# I Am a Tree *I am a tree.* *An apple tree.* *My name is Woody Elwood Jr., but Woody works just fine.* *I was born to Mr. Woody and Willow Elwood on April 22, 1901.* *My father worked as a photosynthesizer and my mother as a housewife.* *I have sixteen older sisters — Acacia, Aspen, Butternut, Ebony, Hazel, Laurel, Magnolia, Maple, Olive, Rowan, Sassafras, Spruce, Sugarberry, Sycamore, Tulip, Walnut— and one older brother — Paul.* *I grew up just outside Forst Manor. I decided to stay there, and so did all my relatives, barring Paul.* **Here** is my story: I was planted by one Christopher Forst. He was a young chap — a mere eight years old — when his green thumb first met my … green … thumb. I liked the boy: an awful charmer, he was. His hair was perpetually shaggy, his polos perpetually dirty, and his smile: perpetual. His nose pointed as if to have its parents tell it that it’s rude to point, and his eyes were blue as if to have their parents tell them off for crying in such an ugly manner! The boy was astute. He made sure to always have his studies complete before supper, and he would often find himself in need of my shade while reading *Paradise Lost* or *Candide* or *The Holy Bible* in the blistering sun. I was just a sapling, and yet I would listen to the stories as he read them aloud to himself. He spoke of heaven, of hell, of moral philosophy, and of Jesus. (To think one of my own became that crucifix. Damn my brethren!) I personally did not belong to any church, but Christopher did. That satisfied me enough. When Christopher’s parents were too negligent to water me, Christopher did it himself. And when Christopher’s sister — Jasmine — peeled away at my tender, timber skin, he would pull her away and admonish the girl. Christopher was my protector. Childhood was particularly difficult for us. Christopher lost his father — he was now fifteen — and he did not take it well. He became resentful, hateful of his own being and blaming everything on himself for something he could have never wished to control. The boy still loved me, though. He would run off from his mother and come to me to sit under, arms crossed and nose pointed. I would whisper to him that everything would be O.K., but I don’t think he heard me — he only listened. His tears would water saddened ol’ me to make me feel better. He loved despite his own self-pity. He would now read to me even better stories — books like *Great Expectations* and *Tess of D’Urbervilles*. He really did care. As a teenager, my body started to change. My hair started to curl, my branches started to crack, and I grew roots in places I had never seen roots grow before. I soon produced my own seeds, who flew into the Church’s graveyard. All but one — Woody Jr. Jr. — had to be dug up by Church officials’ orders. My friends would now say things like “Woody’s got a Woody” and “That’s a mighty bush you’ve got there,” but I paid them no mind. Christopher’s mum had died, too, now. He was no longer a boy and thus did not react in such an unstately manner as he once did with his father. Jasmine had gone off to live with a French chap, but Christopher stayed loyal to me. He had no wife, nor any children. He was a bachelor like me, and a content one, too. I never found myself very attracted to any of the birds by the manor — and by birds, I mean trees. There was one just down Wick Lane – Ashley, I think: a gorgeous pear tree — but she was too far away. Any chance of communication between us would need to be through others of our kind or a partridge, but such an endeavor was fruitless. I was happy without a female companion, so long as Christopher was. I soon decided to get a job as an apprentice soil technician. My dad always encouraged me to remain traditional and work as a photosynthesizer, but soil technicianing was always much more appealing to me. Plus, money doesn’t grow on trees. Christopher got himself a lass — a Ms. Brandon Maisel — and he now wore glasses. He became increasingly distant. I was hurt, but not completely torn. He would still come and water me — rarely, though — as he was working as a failed writer most of the day. My sisters had all gotten married — some to the same tree! I was still without a better half, and I was O.K. with that. Christopher’s wife was now expecting — a bigger deal for humans than it is trees, it seems. You would think I’d have been cynical and envious. But I was actually quite gay. Another Christopher to read me stories, to sing me songs, to protect me from the evils. I was older now, a little more weathered, but still well and intact. Christopher had bought cattle to roam the estate, and things were looking good. Christopher and Mrs. Christopher had a beautiful baby boy — Thomas. He was too young to read to me yet, but I yearned for the day he would. He did not. Thomas passed from scarlet fever in his sleep one midsummer’s night. The many days I spent hoping this was a dream. Christopher spent more and more days at Church, praying to God to return his son, but He did not give him him. As my green hair became spottily brown, Christopher’s brown hair became spottily white. His wife grew pregnant again, but all they did now was squabble. It was a lonely May night — 8 months after his son’s passing — when Christopher came home from a nearby warehouse with a long rope. My boy approached me; he was finally back to love me, to read to me, to kiss me goodnight when I cried my lonesome tears of dew. He was my Son and my Father alike, a majestic brew of all that is Good and Bad and Excellent. And he grabbed a branch. No, he *really* grabbed it. It was a forceful grip rather than a light tug. So he grabbed me, and he laid the rope upon my arm. Well, what lies next is evident. Needless to say, the Forst Manor was soon empty, his wife moving far, far away following the horrifying death of her husband. My leaves — very few, though — remained stained red. It kept my hair warm. I was sad. A gorgeous and fertile young cow — no older than two — came up to me the night of to ask if I was okay. I nodded. She hugged me and introduced herself. “Maggie.” “Maggie what?” “Just Maggie.” “Your kind doesn’t have last names? *How animalistic!*” Maggie became a good friend of mine; though, my sisters would giggle at me for befriending a cow, because “all they eva’ speak is bull.” But Maggie did not speak anything of the sort — in fact, she was quite grounded. “Maggie, tell me, beautiful girl,” I said. “To which Mr. Father Cow do you belong?” She pointed her finger to her father, Buttercup. He was an enormous and frightening bull, one with a curious proclivity toward harm. One day, however, I braced myself and asked for permission for his daughter’s hoof in marriage. He granted as I wished. Maggie, a former resident of a farm, had, too, heard stories. This time from a kind, young girl. “*You ain’t never herd’a Peter Pan!?*” Maggie would ask me, excitedly. “Gee, it’s the best book I’d ever heard!” My books apparently were “outdated,” and “vintage,” but I had disagreed. She would share what she remembered of the stories with me, and I would share what I remembered with her. We would spend nights away, reading to another *The Rainbow* or *Walden*. Workers came by sometimes to scout the house. I didn’t know why. I married Maggie on July 12, 1942, in attendance by all my sisters but one. Paul did not come to visit. Workers visited more frequently, now checking the house. We shared our first kiss a few weeks later. Workers plunged into the ground with “OPEN HOUSE” signs. Maggie and I had our first child on April 29, 1943 — a sweet, baby cow girl … *cowgirl?* Realtors were already showing the manor to visitors, builders already busting away at doors. The Forst Manor was being destroyed. It was a happy summer day. I was thinking quite a lot about Christopher this day — June 5 of that same year … Yes, that’s it. I was reminiscing about the times he would read to me the Devil’s banishment to Hell or Candide’s epic travels in El Dorado. To-day, they were planning to move the cattle. That meant my poor Maggie. Maggie was taken away on the back of a trolley to a slaughterhouse. Buttercup remained here. Weeks later, a lumberjack was hired to cut me down. I got on no knees and said to him, “please, please, Heavenly Father! Do for me a favor — find for me the gorgeous and fertile cow at the nearest slaughterhouse, and ensure our eternal entanglement in death.” The ginger, full-bearded man stabbed me, cutting away one bit at a time. Whether or not he heard this plea or by coincidence, me and Maggie did end up together. I am no longer a tree. *We* are a book. *This book.* ***(Author Note: This makes sense if it was in a book of short stories, which I could do.)*** And her tender, leather skin holds me so.


