1st draft of a short story I finished writing recently. Let me know your opinions. Thank you. \ Joe drove into the rest area at the base of the mountain feeling a bit drowsy, yawning loudly and at once stretching in theatrical displays of lethargy to his wife, Kaylee, who was sitting next to him. At the curt behest of his wife, who showed not the slightest measure of sympathy for those boisterous sounds that he made, Joe resignedly parked the car away from the other vehicles. “We’re here,” he said, with a tiredness in his voice as he looked up at the summit hidden under the exhaled white, frosty breath of the frozen air. His wife sat silently next to him. As if she had made a covenant with herself, she looked the other way seeking instead the attention of her own frigid reflection through which she observed the icy landscape, the snow falling ever gently on to the cold glass. She suddenly began with a silent rustle in preparation of the forthcoming hike. She gathered the whole of her gear: boots, backpack, fanny pack, jacket, pants, mittens for her small hands. Her movements were aggressive, noisy, made in such an angry spirit that she tossed things into her backpack and shoved them as deep as the bottom would allow for a thing to reach; she even felt herself challenged by an innocent zipper of her impermeable jacket that stubbornly refused to zip and close. “Damn it! C’mon you stupid thing!” she quietly exclaimed to it, still unable to get it to move, pinching it harder between her fingers and pulling it with greater force inasmuch as the little metal zipper seemed destined to be torn off completely against its will. “Can I help?” Joe offered. “No… I got it,” she replied coldly as she struggled, but soon thereafter the zipper yielded finally and relief had come to her face with the zipper now drawn up to her neck, yet she did not appear entirely freed from her sudden agitation. Joe ignored his wife’s rejection and looked out through the windshield up at a calm sky of gray clouds. The sun appeared stifled, dormant even, and, for as long as it remained behind that thick haze of the clouds, as a faded, yellow smudge that was weak enough in radiance to look at directly without much damage to the eyes. Joe was thin, and despite his slender form, he was not at all athletic. He already felt the altitude exerting its influence in the difficulty there was to breathe when he first arrived at the park. He had not gone a few steps on the first trail that his head began to feel light and disorientated, but he never disclosed these ailments to Kaylee whom he found, on looking up from his staggered step, mustering on a few meters ahead of him with a red tinge on her cheeks, and her little back muscles exposed and glistening under the frosty sun. The symptoms would grow worse for Joe and they had to stop their advance more often, very much to the disappointment of his wife, and owing to these difficulties therefore decided to quit the hike prematurely and failed to reach the end. This was always the result at each trail that they had visited from that to the current path, each a failure to reach the summit. The trail now before him was a redemption of some kind for him, as he looked at the peak just out there amid the white mist. “Will you get ready already? We’re wasting time.” Kaylee said, tearing him away from the peacefulness of the mountain. Joe quickly grabbed his things for the hike along with his wallet when a wrinkled, little old paper fell from it, and he reached for the slip with great regret for its fall, anxious about retrieving it from the dark abyss between the armrest and the driver seat in which more things are lost than all the mountains that the human spirit ever had the courage to scale. There was nothing of particular importance on it as it was mostly empty in fact except for a heart that had been cartoonishly rendered on it by Kaylee. It was a small gift he vouched to forever keep that she gave to him one night as recompense for abiding yet another long night of intense study during her days as a law student. “Alright, let’s go,” she said to him, bringing the straps of her backpack over her shoulders like a military man throwing the immense weight of his equipment on his back. “This time, we have to reach the top, please. We can’t keep quitting in the middle of it.” “I won’t stop,” he replied, “I’ll try not to stop, for anything.” “You promise we’ll keep going until we reach the end? You keep saying you will, but you never do, and I have to do it alone or not at all in the end.” “I promise.” The trailhead began where a sign was put to mark the beginning that read “Deer Mountain trail.” “There it is,” Kaylee said, marking out the long, dirt path ahead of them that disappeared rather sneakily around a bend. Joe found it a bit of a charming curiosity in his wife that she was as steadfast as yet she possessed no survival instinct; she had no sense of orientation as he knew on the basis of past experience that she would not be able to find her way back to the origin point despite that the trail only went in two directions, forward and backward. Unlike Joe, her big, astute eyes often overlooked the many markings of a forest that can guide a fellow traveler and lead him to his destination even when the forest seems vast, dark, unnavigable for its many possible paths that can lead a hiker astray to frustrating dead ends. She’d often look back whenever the trail vanished before her at Joe to consult with his inner compass for directions, and he relished the smile on her face when he pointed to her the direction in which they ought to continue. Some time later, not half-way up the mountain, it began to drizzle on them as they began to hear the small patter of falling rain droplets against their shoulders, near the ear. “It might get muddy, and dangerous if we keep climbing, don’t you think?” Joe said. “It’s nothing, c’mon! Don’t stop.” In addition to the gentle beginning of the rain, the road began to vanish under a slight haze. The fog was encroaching more on the mountain with the passing of each minute, like some sinister specter come to haunt the hikers. Through the white mist, each branch and each rock and each hill took on the form of a silhouette without any distinguishing feature to speak of. Each object as seen through the haze was a dark outline, fuzzy like television static. Even the people themselves looked identical under the cloak of the mist as everyone took on the same fundamental form, indistinguishable from man to man, from woman to woman, except when it was from man to woman as the former had a noticeably larger build than the latter, and it was under these ghostly conditions that Joe saw someone sitting on a boulder some feet away from the trail. The couple pressed on, but Joe was in sufficient proximity to the stranger to notice that he had a face which was similar to his own, except for a large burly beard that hung well below the neck. His eyes were hidden under the lip of his hat and were impossible to see what with a shadow cast from the same hat over his face. He had stopped to eat, and to do it alone. His eyes were on the trail, yet there was an absent quality in them. As he might have seemed like an apparition to Joe, they might have been viewed as figments by him as they aroused no notice from him as he ate. “So, have you started your IT courses yet?” Kaylee asked. “Not yet, I haven’t.” “Then when?” “Soon. I’ll start them as soon as we return.” “You keep saying you will, but you never do.” “I will, okay? I will. Please, don’t start.” Kaylee stopped; she dug her heel into the ground and pivoted quickly. “Joe, you know the plan! We’ve gone over it many times. We have to earn this much,” she mimed an amount, “so that we can live our best lives while we are still relatively young! Don’t you want that?” “I do, babycakes, I never said that I don’t, but — ” “Well? Or do you want to grow old and feeble and never enjoy what you could have enjoyed while you were young?” “I said I do already, okay? I’ll get started when we get back, I told you. I can’t do it right this minute, now can I? So, can we just keep going?” Scoffing, “Fine…” she replied. When a thousand feet more of mountain had been climbed, Joe requested for them to take a small rest. (name) released her backpack from her shoulders and it fell to the ground in a way that made the gravity on Earth seem stronger than it is usually. Joe was aware of the pain in her shoulders, and the tremble in her legs, the same symptoms that Joe exhibited in his own physique, but also there in a peculiar aspect of her expression he witnessed the firm reticence to complain of her deficiencies, fully formed on her brow, on her stiffened nose and expanding nostrils attempting to catch the faintest air to bring to her panting lungs. She hydrated, she ate small portions of her trail mix, she had done whatever to regain the strength that she perhaps knew had been permanently lost to the commitment that the hike demanded. Joe always admired that she was blindly aware of her limits that when he knew that she could feel herself reaching them, they were only another corner to go around, or another hill to climb, another river to cross. Where an insurmountable barrier to anyone, a red cape dangled over the eyes of a bull. “Do you think we are almost to the top?” she asked him. “Not likely, and what’s more, it’s getting harder to see what’s in front of me with this fog. It’s thicker now than before.” “Don’t tell me you want to turn back.” “I didn’t say that…” “You don’t have to.” On that last word was the moment when the stranger from before began to appear behind them, emerging silently from the mist but for the soft crunch of the ground beneath him as he walked. He continued without a word, as if seeking quick passage to avoid being caught in the middle of their quarrel. This time, Joe was more convinced than before that the stranger was stranger still for the resemblance that he bore to himself. As rapidly and as silently as he arrived, he passed through. His presence came like a shadow, or a kind ghost wandering the mountain. His footsteps eventually faded into the natural cacophony of wind, the rustle of leaves, and gravel and likewise rocks crushed by that heavy tread that belonged to him. “I’m only suggesting that it may get more dangerous as we go. We can hardly see the road below, down there in the valley. A short while ago I was able to see the cars drive by, but now I can’t.” “You always make excuses. Always.” “It’s not an excuse, (wife). I’m just concerned.” “You said we would reach the end.” “I said I would try.” “Well, you aren’t trying hard enough. Damn it, you’re so lazy! What is wrong with you? Why don’t you have any ambition? You’re constantly quitting. You’re so unwilling to make the sacrifice, even for me.” “I don’t know! I don’t know! Maybe it’s because I don’t give a damn about anything, or because the world is one big shitty place and I just can’t fathom doing anything in it. What’s the point? I don’t know, and I really don’t want to talk about it now. Can we go back? Seriously, please?” “You go back. I’m going to keep going.” On that the conversation ended. Kaylee tossed the backpack on her back and continued to hike the trail. The idea of her walking alone so high up, on a narrow path when the ground had recently become wet created a series of terrifying images in his mind, all of which depicted her fall or some other serious injury, and the guilt they produced sprung him into motion. He beckoned her to wait as he ran to her even as she had gained a great distance on him in such a short