I’m watching him over the rim of a glass of red wine. *Gosling-handsome*, I think to myself as the rich rioja slides down my throat and esophagus before resting at the bottom of my stomach. I should have eaten first, now I’ll get tipsy after my first glass. I’m sitting at a small round table that is covered in a white cloth. At the center is a tall, black vase with a long-stalked flower. A daisy of some sort - Oxeye maybe? I’m no expert on flowers, but it’s beautiful in its simplicity. In front of me, next to the glasses of wine and water and the small wine bottle, a delicately folded napkin is accompanied by lean, modern cutlery. When I arrived, the table was set for two, but Gosling quickly and subtly whisked away the second plate and cutlery after I mumbled that I am here alone. My eyes are drawn to the Gosling-waiter fluttering between the tables, and his eyes meet mine for a second. He raises his eyebrows as if asking if I want something, but I quickly shake my head and look down with a little smile on my lips. Am I flirting with a stranger? That’s insane. I almost giggle at the thought, but I mostly blush. I take a big sip of the wine, letting it do its job, while I sink into the chair. Me. Alone. Enjoying wine. A tingling sensation in my neck. It feels good. *Maybe I shouldn’t tell Stephen*. The tingle is replaced by a rigid, sharp feeling of anxiety, as I straighten up at the thought. Maybe when he asks about my visit to aunt Eden, I’ll just make up a story (watching TV, knitting, going through family albums - safe stuff). *No!* I will not. I have made up my mind, and I will look into his eyes and tell him I didn’t go. I went to a restaurant instead. It will be better that way. In the long run. A bowl of soup appears in front of me and makes me flinch. “Th-thanks!” I stutter as I try to regain posture. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I scare you?” He sounds worried and amused at the same time. “You looked like you were miles away.” I manage to mumble something reassuring and hunch over my miso soup, effectively blocking him from any further contact. I quickly take a spoonful of soup, and involuntarily moan as a searing hot piece of tofu wrecks my taste buds at the back of my tongue, before continuing its carnage down my esophagus on its journey to the red wine. Looking around I'm relieved to discover that Gosling is out of earshot. I continue glancing over at him while I eat the rest of my soup, more carefully this time. What will Stephen think when I tell him, I wonder. Me, alone, in a restaurant? He will laugh, surely, and shake his head and snort at the thought. He won’t believe it at first, but when he does, his eyes will fill with horror and anger. The questions that will fill his mind are going to be down the line of “Is the bitch cheating on me?”, “Is this little lowlife whore *leaving* me?”, and next he will punch me. Hard. Hard enough to make me fall over. Then he will kick me. My stomach, my back, my head. After that, I don’t know. But I know it’s not good. He *did* warn me: no funny ideas. Here he is again, Gosling, carrying a plate of yellow pickled ginger, green wasabi cream and red and orange pieces of sushi, draped over the white lumps of rice, just big enough to fill my mouth. Somehow my soup bowl has disappeared, and he’s now placing the plate in front of me, before pouring a bit of soy sauce into a tiny glass bowl. A set of chopsticks has magically appeared on top of a fresh napkin. “Thank you,” I say, more relaxed this time, but I make sure not to look at him. His hand grazes my underarm as he pulls it back, and I feel myself stiffening. *It was just a coincidence, don’t worry about it*, my mind insists, but my body is on the verge of getting up from the chair and running out of the restaurant. I force myself to sit tight. Calming my breath, I look up to send him a smile of gratitude, but he’s already gone, heading over to a couple at another table. My hands are shaking as I pour myself another glass of wine and mix a little wasabi in the soy sauce. It feels like a miracle that I don’t spill anything. Encouraged, I pick up a piece of ginger with my fingers, smirking at the thought of how Stephen would frown at this act. I stick my tongue out (not too far) and place the ginger slice on it. Chewing slowly, the sour, strong taste feels cleansing, and I feel much calmer as I reach for the chopsticks and use them to bring the first of eight tasty treasures to my mouth, only slightly delayed by a detour into the soy sauce mix. *It’s the best I have ever tasted. It’s the best I will ever taste.* Stephen has taken me to restaurants 19 times, once for each year we have been married, always on our wedding day. But never to a sushi restaurant, just safe, cheap diners with “normal food”. He says “normal food” while snorting at the thought of anything expensive or exotic. My eyes swipe over Gosling again. He’s a few years older than Norah, but no more than 25. Maybe they know each other? *I can’t believe she’s 19 years old already.* Her new apartment is on the other side of the town. Stephen bought it for her for her birthday. He has been spoiling her her whole life. When she was born, he took control of everything, even insisted on feeding her, leaving me to pump breast milk and making formula when I couldn’t anymore. I don’t feel as connected to her as I suspect other mothers do, but he was so fantastic with her that I made my peace with it. That too. I pour the rest of the wine and, as I drink, I can sense the heat of it rising to my cheeks. I will enjoy this experience to the max. Three pieces of nigiri are still left on my plate and I tremble in excitement at the thought of eating them. Devouring them. Feeling how the taste and texture will fill me with happiness from the tip of my toes to the top of my head. I’m entitled to feel happy for a little while. I am! This *is* after all, my very last meal.