Brandon had not been doing well since the incident, avoiding any social situations and spending his time immersed in books or online. Brandon was less than thrilled when his roommate guilt-tripped him into coming to a bar with him. At first, it wasn't that unpleasant. Brandon drank a couple of beers and even managed to strike up a few conversations. But then he noticed her. Across the room, she was laughing with her friends. It felt like a nightmare come true. The girl who had destroyed his life was standing directly before him. Brandon's stomach grumbled as he watched her laugh and flirt. He wanted to run, but his feet were stuck to the floor. He caught her kissing another guy just a month ago, and everything fell apart. He thought their love was real, but if that was true, how could she want to be with anyone else. It felt like she ripped his heart from his chest; they hadn't spoken since. But she's only 15 feet away now, and her perfume draws him back. The girl had infiltrated his dreams like a neocortex Blitzkrieg. Last night she was sharing a cigarette with this other guy, now she's touching his chest, and then they went to bed together. He awoke in a cold sweat, sick to his stomach. But he couldn't shake her from his mind. She was always there, haunting him. Even while he was daydreaming, she found her way into his thoughts, stripping off her dress and crawling into bed with this other guy, who he despised more than anything but couldn't picture his face no matter how hard he tried. He was a blurry background figure, a spectator, a minor character in this assassination. Shake it off, be cool; the worst thing you can do is let on that she has consumed you for the last month. It's like being obsessed with a celebrity – completely irrational and beyond your control. Brandon has gone through fifty scenarios in the last ten seconds as time has slowed. What happened? He wants to know if it was all for nothing. He was going to confront her, no not now, yes now, your sanity is hanging by a thread, and the path back to normal lies in a few words. He can't handle it any longer, but he's been standing still for 12 seconds, 13... You are not just naive but also gullible. You're hoping she'll say something to help you solve the mystery. But what if she thinks you're a loser? You'll be able to tell everything you need to know just by seeing her expression when she sees you; you know the one, the one people make when they're annoyed to see another person—the phony smile, devoid of passion. On the brightside, you'll know and be able to move on. But what if the reverse happens, and you end up with a fresh version of the face that haunts you? Runaway, runaway, runaway... at least your nightmares now allow the possibility that the other guy is fantastic; what if it's you? You cannot avoid that reality and don't want to find out. Oh my God, you've been standing here for 15 seconds like an idiot. Run! Brandon moves towards the exit and collides with a waitress carrying a tray of beverages. The entire bar rubbernecks the five-car pile-up. "I'm very sorry." Brandon's gaze meets the waitress's, and he is free of the spell. She smiles, and he smiles back.


\ “Jesse, Would you die for me?” “Again?” I looked at Clarissa, she had a serious look on her face. A question like that meant only one thing, something had gone wrong, and there was no way out. We were crouched in a small broom closet, the faint sound of alarm bells echoed throughout the large corporate building we were currently locked in. “Do you have a marker set?” I sighed, I have known her long enough to trust her, and this mission was too important for things not to go perfectly. Clarissa gave me a stern look, the slightest hint of sadness was in her eye. “I need to hear you say it.” Clarissa whispered. “Always, no matter what.” I closed my eyes and began to focus on my last marker, pretending it would be easier if I didn’t watch. Even then, I could hear Clarissa open her holster and raise her pistol towards me. She pulled the trigger and fired, I felt an intense pain form in my head before spreading to my whole body. It felt like I was on fire as if each atom in my body was being ripped apart. Then everything went black. It always started with a falling sensation. Then a rainbow of colors formed into a vibrant tunnel as I felt my consciousness reform. At the bottom of the tunnel, I could see a small cot in a windowless metal room with my own sleeping body laying on top of it. I fell towards it, my senses returning one by one, becoming fully formed once I reached the bottom of the tunnel and I watched as I slammed into my sleeping body. My eyes opened and I checked the clock. August 3rd, 2243, 11:50 PM. 24 hours ago. I slowly gathered myself and approached the door, looking at the two buttons, one to mark if this was the first time, and the other to mark if it wasn’t. I stood at the door, and pressed the 2nd button, causing the door to side open, leading to a larger planning room, with a table in the middle. The walls were covered in computer monitors, weapons and equipment, all things we had prepped for the coming mission. The one that had gone wrong, 24 hours from now. I looked up to see Clarissa, she looked at me, then she looked above me to look at the colored light above my head, and saw it was yellow, meaning the mission had gone bad, and she had to trigger a reset. Clarissa knew what the light meant, and she knew how much the process hurt. Before I could speak, she ran over to me and gave me a tight embrace. Whenever this happened, she always said the same thing to me. “Thank you, and hopefully you never have to again.” It was always the same sequence of words before and after every reset. Whether she knew it or not, I would probably never know, but it was the point of consistency in my weird and ever changing timeline. I sighed, before approaching the planning table. A timeline slider of the whole mission appeared on the screens. “Mark error point, minute 25, laser grid almost tripped” a marker appeared on the timeline. “Mark error point, minute 30, camera not disabled.” Clarissa stood silently, simply soaking in the information. I lived through each attempt, she had to process all the mistakes every single time. “Mark error point, minute 42, equipment failure due to rushed use.” Minutes passed, I listed every error and mistake I could remember. Eventually I got to the end. “All error points marked. Mark attempt number…” I paused, sometimes I would lie about how many times we had gone through the planning process. Clarissa knew how much I hated going through the reset process, she let out a sigh, then looked at me. “Listen, one last job. Then we can be done with all of this. I promise.” I looked her in the eyes, “Okay, let’s do this again.


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


It was a cold, rainy day outside, but Brady didn't mind. He just wanted to get out of the office for a few minutes. He felt drained and overwhelmed, like work was sucking the life out of him. Projects and action items were being piled on him with no regard for the backlog of deliverables he already had to produce. It was one thing after another, always being added to his plate. And then at home, it was all about his kids. Cleaning, cooking, breaking up fights, helping with homework. The never-ending whirlwind of responsibility never ceased to usurp his time. Exiting his cubicle, Brady didn't even bother to grab a coat or umbrella. The rain could soak right through his shirt for all he cared. He rushed through the lobby and straight out the glass doors into the pattering rain. Almost instantly, a sense of tranquility formed inside of him; it began to battle the established anxiousness. Brady breathed heavily, taking in the fresh, misty air. With each lungful, he could feel tranquility making another advance. And as it did, his walking pace waned into a more relaxed state. After a short while, he found himself being greeted by a family of geese. There were two larger ones, which he presumed to be the adults, and four baby goslings, who were trailing their parents. The rain trickled off the backs of the mother and father. But the little goslings had soft, furry feathers which soaked up the rain. Their bodies shuddered in the cold, trying to keep warm. As Brady watched, he could see that the mother and father were also starting to shake. Perhaps they too were cold, worn down by the pouring rain. The little goslings waddled over to their mother and father; they poked at the parents, signaling that they wanted something. Understanding of what was needed, the parents took one of their children under each wing, so that all four kin were protected. The little baby geese nuzzled their heads against their parents' torsos. They looked up with what Brady thought to be a gaze of adoration. *Honk! Honk!* the adults sounded happily, holding their children close. Brady's thoughts drifted to his own family. How his kids rushed to him when they were scared or hurt. How they would hold on to him, never wanting to let go. The last time there was a storm. Eli, his youngest son, raced into the room and jumped into his arms, crying in excruciating pain. A tear trickled down Brady's cheek and he pinched his lips together. He felt so bad at the time, seeing his son scared and crying. But now, the memory swirled warmly inside of his heart, soothing his mind and body. With a big, beaming smile, Brady wiped his eyes, then walked away while waving to the geese. "Bye, little geese." *Honk! Honk!* one of the adults replied as Brady headed back toward the office. With every step closer to the glass doors that he took, a small piece of his smile died. He could feel anxiousness reclaiming its ground. Tranquility yielding some of its prior gains. But the walk had served its purpose, and perhaps now he could make it through the day.