period of time. Some few hundred feet higher, Kaylee stopped when the path had suddenly ceased to continue. Joe had reached his wife and he too stopped and noticed that the path had disappeared behind them both. “Did we go the wrong way?” She again asked him. “I don’t know. It’s possible. I was getting tired again anyway, so let’s rest.” She sighed, and wove her arms together, and she nodded her head, “we’ll never get to the top at this rate. We should just turn back.” “Now you want to turn back?” “I feel like I’m dragging you up there.” “You’re not dragging me — “ “Yes, I am.” “No, you’re not,” he replied. “Yes, I am. I feel like I drag you all the time, like your IT courses that we paid for. I’ve always felt that I was the one pulling us forward, the mule pulling the cart. You haven’t even found a job yet.” “I’ve started looking.” “Yeah, a month ago. You’ve sent, what, ten applications in that time?” “Twelve…” “Whatever. We aren’t on track to achieve anything we have set out to do, together. I’m the only one giving a shit.” Joe found nothing in his repertoire of prepared speeches that were not prolonged apologies that offered to her thin rays of weak hope which she believed emanated from the promise of something more, so he found it difficult to say anything. He was not deaf to her exasperations of him as he had committed every accusation leveled against him of indifference to memory, and he stood there to listen to them again, and again invoking inevitably the same ponderous weight of guilt that has become an indispensable aspect of their spats, and so, he thought, that he will continue to hear them evermore, again and again, ad infinitum as he gazed into the future somehow showing in the thick foliage of the trees overhead, a cycle that alas culminates only in a self-loathing for which he had no means to end without offering up his mind and body like a bloody heart to the altar of the cruel world that begat him. “I know. I hear you…” “Well, then, tell me why? Why is it so hard to get you to move?” He shrugged his shoulders, and did not respond. There was a brief silence between them. Only the trees spoke of anything when their leaves were ruffled by a wind. “Well, can you get us back to the trail?” “You still want to continue?” “Sure. Why not? Let’s see how far we get, I’ll be happy with that if we can’t get to the top.” “Alright. I think I remember the landscape enough to guide us back. Follow me.” More than half an hour later, the two of them eventually began to notice more areas where the vegetation had been cleared for the trail, and before long the path outlined itself for them and they knew where to steer themselves. In that instant, the vicissitudes of circumstance aligned so that a hole in the clouds serendipitously formed and a sun ray bathed them in an intense white light. They looked up - their skin was lit to a warm touch - and they went to a point a few steps away where they determined the sun was most intense. There was nothing special, nothing to distinguish this little piece of dirt from another little piece of trodden dirt elsewhere since or to come. The rocks were the same as were the branches dangling from the walls of trees, and the shrubbery was no less dry in some areas of where they stood than in other areas. Yet, to there they were drawn by a more clear view of the open green valley and all things revealed therein illuminated by liberated sunbeams. The fog had cleared away mostly and they could see the tiny cars down below driving by without hearing the sound of their engines or the whoosh of their passing as they cut through wind. Joe and Kaylee both looked out at the other mountains from their location, and Joe wondered at the view. She stood by silently next to him, and there the two of them stood in silence. “As difficult as it is, views like these are worth it,” he then said to Kaylee, “this is what I always hope to find when we go on hikes, did you know? This. Nothing else.” “It is beautiful up here, but I like that feeling when you’ve reached the end. It’s satisfying, don’t you think so?” she replied. “I’m sure it is… but I’m happy here…” She smiled at him and returned to silence. To Joe, life seemed rather simple at that altitude. Without the noise and the preoccupations born of the world below, life consisted of very little else that was possible to fathom. Health, love, peace, nature are some of the things indispensable that came to his mind. Just above, Joe saw the stranger walking up the mountain, disappearing just over the edge of the hill where even the whole Earthly firmament disappeared behind the green and rocky surface. They must be close to the top he thought, or at least that was the hope that grew in him when he witnessed the stranger vanish over the cliff. “Hey, if we walk a little more, we might reach the end soon.” “Alright, let’s go!” Footsteps approached the end of the trail until they reached a small tomb a few meters ahead with an epitaph that read “My Eternal Love lies here.” A cartoonish heart stamped to it, fluttering as if preparing for flight. “Hey there,” said the stranger to the stone, “This mountain ain’t so bad now.” He sat down next to the stone. “I have some good news. I finally got my IT certificate, and I have an interview soon. Thought I would share that with you today.” He looked at the sun rising up and an orange diamond glistened on his cold cheek.


I questioned her once more: “Wait, what do you mean you cursed me to be loved by all.” “Just that, from now on every human you cross paths with will adore you and kiss the ground you walk upon.” Her deep evergreen eyes glinted in the flicker of the candlelight that rested on the countertop. Her straight ginger hair fell below the palm of her hands which was rubbing her cheek as I spoke. “Well that isn’t very sanitary now is it?” I ask sarcastically. “Actually I was joking about that last bit, but still.” I peer around the shop, taking in more details from the relics with price tags and the vials of various colored liquids, some even appear to be swishing around inside. The closed sign was up as the darkness took over. “Can you reverse it somehow?” A blonde-haired woman, seemingly in her late 20s yet with the vocabulary of an ancient historian. “There is no cure for the curse,” she chimed in, “at least not in-store,” I lit up at that last bit, which was quieter than what she let out before. “Wait what did you say?” “Nothing. Look, I am terribly sorry but you missed your payment. I meant to stick you with a Rain Day curse. You know, flat tire chased by rabid dogs, minor occurrences like that. I wasn’t looking and grabbed the wrong vial,” the ginger-haired woman behind the corner explained. “I was late on one payment, and it was my last payment. I bought that spell from you guys nearly a year ago.” “Margaux’s right, if you made your payment on time, you wouldn't be stuck with Cupid’s Curse,” the blonde-haired woman added. “Cupid’s Curse? Can you at least tell me what exactly you cursed me with and why you hushed your sister when she mentioned a cure that, ” I slowly make quotation gestures with my fingers, “is not in-store?” “Pearah, did you activate the barrier for the front door?” Marguax shouts to her sister who retreated to the back of the store. “I think so, I’ll check,” Pearah shouts back. “Come back tomorrow, with the money for your last payment and we’ll discuss this further.” I sigh sharply, but with no other rebuttals worthwhile I head out, rubbing my hands through my spiked hair intensely. As I walk out the two watch me closely as I start my car and then head home. On the way, my phone rings incessantly. Everyone I seem to know calls, messages, emails, and even inboxes me. Occurring so rapidly I don't even get a chance to respond, though knowing it has something to do with this curse, I turn off my phone and then turn on the radio, attempting to drown out the swirling thoughts racing my mind. On the local top 40 station, I hear my name, I stare at the radio for a moment, shaking my head. I turn up the volume to find I’ve gone viral, yet I haven't posted anything in weeks. They announce today to be the official “Seymour Adoration Day”. I yell every curse word that comes to mind, slam my palm on the steering wheel, then turn off the radio. When I get home I take a brisk shower and then go to bed, taking two melatonin gummies to ease my mind enough to drift to sleep. It didn’t last long as I toss and turn all night long. The next day I head back to the Bartholomew’s store bright and early. The parking on the street is filled so I head around to park behind the store. I pull my hood over my head and keep my head low as I make my way around to the front. Just as I bend the corner I’m spotted. “Seymour! He’s right here!” A woman with a toddler shouts loud enough for the dwellers outside the storefront to pick up on. She pulls out her phone and then pushes it in my face as I hurriedly make my way inside the store. I’m cut off by people screaming my name and grabbing me every which way. Some offer me money, others beg for attention. I yell inside my head and then make a run for the door. Refusing to look back, yet hearing the pumping crowd behind me, I quickly shut the door and twist the look which seems to have been collecting dust for ages. “I’m here,” I shout, with a morning croak and annoyed crack in my voice. I’m met with Margaux, who’s clothed in the same color palette as yesterday. I set the money down on the corner, to the last cent, with an agitated thud. She stashes it away, mumbling the exact amount under her breath, though she didn’t bother to count it. “Now what questions do you have?” She takes a seat behind the corner while fidgeting with a small glowing orb. “I pretty much figured it out for myself, no thanks to the Bartholomew sisters!” She chuckles loudly, her entire body heaving. “My phone won't stop ringing, the city gave me a holiday in my honor and I was nearly trampled on the way inside.” My tone is sharp and my words shoot out quickly. “Calm down now child. I’ll tell you where you can find the antidote.” Margaux heads to the back for a quick moment, then after a shuffling noise and a quick comment to Pearah, she returns with a journal of sorts. She breaths on its spine gently then lets out a quick enchantment. With that, a click resounds from the relic. She flips a few pages, quickly reading the title of each. “I found it Pearah, I nearly forgot!” She pulls a chunk of hair behind her ear as she takes in the contents of the page. “That’s right. In order to make the antidote and reverse Cupid’s Curse, you must sacrifice something you adore.” My head drops low, a part of me expected a fairytale response like that. I pushed down the first thought that came to my mind then asked Margaux about another option. Pearah rounds the corner: “Well there is an escape clause, but you would have to carry it out yourself.” I implore her to go on. “Cupid’s Curse will reverse itself, if you will, after you’ve done something so agonizing, so crudely vile, everyone will be forced to hate you.” After Pearah reveals the escape clause Margaux lights up as if she genuinely forgot that part of the curse, I didn’t question it as I was eager to get this all over with. “That’s it?” I ask. They both look at each other and seemingly share a quick remake or two with their eyes. They then nod their head in unison. “I’d rather be hated and left alone than gawked at constantly, consider it done.” The two look at each other, then at me, confused. “You guys ever heard of cancel culture?” I pull out my phone then head to Twitter and begin typing away.