Hello, first time posting here. I found this writing prompt and decided to attempt it while setting myself a 30 minute time limit. The prompt: You are a teenager with the ability to measure how "Dangerous" people are on a scale from 1 to 10 by looking at them. A normal child would be a 1 while a trained man with an assault rifle might be a 7. Today, you notice the unassuming new kid at school measures a 10. *Jesus what the hell is that?* I thought the second I spotted him. Steven was the new kid, only about 5’2” tall, a real shrimp with a bowl cut and scrawny arms. He didn’t seem dangerous, but I knew that he was a walking disaster. He sat down in the science room by himself looking at the desk as the teacher began to speak. “Okay students, today is your lucky day because we are dissecting frogs today.” The teacher had sets of trays all with a frog and dissecting tools for each student. “Everyone come up and get a tray and sit down until we are all ready to start.” As the kid grabbed his tray along with the others I couldn’t help by shudder seeing the scalpel by his hands as he sat down with his frog muttering to himself. He almost looked ready to cry. *Maybe I’m wrong for once*, *how could this be right?* “Okay, now using the diagram on the projector, everyone make your first incision. Let me know if you need any help.” After cutting into my frog, I turned to look at the new kid. **11**. The number above his head went up as he sliced through the frog, still muttering under his breath. I dropped my pencil to bend closer to him. “*Ha ha ha and hee hee hee, happy knife and happy me. The knife goes in the knife comes out, it makes me smile, it makes me shout.”* A cold sweat broke out across my face as I picked up my pencil and went back to my frog. Suddenly I felt a tap on my shoulder that made me jump. “Jason.” The teacher said. “You sure are jumpy, does the dissection make you nervous? Maybe you can ask Steven for help, he did a terrific job.” Turning to look at Jason, he gave me a friendly grin that froze my veins like ice. On his table the frog was neatly sliced open, the skin separated from the fat and muscle as if by a master surgeon. Turning to the teacher I managed to stutter out a denial for help. “I-I’m okay, just the smell is all.” I forced myself to cut into the frog without screaming, but every time I looked over at Steven, I could see my own death looming over me. My teeth began to chatter as I watched him cut out every organ and lay it on the table like a collection of knick-knacks. Whenever the class got quiet enough, I could hear snippets of his mutterings. “*So small, so delicate, not meaty enough. Need something bigger to satisfy.”* He was humming to himself, his fingers drumming on the table as soon as he ran out of frog to dissect. His pale face began to turn red as he looked around at all the other students still working. **12.** The finger drumming became frantic as he twirled the scalpel in his hand with unnerving ease. He raised his hand and left to use the restroom. When he came back the number above his head was back to ten. As he walked by me he smiled and slipped me a piece of paper. Scrawled on the note was a phone number and a message. “You know it’s been a while since I’ve met another ten. We should keep in contact.


One day, a dragon walks into a bar. My bar. Dragons are a bit like superheroes, you know, if superheroes were dicks. Oh, and if they didn’t really give a damn helping anyone but themselves. This dragon is no different, he comes in, chest puffed out in his humanoid form. He doesn’t need the scales or the serpentine tongue or the giant fucking wings to let you know what he is. As a human, this particular dragon has a physique similar to an olympic swimmer, lean but powerful. His clothing accentuates it, a button up that’s a little too snug and slacks that hug in all the right places. Today he looks slightly haggard, for him at any rate, he’s got a bit of scruff instead of his normally clean shaven pretty boy face. He keeps his blonde hair parted showing off what really gives away his true form: his eyes. Dragon eyes still weird me out and I’ve been around them all my life, the pupils and iris match that of your everyday human but also look like they’re on fire. I have to focus every time I look into his hazel irises with that yellow green glow around them. Compare that me, a dwarf reaching the astonishing tall height of five foot three inches. I’m a little bit skinnier that your average dwarf, closer to $170 pounds instead of the typical 190, only because I grew up with humans who don’t always eat the heartiest of meals. I’ve got the obligatory bushy beard, mine’s fiery orange. I tend to keep my beard in two braids to keep it out of the way when I’m cooking or tending bar. My eyes are green, not dissimilar to a traffic light. What really sets me apart from other dwarves though is that I will talk to just about anyone. Most of my kin fall into the known version of what it means to be a dwarf and are terse and quiet. Fuck that shit, I’ll talk to whomever and whenever. My dad jokes that I was actually switched at birth and I’m actually a halfling. “Afternoon Jotiet,” I acknowledge in my watered down Scottish brogue, taking extra care to pronounce his name correctly; Joe-tea-et. Last thing I want is to piss off a guy who could literally speak a word and burn my bar down. When you pronounce things differently than most people are used to, like ‘ye’ instead of ‘you’ and ‘me’ instead of ‘my’, it’s obscenely easy to enunciate incorrectly. “Good afternoon Draven,” Jotiet replied. Jotiet, arrogant as he might be, is at least polite to those he interacts with. I’m still not convinced his manners aren’t some twisted personality trait to feed some superiority complex. It could also be that as a dwarf, he took pity on me for the same reason. In either case, my bar is the best bar in the greater Sacramento area. The Vulgar Unicorn isn’t terribly big, it only seats about 30 people on a busy night. If I had to guess, the Unicorn is known because of its charm. It doesn’t have the intentionally worn down vibe like so many of the hip places in Sacramento nor is it ultra fancy. At the risk of being honest with myself, my bar is kind of a dive, a tidy dive, but a dive nonetheless. It took me the better part of a year to put it together, from the oak chairs I hand crafted and stained in a deep purple that looks brown in the dim light to the hand sculpted bar area. Hand chiseling that granite was a huge pain in the ass, but the gold flakes sparkling in the pitch black countertop was completely worth it. The kitchen was easy enough, I pretty much bought the whole thing online and just installed it myself. I’ve had patrons from around the world show up to the Vulgar Unicorn just because of recommendations from the locals. So it’s never really struck me as odd that a dragon would drink the swill I serve. “It’s not quite dinner time, so it’ll be a bit before I can get you your normal.” “That’s fine, my good dwarf, I came in for a drink anyway.” The nice thing about dragons is they tend to be creatures of habit. I’ve known Jotiet about a year now, I can tell time by when he arrives, orders, and leaves. It’s at the point where ordering his reuben with extra sauerkraut and lightly charred corned beef is a pure formality. He only orders a drink when he’s brought a woman with him and then it’s a wine I keep special for him. So the fact that he’s in alone ordering a drink is a little more than surprising to me. “Some of the zin and two glasses?” I ask hoping his companion was simply late and Jotiet was just warming