The coals smolder among the morning dew on the grass. John and Euchivik lay on pelts strewn across the cold ground while the birds begin their songs. John stokes the remaining embers before placing a pot of water to boil. He admires Euchvik as her chest rises and falls. As John adds herbs to the pot, Euchvik makes her way out of the tent over to John and smacks the back of his head. She takes the herbs out of the boiling water before adding just one back. John watches as she adds the other herbs back in one at a time until the steep is done. They sit in silence briefly while sipping on the tea as an albino deer croses their path grazing just a few feet from them. After their drinks are finished, Euchvik tells John to help her pack up quickly so they can follow the deer. After the equipment is packed, Euchvik tracks the deer into the woods. Both of them notice the light begin to fade with each step. The tree trucks become wider and closer together. Euchvik stops in her tracks suddenly while John awaits her instructions. Carefully, the two of them slow their pace while continuing forward. Euchvik switches from being hyper aware of her surroundings to suddenly awestruck. She takes a stick from the ground and strikes the nearest tree. The entire forest lights up a vibrant magenta exuding from the source of the strike. Euchvik continues forward stopping every step watching as her feet light up as she smiles with glee. John has to jog just to keep up with her, yet still on guard. As John catches up to her, he observes the look on her face. She seems to be listening intently, although he can sense no danger in the immediate surroundings. John follows Euchvik a few more paces before the come to a stream of flowing water inside what looks like an aqueduct untouched by nature. The water is clear from the top with the sides and bottom the same bright magenta as before. Both of them look up from the stream to find an enormous structure with water flowing from the top at all sides and even more aqueducts leading to the center. They step over the stream together taking in the surroundings for a moment before Euchvik sits near one of the corners of the aqueducts. John keeps moving toward the center touching the columns with his fingers. There are no bumps or imperfections. No signs of decay or other life are present at the moment. The only sound is the water rushing past slowly. John turns to the middle startled for a moment. A woman stands in the center observing him. Not only are her clothes translucent, the women herself is see through. She becons him closer as John feels himself fighting a trance. His feet begin moving as the woman's arms open up to embrace him. Euchvik grabs his collar pulling him past herself and onto the ground as he returns his mind back to reality. He first looks to Euchvik before his eyes drift past her to the sheer drop just behind her. She grabs a leaf from her pocket and drops it into the water and watches it cycle around, dropping into the void like space.


#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 Roundtable Discussion Today, I want to talk about tenses in writing: past and present (and future if you really want to torture yourself). Choosing the right one for your story is important, but can be tricky. So tell me about your favorite! - Which tense do you prefer writing in? What about as a reader? - How do you decide which tense to use for a story? - Have you ever caught yourself switching tenses midway through a story? (I’m definitely guilty of that one!) - 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.


I’d love some criticism, not even necessarily constructive lol. TW: Schizophrenia, blood, depression The voices are back. Telling me to do things, say things. I can’t live like this. I want to tear my fucking walls down and find the source of their incessant whispers. It’s worse when I can’t understand them. What are they saying about me? Plotting, waiting for the moment when they can take me down. I can’t do this. I throw open my door and sprint for the woods. The voices are gone, but I know they’ll find me soon enough. A perverted game of hide and seek. As I run, the sky darkens and whispers start to drift from the tree line. Calling me things. Calling me stupid. Calling me lost. I’ve fallen for the trap. I’m lost, wandering with my head in my hands and my eyes pinched shut. The voices call, offering a way out. My eyes open on a fairy ring, something so sweet and innocent twisted by the demons. Death caps form a circle around the small carcass of a baby deer. The voices mutter to themselves louder as the fawn rises, leaving a small pool of red atop the crumpled grass. I watch in horror as the fawn seems to implode, folding in on itself until it’s gone. The mutters grow louder, pushing me towards the ring. Better to wander forever, or resign to my true purpose? The chorus in the trees grows louder, impatient. I need to decide, I need to be faster. The voices almost sound frantic. They’re louder than ever, a deafening chorus of hate. I step into the ring, laying upon the crumpled red grass. I reach for a mushroom, a large one with a thick stem. How do you eat these? Does it even matter? There’s probably no wrong way to eat a poison. The voices are screaming, drowning each other out. They want me to get on with it, give them a show. I take a few bites, and before I know it my vision starts to swim. In the distance, I hear twigs snapping and tall grass being pushed. Everything fades to black. There’s a young boy. Can’t be older than 17, stumbling through the woods with his head in his hands. “Hey” I call to him. I step forward, but I’m stopped by something I can’t see before I can reach the path. I see others, people with sad eyes and desperate voices. They call to the boy, pleading with him. Their voices are turned to whispers by the trees. He grips his ears, like he’s trying to rip them away. We call to him, trying to throw our voices through the barrier. It seems the barrier only grows stronger the more we struggle. I know that yelling louder will just lead to us drowning each other out, but I can’t help it. He’s getting closer to the end. I plead with him, beg him to just hold on a while longer. I yell and scream until my throat bleeds. He reaches the sick imitation fairy ring, a young doe lying in the center. I should be there. I just died, didn’t I? The boy takes a step closer, his face illuminated by a rare patch of light from the setting sun. A face that I know all too well from endless nights in front of the mirror, trying so hard to see who I am. I scream to him, “You don’t have to do this! You don’t have to wander!”. But I falter. What other choice did I have? These voices sounded so hostile from the other side, my path seemed so messy. What else can I possibly do? But how can I know what lies farther on the path? Surely it’s better than surrendering, letting the voices lead me on. Perhaps I’ll learn to hear correctly a mile down the path, I’ll learn to speak a mile after that. Isn’t struggle the only way to learn? He lies in the blood, and a fury overwhelms me. He’s throwing it all away, can’t he fucking understand? He’s letting himself go for no goddamn reason. I scream, I shout, but I know how his story will end. There’s nothing I can do from here. I’m utterly helpless. I let myself go.