You might be wondering why Morac, the Mother of Realms and All Creation, is coming to you of all places for advice. That’s because I am at my wit's end with my adopted daughter, Daisy. You see, when I adopted her about 98 years ago, I didn’t know her full lineage. She was abandoned, and the only paperwork related to her was the name Daisy. I mean babies between the mystical races of the realms often get left behind, turned over to Nowhere. But I had heard her cry and when I saw herthose big black eyes filled with the gleams of nebulas yet bornI couldn’t help but be moved. So yes, I, Mother of Realms and All Creation, adopted her without knowing the full extent of her parentage. For decades, that was fine. I taught her about conjuring magic and realm exploration. Showed her all the millions of worlds that I designed. She even took to designing a few herself! Then, about her sixtieth, the kidnappings started. She was princess of the Nether where we lived, a place with portals to all the realms I birthed, so naturally, unscrupulous sentience were tempted to kidnap her. There’d been dragons, orcs, robots, demons, and angels, to name a few that succeeded. I was running out of bodyguards for her as soon as I made them. Not to mention the few bodyguards that also decided she needed to be whisked away from my Keep of Eternal Passage in the Nether. I mean, once was reasonable. Four times in a decade is a lot, but they kept coming. More and more of them each passing year. So I went to God (with a G) the middle management of realms who ran Nowhere, to sort out this whole kidnapping surge. They were devastating, to say the least. I feel like that’s a common theme when meeting God. I go, “You’ve got to help me understand why she’s getting kidnapped left, right, and even in non-euclidean axises.” They go, “You adopted Daisy right?” I go, “Yes” They go, “Well of course sentience will go after her. Her father was Asmodeus, she’s irresistible.” I go, “Her father was Asmodeus? The Incubus, and Supreme demon of lust!? Why in the realms didn’t you tell me?” I might have been shouting when I said that, shaking more than a few singularities into a bang. They go, “I did, we gave you her name - D.A.I.S.Y. - Daughter of Asmodeus and Ignoble Seraphim of Youth.” That, unfortunately tracked because the girl didn’t age. She looked perpetually like a 21 year old, but I was outranged, “Those are her parents?!” They go, “Don’t blame me for your misunderstanding." It should be noted that while I’ve birthed hundreds of realms, it was all done asexually. I never needed another entity for more than companionship and friendship, which is probably why I never noticed little Daisy unconsciously sending out all those magical luring desires across the multiverse. My fierce asexuality made me blind to how she’s come into deity-hood pulsing with the yearning of a thousand lifetimes. This wasn’t her fault, it never was, but I have no idea how to help her. Her power will only grow in the next two years before her centennial. Once that hits, she’ll come into her full powers and threaten to send the multiverse into a convulsing, delicious sexual frenzy. I really can’t let that happen, so as soon as I got home I locked her in her room and I do not know what I’m going to do when she turns one hundred. Should I keep her locked up forever? Or at least until she learns to control her powers? What do I do with all those kidnappers that keep popping in? I could seal the Nether, but then entire worlds might die from the lack of magic. This is so frustrating! Asmodeus is not answering my DMs, and the Seraphim is off on holiday, whatever that means. I swear the avatar of youth has no concept of responsibility. **TL;DR Locked up my adopted daughter before her centennial to prevent her from saturating the world with her magic. It's not her fault. I’m just not sure what to do about the fact she got her bio parents' powers.** \ I’m a new aspiring mix-genre-romance author. Please give me a follow (u/SevWagoner) and join my subreddit (r/SevWagoner) for updates. <3 Looking for advice on how to improve as well as my writing niche.


(I wrote this as a spur of the moment idea let me know if it's worth continuing/fully fledging it out.)  This summer was forecasted to be the hottest in California history. The sun beat down on the 108 degree sand as a tall, thin, man shouldered a rifle and fired a few shots. Unfortunately for the man on the receiving end of the shots Jonathan was a talented marksman. The sound of bullet ripping through flesh was a unique one at that, the wet slap of the target being hit followed by the projectile planting itself in the sand with a hard thud. The wounded man clutched his chest as he fell to the ground, praying that this not be the end for him. He flipped himself over just in time to see Jonathan walk up to him, the M16 rifle still fully attached to his shoulder. “Spill it, samuel.” He barked at the wounded man, pushing his weapon further in his face. “You and I…” Sam took pained breaths as his hands shook uncontrollably. “Both know that can’t happen.” “I don’t want to do this to you Sam!” Jonathan held onto the barrel of his gun like his life depended on it. He didn’t want to kill his friend, that’s the absolute last thing he wanted out of this. “Just do it Jon! Do what you have to do! Get it over with!” Sam knew he wasn’t making it out of this desert, he knew he was never seeing the hollywood streets again, he was okay with it. This city has taken more out of him than he could have ever predicted. “Jonathan!” Sam screamed at him, sitting up to put the barrel of the gun to his forehead. “C’mon just talk! I don’t want to do this, Man!” Jon had tears in his eyes as he took his finger off of the side of the gun, placing it firmly on the trigger. His hand was shaking. He didn’t want to have to be the one to pull the trigger, responsible for the death of a dear friend. “It has to be you.” Sam spoke quietly. “You know they won’t let me–” Sam’s words were cut off by the ear piercing sound of the rifle finally relieving the tension in the air. The sound of the soul being removed from his body and smacking against the sand was all that Jonathan had left. He threw the rifle to the ground and dropped to his knees, unleashing an awful, painful scream into the hot air. Several minutes went by before he brought himself to his feet, picking up the rifle and walking back towards the old blue truck they came in. He slung the rifle into the bed of the truck before opening the door and driving off. The car witch once carried two men started up with a rumble and Jon began driving away from the man he once, called a friend. As he disappeared into the horison, the sound of vultures could be heard above the scene of the crime.


After dozens of swipes, multiple conversations that just evaporate, someone has said yes. The uphill battle to align schedules and convince yourself that you actually want to leave the house and spend money will be worth it. You think to yourself, maybe this will be the one, she seems cool. At the very least it’s always good practice to put yourself out there. You settle on drinks at a nearby bar that you’re familiar with. You’ve already talked about what she does for work and know she’s big into hiking just by looking at her photos. You might be a bit worried because it took 2 photos to scroll through to decipher which one she is. Luckily she filled out her profile thoroughly and you are aligned on politics, religion, and both went to big schools. Knowing this is nice, but always feel like it’s jumping the gun and you just have less to find out about the person later. However, you’re not complaining because you rather know now then $35 dollars of drinks later that she’s a religious conservative. Waking up knowing you have something to do after work always makes the day go by slower. You make sure to send a confirmation text in the morning to make sure you aren’t looking forward to something the whole day only to be let down later. She says she’s still on and “looking forward to it”. You hope she is being sincere. You decide to work from home, this will make you avoid any potential obstacles for when it gets closer. In-between meetings you’re still scrolling through the app and swiping on people. It makes you feel dirty, if your parents had a date scheduled they weren’t actively at the bar trying to pick up someone different before the date that night. You close the app and get back to work, or the appearance of work. Lunch finally comes around and you decide to start looking in your closet to feel out what you will wear. You check the weather to see what type of outfit you should wear. You get sweaty for a date when you get nervous, plus it's going to be really humid. Probably going to wear something dark, it will make you look thinner anyways. At least that's what you’ve been told. You don’t want to be too casual, but it is just drinks. You end up picking a navy blue collared shirt that you know hides your pit stains and some 7 in gray shorts to show off those legs. You know you’re going to wear your Allbirds and will have some sort of patterned socks that you can figure out later. Having your clothes laid out feels like one less thing you have to worry about. Your friend texts you asking to hang out after work. Sometimes you feel like telling friends about a future date, sometimes it’s easier to just lie so if there is no second date you don’t have to explain it to someone else. This time you tell them, this girl seems cool and your hopes have slowly been getting higher as the day goes on and gets closer to the date. It’s 6:15 and there's 45 minutes until the date starts. Even though the drive is only 5 minutes away you are already dressed and are now staring at yourself in the mirror. Wet your hair to make it so it doesn’t look so poofy, brush your teeth, and spray on some cologne. You’re feeling ready. You feel confident and psych yourself up thinking who wouldn’t want to go out with you. You say bye to your roommate and leave your apartment 20 minutes early. You want to make sure you find parking and get a good table. You don’t want to let her know you got there that early though, so you sit in your car and only get out 10 minutes before the date starts. The host asks for how many, you proudly say two. You sit so you can face the door to see them walk in. You hope that they look like their pictures and don’t have a weird voice. It’s 6:58 and you’re scrolling Twitter after checking her profile again. You see the door open and she walks in. You wave her over.