up. Still out of character, but a dwarf can hope. “No, hand me a bottle of whiskey and a glass.” Shit. Would it be poor form to politely ask my other patrons to leave, lest an inferno is about to begin? I’d truly hate if the legacy the Unicorn left was the cremation of innocent people simply because a dragon decided to act out of character. On the other hand, his ego might get bruised if he caught me evacuating the room. Fucking rocks and hard places. “Not like you to have a rough day, want to talk about it?” Another nice thing about dragons: they prefer the finer things and this one, at least, is willing to pay premium prices. So there was no hesitation in pulling out the 37 year old bottle of McGidden. It hasn’t seen much use, after all, what moron would pay for a glass of this stuff? Hell, if Jotiet drank a quarter of the bottle, I could close up shop for the rest of the week and still break even. Speaking of rocks, “Want it neat?” “Yes please Draven, I don’t want to water down whatever delightful amber liquid you’re serving. Today, has been exciting to say the least. I’d almost forgotten the feeling of having events not being comfortably in my control. Today, I lost it.” Jotiet sighs as he pours his drink. Three fingers on the first drink! Must have been one fucked up day. “What did you lose?” “I lost my company to some smooth talking, fast acting piece of elven trash. The company I founded, invested my heart and soul into, and worked into a multi-billion dollar cash register. Durlan Daren waltzes in there and talks to the board and convinces them that I’m taking the company in the wrong direction. My vision for Cerberus is ‘unsustainable.’” I appreciate that he emphasizes that last comment with sarcastic air quotes. Wait, Jotiet just said ‘Cerberus.’ It seems unlikely he’s talking about the three headed dog that sits in Hades, so he’s talking about Cerberus International Biomechanical. This dragon is one of the top three richest people in the world and he comes into MY bar? What in the actual fuck? Jotiet acknowledges my very obvious surprise, “Yes, I am Roland Jotiet Beldrenth, founder of Cerberus. Now it would seem I should probably introduce myself as ‘former owner’. Your surprise is why I come to this bar; everyone only knows what I am, not who I am. I get the respect I’m due without the trouble of having to maintain any social expectations. Using my middle name naturally makes it harder for the rank and file to put two and two together and gives me that modicum of privacy. If I may speak frankly, Draven, that makes you one of a handful of people that know me best. You’ve managed to do that without ever knowing my real name.” Complimenting me by confirming his own importance? Like I said, he’s an arrogant fuck. “I just like to have a place people can come and have a drink worry free. If the president were to walk in here, even he should get a moment of peace.” “For that, you have my eternal gratitude. Not so many dwarves have the social awareness you do. Most of them seem to be,” Jotiet pauses to ponder, “rather uncouth is probably the politest word for it.” “Fucking rude is probably the most accurate way to say it. I’m special. I grew up mostly around plain old humans. My dad lost his job when I was a wee baby, so we had to move around a lot so that he could find work. Eventually he found a job up in Lebanon. The pay and hours were shit, but it was a job.” I’m actually not sure why I’m spilling my figurative guts to him right now. Maybe it’s just because this is the first conversation he and I have ever had of substance, maybe I’m being charmed, but that seems unlikely. Not that I would do anything about it, he’s a dragon after all. I continue, “Back then, Lebanon was mostly human. Dwarves don’t handle that kind of climate too well. Mom didn’t adjust at all and we lost her to the first winter there. Let me tell you Jotiet, a dwarf with pneumonia is a terrible thing to see. Anyway, with only humans around, I grew up with more of their mannerisms. Don’t get me wrong, I still love a good solid ale and friendly brawling. I’m pretty sure us dwarves are genetically engineered that way.” Jotiet grins ever so slightly as I play into a few overused stereotypes, but sometimes they’re stereotypes for a reason. I do love a good ale and I’ve been known to get into scraps with my “brothers”. My brothers also taught me some manners. I’ve only disrespected a new acquaintance once. I got into a fight with my brothers later because of it and I’ve not forgotten to show respect since. “How old are you, Draven? I get the impression you’re younger than your beard would suggest since it’s only been about ten years since the Reclamation.” Stroking my bushy bright orange beard, I answer, “Just had my 25th birthday a couple of weeks ago. I don’t usually celebrate since it’s a big hassle.” Raising his glass, Jotiet cheers me, “Prost!” and finishes his drink. The glass is barely back on the bar as he’s pouring the glass full with more McGidden. “Please, don’t let me keep you from your other customers. I’ll take my meal at the normal time. Thank you Draven.” Far be it for me to keep a man from a drunken stupor, lord knows I’ve had my fair share of those nights. I’ll keep an eye on him, though, I’ve never seen an intoxicated dragon before, so I kind of want to see one now. I mill about the Unicorn for most of the rest of the evening, I bring Jotiet his food right on time, chat with a couple of the other regulars. After pulling away from a conversation about six armed lizard men around closing time, I go to check on Jotiet, but all I see is a thick envelope under the now dry glass. My name is on the envelope, but I still cautiously open it. Inside is the single largest amount of cash I’ve ever seen. At a quick glance, there’s got to be ten grand in there! I look over at the bottle of McGidden and, sure enough, it’s empty. Not sure what’s more surprising, how much he drank, how much he paid, or how he left without everyone knowing. On one hand, it’s pretty fucking spectacular knowing that I have ten thousand dollars to deposit, even taking into account that I’ll have to buy another bottle of the McGidden. On the other hand, I am now obscenely paranoid that I have to carry cash between now and the ATM. There’s not a bright fluorescent sign over my head blinking or anything, but there’s nothing like having a small fortune in your pocket to make you question the movements every living creature around you. Did that person turn there because they are heading the same direction as me or because they can smell the stack of bills? Is that cat really a cat? Why don’t I have a safe at the Unicorn? No, seriously, why do I not have a safe? I make a mental note to start shopping for a safe. I’m focusing on the wrong details apparently, since I fail see the shadow move up in front of my very face. Between blinks, my legs are kicked out from under me and my nose fills with blood from the quick introduction it makes to the concrete. The only communication I can come up with is a loud grunt. “Give me your wallet and you get to hobble away from here, beardie,” rasps an oddly familiar feminine voice. Silly woman, I think as I roll away and jump up, narrowly dodging a reaction kick from her stiletto. Focusing for a second, my favored weapon materialises in my hand. A great axe forged from iron, the handle grip stitched in gold. Up where the double-sided blade spans is a gold etching of Dirog, the dwarven deity of honor. The wings of his helmet form into the blades themselves. The lining of the curves underneath the blades is iron contrasting starkly with the gold in