering about his experiences with and possible future with the moon. She of the cold dark sky, so bright herself, sensuous, loving........willing. It was Sunday, and psychercosmemtolergists never work on Sunday, unless they're on call, and Jan wasn't. Lurching back outside, distracted with lunar contemplations, he trod in some dog shit, and because he was wearing sandals it got all up between his toes. He barely noticed. On a bench waited his lovely soul mate, reeking irresistible perfume, and gazing at him with alluring eyes. He passed her by without a glance. In the cafe, a bird-like autistic child stared at him, while holding her nose and wrinkling her face in disgust. An overweight black lady, arms covered with ghetto tattoos, was busy emptying the trash can. She observed loudly, without looking his way "Man...something sure does stink around here!" Coffee cup in hand, he nearly got hit by the bus as he rushed across the street, headed to the nearby park. Two muggers tried to get his attention from an obscure alleyway. He passed them unaware. A poisonous snake slithered quickly out of the way, reluctant to bite the smelly poo-covered foot. He was thinking about the moon so much, you can imagine how it ruined his life. His friends and family feared he had become self-destructive or suicidal. No, what he had become was oblivious to that part of reality which wasn't the moon. But it was skin cancer that ultimately did him in.


“It - It tried to grab me dad, I swear it did”, Lloyd barely got the sentence coherently, he had begun to breathe heavily, and tears streamed from his face. “Lloyd, do you remember the story about the boy who called wolf?” “Ye-Yes dad, I’m - I’m sorry dad”, Lloyd had heard the story plenty of times at this point to get what he was hinting at. But it changed nothing, he knew that continuing would be useless. “Now get your things and go to your room, supper should be ready soon, alright bud?” Lloyd stood sniffling, tears still running down his cheeks and nose. He hung his head low, grabbed his precious notebook and pen, and marched up the stairs. He was careful not to upset his parents any further by putting his sadness into each one of the steps leading to the second floor and into his room. He got inside, closed the door, and sat on the edge of his bed, setting his notebook and pen beside him. Tears were still rolling down his cheeks, but the huffing had finally stopped. Heavy dark clouds were beginning to move into view outside. The sun cast its final red beams across the sky as it gave way to night and the oncoming storm. The wind had begun to pick up, swaying the branches and rustling the leaves of the willow outside his window. An occasional poke and scratch could be heard against the panes just as the rain began to violently pour and clank against the window. The willow was like no other he had ever seen; it overshadowed the house in both height and width, and it had grown so dense that the trunk could hardly be seen at any angle. The branches were like the arms of a giant octopus, waiting to snatch up its next meal and haul you up to its beaked mouth. Upside down, kicking, screaming, and crying, clothed, or unclothed, the creature would hardly care. It was cold and mindlessness way of its nature, it needed to eat, and some poor creature happened upon it. Sorry chump, wrong place, wrong time. Once you were over its beak, it would munch on you bite by bite. First hands, arms, until finally it-clunk. His notebook fell off the bed. He had been so enveloped by the oncoming storm and the willow that he hardly noticed one of his most prized possessions had just begun to slide off the bed. He froze, a slow slither begun to move behind him. His heart was racing, his breathing quickened, as he tuned his ears closer to the noise. It wasn't quite a slimy slither but-but dry. He placed his hands firmly by his sides on the bed. The thoughts darted quickly across his head. *Should I turn around?* *Should I run?* *Run as fast as I can down the stairs only to be told by my parents about the boy who called wolf?* His grip tightened around his mattress, pressing his feet more and more firmly to the ground. He turned around. CLAP. All was silent besides from his breathing and the outside world raining against his windowpane. A leaf floated gently down as if from the ceiling. Lloyd ran.