And yet another day. 7:00 AM, time to wake up. There’s this deep and uneasy feeling in the deepest depth of my chest, nothingness. Same as everyday I suppose. Shower today? Mmmm, nah I don’t feel like it. That’s totally okay, there's nothing wrong with skipping a few days worth of showers. The picture of Mom and Dad on the nightstand looks particularly sad today– miss them. Stepping out of bed was just as hard as it is any other day. Breakfast today? Mmmm, no I’m okay. You sure? It’s been a while since we’ve eaten anything. Yeah, I’m sure. Not really hungry anyways. What day is it today? Oh! Right, it’s Sunday. Or The Lord’s day as mom would call it– miss her a lot. Wonder what’s on TV today. 10:30 AM. We’ve been watching TV for a while, it’s a nice day outside. Maybe we should go for a nice drive to the cliff for a nice view of the ocean. You know what? I actually like that idea a lot. Let's do it! Hmmm what to wear? Let’s go with this nice light blue button up and this pair of khaki shorts! Mmmm, nah I think I’ll leave in these sweats and a hoodie. You sure? It’s going to be pretty warm out soon. Yeah the heat doesn’t bother me much. Oh, alright. 11:00 AM. Ohh, I just love nice long drives. Especially when our destination is so great and beautiful! We should listen to some music on the way! Mmmm, I think silence is good for now. Maybe in a little bit though. Oh okay. 12:15 PM. Boy it’s hot out here ain’t it? We should take this hoodie off at least. Why? I feel fine. Oh okay, nevermind. This view sure is beautiful don’t you think?! I wish we could be here everyday just to watch the waves dance among themselves and to listen to the seagulls yell at each other all day, ohhh and this smell! The salty ocean scent is so refreshing isn’t it? Yeah, it reminds me of home. I sure do miss mom, wish she were still here. Let’s get a closer look at the waves shall we? Ohhh yes please! I love watching them crash against the cliffside! The grass feels weirdly soft today, I wonder why. Hey, this is a little bit too close to the edge for me. Can we step back a little bit? Oh no, this is fine. We’re safe here. Oh okay. I feel numb. Hey, why are we crying? I don’t know, the world is so beautiful. We should go for a swim. Ohhh I love swimming! But this is a long way down, we could get hurt. I’m sure we’ll be fine. No I don’t think we will. Hey, did we take our meds today? Oh yeah, I must’ve forgotten. We should go back home then, the doctor said we need to take them everyday. Okay, just a few more hours here then we’ll leave. 5:00 PM. Back home finally! Let’s take those pills! Yeah yeah yeah, I know. Yuck, I hate this taste. Yeah me too. We should call dad! I’m sure he’d love to hear from us. Maybe tomorrow. Ohhh let's book a flight home to see him! You know we don’t have that kind of money right now. Oh, right. We should just go to bed okay? We had a long day. But I’m not tired yet? Well I am. Oh okay. I always forget how soft these pillows are! They’re alright I guess, please be quiet. Let’s sleep now. Hmph, fine. Hey, can we please call dad tomorrow? I miss him. Sure, maybe. Awesome! Goodnight! Night. 7:00 AM, time to wake up. The deep feeling in my chest remains. And yet, another day.


#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: **Prompt: The bells hadn’t stopped ringing in weeks.** **Bonus Constraint (worth 5 extra pts.)** - Use at least 3 of the following words: - coffin - survival - withered - dig - esoteric - newspaper This week’s challenge is to use this simple writing prompt as **inspiration** for your story. You may interpret the prompt *any way you like*, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules. The sentence does not need to appear in your story (but you are more than welcome to, if you like). The bonus constraint is not required. **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 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/katherine_c - **Second:** - Submitted by u/katpoker666 - **Third:** - Submitted by u/aladon1234 - **Bay’s Spotlight:** - Submitted by u/randallus - **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 - Did someone say *contest*? The has officially kicked off on r/WritingPrompts! Submit a story based on the prompt by June 30th to enter! - Practice those poetry skills with our brand new feature, , on r/WritingPrompts! - 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.


I sighed and put down my phone, letting this thought flitter through my mind. Recently, I have found myself increasingly thinking of the past and how many experiences I’ve lost to my memory. It’s not as though my mind has been failing me, but the reality of this life we live is that we lose things due to the passage of time. Every experience, interaction, thought, and even memory is fleeting. I have known this, and I accept this. But why do I often find myself trying to hold onto the past? ***Remember the summers where you practically lived outside?*** I brushed my hair out of my eyes and sat up. My bed faintly protesting against my movements. Yes, I do in fact remember those summers. The summers where heat was not considered a deterrence, but rather an excuse to play outside. Where raindrops were seen as something to dance in, rather than to run away from for fear of ruining an outfit. Where even the most mundane, trivial actions were turned into a game. Where I laughed and laughed all day long, returning home after dark with a tired throat and a wide smile. I remember those summers and I remember them fondly. ***How did we get here?*** I swung my legs over the side of my bed and hopped off. This thought lingering in my mind as I slowly approached my window. The window was small and double-paned. The white paint was slightly chipping and the glass was covered in fingerprints of varying sizes. I had always considered cleaning it, but now it would be as if I was compromising its history. Each fingerprint, each smudge had its own story and was tied to a particular moment in my life. Cleaning the glass and erasing my prints is no different than erasing a part of me. I leaned in and pressed my forehead against the cool glass, like I had done many times before. Even this simple action brought comfort to me. The truth is, I’m not sure how I got here. I remember finding joy in the present one day, and the next constantly looking back, longing for the days that were. *Ching!* Behind me, my phone buzzed. It was alerting me that I had received a text. It was most likely from my friend Celia, inviting me to another party. It seems as though that’s all anyone wants to do these days. ***Remember when you would wish to grow up and get invited to parties?*** I chuckled, pressing my forehead more firmly against my window. Aligning my gaze with the tiny stream of water that was beginning to form from the rain. If I had known what it actually meant to be 22, I never would have wasted my wish. I am quite happy with my life. But where did all of the whimsy go? How come the warm breeze no longer dances on my skin whilst playing in my hair? When did the snow stop cascading on me, trying to impress with the individuality of each flake? When did the vibrancy of hue and the pleasant aroma of nature fade? I can still smell it, but not in the same way. I closed my eyes, plunging myself into darkness. The faint patter of the rain hitting my window, filling my ears. In the distance, a bird was tweeting. Suddenly, as if someone had pressed play on a tape recorder in my head, a song flooded my mind. ***“Weightlessness, no gravity.*** ***Were we somewhere in between?*** ***I’m a ghost to you, you’re a ghost of me*** ***A bird’s eye view of San Luis*** ***Mmm mmm mmmmmmm….”*** ***San Luis. By Gregory Isakov. A very good song indeed.*** I sighed and opened my eyes. It was raining slightly harder now. ***The weather must be in mourning also.*** I let out a soft chuckle, but not because I found anything humorous. I turned away from the window and slowly approached my bed. My phone was in the center, alight with messages from a few of my friends. Without reading them, I started typing out a response; “Okay, coming!” I already knew what they would say. Within seconds, I received their responses. They sent a mixture of emojis and “K”’s. ***So it is about going to a party. Of course.*** I grabbed my jacket and started heading to my door. When I reached out to grab the handle, I turned one last time to look out the window. ***The rain is coming down really hard now.*** My phone started buzzing again, most likely due to my friends becoming agitated by how long I was taking. I quickly texted them back; “Sorry, I’m just grabbing my umbrella!” I then shoved my phone into my pocket and reached for my umbrella and purse. I never even noticed that little voice in my head urging me to leave the umbrella behind. I never even realized that each time I refused to acknowledge her, the less I was able to hear her. I never even knew that while I was busy mourning her, she was also mourning me. For the me that she was could no longer recognize the me I had become.