Jasmine Thompson attends Davenport Elementary School. When she walked into the classroom today, she realized she had forgotten about the geography quiz. She begins to panic as the paper is placed in front of her on the desk. She is a perfectionist and must get all of them right. Jasmine is relieved as she goes over the questions because she remembers much of what was on the quiz. What is Maine's capital? What country is located to the south of the United States? Jasmine breezes through the 10-question quiz and hands it into her teacher, Mr. Colson. Mr. Colson was grading geography quizzes that night while watching the news on television. He arrives at Jasmine's quiz and examines her answers quickly. He is surprised when she gets question number 10 wrong, "what is the tallest mountain in the world?" "Sorry, Jasmine, Mount McKinley is not the tallest mountain in the world; Mount Everest is," Mr. Colson says to himself. A breaking news banner flashed over the TV that Mr. Colson was watching as he was ready to place the quiz in the completed pile. "We have some breaking news this afternoon: seismic activity in Alaska has caused Mount McKinley, also known as Denali, to rise 10,000 feet in elevation. Mount McKinley has now surpassed Mount Everest in height due to this seismic event, and it is now the tallest mountain in the world." Mr. Colson pulls Jasmine's quiz from the stack, looks at question number 10, and changes it from incorrect to correct. He knows Jasmine will be surprised and happy when she sees her quiz tomorrow. Mr. Colson considers Jasmine's answer a fluke and prepares tomorrow's science quiz. Little does he know that Jasmine will get another question wrong on the science quiz. What team of scientists discovered the double helix structure of DNA? "Lewis and Clark," Jasmine answers. The correct answer is "Watson and Crick." At the end of the day, another teacher enters Mr. Colson's room and informs him that they have located Lewis and Clark's missing journals. The lost journals discuss double-helix DNA, right down to its molecular structure. "The explorers are said to have discovered the double helix DNA structure 150 years before Watson and Crick!" "It's not possible!" Mr. Carlson looks at Jasmine's quiz, and lo and behold, Jasmine's answer is now correct. When Jasmine gets a quiz question wrong, reality corrects itself such that she gets the question right. Mr. Colson decided to put this to the test, so on tomorrow's Shakespeare quiz, he poses a question that none of his students will know: "In the play Romeo and Juliet, who is Juliet's cousin?" The answer is Tybalt, but the students wouldn't know that because they haven't read it yet. Every student in the class, including Jasmine, failed to answer Tybalt on the quiz, just as he had predicted. Mr. Carlson waits, remembering that the Mount McKinley transformation did not occur until he graded the quizzes. He takes out the quizzes to grade them; he immediately turns to Jasmine's; her answer is, Franklin. Mr. Colson shakes his head, filled with skepticism. How will reality change for this to happen? He marks the answer wrong, then takes out his cell phone and waits. Refresh, refresh, and refresh on the news website that he uses. All of a sudden, there it is: "Historians have discovered an alternative text to Romeo and Juliet; the only difference they see is that Shakespeare had not yet come up with the name of Tybalt, inserting the more modern Franklin in its place." He can't believe his eyes; this proved it once and for all, whenever Jasmine puts for an answer on a quiz becomes a reality. In tomorrow's quiz, Mr. Colson has asked, "Who is the richest man in the world?". Jasmine raised her hand during the quiz and asked, "We never studied this in class?" "That's OK. Just put in Brian Colson, and you'll get it right." "But you're not the richest man in the world; it's Jeff Bezos?" "OK, this is a bonus question; I won't count it against you as long as you put my name." When the quizzes are returned, he sees that Jasmine entered his name for that question. As soon as the students had gone to lunch, he got out the quizzes and scored Jasmine's, marking it incorrectly and waiting. He stayed up until 12:30 a.m., hoping for something to change, but nothing did. Concerned, his wife came down to the living room where he was waiting on his phone, and he told her about the strange situation with a student in his class. After she looked at him like he was insane, but wanting to go to bed, she pretended to support his crazy idea. "What if she needs to believe it for reality to change? You told me she already knew you weren't the richest man in the world?" "Makes sense, so it must be something fresh I taught her. Any ideas?" "The Super Bowl is this Sunday; how about asking who will win?" "You're brilliant!" Mr. Colson tells his students that the Rams will win the Super Bowl during class. He teaches it like an actual lesson giving bulleted notes and sound reasoning. Despite a few arguments from the boys in the class, the class took his word for it. On this question, Jasmine has circled the Rams to win the Super Bowl. When school was out on that Friday afternoon, Mr. Colson went straight down to the casino to place $100 on the Rams to win. He wanted to bet more, but he figured there would be time for that if she could predict the winner. He won! On Monday, though, he was called to the principal's office. "Can you explain why you chose to teach about sports rather than the curriculum?" Mr. Colson was startled but was let off the hook when he promised never to do it again. He was disappointed he had to toss away his NBA lesson for today, but he decided that perhaps something good could come from this. He taught about how the world was at peace. For the first time in human history, he told the students that there was no war and no one was killed in battle. He asked the quiz question, "Is there world peace?" Jasmine responded with the answer she was taught, yes. The major news that night was that everyone had called off all wars. He told his wife, who was completely taken aback. His wife was now a true believer and wanted to seize the opportunity. "How about you teach the class that a woman named Marilyn Colson received $10 million dollars she had no idea existed?" He told students the next day about a woman named Marilyn Colson, giving them her address and other identifiers, who had received $10 million dollars out of nowhere. He asked on the quiz, "What was the name of the woman who unexpectedly received ten million dollars?" To answer the question, Jasmine gave Mr. Colson's wife's name. Mr. Colson felt a rush of exhilaration as he drove home that afternoon, knowing that this could all come true. He was so engrossed that he failed to notice the truck crossing the median. The truck collided with Mr. Colson's car, and he died immediately. Her husband's death saddened his wife. The next day she found out he had a life insurance policy that she didn't know about; it was worth $10 million dollars.


We were just about to land when suddenly the plane was forced to the ground. The thud of hitting the ground threw my phone out of my lap and into the air. The entire cabin was in chaos until the plane came to a screeching halt. I looked for my phone and found it just underneath my seat. Luckily the screen wasn't cracked at all. The feeling of relief ended when the pilot came over the intercom and told everyone that we would be getting off the airplane here, on the runway. I swallowed my frustration and followed the river of passengers exiting the airplane. I jumped out of the airplane and realized what had happened. In front of the plane, the ground had caved in a hundred feet, no wonder the pilot put the plane on the ground so quickly. I took some pictures of the hole in the Earth with my phone, thankful I didn't end up in it. As I was staring at the hole, my teacher found me and tapped me on the shoulder, ushering me to leave with the our school group. A few hours later, it was starting to get dark, I was playing games on my phone on the bus ride back. I got a breaking news notification, which was odd since I usually didn't have notifications for news. I realized it was probably an article on what had happened at the airport when I landed, so I tapped on it. It wasn't. The first thing I saw on the web page was the photo. The photo was of something in the sky, something big, not human at all. I tapped on the picture and it turned out to be a video. "We are the Seventh Humanity. Your kind is outdated. You will be replaced soon. Do not resist, you will not succeed." The words seemed to come from the massive heap of metal in the sky, just before it released a monsoon of smaller metal objects from it. It took a few seconds for them to be close enough to the camera for me to realize what they were. They were people. They had an orange light on each of their hands, with a larger one on their forehads. They started running from person to person. As soon as they touched someone they would vaporize, instanly. As this happened, the bus turned off of the highway onto a small road in the woods nearby. Our teacher had seen the headlines. "We're taking shelter! If you don't know what's going on, check your phone and then turn it off. We'll probably be here for a while, so save your battery." Some time later, I tried falling asleep despite how hot the bus was. I had just gotten comfortable before I heard a noise outside. I closed my eyes and told myself it was just a squirrel. Moments later, A girl on the bus screamed bloody murder. I opened my eyes and looked up to see three orange lights outside my window.


"What the hell were you thinking?!" He yelled, slamming his mighty fist on the table! The room went quiet. The projector shook a little after the commotion. One of these days, it would fall straight from the roof and stomp on his head like he was a goomba from Mario. But all focus remained on Death at the moment, who stared, poker-faced, at the one and only Holy Spirit as you humans like to call him. Or what I call him, the leading director of The Human Condition. Or, quite simply, boss. "Do you see what I see?!" He pointed to the screen which lit up the office. Death had always been more defiant than the rest of us. We watched as she rolled her eyes and crossed her arms like an angsty teen. "You said we needed to cut down the population, so that's what I did," she said, nonchalantly. "Sure, that's what I said," God voiced angrily, "but all we needed was to slow their progress down! Not WIPE them out completely!" Death just shrugged. "You can't blame me for being *too* good at my job." "25 million. Gone. Done for. Dead. It'll take nearly eighty years for them to recover. Hell, they even call it the Black Death. This wasn't according to plan!" "When is it ever?" Death smiled. "When have you ever been disappointed in my work? I get shit done, you know that as much as everyone else in this room. Because I don't make mistakes. I'm the result of them." God restrained himself before he could erupt like the volcanos which buried the Roman city Pompeii (which was an entire ordeal on its own. I stayed overtime many days after that, trying to fix the mistake I made which led to that moment). He took a deep breath in, paused, then let it all out, releasing a faint mist of steam through his nostrils. Rubbing his tired eyes, he looked to all of us with a new-found determination. On the board, there were a number of pie charts and graphs showing the mortality rate of humans, their progress, and possible evolution cycles we had planned for the future. God clicked his fingers, and the slides changed to present the words: *God's plan for 1353.* "This year is going to be different," he said with a smile. He looked over to death who's arms remained folded. "You," he said. "No more pandemics for a while. Not until the twenty-first century, capeesh?" Death's smug look returned. She unfolded her arms and said with great delight, "I've already got something planned."  AN: Thanks for reading! First story I've posted on this subreddit, so I'm open to criticism and ways to improve my writing. I've made this little note to get over 500 words which is a required minimum to post something here. But still, thanks for reading again. Any feedback is welcomed :) Now I'm really just trying to get over the limit now. You don't have to keep reading honestly, it's fine. I only wanted to make a short story to so people's attention wouldn't drift, which is why this rule is strange in my opinion. But it's fine, cause I'm definitely over now.