the low light of the street. The Diplomat is probably the single best piece of metal work on the planet. “Listen lady, I don’t know what you want, but I assure you, I don’t have it!” “You mean to tell me that bulge in your pocket means you’re happy to see me then and isn’t a wad of money? Perhaps around ten large?” If I weren’t preparing myself for a fight, I’d probably make a dirty comment here. Two daggers form in the black gloves of the figure who almost looks like pure shadow. In the dark, it takes twice as much focus to observe the womanly curves. What sticks out though wasn’t the absence of light across her body, but the reflection of light in her eyes behind the ornate mask. Apparently that’s all the time I get to try and figure out who or what she is as she tumbles behind me and slices at me with both of the daggers. Fucking hell she’s fast. The night air feels cool against my upper left thigh where the bitch struck me, cutting open my shirt and pants. It might be the adrenaline or it might be a lack of wound, but there isn’t any pain, so that’s good. Focusing my efforts, I swing the broad side of the Diplomat at my attacker. I don’t have any interest in the proceedings that come with killing someone, so I’m just trying to knock her out so I can get the hell out of here. Then I fully intend on running home with my axe out like a mad man. No one is going to fuck with a running dwarf carrying a weapon taller than he is. My follow through hits her left arm, knocking her back. Damnit, she’s quick. She’s already adjusting her agile form in mid-air and using the momentum to do a backflip. For a brief second, I see a glint of white hair and elf ears under the hood. The spark of realization flashes in my head as she changes from three point landing to tumbling slash. I feel cool air on my right side after she somersaults past. “God fucking damnit Soviel! This is one of my favorite shirts!” “Oh hush you big baby, use some of that money Jotiet paid you to get it fixed.” Soviel pulls down her hood and takes off the now silvery mask that is suddenly reflecting light. Her white hair falls over her shoulders and her tall, elven ears frame her shit eating grin. I guess she’d be considered a typical elf, tall like a freak and skinny as the twigs humans think they eat. “You’re allowed to say hi in the bar, you know that, right? Don’t have to fake a mugging on me in the middle of the fucking street just to ask how I’m doing.” I reply, not even pretending to hide the irritation in my tone. I take a breath and the Diplomat disappears; Soviel’s daggers are also gone. “Maybe, but it’s no fun just walking up to a bar and saying ‘Heya Draven, how ya doing?’ I prefer something with a little more flair.” She accentuates the last word with twirl of her daggers. The raspiness of her voice now gone, that must be the mask. “That said, how are you doing?” “Well, I was better until...” The full extent of Soviel’s ambush reveals itself as my pants fall off. “Until a few seconds ago. Did you really have to cut my belt too? Wait, where is my belt?” “Please, you think I’d embarrass you so fully without making sure to have a way to fix it?” Soviel throws my belt back at me. “Be nice to me, it’s not very often I could perform such a magnificent feat. Most of the time we’re involved in a scuffle, you’re wearing your armor, like last time.” I pull my pants backup and chuckle a little as I recall that particular fight. Soviel had found herself a little too deep into enemy territory and instead of employing her preferred brand of subterfuge, I opted to go charging in to save her ass. Not my smartest move but we got out mostly okay. She then thanked me by trying to kill me, not realizing I was an ally. “How are you, Soviel? It’s been almost six months since I last saw you.” “Oh, I’ve been great, I spent a few weeks in Europe liberating some particularly valuable tokens from various counts, dukes, and royalty.” She waves the mask. “I also spent some time working with others who practice the art. Learned a few new tricks.” Others who practice the art. She still just won’t come out and say it, she’s a damned thief. A fucking phenomenal one, but still a thief. I once saw her steal a piece of art off of a museum wall and manage to get the curator blamed. Fortunately for her, by the time the authorities got everything straightened out, the surveillance footage mysteriously vanished and no one could seem to recall what she looked like. Soviel’s even been back into that museum and talked to the curator and she didn’t get locked up. “Yeah, were you that shadow, did I imagine that?” “Draven, you must have hit your head a little too hard when I kicked you over. How could I possibly be a shadow? Do I look like some sort of mage to you?” Okay, so she’s full of shit and doesn’t want to tell me. Not the first time she’s lied to me and it probably won’t be the last. Whatever, I can play along. “Kick me over, Soviel? You can barely open a bottle of water without crying for help let alone knock me over. I just wasn’t paying attention and tripped on my own two feet.” See, I can make stuff up too. “I guess so, though that seems far more embarrassing than having someone get the drop on you and then you consequently getting the drop on the ground. But if that’s the excuse you want to go with, I’ll let you have that victory.” Damnit, this chick knows me too well. If I had a sister, Soviel would be her. Back when we were younger, Soviel showed up on our doorstep, on the run from something. I still don’t know what she was running from or even if she’s still running. If you ask me, she’s just running for the sake of running at this point. Soviel spent a couple of months with us and my family. My brothers took a liking to her but she had eyes for someone else. Not to mention, I don’t think Soviel really ever had a thing for humans. In any case, after she left, I didn’t see her again for a couple of years. Then fate decided we needed to meet by way of a mobile dating app. She won’t let me forget it either, all while claiming she was only on there to get more information on a human mark. Or was it a man named Mark? Eh, who cares. “Yeah, well, fuck you too Soviel. You now get the amazing privilege of walking me home to make sure any would be muggers don’t catch me with my pants down. Which is now a more likely prospect, thanks to you.” I’m already walking as I finish clasping my belt. “What are you doing here?” “Are you telling me I’m not allowed to drop in on my very best friend uninvited and try to steal a small sum from him just because I missed him?” “I guess that’s okay, now get over here!” I can’t imagine seeing an elf tackle hug a dwarf is anything short of hilarious, but it’s what we do. Soviel dives at me and I catch her, somehow becoming tall enough to lift her off the ground. Okay, so it’s really just me leaning back, sue me. Setting her back down, “It’s good to see you, I’ve missed you!” “I’ve missed you as well, Draven, how are things?” “Same shit, different day. Keeping a low profile can be difficult sometimes, and I don’t want any short jokes.” Sometimes I have to cut that off at the head, which is good since Soviel gets a dumbass smirk every time she comments on my height. I look both ways before jaywalking across the street. “Any new leads on where he might have taken her?” “Negative, but at this point, it’s more about hiding than finding her. You know that asshole is way too connected for me to try and step up to him right now. I have to wait until I can pay for a mage to help.” Patting the wad of cash in my pocket, “another small amount of cash to help with the deposit.