(IP) Risk They had begged her not to go, had said that it was too dangerous. If she’d said she wasn’t afraid, she would’ve been lying. But their tiny mountain town needed to be saved, and there was no other way. She’d packed food and clothing for the journey, as well as her staff and her massive phoenix. Her parents, especially, had been against it. After all, she was their only child, and the only daughter in their family lucky enough to inherit magic. But she had to do something. The plague had slowly overtaken the village, and more than one person she’d grown up with had been buried. “We’re nearly there,” She said to the phoenix, her hand rooted in its feathers. The warmth emanating from it soothed her, but she knew she couldn’t stand on this mountain top for long. Throwing her bag over her shoulder, she climbed onto the bird, and they took to the sky. She was haunted by how many people had died, their skin speckled with sickly green spots, their eyes wide and bloodshot. All she had to do was find the temple, and steal the sacred herbs within. It might have meant offending a goddess, but she couldn’t let anyone else die. The world blurred into a blue-white landscape of snow and ice, and Kiara tucked her fur cloak more tightly around her. She directed Mara down to a dip in the mountains, an ice-encrusted valley. They kept close together as they walked toward the temple; Kiara’s heart raced inside of her chest like a galloping horse, and the wind roared cruelly in her ears. The temple was made of quartz and lapis, and they hurried inside. They found the temple dark and cold, with a faint scent of incense. Reluctantly, she had Mara stay outside; she was simply too big to fit within the building. Kiara waited until her eyes adjusted to walk inside; she walked down the nave of the temple, the skin on the back of her neck crawling. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. She spun around, her eyes searching. “Who’s there?” There was no answer. A statue loomed at the front of the room, formed entirely of lapis. It was of the goddess of healing, hair flowing outward as if teased by the wind. She wore a benevolent smile, and inside the basket in her hands, were bundles of herbs. The exact herb that her people needed to survive. Quickly, she walked up the nave to the statue, stuffing the herbs in her bag. Even if she was cursed or struck with something, she would risk it, for her people. “And what, exactly, do you think you’re doing?” A voice said behind her, and she had to bite back a shriek of terror. When she turned around, she saw an ordinary young woman, but her eyes were glowing blue.


I felt it for the first time when I was 12. I learnt about worms in school and I had always been very intrigued by them. They need warm places to live, breathe through their skin, and their colors range from red to brown. I could not tell why adults always refused to tell me about them. It was as if I could not even look at one. I thought, what's wrong with taking a peak? As long as I don't keep it, I don't see the harm. At first, I could not tell that I was feeling a little worm. I thought it would be somewhat gooey, but it felt soft and cold, and it perfectly blended with the back of my head, making it really hard to spot. Indeed, I still haven't put my eye on it. I thought, however, that it was normal, and that everyone gets a little worm every once in a while. I saw some on my classmates, teachers, and in my mom, but these seemed to quickly vanish. My worm was different, though. It was a little bit like me. It liked the things I liked, and disliked the things I didn't. It would also help me sometimes. For example, if I was too mean to my friends, or I disappointed my parents, it stung me very hard in the back of my head. I liked my little worm. It made me different from the rest, and made me see the world from a much safer and realistic point of view. After a couple of years, I finally let the worm into my head. Once inside, my little worm got full access to my thoughts. This was good, I told myself, as every sting was a sign that something needed a little fixing. But time passed, and the stinging got more and more painful. Soon, I wasn't able to produce a single thought that came without a spurt of agony; a single action without a burst of misery. But my worm was right: I was repugnant. I was a revolting, soggy, heinous burden. I infected those around me, brought deep sorrow to every room. I hated my little worm, and yet I was nothing without it. One day, almost overnight, I couldn't feel it anymore. My thoughts were free and everything seemed so clear so suddenly. I was scared, but very excited. I had learnt a lot thanks to my little worm, and I owed it who I was. It was a new beginning, of forgiveness, growth, and experimentation. It was still in my head, though. And sometimes, some days, it stung. But it brought with it a feeling of familiarity, trust, and even nostalgia. My little worm was my friend now. I grew up, and my little worm did too. I could feel its bulkier size, its larger weight. We were gonna be unstoppable. Nonetheless, I found it a bit weird that I couldn't only feel it in the back of my head anymore. I now felt it close to my forehead, in between my temples. I guess it had just been moving around. This was about the time when I started spending way too much time inside my own head. It wasn't that interesting or fun, but it felt more appealing than looking at the outside. Colors were lifeless, sounds were flat, food was insipid. People seemed bland, learning felt pointless, curiosity vanished. My little worm doesn't sting anymore. But it now blurs all colors, dampens all music, encases all words. Everywhere I look I see its shadow, every breath I take I feel its tail pulling on my eyes. When standing it numbs my eyelids, but when laying down it dries and hardens them; when speaking it sucks my thoughts; when smiling it clots my cheeks. My head gets heavier every day, making it harder to raise. My arms seem to move by themselves, my legs have grown free from my commands. My mind is not mine anymore. Sometimes, when taking the bus to work, I like looking deep into people's eyes. And sometimes, if I look hard enough, I can tell whether theirs is red or brown.


Super short and kind of sweet. I had an idea. it’s about a lucky three leaf clover. He’s never felt very lucky though. He’s jealous, you see. He’s constantly comparing himself to his more popular four leaf cohorts. When he was younger, he’d push and push hoping he could make the fourth leaf sprout, it never did. So he tried something new. Every morning, he’d wake up before his neighbours and he’d stretch up as high as he could. Hoping if he caught more sun, enough sun, he’d finally get his fourth leaf. He did this for weeks. Wake up, stretch, push… nothing. The weeks went by and nothing sprouted. But he did, however, notice something new. While he was waking up at dawn to stretch high, he noticed the four leaf clovers would sleep in late. And even worse- when they woke, they didn’t stretch. Not. Even. Once. “Lazy” he thought. He was angry. It didn’t make any sense. How could they have four leafs and not even try? The coveted fourth leaf he so wanted had never felt so out of reach. Here he was barely sleeping, stretching and pushing himself into an aneurysm, while he bitterly watched his four leaf contenders sleep till noon. It was futile. He’d given up, he resentfully came to terms with only having three leafs and went to bed. The silver lining was he’d get to sleep in, finally. The next morning came and before he got the chance to sleep in, the clover was rudely awakened by unusual sounds. The ground was shaking and the noises were coming closer. He was scared, they all were. They watched as two strange figures approached. They were enormous. The clovers quivered in fear as the figures came closer, wondering if they were coming straight to them. Sure enough, one of the figures cried out “it’s a patch of clovers!” They had all heard the legends. Honestly, they always thought it was an old wives’ tale to keep the four leaf clovers from getting too brash. (He always thought it was a cheap attempt to make the three leafers feel better, more special.) But now they knew. They also knew what was coming, so they shut their eyes tight and hoped they wouldn’t be picked. As the figures left, and when he felt brave enough, he opened his eyes. Slowly. One at a time while the other stayed wrinkled shut. When he finally looked around he was shocked to find out something truly peculiar. In this little patch of land, he saw that most of who remained were three leaf clovers, just like him. Towering above the rest as they stretched to try and change the very thing that saved them. He finally understood that he had always been one of the lucky ones. I never really wrote anything before, but just wanted to put into words what three leaf clovers might feel if they felt.