Droplets of water shiver. Rolling slowly down off of their green beds; the blades of grass bend under the shifting weight. The dew moves with the coming dawn. Trying desperately to hide from the rays of the sun. They don't make it. New light hits them, splitting into seven as it does. All along the verdant lawn spots of color explode outward. To any eye sharp enough to notice, the ground has turned into countless pinpoint rainbows. The sight, sadly, doesn't last. The rising heat takes hold of any droplet not quick enough to hide. They shrink under the sun's grip. Vapor slowly rises into the sky; the air ripples as water is freed from its earthly bonds. On these rising currents drifts a large bird. Amber orbs perch atop a sharp curved beak. They dart this way and look for breakfast. Now that the lawn is still, it can perceive any movement. Talons flex hungry, as it lazily floats above the world. A soft buzzing drones over the now motionless yard. Looking for a flower amongst already ripened berries; a bee bumbles along. It had found pollen here earlier in the year and was back to check for more. However, it had done its job quite well and now all that could be found was fresh fruit. A rustle in the grass causes the hawk to dive. It lands with thud. The full force of the plunge burying wicked talons into its prey. A few flaps and it's off, a rabbit clutched underneath it. There is no remorse for this act from the hunter. A nest full of screeching chicks demands to be fed. It flies back over a cabin, bringing the fresh meat back to its young. A small girl stands on the porch looking in awe at the retreating bird. Too young to really understand what she had just seen. She dashes out into the late morning sun, taking a wide course around her home. Behind the cabin was a large patch of black earth devoid of any grass. A man and two older children were bent over. Careful not to step on any of the small green shoots coming out of the ground. Their steps leave deep footprints in the soft soil. They were inspecting each seedling coming up in their respective rows. Fingers reached out and pulled plants gently aside. Selecting the undesirable ones and removing them from the tilled earth; leaving only the growing vegetables. The girl sprinting, called to her father as she approached. All three looked up from their task. The man's face breaks into a grin. She entered the garden; slowing her pace, she picked her way carefully through remaining plants. She had learned last year to be careful. When she reached the man she proudly exclaimed her sighting of the hawk. The man lifted her up, resting her in the crook of his arm. Praising her sharp eyes, he gave her a tight hug. She burst into a giggle before forcing her face into a pout, imploring her father to come play. He took a moment and looked around the garden. The weeding was almost done. Then he turned his eyes to his other two children, who had barely masked desire on their faces. He waved all three of them off, telling them he would finish the chore. Their faces beamed. Joyful children dashed off through the grass. He called after them to be careful. He gave a proud, contented smile. There would be more work for them this afternoon and even more tomorrow. There always was this time of year, but for the moment they could enjoy the weather.


Ron Gaston walks up to the checkout lane with his groceries. "OK, I see we have one head of lettuce, some random nuts and berries, and one stick of chewing gum. That'll be $80; will that be cash, credit, or plasma donation?" "Eighty dollars? I guess the price went up since last week. Credit, I guess." The cashier swipes his credit card. "We'll be launching a layaway option next week, allowing you to pay in installments." "Does that come at an extra cost?" "No, we'll hold your nuts and berries for free until you pay." "So, it's the same as tonight; only I don't receive a snack at the end." Despite being the town mechanic, Ray walks home since his truck has been out of gas for three months. On his way home, he notices various signs of the town's desperation. At the furniture store: "Buy a couch and get a back rub from my wife for free." At the tailor: "Buy one suit, get one free... and a back rub from the furniture store owner's wife." At the massage parlor: "Buy a couch and a suit and get a back rub from the furniture store owner's wife." Ray walks up to his gas station and looks up at the sign: $10.98 for regular, $12.04 for mid-grade, and LOL for premium. As he approaches the light, he notices a van with an out-of-state plate getting gas. "Just traveling through?" Ray asks. "Oh, yeah, the interstate was down due to a huge accident. I'm trying to take backroads." "Good plan; thanks for coming by." Ray heads inside, eyebrows raised, where his wife Laura is behind the cash register. "A customer? We can finally afford that loaf of bread we've been talking about." "I know; he paid cash too." Outside, the customer is having difficulty starting his van, and Ray walks out to see what's the problem. "It won't start." "Do you mind if I take a quick look?" Ray can tell it's an alternator as soon as he looks under the hood. He feels terrible for the guy because he was only trying to take a shortcut and ended up breaking down. "It seems to be the alternator; we can order one and have it in a couple of days? It's going to be expensive. Do you have credit?" "Money isn't an issue; I'll pay cash." "OK, then, I'll order it tonight. Why don't you check back in a couple of days? We'll get you all fixed up." "That sounds good to me. One thing though, don't go poking around the back of the van, alright?" "Certainly, your van, your business." The man takes out his phone and begins scrolling. "Is Uber available out here? Nevermind, 30 minutes. I'll see you in two days." "Alright, see you then." Ray returns to the gas station. "Did I hear you right, an alternator? Did you get the money up front?" "Trust me; he's good for it." "How do you know that?" "He just ordered an Uber." "An Uber? What is he a millionaire?" The next day, Laura visits Ray, who has already begun installing the alternator. "How are things going?" "We're ahead of schedule." "Isn't it odd that he told you to stay out of the van? I'm curious what's back there." "Leave it alone. Whatever it is, it is none of our concern." "What if it's a dead body, a kidnapped child, or, worst yet, he wants to sell us solar panels?" "There's nothing back there except a slew of boxes. Leave it alone." Laura walks to the back of the van. "Come on, aren't you interested in what's in those boxes?" Ray follows her to the back of the van. "Stop; the last thing we need is for this guy to think we're snooping through his stuff." While Ray watches nervously, Laura opens the back door and carefully opens a box. There were stacks and stacks of cash inside the box. "Whoa! One of these boxes contains around half a mil in cash." "We have to put it back and pretend we didn't see it." "No way! This could be our ticket out of here!" "What do you want to do, steal the money? Do you honestly think he won't come after us?" Laura begins to rummage through the cash. Ray realizes that Alexander Hamilton is wearing eyeliner and pulls out his own ten to compare. All of the bills are fake. "They're all fakes!" "Who has this much counterfeit money?" Ray remembers last night and goes to the cash register to examine the bills he paid; they, too, are fake. "He's taking advantage of us!" Ray yells. "We can't afford to take a hit on the alternator." "We need to turn some fake money into real money." "Nobody cares about one-dollar bills. We'll be able to get away with it if we spend them in different places." Ray compares a one-dollar bill to a fake. "The only difference I see is that George Washington is wearing a woman's scarf." "No, that's in the real one; in the fake, his brows are arched like Martha just put on that girdle he likes." They drove to the city to spend several one-dollar bills after Ray fixed the alternator. They purchased groceries, gas, and a subscription to Gas Station Gourmet. They realized that at this rate, they would never make up for the alternator. Laura also had to tell everyone she was a dancer down at Bazooms off the 909, open till one, no cover before eight. She thought she might have to go through with it until Ray had a better idea. The local casino slot machines would take the larger bills without suspicion. They could never return to the casino, but it would get the job done. That night and into the next morning, Ray and Laura exchanged approximately $100,000 in counterfeit money for real money. They were exhausted when they returned to the gas station in the morning. The van's owner arrived late in the morning to pay for the alternator and handed Ray some cash. "Thanks for getting it done so quick. I put an extra hundred dollars in there because I paid for my gas with movie money last night by accident." "What's that, movie money?" "Yeah, I work for a prop company; I'm delivering fake money to a movie set. Honestly, I was a little worried about leaving it here overnight." "Laura, did you hear that? This guy has movie money in the back of that van." "What happens if you spend some of the movie money?" "An honest error, like last night, no worries. But I might be in big trouble if I spend a lot of it." Ray and Laura turn ghostly white. "Hey, you two don't look too hot. If you want to see a movie being made, they're filming a scene at the local casino; that's where I'll be bringing the movie money; I could get you in if you want.