Shine by: Jason Scott He didn’t like how brightly she would shine. He said it hurt his eyes, that it would hurt him if she continued to shine the way she did. Out of respect for the man that didn’t respect her at all she would cover up. Wearing a trench coat, wide brimmed hat and sunglasses, she would hide herself from the world because she was told she needed to. She was made to believe that she would hurt someone if allowed to shine as bright as she had been. For years she kept that costume hiding her true self. One day she had enough and she left him but his voice echoed in her ears. *You’re too bright. No one wants to see you shine like that. Cover up or no one will ever love you.* Then one day she met a man that looked at her a way no one else did. One day while walking together she stumbled and her hat and glasses flew off. The light from behind beaming out, being freed after years of hiding. She quickly fixed her disguise, worried he would judge her and leave. But he didn’t. There he stood, unmoving and staring, mouth agape and eyes fixed upon her. Stepping towards her he stretched out his hands toward her hat but she quickly backed off, sliding a hand to her head to make sure it didn’t move, but he didn’t give up. He walked towards her again and this time she didn’t move. He slowly raised a hand looking at her for permissions, and took off her hat. *This is it, he’s going to leave.* But he didn’t. He took off her sunglasses and she looked at the ground, afraid to look up as the voice in her head echoed again. *If he sees your light he’ll run. Don’t look.* He furrowed his brow, smiled and pushed the trench coat over her shoulders. It slowly fell to the ground. This was it, her disguise gone, her armor shed. She was afraid to look up thinking that the man that had helped her to get rid of it would be gone. Slowly she lifted her head and opened her eyes. She gasped, and tears started forming in her eyes. He was still there, smiling at her. Staring confused, she thought to herself *why isn’t he running?!* He slowly raised his hand up, grabbed the bill of his baseball cap and lifted. Light burst from him mixing with her own and lighting the entire area around them. He removed his sunglasses and behind the light were tear filled eyes. Unable to contain herself she began to laugh while crying, her two hands covering her mouth and fell against him. With her head on his chest and his arms around her she looked down on the ground at the trench coat, hat and glasses, then back up at him. As they locked eyes they both smiled at each other, their light mixing together and shining now twice as bright.


(This was removed from r/nosleep for being "No Horror", so I try here) Apologies if my writing is not the best. I am 90 now. I speak Polish and German since childhood, but English only since I am 16, when the soldiers of the liberators taught it to me. And I studied it at home. But it is not my mother tongue. And I will die soon, and as you will see below, I am also in fear that I can not even show you my life story. But I hope this goes through. It might be the last time I communicate with anyone. But my death is not what should concern you, as you will see. My time just has come, and I have prepared to not be afraid. I will just go over the most important details. I am not even sure I can send this, but it is my last hope. You must know. Or rather my son must know. The issue is, I can't contact him now, and I don't know his Americanized name. His first name was Jerzy (named after me), but he changed it (and his last name) when he moved to the United States. For me he is Jerzy. And I can't get into my e-mail account, so I can't tell you his e-mail address or his Americanized name which I think was used in his address. I saw it once then saved it as "Jerzy" and always had it filled automatically without looking at it. But now I can't access my account there. To make this easier to read for him, I put my life in three (arbitrary) phases. He always wanted to know about my childhood, but I never told him. It hurt too much. **My early years - a lost childhood** I was not as lucky as many of you to have been born in a peaceful country. Although, when I was born, it was peaceful. 1929 in a small Polish town. You know those jokes about Polish people being thieves. Well, we had to deal with thieves, but they were not Polish. They stole our country, and then our lives. It happened when I was 10. See, I was born in January 1929, we celebrated in January 1939, but eight months later there was nothing left to celebrate. My first experience with the winged man was when I was a child. Or at least my mother told me so. My father worked on cultivation of potatoes, tomatoes, all those vegetables you find in Middle Europe. Radish, Celery, you name it. As a big farmer, he literally fed our family while also making some money - not much but enough to comfortably live in our farmhouse. My mother stayed at home, and watched little Jerzy. Yes, that is Polish for "farmer", not very creative but pointing towards their plan to eventually give the entire farm to me and the small business of selling vegetables and milk. So I told her that the winged man watches over me. But I don't remember. It must have been true, as she told me and it fits with what happened later. The nazis invaded, as I said, and they saw that my father was jewish but I was not, but as he was we were deported. I don't want to talk about most of what happened where we were sent to. I don't want to talk about the endless days waiting for my father to return from slavery work, the daily fear of being killed. I lost my faith. But then it happened. On one of those nights, not very late into the imprisonment - it was the first winter, so somewhere around December 1939 or January 1940 probably (we had no calendars there, and each day was just like the last and the next, so I can only guess by the snow we had). I saw that winged man. At night he came to me and talked to me. And he said I will survive, I will be safe. And he told me other things that are not meant to be shared. I did survive. But it changed me. As I learnt later, some of us were put into ghettos, but we were not so lucky, as I said. Seeing that we were among the richer people, the nazis wanted everything and took it. Now there were stories that they raped, and they killed. I don't know if that is true. They just deported us. They enslaved us. They forced me to work eventually, when they stopped enjoying the stories I told them. They called me the "Erzähler", the storyteller. My mother and I were treated better. Not good in any way, but they did not hit us as hard, they did not hit us when we were on the ground. They kept us alive, that is all. We didn't get much food, but we always got food. But that was because we kept them entertained. We told them stories. We spoke German, I learnt it for the business. My German was not perfect, but good enough so they could understand. So my mother told stories and I translated for them. And I survived. And she survived. We were beaten, but never to death. It changed when we ran out of stories. When we repeated stories. After a few days, they demanded something new. But we could not make up something. So they beat us hard. And then they told me, I must work. I must build for them. My mother must serve them. They did not hurt her. They did not force themselves on her. But she had to serve them by cleaning