“So how do you become a boy?” I found myself studying her with an intensity I rarely applied to children. She had my sister’s eyes, the outline of her face followed the same exact lines, but the way she carried herself was undeniably different. It was in the grit stuck between her fingernails, the defiant soldier-like puff of her chest and the way she looked at me directly in the eye with as much genuine curiosity as there was what could have been envy. She had the ready-to-pounce springiness of an anxious young lad. “What a silly question!” Maureen, my sister, interjected from across the table. “Why don’t you go find Will and Mason?” “How do you become a boy, uncle Tom?” I pretended to poke at a slice of bacon with as much idle disinterest as could be mustered while having a watching parent breathe down my neck. In truth I was hooked. “Why would you want to become a boy?” “Because girls are all about dress up and throwing pretend parties and pretend this and pretend that and boys get guns and swords and arrows and they get to build forts.” “What’s so bad about dress-up? when I was your age I loved pretty dresses.” spoke her mum while inserting a knife into a fried egg. “So you would become a boy just to get guns and swords?” She nodded. The look in her eyes was as noticeable as ever. Maureen was using her fork to stir the ruptured yolk with mashed potatoes. I could see the eyes staring at me from the back of her head “Silly girl!” I would say. “What’s there to like about guns and swords? If you’re born a lady then you’re a lady or a lad a lad. Always been that way! Now cease these silly thoughts and go find your cousins!” and I would watch as the glow in her eyes went out like a candle and gray over. But that’s not what I said. “Well, I think that’s a neat little thought you have there. While I can’t make you magically pop up in boy’s skin, I think what’s more important is that you see yourself as one. In fact, I think that’s all there is to being a boy, that you see and carry yourself like a young man, and as long as you still believe in that part of yourself, in time people would start calling you a lad.” From the corner of my eye I saw Maureen’s hand give a little tremor, barely noticeable to maybe even his husband but I knew exactly where to look after all these decades under the same roof. When Anna had left the room and was most likely out of earshot she turned to me. “I wish you hadn’t said that.” “Why not?” “You might give her ideas.” “I don’t see why that’s a problem.” “I’d like her to stay a girl.” “Your daughter would say otherwise.” “what good is there to be a boy anyway? when we were her age you and James and Charles would go hunting and one of you would be bound to come back hurt and crying.” “You can’t blame her. You ladies have been allowed to vote for only what? Ten years? If I were her I would want to be a boy too.” “You can’t expect her to understand that!” “Doesn’t change my point.” I said, spearing my own egg. “She’s just a child. Don’t entertain her silly ideas.” “Didn’t seem silly to me. You should’ve seen your daughter. Deadpan serious.” “I still don’t want you telling her stuff like that.” Sensing that there wasn’t much space left for argument I threw up my arms in mock surrender. “Yes ma’am!” It was difficult to judge Anna’s maturity, in the same way it was difficult for all children. Both her parents said that she was a silly girl who should learn to grow up, as did Mrs. Taylor, the nosy teacher who taught her things like reading and adding up numbers. In a way she knew she was acting silly herself, when she entertained ideas like going to bed in a certain position then waking up the next morning completely changed into a boy like her cousins. But then you can also say she wasn’t childish at all, that she had a certain early-for-her-age maturity about her, because otherwise how would she know she was being silly in the first place? Will and Mason were like two sides of the same coin. while they had the same eyes and nose Mason was both taller and leaner than his younger sibling, who was stocky and had a noticeably rounder face. The difference still would not have been comical if it weren’t for Mason’s ears, which were oversized like a mouse’s and jutted beyond the outline of his head. He was also the shrewder and more adventurous of the two. “You wouldn’t believe this rabbit hole I found! It’s just across the hill. last time I saw two of ‘em leave. there’s an entire den of little un’s inside I’m tellin’ you.” “I don’t want to go.” “Why not?” “I don’t know, what if it’s a fox den?” “We’ll catch some foxes ’en.” “What if one of them jumps out and bites us?” “Foxes don’t bite. We saw one at the market. Tame as a dog.” “What if we get rabies?” “I want to go!” The two of them looked at her with the same curiosity and shock as one would have while regarding a particularly strange breed of dog, and it might as well be true. Neither had spent much time around the peculiar species their parents called “girls”. “What? Why are you staring at me like that?” “Nothing. It’s just that you’re a girl.” it was Will who spoke. “I’m not a girl.” “But you are.” Mason was apparently too anxious to wait until the end of the argument. “Great! that makes the two of us! I’ll lead the way!” The two of them marched past hills and the occasional flock of sheep, dragging a protesting Will behind. It was unusually cold and windy for late June and the English countryside occasionally blasted massive gusts that forced the trio to turn around and walk backwards. At one point Mason, still leading, tripped and rolled the entire distance downhill. Much to Anna’s giggling amusement. He got up, dusting off the bits of grass and mud caking his pants, his face red. The “den” if one could call it that, turned out to be a disappointment, a dusty hole in the earth under an apricot tree. For the span of twenty minutes Anna was crouched over it, making what she thought were rabbit noises before dangling a blade of grass over the entrance like a fisherman’s lure. Her pursuits went unanswered. In time she gave up. “What are you doing?” Mason was already halfway up the tree, clumsily perched between two branches like the bear she had seen in picture books. The canopy bowed and shook in the wind. “Apricots!” he shouted, cheerfully, pointing towards the crown. Anna peered between the leaves and saw flashes of sunset orange among the emerald. “He’s not going to make it.” said his younger sibling, also glancing upwards. Indeed Mason was right. Ten minutes later he had gained barely a meter in altitude and his legs had started shaking as if they were mounting their own protest, bringing the entire tree rattling with them. Five minutes later he gave up, dismounting from the branches, his arms bruised and with no apricots to show. Somehow he still had the energy to convince his younger brother to repeat his mistake in the way only siblings could. Will made even less progress, hardly managing to lift himself to the first fork before losing his grip and falling to the ground in a graceless heap. Anna couldn’t take more of it. “I’ll go.” The two of them glanced at her with the same incredulity as before, albeit accented by exhaustion. It was Mason who spoke first. “You’re a girl.” “I told you, I’m not a girl!” “You won’t make it.” “Would you want to bet?” Neither spoke, much to her private delight. It was hard to tell if it was purely out of exhaustion. She started climbing the tree in much the same way she saw her cousins did, using stumps and forks as footholds and positioning her weight so that they didn’t give out under her. When there were no overhanging branches to step on it sufficed to use friction, Anna dug the sole of her shoe into the bark until it left green wounds starting to ooze sap, then she hoisted her other leg up onto the opposite branch, leaning on the first one for support. But that wasn’t why she did better than her cousins. If there was one thing she truly excelled at it was that she was clever in how to avoid exhaustion. She positioned her arms and upper torso in such a way so that they would never be strained. When she felt the faintest hint of a tremor start to radiate from her leg she knew it was time to reposition it in a way that didn’t require bending at odd angles. While the siblings knew that it was bad manners to laugh when misfortune befell ladies they were still expecting her to give up when she started scaling the branches. To say that such feelings transitioned to shock, then awe was an understatement, as she hoisted herself into a perching position a full ten meters above their heads. Anna scanned the treetops for the apricots she saw from the ground. A thunderhead had reared up in the distance, it’s anvil-shaped top angry and boiling. the wind had picked up considerably, the leaves clapped and rustled, the branch she had crawled on bowed under the gust and she felt her weight starting to shift as she tightened her grip reassuringly. One of the ripe fruits beamed a sunset orange smile from between the canopy. “You see ‘em?” “I’ll see if I can reach them.” she said as she extended a scratched and bruised arm. There were perhaps half a dozen in total-much less than the three of them had observed from the ground. she twisted the apricot in such a way so that it’s stem was severed and it dropped to the ground in a muffled thud. There was a rustling in the grass beneath as the siblings scrambled after it. “How is it?” “You split it open! There’s now dirt and gunk inside” “It’s not my fault! Can’t you see how high up I am?” “Can you drop them...slower?” “No.” “Can you at least try?” She ignored them as she went after the second of them, followed by the third and fourth. She was at the sixth and last when there was a gust of wind that slammed into her like a wall. She tightened her grip again. Her left foot started to slip as the branch bobbed like a horse, a sinking in her gut as it descended followed by a rebound so strong it threatened to send her sailing. And there was a joy welling up inside her she had never felt before. “Annie? Can you try getting down?” “No!” “I think we should go home. It’s going to rain soon.” They weren’t sure if they should feel more surprised or terrified when she started to whoop, as she held her face straight into the wind, it tangled up her hair, she could hardly open her eyes as the gust roared into her like a crashing wave, perched among the treetops, shouting, whooping, the sound of it carrying across the hills as the first raindrops touched the branches.


I wear a designer, tailored, three-piece charcoal suit with golden cufflinks and a silk tie dad gave me from a Turkish bazaar when I was ten. You wear a pin-striped dinner jacket with jeans. I wait in my car for more people to arrive before entering. You were here long before anyone else. I greet some old friends and tell them all about my six-week holiday across Southeast Asia, recommending that they avoid tour groups and soak in the culture on a solo voyage. They hang on every word and give me numbers to call sometime soon, which I promptly delete. You vaguely listen with a vacant gaze. I take a swig from my flask while no one is looking. My sponsor congratulates me on being two years sober with a heart emoji and a gif saying ‘Keep it up!’. You see everything from your corner of the gathering. I turn down an offering of tiny quiches, lying to the caterer that I’m lactose intolerant. I haven’t eaten in days. You politely take one, then another, before wrapping them in a napkin and stuffing them down your front jean pocket. I lock the door of the bathroom and splash my face with water. I stare at myself blankly in the mirror and try to recite the speech clutched in my trembling hands. You knock on the door, asking if everything’s alright. I open the door, giving you a dismissive grimace as I re-join the assembly. The host beckons to me and insists we make our way outside as soon as possible before the rain comes. I forgot to bring an umbrella, but I’m optimistic we’ll stay dry when looking at the clouds. You clutch a black umbrella. I let out a strong wolf whistle that I learned from a street vendor in Phnom Penh, bringing the foyer to a hush. I try cheerily to convince everyone to make their way to the lawns, but I’m interrupted by soft chattering. You let out a definitive ‘Oi!’ and tell everyone to shut up before nodding at me to continue. I don’t nod back. Everyone gingerly makes their way outside, umbrellas in hand. You wait for everyone to step out until it’s just us, alone. You go to open your mouth. I brush past you to join the others. You walk towards the procession of black suits, black dresses, black umbrellas and dripping black eyeliner. I can’t look his mum in the eye. You can’t even look at his coffin. I take a deep breath and take a seat with the family. The celebrant says a few words before inviting me to begin the eulogy. I face my former colleagues, teammates, girlfriends, friends, and you. It starts raining, soiling the last-minute words I wrote for him and I struggle to speak. You hand me your umbrella. The service ends, the mourning crowd disperses, and we’re alone again. We lock eyes in silence. We used to have staring contests that would last what felt like hours, all three of us. You offer a teary smile and nod. I drop my stoic veneer and smile back. You grieve. I grieve.