I gazed up at the treetops that gently leaned to and fro in rhythm of the wind. Spring had greeted me once again like seasonal clockwork. Streaks of sunlight covered my face in warm stripes. I closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. This was my homestead. The soil imprinting my soles were a comforting earthen blanket beneath my feet. The outdoors was the dining room. I sat on one of the four tree stumps, adorned with handmade embroidered cushions Ma made. The table was one large carved stump with a surface sanded smooth. I heard the crunching of sticks nearby, and quickly looked back down, eyeing my surroundings. I caught a glimpse of Pa ambling up the hill carrying a bundle of freshly chopped wood. “Mornin', Pa,” I greeted.  “Mornin', Lex. Could you help me bring this inside?” he asked. “Sure thing,” I said, standing up and walking over to meet him. I lightened his load by taking half of the wood out of his hands. The cabin door swung open for them to walk through by his younger brother, Finlay. They walked through the doorway and into their home, dumping the wood into a crate beside the entrance. The aroma of cooked blueberries drifted through the cabin from the kitchen, where Ma stood, scrubbing at some dishes. Clifford wiped the sweat off his brow.  She turned her head to look at us and smiled. “Any of you boys have a hankerin' for blueberry pie tonight?” My brother and I nodded eagerly in unison. “Annamae, that pie sure smells mighty fine,” Pa said. “Why thank you kindly, Cliff,” she responded gratefully with a warm smile. He walked over to her, embracing her with a kiss. Finlay walked into the kitchen, tugging at her dress.  “Ma?” he asked. “What is it, sweetheart?” she asked, picking him up into her arms. “What are you fixin' for dinner?” he inquired. “Oh, honey, it's your favorite. If you, Lexton, and Pa catch us a deer, we'll have us some venison stew,” she answered. He grinned and hugged her tightly. She let him down. “Pa, Pa, can I go hunting with you, *please*?” Finlay begged. “As long as ye keep close to your brother, I don't see a problem with it,” Pa answered. Finlay clapped in excitement, jumping up and down.  He was active as much as he was curious, all at the tender age of five. Pa strode over to me and looked at me intently. “What is it, Pa?” I asked, confused. He lifted his hands and turned my chin back and forth. “Looks like ye have some stubble growing in, son. My boy's finally becoming a man,” he said with a chuckle. His skin crinkled around his eyes when he smiled. He patted him firmly on the shoulder. “Lexton, why don't you go grab the hunting rifles, and let's start huntin' afore gets too late, alright?” he requested. “Yes, Pa,” I agreed, before walking into his study. I grabbed the two hunting rifles down from their wall mount and returned back into the common area. I handed over one of the rifles to him.  “Did you make sure they're loaded?” he asked. “No, I didn't check,” I replied, before clicking the safety and checking to see if the gate was loaded with bullets. “Yeah, I have some in there,” I said. He followed after my lead and checked his gun. “Well, it looks like we're good to go, then,” he said. “Do you have the spare ammunition, Pa?” I asked. “I got it in my pocket, let's go,” he nudged.  “You boys be safe now, ye hear!” Ma called out to us, as we left the cabin and started down the hill. I took Finlay's hand and walked with him to make sure he wouldn't accidentally get lost. Halfway to the clearing, I had something to ask Pa, but I wasn't sure what his reaction would be. “Pa?” I asked. “Yes, son?” he responded. “When can I go into town?” I wondered. He abruptly stopped in tracks, causing me to stumble a bit. He whirled around, with a scowl on his face. “What makes you want to go into town?” he demanded in a harsh whisper.  I opened my mouth, but no sound was able to come out. “The only reason for you to go into town is to find a woman, wed her, and bring her back here to stay. You'll build her a cabin just as I did years ago with my own bare hands, and you'll raise a family with her,” he lectured. “But Pa, I'm tired of living like this! I'm sick of fish, roasted crawdads, and venison. I don't just want to meet a woman. I want to see what's out there!” I shouted.  “Listen, Lexton, you were born by this here crick, you were raised here in these woods, and you'll die here in these woods. Aside from courting a lady, you have no business to go into town. We're outsiders, we don't belong in their world, it's best we're kept separate from all of that nonsense,” Pa huffed, before spitting at the ground.  “I want to leave, I want to see what life is like beyond this place, Pa,” I retorted. “Aside from matrimony, there is nothing for ye beyond these woods. If you decide to leave for any other reason than that, then you are not welcome to come back. Those people, they'll change ye, they'll rip the heart of the forest straight from your rib cage. And no son of mine shall have a worldly heart,” he said sternly.  I looked down at the ground for a moment, collecting my thoughts. All I had known since birth was life in the wilderness, away from other folk except my own family. I knew I wanted something more than whittling wooden figurines with a pocketknife when bored. I had always wondered what life outside the wilderness would be like. I met Pa's gaze once again, and said, “Okay, Pa, then I guess I'll be headin' into town tomorrow to find myself a lady.” I was usually always honest, but it felt strange letting a half-lie escape my lips. I wanted to embrace a life away from nature. I finally relaxed my shoulders upon seeing him make a contented sigh.  “Well, alright then. I'll let you pack your bag and go for two weeks, and two weeks only, but I want ye to come back home every night for dinner and to sleep. If you're out for longer than that, then I'll know your heart has been changed,” he instructed. “Now come on, boys, let's catch ourselves some supper,” he said. “Yes, Pa,” Finlay and I said in agreement. We made it to the clearing within the next few minutes. After finding some good bush to hide behind, we laid down on our stomachs, our eyes barely peering over the bushes, with the barrels of our guns resting on the tip of the leaves. For the next fifteen minutes or so, we laid there in pure silence, with the exception of birds chirping amongst us, high in the trees. Soon enough, we saw a whitetail deer come trotting slowly nearby, in search of more grass to graze on. Pa closed one eye and began to aim his rifle.  Unexpectedly, a fawn bounded out into view, catching up with its mother. “Damn it,” Pa whispered, lowering the barrel of his gun. He exchanged glances with me. “Can't leave a fawn without its mother,” I whispered to him. He nodded. The deer grazed while its fawn hungrily nursed. After a few minutes, the deer bounded out of sight. “Should we wait for another?” I asked. “If you want us to have supper, then, yes,” he replied. The sun began to hang low in the sky. Again, we lied in wait for what seemed like forever, until a buck came into view. I looked over at Finlay, who began to stand up. “Antlers, antlers,” he whispered loudly, with hands outreached. I grasped onto his hand, making him lie down. “No, Finlay, you can't try to touch the deer, he'll charge you and you can get hurt,” I whispered. Finlay frowned sadly. I closed one of my eyes, aiming my gun. After I aimed it, I slowly rested my finger onto the trigger, before shooting.  The buck collapsed to the ground. “Wow, great shot, son!” Pa exclaimed. We spent the next hour hauling the deer back to our cabin, skinning it, and cleaning it. Once that was finished, Pa sliced up the meat with his hunting knife, and brought it inside. I brought the deer innards we wouldn't eat back to the clearing, as some other animal would probably eat it. I went inside the cabin and washed my hands of the deer blood. Ma began to chop potatoes, carrots, onion, and celery, and placed it into the slow cooker, along with gravy and the deer meat. In a couple hours, the stew was done. “Go on and fix yourselves a plate, boys.” We all grabbed a bowl and ladled ourselves a helping of the venison stew, then headed outside to the dining table. We set our plates down while Ma lit a lantern over us. We started to eat supper, and it was delicious. Pa broke the silence by sharing the news. “So, Lex is going into town tomorrow, he told me,” he blurted. *“What, really?”* Ma responded, still holding a forkful of stew in one hand. She turned her attention in my direction. I nodded without saying a word. “That's *wonderful* that you feel ready to find someone,” she praised. “Well, yeah, *I am eighteen* now, I'm not a kid, anymore,” I said. “After supper, wash up and get some rest for tomorrow. I'll pack your bag, *don't you worry about it.* You have to save your energy for tomorrow, it's a twenty-mile walk to get into town.”  *“Twenty miles?!”* I cried out. “Yep, it's about a four to five hour trek, we'll have to set off at daybreak tomorrow,” Pa informed. “Less talk, and more eatin,' before your stew gets cold,” Ma encouraged. Finlay was the first to clean his bowl out, as he hadn't said a peep since earlier when we were out hunting. He got up from his seat and started back to the cabin door. I rushed to finish my bowl of venison stew, before walking back inside. My parents soon followed after me. I washed and put up my both mine and my brother's dishes, before washing my face, brushing my teeth, and turning myself into bed.  Closing my eyes to sleep and opening them upon waking felt like one long, continuous blink. Birds saluted the dawn with excited chirrups outside the window. Looking across the room, I saw that my little brother was still asleep in his bed, holding tightly onto his favorite stuffed animal that my mother had hand-crocheted and stuffed before he was born. He named the bear Bootsy, because my mom used to crochet little outfits for him, and he always kept the boots on his feet. After all these years, his black button eyes still hadn't fell off of him. I knew that I would miss Finlay. Despite our age difference, we shared a really close bond. I rolled out of my bed and quietly walked towards his side of the room, stooping down to kiss him on his forehead. He squirmed a little, before returning to a deeper sleep. The sun started rising outside the window.  I got myself dressed, laced my shoes, and reached under my bed for my knapsack. It was already full and packed with supplies, thanks to Ma. I headed out to the common area, to see Pa already seated and ready for the trip into town. Ma was in the kitchen, cutting out a few slices of blueberry pie. “Good morning, Lexton,” she said. “Mornin,' Ma,” I answered back. “I *completely* forgot about the blueberry pie I baked yesterday evening, I just got so tied up in the news that you were heading into town for the first time, *it must have slipped my mind.*” “It's alright, Ma, at least we could share a slice before we go,” I said with a smile. “Of course, dear,” she responded. We each grabbed a plate and headed outside to our tree tabletop. We all took a seat and started nibbling on the pie.  “Be very careful out there, Lex. You haven't seen how cruel the world is until you've been into town. Make sure that you're picky, too, you can't just pick any woman to be with. She has to be honest, and sweet to you, *sweeter* than this pie, even, and pure of heart,” Ma advised. “That's *right*, Annamae. You're definitely right about that. You want to be sure this woman is worthy of being your wife, not just a bedfellow,” Pa added. I nodded as I silently bit into morsels of my blueberry pie. Although there was just the right amount of sugar in it, it tasted bittersweet, as it was the last slice of pe, I would have for quite a while. Upon finishing our slices of pie, Ma grabbed our plates and took them inside to be washed and dried. “Have a safe trip!” Ma called out as we began our journey into town. We both waved at her with a smile. I fastened my knapsack to my back.  The trip from our cabin into town was relatively straightforward and quiet. After about an hour of walking, I filled the silence. “Pa, what's the name of this town?” I pried. “Tallisville, that's what it's called,” he answered. “Are you coming into town with me, Pa?” I asked. “No, son, I'm not. Think of this trip as a rumspringa of sorts, if you think this is place is nice enough to stay in, then stay. Keep in mind that your family is the cost of this sacrifice. However, if you want to remain wild-hearted and free, and bring a little lady for us to meet back to our home that you like and we approve of, that you know will be open-minded enough to consider life in the wilderness, then she can be an addition to our pack,” he responded. I gulped anxiously. “So, how far are you going to walk with me?” I pressed.  “I'll walk with you until we're on the outskirts of town, and from there, I'll let you go on your journey, whatever that entails. Make sure you leave early enough from here to be home for dinner. It's at sunset every day, it's always been our tradition,” he informed. “Why can't I just live in the town for the two weeks, Pa?” I questioned. “Well, living in the town is different, if you don't already have a house of your own, you have to stay at the Mellow Oak Inn, and that costs money, which you don't have,” he answered. I furrowed my brows, asking, “What's an *inn,* Pa?” “It's a temporary place to eat and to sleep, they also have this crazy entertainment box, called a television. You never want to watch it, it gives you strange ideas about the world that pollute your head,” he explained. “Wow, television sure sounds *horrible,* Pa,” I thought aloud. “It is, son, it is,” he agreed. As we shared small talk, and I asked more questions about Tallisville, I found myself getting equally excited as I was nervous to explore the place for myself. Soon enough, the trail that was once densely bordered by trees became less woodsy. “Are we there yet?” I asked. “Just about,” replied Pa. “You see that wooden sign in the distance?” he asked. I squinted and made out a sign that read: *Town of Tallisville*. “I see it, Pa! I see it!” I cried out eagerly. We walked all the way up to the sign, and I was able to read it more clearly now. *Town of Tallisville, Population 834.* “Population 834? Does that mean eight hundred thirty-four people live here?” I said, taken aback. Pa nodded. “Well, son, this is it. When you want to make your way back home to the cabin, find this trail head and take it all the way back. I hope this is an eye-opening experience for you. Be home by sunset, or you'll miss your supper,” Pa warned. I embraced him tightly in a hug before making my way into town.  Pa waved his goodbyes and began walking back up the trail. I waited until he disappeared from my sight before walking into the entrance of town. It was a few minutes before I realized I was no longer on the outskirts of this town. Houses and buildings came into view. Promptly after that, I began seeing people talking, entering and leaving buildings, and working. I even saw some strange, large shiny objects I had never seen before. I watched as a man stepped into one, closed the door, and it lit up, and made a loud humming sound. My jaw dropped as I watched him operate this contraption and quickly speed away in the opposite direction from me.  Continuing on my way, I observed the people around me bustling around, seemingly very busy, as if it was a normal thing. I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw a beautiful woman walk past me. Her hair was shoulder-length, walnut brown and curly, her lips were as red as fresh strawberries, and her eyes were green like summer leaves. She wore a denim jacket with a mustard colored dress with black polka dots under it. She passed me with a heap of books in her arms, giving me a quick nod and smile, before walking into a large building called *Tallisville University*. I had no idea what a university was, but all I knew is that I wanted to be wherever she was going. I pulled open the door and stepped inside. It was very spacious inside and had lots of rooms, and a long hallway in the center. That woman I saw went into one of these rooms, but I had no idea which one.  If she lives in this town, that must mean this is where I'm meant to be. *“Excuse me,”* someone called out from behind me. I turned around to see who it was. It was the woman in the dress! “Are you lost? Do you need help finding your class?” she offered. I blinked and opened my mouth, but any ideas of what to say escaped me in that moment. She laughed and smiled. “You must not be from around here, I'm Magnolia,” she said, extending her hand out for me to shake. I clasped her hand in mine and shook it. “Magnolia, like the flower?” I asked. She cheerfully smiled and laughed, “Yes, Magnolia like the flower. What's your name?” she asked. “My name is Lexton, but my family calls me Lex,” I introduced. “Well, it's very nice to meet you, Lex! Where are you from?” she questioned. “I'm from the forest,” I answered. She laughed loudly. I wasn't sure what was so funny to her. She stopped laughing once she saw the look on my face. “You're joking, aren't you?” she inquired. I shook my head.  “Are you really from the forest?” she questioned. “I am,” I answered. She grinned a happy smile. “Well, you'll have to show me what life looks like in the forest sometime,” she said. “I'd be honored,” I replied. “So, what room is your first class in, I'll help you find it, Lex?” she re-offered. “What's a class?” I looked, staring blankly into her eyes. She laughed again. “You're very funny, Lex. Have you not been to college before?” she poked. “No,” I said. “Oh, then let me show you the admissions office, they can help you get enrolled,” she said.  She grabbed onto my hand and lead me down this long hallway. As much as I wanted to protest, this lovely woman was holding my hand and I just met her, and that was a fair trade to me. “Welcome to Tallisville, by the way, Lex,” she greeted. “I'm happy to be here,” I replied. I now had this newfound feeling of belonging, and not just to nature. No matter what else would happen during these fourteen days, I knew I had to get her to visit the cabin somehow.