their shoes, their tables, their dishes. And she was beaten if she did not do it right. But they did not beat her as hard as others. They kept us alive, as I said. So that winged man appeared again when I had to work. And he told me the war will be over eventually. They will lose. But I did not believe it. Every day we heard their "Endsieg", their final victory, was just so close. We heard that Japan had overrun China. Japan was about to defeat the United States. Germany had invaded many countries. They were about to defeat Russia and Britain. That is what we heard. And I prayed. And the winged man replied. But I did not believe. It went on, day after day, the horrors, the starvation, sometimes I collapsed. But they kept me alive. They liked me enough to not kill me, but they would beat me. It was a very bad time. Eventually there were soldiers. After so many days. They came in. And we thought, they will kill everyone. They came in with their guns. And I saw the guns of the nazis often. But those guns were different. There were people with guns that would fire much faster. Much more. And we heard them outside. And then they came in. And we all cried. But then they came to us. And we begged. And they led us out. And then they brought us to some nursery. Mobile hospitals. They fed us. They made sure we did not get too much food. They told us that starving people die if they eat too much at once. And some did die, some stole food and then ate too much and died. But I was thankful to get anything. Eventually we understood that we were free. That this flag with the stars was not our killers but our liberators. And they helped us rebuild. Those were hard years. Poland was free. We were free. But many died. I have heard horrible things that supposedly happened in that war. I did not see them. But I saw my share of horror. I believe that those other stories are true. I never visited the other places, but I saw what they did. I don't want to talk about it. Not even now. Not even 75 years later. But as I said, we were freed, and after a while, when we were well enough to survive on our own, we returned home. **Rebuilding a stable life** I was 17 now. It was 1946. We had survived. My father was not so lucky. He did not come back from work one day, shorrly before they told me I must work. We had gone to what was left of our farm. The unused land, the burnt down small shop, the destroyed farmhouse. We rebuilt. It was difficult. Everything was difficult. The winged man was there again. He told me I would live long. He told me I am chosen by him have a son who will do his work. But I never wanted to marry. I thought I will never have a son. I did not believe him. I was just 17, but I saw what humans can do. I did not trust anyone anymore, except my own mother. I did not even trust our liberators. I was glad to be back. You might think that being free feels good. But there were nightmares, there was fear. Only when I was back at the farm, destroyed as it was, I really felt like it all was over. And then I somehow told myself it never happened. I started to believe it was all just a bad dream, all those years never happened. I was 10 one day and 17 the next. And the memories are somewhere. But I can't access them. I only can remember a few. The worst. The outstanding ones. And the winged man. I want to believe it was all a dream, but it wasn't. I just made myself believe it for many years. But I digress. In any case, we rebuilt the farm. We fought a hard battle against the now barren ground to get our harvest, but it worked. I survived. We lived for a few more years there. But in the middle of the 1950s, to be exact in 1957, my mother got ill. And eventually she died. It was the cancer. But we didn't know. And we had no cure. Only the doctor later would tell us it was cancer. But I never asked for details on what cancer does. Not then. But after a year or so. When I was able to. My world had died again, but the daily farming life kept me busy until one day I exploded in tears. And eventually, after hours of crying, I felt like the burden was gone. And a few weeks later, I asked the doctor about it. I learnt about cancer. I learnt that there is no cure. And that became important later. I eventually had enough money to expand, all from my hard work. I hired someone and bought farmland. And in 1962, I opened my second farm. I did not want to marry. I did not trust anyone. But eventually there Lechsinska came. I was almost 40 when we married. 1968. The world was in turmoil, but I remembered the winged man. He visited me every now and then, telling me how to make the best of my farm. And eventually we expanded. I had three farms when my son was born. 1971. And the winged man came again. He told me that this will be my legacy. That my son will do his great work, and my contribution is finished. But I will live until the fruits of the work exist. But not until they will blossom. He told me I will live to be 90. And as the years went by, I grew accustomed to my incoming death. I prepared inside. The years went on. We had three farms, we had a few people hired to run the farms, but money was tight for our family. We could not expand further. My son learnt of his grandmother, and he decided to spend his life fighting cancer. He became a doctor. And he went to starland, as I called it because of the flag I saw back then. The United States. He sent us money for a private phone. We had one in our shop, and he would call there, but now we could talk more easily at home, without having to be in the shop. Sure, the shop was attached to our home, and we had two phones there now, but it was nice. We could be in the living room, and we had a television, and a phone, and it was a good time but hard. **The great work of my son** But life was always hard. Not only then. And our son made us proud. He became a doctor, as I said, before going to the United States. He then eventually switched to the other fields, not the practical use but the development in science labs. He wrote letters and got a green card, he got a job there in a lab. That is why he left us. They fought cancer there, and not in Poland. Or at least not anywhere where he would be able to work. And there was a cure now for some. I don't know what it is, it sounds all strange. They would shoot radiation at the cells and give some medicine, and people would lose their hair and their cells die but also the cancer cells would die from that. Or something like that. I never really understood what he said about that. But it could be cured, but only for some. And they tried to cure everyone. So he went to the United States to cure everyone. He visited every year except the first. Usually shortly before Christmas. He brought us some presents, but he left early as he did not want to get into the Christmas holiday travelers with even more crowded airports and so on. He did not come in 2001. He only called then. You know why. But he promised to schedule a flight when it was safe, and he came again around Easter 2002. And then on Christmas that year. That was the only year where he actually was there on Christmas, and not just prior, like the years afterwards again. In fact, the last time I ever saw him was just a few months ago, in December 2018. We enjoyed the company each year. But he always had to leave again for work. We kept in contact on the phone. And eventually he gifted me a computer so we could remain in contact