Your neighbor is a vampire. It’s the only thing that makes any sense. First, he dresses EXACTLY like Dracula, all the time, even when alone in the house. Second, you never see him in the day, only at night. And third, even though he has a kitchen, you’ve never seen him eat, and even though he has a bathroom, you never see him use it. You learned all these things over the past few weeks, shortly after getting a telescope for your birthday. You’ve been watching him, every so often, through his windows. It’s how you discovered his peculiarities. It kind of scares you, really, but you keep watching, night after night. Sometimes he’s on the couch in the living room, reading a book. Sometimes he’s playing the piano he has in the upstairs hall. Sometimes he puts on a record and dances like no one’s watching, even though someone is watching. But anything to do with normal human functions? Eating, drinking, going to the bathroom? Nowhere to be found. Weeks go by. You reach the limit of what can be learned by peaking through windows. So you break into his house one Saturday morning, throwing a rock through a window and loosening the bolt. You look into his fridge, and there’s no food, but there are stacks and stacks of bags filled with a dark red liquid. It’s blood. You look around some more. You realize there’s no mirrors anywhere. Finally you get to a closed door upstairs. You push it open and see, pushed up against the wall and resting on a large block, a coffin. You creep over to it and gently open the lid. Inside is your neighbor, with a trickle of blood running down his mouth. Up close you can see his two sharp fangs protruding over his lip. It’s confirmed. Definitely a vampire. Only one thing to do. You go back downstairs and smash one of the chairs in the kitchen, made from a heavy pine wood. You’d think the noise would wake someone, but the vampire remained fast asleep. You take one of the legs and, with a knife from the counter, sharpen it to a point. Finally, you grab a meat tenderizer from one of the drawers and go back upstairs, on to the coffin room. You lift the lid, place the stake, and pound down the hammer. Your neighbor wakes up, screams, then crumbles to dust right there. You did it. You killed the vampire. And it wasn’t even that hard. You go home, feeling very proud of yourself. Until later that night, when the police show up at your house. They say they have a warrant for your arrest, for breaking into your neighbor’s house and killing him. But, you say, he was a vampire. And the police say yes he was, but that doesn’t mean you can just kill him like that. You’re impressed by how casually they agreed he was a vampire, but distressed by them believing what you did was murder. Later, at your trial, you learn that, yes, your neighbor was indeed a vampire. A vampire who sponsored the town’s youth sports league. A vampire who taught adult literacy classes at the local community college. A vampire who let people use his lawn in the summer for free movie nights. A vampire, in other words, who cared. And then, the prosecutor says pointing at you, this villain over here broke into his house, destroyed his furniture, and killed him without mercy. And doesn’t even feel sorry about it! What crime, the prosecutor asks, did this vampire commit? Was he bothering anyone? Hurting anyone? Doing anything to deserve a stake through the heart? He. Did. Not. Your own lawyer argues that all vampires must drink blood to survive and so he had to have been a monster. But then you learn that he actually bought his blood from a blood bank like any respectable vampire would. And then your lawyer actually says “well I got nothing then” and sits down and that’s the end of that. The jury doesn’t take long at all. In just a few minutes they come back and say they find you guilty. You spend the rest of your life feeling like you should have thought things through a little more.


#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 This week, I want to talk music and art! They play such a big part in my own writing and provide much needed inspiration. In fact, when I sit down to write, I always search for the right music first, and then go searching for a cool image. I’m also greatly influenced by the things I watch. But every writer is different and pulls inspiration from different places. - Do you use music and art as inspiration in your writing? What about television or film? - What other types of media or outside sources do you use? - New to r/ShortStories or joining in the Discussion for the first time? **Introduce yourself in the comments!** What do you like to write? Check out previous Roundtable discussions on our ! *** #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.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join. Each week you are required to provide feedback for at least 2 other writers on the thread. Please be sure to read the entire post for a full list of rules.   *** #This week's theme is Weakness! This week, we’re going to explore the theme of ‘Weakness’. We all have them, whether it's a person, a thing, a feeling, or something else entirely. Weaknesses remind us that we are human, or at the very least, vulnerable. They can take on any shape or form. Maybe the weakness is more literal, due to sickness, or physical exertion. How do your characters experience weaknesses in their daily lives? What type of things make them vulnerable? Who—or what—do they lean on for support and guidance? If you’re writing in a magical world, maybe your characters’ magic is weak to a specific spell or element. How does this endanger them? What happens when an enemy or foe learns of these vulnerabilities? Maybe a new face has to step in the hero's shoes. These are just a few things to get you started. This week, please keep in mind the subreddit rules, and treat the topic of mental health with respect. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. **Please remember to follow all sub and post rules.** You can always modmail us if you’re unsure. |   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I post the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. You can even vote on the upcoming themes on the Nomination form! - July 3 - Weakness (this week) - July 10 - Yearning - July 17 - Alliance   *** **Recent Themes:** | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 12pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Come back later in the week and leave a feedback comment on at least 2 other stories on the thread.   *** #The Rules: - **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme.** You can interpret the theme any way you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and sub rules. Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. - **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalog. *Do not include anything in the brackets you don’t want in your title.* If you don’t use the correct titling format, your serial will be automatically removed by the bot. (Please note: In order for the bot to recognize your serial, you **must** use the exact same name each week. Titles can not be edited in after the fact. Should you make a mistake or forget, you will need to repost.) - **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt or post is not allowed. - **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. Stories outside the wordcount will be disqualified, so don’t forget to check! **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.** - **Stories must be posted by Saturday 12pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will be disqualified and will not be eligible for rankings or Campfire readings. - **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. - **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread each week (that’s on two different stories).** The feedback must be **actionable** and should include at least one *detail* about what the author has done well. You have until Saturday night at 11:59pm EST to post your feedback. Those who go above and beyond (more than 5 actionable, in-depth crits) will be rewarded with “Crit Credits” that can be used on our sister sub, r/WPCritique. - **Missing your feedback requirement two or more consecutive weeks will disqualify you from rankings and Campfire readings the following week.** If it becomes a habit, you may be asked to move your serial to the sub instead. - **Serials must abide by subreddit content rules.** This includes, but is not limited to, explicit suicide or suicide-note stories, pedophilia, rape, bestiality, necrophilia, incest, explicit sex, and graphic depictions of abuse or torture. You can view a . If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask!   *** #Reminders: - **If you are continuing an in-progress serial (one that you began off of Serial Sunday), please include links to the prior installments on Reddit.** Our bot will not be able to log these. - **On Saturdays, I host a Serial Campfire in our .** Join us to read your story aloud and hear other stories. We provide feedback for all those present. **We now start at 1pm EST.** You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join! - **Nominations for your favorite stories can be submitted .** The form is open on Saturdays from 12pm to 11:59pm EST. You do not have to participate to make nominations! - **Authors who complete their Serial Sunday serials with at least 12 installments, can host a SerialWorm in our Discord’s Voice Lounge, where you read aloud your finished and edited serials.** This is to celebrate your wonderful accomplishment and provide some extra motivation to cross that finish line. Authors are eligible for this only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). Visit us on the Discord for more information. - **There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server!** Be sure to grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news, including new posts and Campfires!   *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap), this does not count toward the required 2. **Nominating Other Stories:** - Submitting nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total) *Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above. Your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points. (“I liked it, great chapter” style comments will not earn you points or credit.)* ***So what is actionable feedback?*** Actionable feedback should be constructive, something that the author can use to improve. A 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. You can or these previous crits from Serial Sunday: | |   *** #Rankings Rankings are postponed until next week. Thank you for your patience!   *** ###Subreddit News - Call for voters for our on r/WritingPrompts! Check out the post and comment to become a voter! - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Reporter: Thank you for meeting with me. I know you don’t see many visitors. **Prisoner: I’ve read your work before. I like how you write.** Reporter: I appreciate that. **Prisoner: I liked your oped last week.** Reporter: About the Medicare reform bill? **Prisoner: Yes, that one.** Reporter: Is that why you agreed to speak with me? Because I might tell your story sympathetically? **Prisoner: My story deserves no sympathy.** Reporter: So why did you agree to this? **Prisoner: I like the way you write.** **** Reporter: Let me tell you why I’m here. The reason I wanted to talk to you is that you are very different from shooters who came before you. **Prisoner: No, I’m not.