*Life will come to Spring;* *To the fiery god of Summer,* *Water brings his Fall.* *Daughters of the Snow,* *Bring glory to us all.* The boar was released into the clearing, and the people roared and cheered. It began to dash into the forest, with an instinctive knowledge that to run was to live. It smelled of hay and sweat, bringing the Dragoneers to life, as their reptilian thirst for warm blood awakened, and cunning forgotten came to the forefront. The first to run after the boar was Lily, and her face was a sight to see, for calm had morphed into an intense excitement, and she was grinning as she ran, her teeth white and sharp, her body lithe and sleek, what dark scales she had on her back and arms glittering in the dappled moonlight. She had foregone clothing except for a loose loincloth around her hips, and her breasts had almost completely merged into her body, so that they were not in the way. Just one step behind and on the right of the beast her long scaled legs bounded, unhindered by the cold snow and rough thorns. The beast, being blocked from the right which led into a darkly thicketed, safe ravine, ran in mad dashes ahead, sometimes veering in roundabouts around treacherous unseen quicksands and swamps that usurped several Dragoneers, who cried as they fell to the traps of the night, their wounded screams piercing the landscape and sending chills up Tam’s spine. They would never move on. But the bulk of Dragoneers, with heightened vision and taste of the air, could feel the same dangers as the boar did, and veered around the uncertain grounds to continue driving the boar ahead. Tam timidly followed them, fear of the darkness pounding in her head. Ada and Eva were at the head of the drivers who prevented the boar from ever escaping backwards, and they loped patiently at a constant pace, neither slowing nor racing ahead. Tam trotted with them, unsure of what to do, until Jai yelled, “Run!” At his call, a strange voice awakened within Tam. *Run*, it murmured. *See*, it beckoned. *Feel*. She suddenly felt that the boar was banking towards the left, where the bush was thicker, and there the prey would be lost soon enough. She had to take a chance. She broke away from the path of the mass of Dragoneers who were performing the role of drivers, and went on her own towards what she predicted would be the boar’s path. She was still uncertain, but she felt something that drove her to make this risk in a lifetime of monotony. No longer would she follow behind. *Awaken*, the voice within her commanded. She could smell. See. Feel the boar’s fear, its mind wildly calculating its last escape. The moon, high in the sky; the trees, awash in its light. The good night air, cold and fresh in her lungs. On the ground lumps of snow sparkled where the light was able to pierce the bare arms of the branches. And blood. She smelled it now, copper and rusty, and it would be good to taste. Life was good, life was precious, and it was worth fighting for. Tonight, the boar’s life would give her life. The boar was running fast, but Tam was running faster, a giddiness filling her mind and soul, and she felt keen hunger. She forgot who or where she was. At the last, Tam looked into the boar’s eyes, maddened with fear and rage as its tusks reared up in the air, and it was when she heard its scream that she realized that she was screaming herself, a spear of ice piercing into the boar’s neck, cold smoke evaporating from her nostrils and open mouth. She’d done it. She was a true Dragoneer. The boar had slashed her across the thigh. As the bloodlust faded away, she dropped to her knees, panting, the dying boar’s throat gushing blood upon her, and she saw Lily behind the boar, with a duplicate ice-spear that drove into its neck from the other side. They feasted on the blood, and the blood was good.