on e-mail. I first wondered how that should work, but then I learnt it is short for "electronic mail". Not what I thought it was. That would not have worked (but it would have made good kitchen equipment). Anyway, we kept in contact often. But for important things we would call each other. He would only check his private mails rarely, with all the work he had. But my mails were checked daily. He set up some forwarding, whatever that is, to have my mail in a special folder. I don't understand what that means. But apparently he would see mails from my e-mail address there and work mails somewhere else and other private mails somewhere else where he would accumulate them and only check on his weekly day off. Ask him what that means, not me. The winged man appeared again eventually, around Christmas. He told me that everything is on a good way. And the winged man was in the living room. But my wife did not see him, even though she watched the television and the winged man was in front of it. He talked to me, he told me my son would do the great work next year (i.e. in 2019). He kept on appearing through the years, and always he told me he was proud of me and my son. We were chosen. My son would do the great work on cancer. But that day was when he told me that the great work was almost done. But let us not get too far ahead. I have grandchildren. My son married and gifted us a grandson and two granddaughters. They have grown into beautiful young people. They were born when he was still young, at the end of the past century. He married at 26, and his wife immediately was pregnant with the son and then afterwards with the twin daughters. And my grandson wants to study medicine, just like his dad. His son and his daughters sometimes came with him, and they want to be stewardesses. Crazy. I mean, you fly in the air all the time. The winged man appeared some more times. And every time he told me about the future. Usually it was just tips on how to run the farm. But in 2002, after Easter, he told me that my grandchildren might die young, in 2020, as cancer would mutate to become airborne. That was why my son had to do the great work. That was why he was chosen. Because many people would die. The last time the winged man appeared was a week ago. He told me I had two more weeks to live. My wife knows nothing about it. I don't want her to know. I never told her I will die at 90. And her health also declines. She also is over 80 now. We shared good times and bad times. And she brought me most of my good times. I wished I could die happy. But what I found out today... but I digress again. Let me try to put it in chronological order. That last time, the winged man told me I should not tell anyone about the future. He told me that my son is about to finish the great work. He told me that back in those days he protected me and my mother so we would survive. He told me that he protected us from the hearts of the nazis so they would not kill us in their hate and anger. He manipulated their hearts to not kill us. He told me how my son was the only one to do that work, and that he had finally made the breakthrough that would be so important. And that now all the protection he did back then was worth the effort. He told me that he put much energy in it, and he was thankful to me for raising my son, and that I should be glad that my son has finished the great work. Finally I brought up my courage and asked for his name. But he told me I will know it before I die. I called my son. I wanted to congratulate him. The phone rang three times, then I heard his voice. But it turned out to be only the answering machine. Today I received his call. He told me they were experimenting with cancer cells, they tried to defeat them by putting other viruses on them. They want to see how they interact, if other viruses kill the cells. After all, some other harmful virus might be the less dangerous alternative. It all happens in a high-security lab, so there is no danger for the population. I told him about the winged man. I told him what he told me. I told him that his work was extremely important. But he told me they had not yet a cure. I told him that he already had made the breakthrough. I told him that the winged man told me that. I told him everything. We talked for two hours. My son sounded a bit depressed. And then he told me that apparently a dose was missing from that lab. He told me that it was their latest experiment. If that was the breakthrough, which would coincide with the time the winged man appeared, they had to get that dose back. But the strange thing was that the video tapes they have did not show anyone entering the lab. Last night it was still there and this morning it was gone. Nobody entered the lab. Nobody had access to the stolen sample. I did not tell him that I was about to die. I have experienced so much. I am not afraid. For me it will be salvation. Or it would be. But there is one more thing, and that shattered that thought about salvation. As you can see, my son has gifted me a computer, and I can access those online shops. That is crazy. You just click on something and they send it to you and they take the money from your bank. So I ordered some books about death, and they arrived yesterday. In my last years I turned to the jewish religion, with my death coming closer. I regained the faith lost in my youth, but I don't believe in it exactly, but in some of its mythology. So I looked through some of the books. And then, in a book about jewish mythology, about the struggles of Israel in the days of the Thora, I found a depiction of the winged man. He was depicted with Moses. I immediately knew it was him even though his face was - of course - much different. He looked just like a human. But I knew it was him because he had only one wing. The picture was in a jewish book about death which included various stories from the jewish mythology, and the struggles of the people of Israel as a whole, and how the jewish God always protected the people even from certain death. The title of the picture was "Abazethibou hardens the heart of the Pharaoh". I read a few lines on this chapter, a box that tells about Abazethibou, and what I found scares me. He is a fallen angel who followed Beelzebub. He battled against Moses. He tried to destroy the jews in Egypt. And then he eventually was sealed into the Red Sea. It is not a long text that is there, only a full page. But one passage tells that Beelzebub said, Abazethibou will return when he is ready. And then he will triumph. I tried to call my son again. But for some reason, now my phone is dead. My e-mail account does not work. I can't reach my son. But I must tell him. He does not do the work of God, but of the devil. Maybe it is too late already. The internet still works, even though the phone does not work anymore. If the phone line is dead, internet should not work. It is at the same line. But it does work and so I can send this message. Or at least I hope so. Maybe when I click on "post" it will tell me that the connection has timed out. That is what it says when internet does not work. But I have prayed more in the past half hour than in the rest of my life that somehow I can "post" this, i.e. that I can publish my life story to you. Just in case this goes through: Please. You are my only hope! Can somebody tell my son that he must find the stolen virus? It might mutate to spread cancer airborne...