** Reporter: You’re not a disturbed loner – **Prisoner: I am disturbed. I’m pretty lonely.** Reporter: Fair enough. But you weren’t always.. **Prisoner: No, I wasn’t.** Reporter: You’re not a radical, you’re not a religious fanatic. You’re a data analyst living in the suburbs of Minneapolis. You have no history of addiction, criminality, financial duress, zealousness, mental illness – **Prisoner: — well, I’m not sure –** Reporter: — no *longstanding* history of mental illness. Home, bought and paid for, decent nest egg, wife, family – **Prisoner: — family… –** Reporter: — family, dog, lots of friends. You could be anyone. **Prisoner: And yet, here you are with me.** Reporter: You could be anyone, but such an act of terrorism, it seems to me – **Prisoner: I’m not a terrorist.** Reporter: You’re not a terrorist? **Prisoner: No, I’m not.** Reporter: Maybe we’re getting too deep too quickly. Why don’t we take a breath. **** Reporter: Let’s start with your family. You have 2 children – **Prisoner: — had –** Reporter: I’m sorry, you had 2 children. Your elder, Sam, is 12 now? **Prisoner: 13** Reporter: Yes, 13. I apologize. She’s a rising eighth grader at Washington Junior? Tell me about her. **Prisoner: Sam is 13. She’s the light of my life. She loves piano and books and writing stories about aliens and superheroes.** Reporter: She sounds wonderful. **Prisoner: She does well in school. She used to do better, but she’s doing fine, all things considered. I think they’d classify her as gifted if not for… Her favorite singer is Cat Stevens, and her current dream is to plant a million trees.** Reporter: How is she doing nowadays? **Prisoner: Not great.** Reporter: Isn’t that to be expected? Didn’t you expect that? **Prisoner: Of course I did.** Reporter: Of course. I’m sorry. We’ll come back to Sam. **** Reporter: Your second child, your son, Chris, is two years younger than Sam? **Prisoner: Was.** Reporter: Yes, was. Chris was 7 when it happened? **Prisoner: 7. Chris was 7.** Reporter: He was 7, finishing up 2nd grade. **Prisoner: Yes. He and Sam were both at the same school then.** Reporter: Lincoln Elementary. **Prisoner: Yes, Lincoln. She was 9, he was 7.** Reporter: So tell me about Chris. **Prisoner: What is there left to say? Every minute of his life has been dissected by every news outlet and web sleuth.** Reporter: But don’t you want to tell me about him? **Prisoner: No, I don’t think so.** Reporter: OK, but you can tell the world about him, about what he meant to you. **Prisoner: He’s gone.** Reporter: You can honor his memory – **Prisoner: He’s gone. There is no one left to honor –** Reporter: OK, OK, let’s – **Prisoner: … there is no one left to honor, and pretending that we somehow keep his spirit alive when no matter how many stories we share or tears we shed, nothing we do can do him any good — that’s what dishonors his memory.** Reporter: OK. OK. **** Reporter: Chris was one of 47 children killed in what was then the deadliest school mass shooting in this country’s history. **Prisoner: Yes. He was the 3rd child killed that day.** Reporter: The whole world is sorry for your loss. **Prisoner: Thank you. Chris was killed for no reason, but he was killed** ***third*** **because he began sobbing after the shooting began. 7 year olds cry, but Chris was more sensitive than most. He used to cry when he was going to bed. Said he would miss us while he slept. Whenever he did that, we used to tell him that it was time for him to grow up… It was something we were working on.** Reporter: To see what he must have seen… **Prisoner: It was too much.** **** Reporter: After mass shooting events, especially of younger children, other parents have gone on to create advocacy groups, support networks. Why haven’t you channeled your anger into something productive like they have? **Prisoner: I thought about it. I tried for a few months. To get involved. To speak out. But I just stopped.** Reporter: What happened? Why did you stop? **Prisoner: I kept asking myself, why is it on me?** Reporter: What do you mean? **Prisoner: Why is it on me? It was my family that was ripped apart, literally flesh from bone. My son was unrecognizable. I am unrecognizable. Some days I still find it hard to find the will to inhale, and it’s on me to make this a better world? Why does any of this fall on me?** Reporter: You’re right. It shouldn’t be on you. But you didn’t end up doing nothing, did you? **Prisoner: No, I did something.** **** Reporter: Earlier, I said that Chris was murdered in what was then the nation’s largest mass school shooting because that record has since been surpassed. **Prisoner: Yes.** Reporter: By the time you were captured, 54 children had died or sustained the injuries that would later kill them. And you didn’t choose a random school. You chose Sidwell Friends, DC’s most elite private school. **Prisoner: I did.** Reporter: A school that counts among its students children of politicians and dignitaries. You chose an outdoor assembly where students would be gathered closely and could be attacked from a distance. Of your victims, 6 were children of Congressmen, 2 of Senators, and 1 the grandson of a Supreme Court Justice. **Prisoner: Yes.** Reporter: These are people who make the laws that govern, among others, access to high capacity firearms like the ones you used last January. **Prisoner: Like the ones used on my son.** Reporter: Yes. You chose the same models that were used against your son. **Prisoner: I did.** Reporter: Do you think these weapons should be outlawed? **Prisoner: Of course I do.** Reporter: And yet you chose to use them. **Prisoner: They’re not illegal.** **** Reporter: Earlier, you claimed that you’re not a terrorist, but it seems pretty clear that you were targeting the lawmakers who made it possible for mass shooters to procure the weapons that killed your son. And who then made it possible for you to procure those same weapons. **Prisoner: I did target them, but I’m not a terrorist.** Reporter: How is this not terrorism? **Prisoner: Because nothing will change.** Reporter: Did you think that if these people felt what you feel, that they would change their minds? **Prisoner: Nothing ever changes.** **** Reporter: As you might be aware, one of the victim’s fathers, a congressman, has publicly switched his stance on gun control. It’s been reported that 1 other is considering changing his as well. Does that give you hope? **Prisoner: How much hope do you think they have?** Reporter: Then do you believe that what you did could be taken as a warning to lawmakers and politicians? **Prisoner: It shouldn’t be. What I did was entirely predictable. A certainty.** Reporter: And why does that matter? **Prisoner: Because a warning is a threat. An eventuality just is.** Reporter: Then do you believe that what you did is a call to action for copycats to keep doing what you did until they change their minds? **Prisoner: The next mass shooter will be a mass shooter regardless of my actions.** Reporter: But they might not otherwise target the children of lawmakers as you did. **Prisoner: My victims are not the last children of lawmakers to die like this.** Reporter: So if not a warning, if not a terrorist act, was it an act of revenge? **Prisoner: No, it wasn’t revenge. Revenge could have been enough, but I honestly didn’t care about revenge. I didn’t see the point in it.** Reporter: So why? **Prisoner: Because this is the world now.** Reporter: What do you mean by that? **Prisoner: This is the world we have now. The world we’ve allowed, the world we’ve designed. And this is what happens in this world.** Reporter: It doesn’t sound like you take a lot of responsibility for what you did. **Prisoner: This is the world they created. I’m just an agent of that world. I was bound to happen, so I let me happen.** **** Reporter: Let’s talk about the children, the ones you killed. These kids did nothing wrong – **Prisoner: My kid did nothing wrong.** Reporter: — nothing other than to be born to politicians you disagree with. **Prisoner: Some of those politicians I agree with.** Reporter: When you entered the room, when you looked into their frightened eyes, didn’t you know that you were doing something terribly wrong? Evil? **Prisoner: Of course** Reporter: What did you feel? **Prisoner: Compassion, sorrow, shame, disgust.** Reporter: And yet you went ahead **Prisoner: Yes** Reporter: Why? **Prisoner: There is no logic to losing my child — or any child — in such an unnatural way, in such a preventable way, a sacrifice to nothing. There is no rational response to irrationality. I went ahead because in a senseless world, there are only senseless actions.** **** Reporter: Have you ever thought about what Chris would have wanted? **Prisoner: Of course.** Reporter: Would he have wanted this? **Prisoner: He would not have wanted this. He would be horrified.** Reporter: So then why did you do it? **Prisoner: My son is dead.** Reporter: Even if he wouldn’t have wanted this? **Prisoner: My son is dead. He doesn’t want anything.** Reporter: But don’t you sully his memory by doing such a terrible thing? **Prisoner: What I do now means nothing to him.** **** Reporter: There is still Sam. **Prisoner: Yes, Sam.** Reporter: She suffers from losing her brother, but she also suffers from knowing what you did and losing her father. **Prisoner: What I did to her was unforgivable.** Reporter: Why didn’t that stop you? **Prisoner: I used to tell my kids a story about the mathematics of love. When I met their mother, she filled my whole heart with love, edge to edge, 100%. But then when Sam came into the world, even though my heart was already completely full, I instantly loved her too with my whole heart, edge to edge, 100%. And when Chris was born, my heart was filled yet again, and I loved him with the entirety of heart, just as I did his sister and his mother. Each of them occupied 100% of my heart, edge to edge, and I could not love each of them any more than I did. Only love works like this.** Reporter: That’s a lovely sentiment, but doesn’t that mean that Sam still fills your heart? **Prisoner: It means that when Chris was killed, my heart was destroyed completely. My love for Sam is unending, but so is the absoluteness of the void. I am simultaneously full of love and incapable of love.** Reporter: I don’t understand. I might follow your logic, however tortured it may be, but when it leads you to a course of action that forces you to re-traumatize and then abandon your daughter, how could it possibly make sense? **Prisoner: She understands. She will understand. She will never forgive me, but she’ll make it through.** Reporter: For her sake, I hope you’re right. **Prisoner: I wish I could have been different for her.** **** Reporter: Let me ask you about your wife. **Prisoner: I think I’m done now.** Reporter: I’m sorry? **Prisoner: My wife isn’t my wife anymore. She won’t talk to me.** Reporter: I know. **Prisoner: I’m done. I’m tired. I’m ready to go back to my cell.** Reporter: I have just a few more questions for you before you – **Prisoner: — Hello? Can I be done here?** \[Guard enters the room and unshackles the prisoner from the table.\] Reporter: Please, just five more minutes. What happened with your wife in the aftermath of your son’s death? Did you seek counseling? What was your relationship with Sam after Lincoln? I want to understand – **Prisoner \[exiting the room\]: I’m actually easy to understand. I could be anyone.