We are sheepherders existing in badlands at the foot of the mountains. In one season we take our sheep, friends we have known since forever, out into prairies bejeweled with carpeting of flowers purple, gold, yellow, white and blue. Everything changes, prairies dry up, then some of us go up different paths with different sheep into the mountains. My older cousin Lucy taught me how to love when neither of us had hair growing "down there." I am now a magnificent, slender, crazy young man. She is somewhat fat, thick hair collected into a piggytail as is the way of our people, popular with the everybody, but not on any boy's list of potential wives. I don't know why that should be, she is absolutely delightful. Her smile makes the wind laugh and her laugh makes the sheep pee. Although my mother and Lucy's father, my mother's brother, and indeed the whole tribe, would not approve of intimacy between relatives, still, since an early age, they have always arranged things for us to be together. When we were told to sleep out in the barn on a cold night when the house was full of guests, what must they have been thinking? Now that I am older, I realized how lucky it is that she did not get pregnant. And now, we are paired together again, to accompany some sheep 20 miles away, high up in a lonely area. There is an icy stream, craggy rocks, we sleep under the stars unless it rains, when we retreat into an ancient cabin full of spider webs. Lucy doesn't care for spiders, but me, I fear nothing! Not really much to do, chasing and controlling sheep is kind of challenging and entertaining. One night, while digesting our simple rabbit-onion-chile-cornmeal porridge, we began talking about the White missionary lady, and her mysterious preaching. I and the other men paid no attention to her nonsense about some White Man's book and ridiculous stories that clearly were impossible. There was this woman who claimed to have gotten pregnant without sex, and her son bragged he was a god! White people are stupid, none of the real humans would ever believe such fantasies. Lucy and a few other women, however, were tricked, and listened to the White woman's lies, and now the infection spread around the village like fleas on homeless dogs. So Lucy couldn't help but ask me, as a way to keep on talking before going to sleep in front of the campfire "Where is God I wonder?" Our shaman has told us the stories of our people. How the stars made love, and sent fairies to earth as raindrops, and the local goddess of the earth woke up, and the fairies grew up as maize. There is no single all-powerful "God," that would be an imbalance of power. What lightning bolt can claim to be "God" when it only exists a moment. What "God" is a fire, that burns out and becomes ash? Still, it is a fair question I suppose. "In the sky, obviously!" I retorted contemptuously. Lucy sighed, looking up at the stars, shimmering and shining magnificently in the cold dark moonless sky. "Where? I don't see him." "Him? No no, all the sky and the stars and the clouds, that is God!" "I just don't see it! I see the Plow, and the Bear and the Dog. But where is God?" I was beginning to like this game. "Ha ha ha, must be Father Sun and Sister Moon then!" Lucy shook her head, and closed her eyes. "No, the White lady said God is always with us. Father Sun leaves us every night! The White Lady said God is unchangeable. Sister Moon grows to a bright happy disk and shrinks to sad blackness, that is not unchangeable." I noticed some eyes gleaming redly up on some tree branch. "Look there, Lucy, there is God!" Lucy snorted. "No, that is only Cousin Porcupine, looking for food in the oak branches." I looked around. Down by the creek there was a rustling noise. "Quick, quick, over there!" I pointed. "Surely that is God!" Lucy stared with a frightened expression, squinting. "Oh, that is only Brother Coyote, following the scent of a rat." "I will show you exactly where God is, then Lucy, but you must promise to keep it a secret." She smiled, dreamily, as I stared into her eyes. "See, God is always there, if you know just where to look.


Four narrow walls frame the room, every visible surface covered by cheap, plastic padding. A compact screen sits embedded in the far end of the room. There was barely enough room to sleep, let alone stand. But, the Coffin House was all I could afford. At least until I could find work. Five weeks ago, I'd escaped a dead end job as a security guard at Locust corp. Fled was more accurate, I suppose. Though in retrospect, leaving was liberating. Leaving with 500k worth of installed, unpaid corporate augmentations was even better. Not that anyone ever really managed to pay their debts to Locust Corp. No, you paid until you died, and then they'd rip out your ware and slap it into the next schmuck. Better to live as a free man. Still, the streets had proven more dangerous than I'd expected. Especially with Locust mercenaries hot on my heels. But, I hadn't had any run ins for a couple days. Not since I found a hole in the Combat Zone, outside the Sprawl. And I'd dug in like a tick. I hadn't left the room in days, not outside of using the bathroom down the hall. Now, all that was left was to wait on Dennis' call. In a couple days, I'd have a new I.D., a passport, and be halfway across the