"Hello, thank you for stopping by this afternoon; I'd like to talk with you about a fantastic timeshare opportunity that is too good to pass up." "All right, it's not too long, is it?" "No, ma'am, we'll be done lickety-split." "OK, I have a dinner reservation with my husband in an hour, so..." "No worries. Have you ever wished you could go back in time? There is now a way to make that dream a reality! Transtemporal Timeshare allows you to experience history directly by visiting various time periods of your choosing, all while splitting the expense with other owners like you." "How exactly does that work? Do I simply choose a time and you transport me there?" "No, not at all; it's even better!" "How?" "I'm glad you asked! We have 50 time periods to choose from, each with all of the modern convenience of the future. You could see Abraham Lincoln's assassination one minute, embark on an augmented reality adventure with Harriet Tubman the next, and undergo rotator cuff lipo suction by the afternoon." "That does seem cool, but as you said, it covers 50 time periods. How do I decide?" "Well, that's the best part! You are not required to make a decision right away. You can take your time and try each one until you discover the one that fits you perfectly. And if you change your mind later, you can trade weekends with other owners." "That doesn't sound too bad, but what's the catch?" "All we ask is that you attend one sales presentation in exchange for a free weekend at your convenience." "How much does a Transtemporal Timeshare cost to buy?" "For the price of a large Starbucks latte each day, you can afford the amazing opportunity to see Billy Holliday sing in person, Louis XIV at Versailles, or go back to see your Great-Grandmother when she was still alive." "Are you allowed to see family?" "You'll have to keep your distance for safety reasons, but yes, we'll trick your Great-Grandmother into attending a sales presentation, and you can check her out from behind a two-way mirror. Although, please remember not to feed or touch family members from the past." "You're going to trick my family?" "That's not it at all! They'll get an all-expenses-paid trip to the future to see you from behind a two-way mirror." "Wait a minute, is she looking at me right now? Mimi? Are you here?" "Ma'am, please have a seat; there is no one behind that two-way mirror." "How do I know for sure?" "Well, we did offer it to her, but your Mimi chose to see Elvis live in concert instead." "She isn't here?" "Don't be disappointed. Think of it this way, what if you had the opportunity to see the Harry Styles farewell tour of 2046 or go back to the hellscape of 2022 to see your Mimi? You'd make the same decision, trust me." "I guess. So, what do you have available for a free sample?" The Transtemporal Timeshare agent swiftly starts typing on her computer. "Glad you asked! We have a quaint cottage in 1350, which is peak black plague, this really is hard to get. We also have a lovely townhouse in 1941 Germany; you aren't Jewish, are you? Oh, and this just became available; wow, this never happens; you are so fortunate; we have all time periods open in North Korea, it's a small work camp, but all expenses are covered." "Is that it? I was looking for something a little more impressive." The agent speaks in a hushed tone. "Look, I don't do this for all our potential customers, but here's what I can do. I can get you 1920s America if you sign up today and start payments. This is popular, and it should be easy to trade. Imagine yourself doing the Charleston in a speakeasy, having drinks with Zelda and Scott Fitzgerald, or seeing New York jazz clubs in all their glory! The best part is once you own it, you can trade it to go anywhere and when you want!" "Alright, let's do it." The agent prints out some forms. "Great! It looks that I have gotten you one of the last dates available in the 1920s; your trip will begin on October 28, 1929, and end on October 30, 1929. Simply sign here to become an official member of the Transtemporal Timeshare family!" While she is signing... "That date seems familiar; is there anything noteworthy going on?" "Yeah! They get a visit from someone from the future!" "Ha, I'm feeling pretty good about this.


#Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills and areas in which we excel, as well as places we’d like to improve. So I’d like to present a brand new weekly feature. This will be a weekly thread to discuss all things writing! And… to get to know your fellow writers a bit! Each week I will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion. Feel free to chime into the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, etc. You do not have to answer all the questions, but try to stay on-topic! *** #This Week’s Roundtable Discussion Each of us has our own reason for writing. Some write for enjoyment, some write to clear their minds, and some write, simply, because they love to create other worlds. There are many different reasons people choose to write. So, this week, we are asking one simple question: * Why do *you* write? *New to r/ShortStories or joining in the Discussion for the first time? Introduce yourself in the comments! What do you like to write? *You don't have to answer all the questions to join in the chat! #Reminders - **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** - **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussion in any form will not be tolerated. - **Please try to stay on-topic.** If you have suggestions for future questions and topics, you can add them to the stickied comment or send them to me via DM or modmail! - **Check out the *** ###Subreddit News and Happenings - Come practice your micro skills on or experiment with long-form writing on - You can also post serials directly to the sub! Check out for more information.