globe. I'd met Dennis the day I escaped. He'd been beat half to death, and had one foot in the grave, surrounded by cheap gangers. My security training had overtaken me, and in my haste I'd forgotten about my new ware. I remembered when the first goons skull cracked open like a grape in a vice. Dennis was the one who set me up, helped me get some cash in my pockets. In return, I'd ventilated a couple of his debtors, sent a message. Finally, the notification pings in my HUD. Before I can finish reading Dennis' message I'm halfway out the door. The smell cigarettes clings to the peeling wallpaper, the hallway just barely wide enough to walk through. The receptionist, a petite young woman with extensive dermal mods, shoots a glance. "Checking out, Nico?" "Nah, just a quick run. I'll be back for my shit. Have a nice day, Akari." She grins, revealing a neon smile, her eyes shifting colors in time with her grill. "Be safe!" A frigid palor hangs above the city, as gusts of wind rip through the streets. Droves of beligerent citizens prowl the streets, gunshots ringing out in the distance. I turn up my collar, trying to hustle through Black Powder Alley as fast as I discretely can. My head on a swivel, I pass through the alley and into the Bowels. Dennis' shop shouldn't be far now. A group of gangers eyes me from across the way, and sparks flicker along my cyber arm. 'Don't fuck with me', a message I do my best to project. They stare on, unflinching. I recognize their leathers:Black Powder Angels. The same punks I'd ghosted my first night in town. Fuck. I'd been planning on picking up ammo at Dennis'. The last of it had been spent on a would be mugger, last week. Our eyes lock for a moment, and I can see it. Smell it. They think I'm prey, a mark to be defiled and burgled. I slide into an alley, and take off. Before long I hear them behind me. Bullets tear through the air, and I do my best to weave. Pain shoots through my body, as one lands in my shoulder. "Slow down, chrome dome, we just wanna talk, maybe take a look at all those fancy augs!" I rip a brick from the wall, spinning into the throw. It connects, embedding itself one of the gangers chests. With a wet squelch he slumps over, and I dive for his gun. His body spasms as I rip the cheap assault rifle from his hand, and launch his soon to be corpse into his allies. The trigger compresses beneath my finger and I fill the alley with hot lead, sprinting away from the crowd. Within fifteen minutes, I lose the crowd. Ahead, I spot Dennis' shop. A small, ramshackle building constructed of refuse and detritus. A neon sign atop the door reads "General Store", flickering in and out. Relics of the 21st century fill the room, tapes and CD's filling display shelves alongside busts of retro celebrities. The scent of mildew and console duster hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the stench of oil and sweat. I spot Dennis behind the counter, forty something, balding and rotund, he's clad in high fashion from several seasons ago. He looks nervous. "Nico! You made it." His eyes dart to the closet, then to me. I can hear it in his voice, he's afraid. "You got my new identity facilitated, then?" As I ask, I move nonchalantly towards the closet. I click on my thermal vision, and immediately pick up a heat signature, jammed inside. "Of-ofcourse, Nico." A stream of lead, pours across the room. I catch two bullets in the shoulder before I pivot away from the closet, ducking behind a shelf full of ancient electronics. I poke my head out, and there the son of a bitch is. Seven feet tall, and chromed to the gills. The kind of bastard that would make the most eccentric augger blush. He sends another volley, and I dart to another shelf, hands fumbling for something of use. Finally, I find it. An industrial pry bar that looks more like a gangland sword than a mechanic's tool. My left hand snatches a stack of buzz saw blades, chipped and pitted. Two blades find purchase in his rib cage. He sprays the assault rifle again, and this time he catches my leg. I see Dennis out of the corner of my eye, running to the door. The buzzsaw blade nearly tears his leg off, and soon the floors are slick with blood. He cries out. I force a chuckle. Soon I'm darting through the isle, and trying to pretend like I'm not running head on into my death. He catches me again, twice more in the leg. The last buzzsaw blade takes his hand off. He scrambles, trying to shift his cover. But it's too late. The pry bar finds a home between his ribs. I leave him there, slipping in a pool of his own blood. "You fucked me, Dennis." "I had no choice Nico! They were gonna-" His hand breaks beneath my boot, and a glob of spit finds his forehead. I grab an oily rag from the counter and stuff it inside his mouth. "Who's in the fucking closet, Dennis?" "Some random street punk, he.... He found him out there, cut out his tongue so he couldn't scream." I can barely understand him with the gag in his mouth. With a quick poke, the rag is lodged in his throat. I watch him struggle for air, turning blue while I douse the place in accelerant. The punk in the closet takes off, non verbally thanking me for his life. The flames dance beneath the night sky, flickering in the breeze. I try to ignore the stench of burnt flesh as I head back to Coffin House.


The five cent coin found himself in a dark void, the light of the living room shone in the distance of every direction. But the coin could not reach for it for he was just that. “Welcome,” whispered a gentle voice from above. The coin turned to the direction of the voice to see an unshapen mass, a shadow in the dark looming above. Rock solid and grey, the mass had surely been here since before the coin was minted. “Who are you and where have I fallen to?” Said the coin. He had never seen a place so hollow of life and light. “You have fallen behind the sofa, where all useless and unwanted things go. I was once gum, and you were once a coin.” The coin was aware that he was a coin, but the gum didn’t look like the pristine, powdered sticks of gum he had spoken to in the many pockets of jeans it had seen over the years. And she definitely lacked the fresh spearmint scent the coin had come to recognise. In fact, the wad of gum glued stuck to the underside of the couch smelt of nothing at all. The gum recognised the coin’s confusion and spoke; “I was once pristine like yourself, how I was created to be. Now, misshapen, and ugly, I have been extracted of any flavour I once held. I now spend my days here, with you.” The coin became a little duller after hearing this. To be created for a single use a single time is a most unfortunate fate to be handed. “With me?” Said the coin. “I may have fallen just as you, but my falling was not from a purposeful discarding but a small setback. An accident,” touted the coin, trying his best to conceal a wobble pushing its way into his words. The coin looked at the gum and then his own tainted, but otherwise acceptable sheen. Flecks of sand and animal hair jutted out from her bulbous skin like scabs, she was inedible. If anyone was to see her, or God forbid, accidentally feel her, they’d recoil away in utter disgust. He thought himself lucky. They sat in silence for a time, with no concept of day or night. The living room light was always on, always teasing in the distance. Any day now he would be found. Someone would find him under the couch in a desperate search for spare change and he would return to the coin purse again. He would change hands countless times, always with a handful of other, heavier coins than himself. Time went on and the coin’s grooves grew thick with muck and dust. Green oxidised flecks began to form around his rim that spread, plaguing his entire body with irreversible scars. There came a time when his numbered value was no longer decipherable. Occasionally something new would be lost behind the couch, the company was appreciated, though the Lindor wrappers weren’t much for conversation. The coin could hardly blame them, they of course were far less worldly than himself. And so the coin spent his time reminiscing on a life of travel and wonder that now felt so far away. He had been to many places, Before, he longed to be more, to hold the weight of a two dollar coin, the breadth of a fifty cent. Now he only wished to be spent at all. “Do you miss it?” “Sometimes.” She breathed a tender chuckle. “I am simply grateful not to be the dust bunny. He was created only of neglect.” The gum’s voice rasped, for she had not spoken much in a long while. “At least for a moment, fleeting as a poppy’s bloom, I was sweet.” “But you were so small?” “And you were not? I am not so sure of the price of gum nowadays, but it must surely be more than that of a five cent coin.” The coin had nearly forgotten just how unimportant he was. He was surprised at how seen this made him feel. A miniscule piece of a far greater whole, he realised that he had been *something.* And that *something* was small, and essentially obsolete. But a coin will always be a coin.


Chains wrapped around her arms holding her down, Chains wrapped around her throat keeping her in check, Chains around her body holding her still, chains tying her legs together making sure she doesnt run. Every move she makes is watched, be it slight movement or big movement. Always ordered around, told what to do, how to feel. I have only known her for a short time but I can see the chains holding her back. She shows a smile on her face when she is around people but I can see through it, the cold heartbroken eyes that are hidden behind a mask of smiles, The tears running down her cheeks. I want to help her, I can help her… I can't help her. She is too far from me. I won't be able to make it in time, but if I stop now who knows what might happen, I have to try, even if it hurts. I can't let her fall any further into the darkness. I asked her if she wanted to hang out after school today. Luckily enough she agreed! Now I just have to show her the light that is left in this cold world of darkness. Although I’m not too sure what exactly I'm going to do I know that making her happy will help. I took her to a theme park! We went on many rides and won her many prizes. It took a while but eventually I was able to see her smile. It was filled with tears and genuine laughter but it was beautiful. The genuine happiness on her face almost put me in tears too. I invited her out again to go someplace else to which she agreed. She came to school this morning with red marks and bruises on her, when I asked her what had happened she just said she had gotten attacked by bullies. I know she was lying but I can't bring it up. Bringing it up will only cause problems for her. For the past week I spent every day after school with her. Taking her out to places, watching movies together and eating lots of yummy foods together, It was the best. After school on friday she said she wanted to talk to me about something. So I suggested we head to the roof of the school. When we got there she broke down in tears telling me about the physical abuse she has had since growing up from her parents, The unrealistic expectations put on her by her parents, the emotional trauma they caused by their cold words and how although she has friends I am one of the only people she can consider an actual friend. She told me she was thankful for me spending time with her, but before she could say anything else I hugged her tightly, we embraced each other and I told her in a soft loving tone “Although there is much pain in the world everything will get better in the end, I understand your pain as I have gone through it all too. You may think about ending it here and there but I assure you there is much in this world to live for.” She then asks me “Can I live for you?, Can you show me the rest of the light in this world?’’ “I would love to but my time is already up.” I reply She looked up at me with a confused expression to which I smiled back at her and said “Unlike you I ended my suffering long ago, and I am only here now to make sure you don't make the same mistake.” She held me tightly while crying her heart out as I slowly start to fade away “I don't want you to go! I don't want to be left alone again!” she wailed I tell her not to worry that I will always be with her, as I point to her heart. I then hold her cheek and kiss her lips as I completely fade away into nothingness. As I am drifting off into an eternal slumber I think to myself, Did I save her? Will she find happiness again? Then a smile crosses my face as I realise how stupid I am for thinking I didnt.


Some people said it was a monstrous eel. Some people said it was a landlocked sturgeon, an ancient creature touched by **dark magic**. Others said it was some sort of mutant, an abomination that should never have been. All were agreed, however; fishing for the **demon fish** was **folly**. All were agreed that is, but one. A local businessman heard the tales: reports of ducklings sucked under Deepdale Pond’s surface, tiddlers hooked by local children plucked savagely from their lines. He suspected the demon fish was no more than a big pike. He took the other stories; whispers of a curse befalling anyone who hooked the demon fish, a darkness falling over them and their endeavours, as superstitious nonsense. The demon fish was a pike and the businessman was going to prove it. One Saturday morning the businessman – an experienced fisherman – set himself up on the bank of Deepdale Pond. The pond was big, more of a lake in truth, but he had the whole day to move up and down the waterside, to search for the monster pike in every reed bed and deep pool. Dog walkers, picnickers, children with dinky little rods, all asked the businessman what he was doing with such bulky tackle as they visited the pond throughout the day. When the businessman explained that he was out to catch the demon fish they warned him off his charge, but he would not be deterred. As night began to fall the businessman found himself fishless and alone by the waterside. But he wasn’t going to be beaten. All the visitors to the pond throughout the day, surely their clamour had simply put the big fish off? Spooked it into hiding? But now it was dark and calm the businessman might finally be able to claim his prize. Knowing now was his best chance, he reached for his bait box and attached the biggest, smelliest mackerel fillet he had onto his hook. He cast it out into the deepest part of the pond and waited. He didn’t have to wait long. A monstrous take and the businessman was in, line screeching from his reel as he fought to keep the beast at bay. It had to be the demon fish! Moving along the bank to get the best purchase and keep the fish away from snags, the businessman gave as good as he got. He wrestled the fish this way and that, all in an attempt to tire it. Minutes past, then an hour, then longer. Still the fish would not relent. The businessman even started to doubt the fish was a pike. Pike were ambush predators he knew – sprinters not distance runners. And this fish had serious stamina. Just as the businessman thought it would never give in, the fish finally allowed itself to be pulled towards the bank. Even in the darkness the businessman could see its immense flank break the surface; by far the biggest fish he had ever caught. But he couldn’t quite make out what the fish was. Just a couple of feet closer and he would have his identification. A few inches more, an inch, and then, *TWANG*. With one last burst of energy the fish powered towards the deep water and snapped the businessman’s line clean. Close, but not close enough. Back home and without an identification, witness or photograph, no one believed the businessman’s story. And that simply would not do. Not after all he’d been through. The next Saturday he was back with better tackle and more bait. But wherever in the pond he tried, and whatever bait he used, nothing. Night bought no bites either, nor did the next morning. So the next weekend he came back again, and the next, and the next after that too. Soon he found himself fishing the weekday evenings, and then during the weekdays themselves. His business began to dwindle, and then fail. He didn’t care, the demon fish had one over him and he needed to settle the score. His wife told him he was becoming obsessed, she left him. That didn’t matter, the fish was more important. Soon the businessman was spending more time at the pond than anywhere else, all to no avail. Next he stopped sleeping, eating, all to give himself more time with a bait in the water. It couldn’t go on. Finally, sick with exhaustion, the businessman collapsed by the side of the pond. A dog walker found him the next day and, half-dead, he was rushed to hospital. The **demon** fish had **won again**.