(This is my very first short story, I'm hoping to improve) I remember forcing myself to stay up at night just to see dad go inside the tools shed, and come back after almost an hour. I’ve been doing this ever since I was eight—I’m almost eighteen now. Why would I be doing this, you may ask? Well, my dad was known for being secretive, he never liked feeling vulnerable and exposed. But that didn’t stop me from finding out what’s inside the tools shed. I would usually go inside the shed and try finding something—unfamiliar. I would go and check whenever I had the chance, but because I was still a little kid, I wasn’t often allowed to go inside because it was dangerous. But now that I’m older, nothing’s stopping me from going inside, except for the fact that I’m not in our home. I take a look at all the people around, I see them mourning over my father’s dead body. Time flew so fast while I was remembering the past, the ceremony was almost over. Everyone remembers my father as a good, kind, and responsible man, I will always remember him as the man who kept secrets. A few weeks have passed and someone came to my apartment. It was an agent, and he was going to give me something, something that my dad wanted to give me. The entire interaction was pretty boring, but maybe it was because I was more interested in what he was about to give, and not what he was about to tell us. The conversation eventually came to an end, the man handed me a box and told me to open it only in the right place in the right time. The man didn’t seem to understand what my dad meant, but I do. I thanked him and as soon as he left, I quickly pack my things to visit my old house. I arrived just as the sun was setting, I asked my mom if she was given something, too. She said that she only got a CD album of her favorite artist. I told her that I would be staying for the night. She was pleased upon hearing this and we went to eat supper. Afterwards, I went upstairs to my old room and set up for the night… I went to the tools shed with the box I got. I went inside the shed and closed the door shut. It felt too cramped inside than I remembered. I held the box and opened it carefully. All that I saw was a compass, a plain old compass. This must be a joke, I took a closer look at it and it turns out, it was just a legit compass. I stare at the compass, the arrow was pointing at a certain direction. By instinct, I quickly followed the arrow and to my surprise, it led me to absolutely nothing. It just led me to a dusty corner in the shed. I was so disappointed, I was about to slam it down and destroy the compass, then suddenly the arrow started to spin, pointing at everything. It felt hotter but I didn’t want to let go. Suddenly, it felt as if the compass exploded, and I fell unconscious. I woke up, to see myself in a plain and empty space. All that I could see was white, just an endless void of white. But it took me a while to notice that I wasn’t alone in there. I saw my father. I was too shocked, I couldn’t move, he came closer to me until he grabbed me by the shoulder, and hugged me. I felt like crying, but before I could he told me, “I know you have questions, but I will only answer three,” he said. “Why only three?” I asked, “Because four is a bit of a mouthful, two more questions,” he said. I felt stupid for asking, “Wh-what is this place?” I asked, dad smiled, “I never actually gave it a proper name,” he said, “But it is a place where you can find peace among yourself,” he said smiling at me, as if to tell me something… “Last question,” he said. I stared at him, what do I ask? Suddenly, it hit me. “Dad,” I said, “Are you still alive?” I asked. Dad simply smiled as if he was expecting me to ask him this question. “I am what you believe I am,” he answered. “What does that mean?” I asked, “Sorry, no more questions…” he said. We stood there in silence for what felt like forever. “Can I please ask one more question?” I pleaded. Dad giggled, “You just did,” he replied. Not gonna lie, I laughed too. “Is that a yes?” I asked, he started to laugh, “Now that’s two questions,” he said. “Dad!” I exclaimed but I was too happy to say it with a straight face. “I just want to ask you,” I said, then suddenly the tension came back, “Why did you leave so soon?” “Son,” he said, “I never left…” he told me. Before I could ask any more questions, my vision got blurry until I couldn’t see. Suddenly, I’m back in the shed. I stared at my watch, an hour passed by while I was gone. I finally understood now, why dad went here every night, why he was so secretive to everyone. I quickly ran back inside the house, quietly of course. I laid down on my bed, still trying to comprehend what just happened. But I knew one thing, I’ll come back there.


The flipping imprint, three narrow circles intertwined, on the inside of his wrist glowed soft blue, and soon it would glow red, then yellow, then blue again, but with Black inside, not me. I walked away from the mirror, grabbed the flipper’s phone from the table, and called Mr. Black. “Everything’s all ready, when can we make the switch?” “Today, if you like. Can you come now?” I nodded, shouldered the phone as I gathered fitted pants and a black button down from the closet. “Yeah, yeah I can. I’ll be there in ten.” I hung up and tossed the phone onto the bed, put socks and polished shoes on, then took the Mercedes keys from the hook in the hallway and opened the front door of the apartment suite. Mr. Black’s house, though more like a mansion, was behind a black steel gate I had to be allowed through. I left the car parked a way’s away, something I’d like to keep after the switch, and walked the winding gravel path to the granite stairs that lead up into an entryway that could double as a ball room. A twinkling, glass chandelier hung overhead, and two sets of snaking massive stairs lead up to the second story of the house. A set of double doors off to the right opened and Mr. Black walked out, his forehead reminding me of melting wax, and his deep-seated beady eyes always seemed to be glaring. I shook his clammy hand. “You ready?” I asked. “Of course, of course,” he nodded, raised his hand towards another room near the stairs. “Right this way, to the study.” He shuffled ahead to the dark mahogany doors, then with a grunt, pushed them open. Beyond was a smaller room with shelving from floor to ceiling, spilling with thick books, and a golden trimmed oriental carpet covered the ground. When I stepped inside, he closed the door. There were two low, wing-backed chairs facing a large desk. A decanter with amber liquid, and a black phone sat atop. Behind was a large window overlooking Mr. Black’s sprawling backyard. “Would you like a drink?” he asked, walking around me. I shook my head. “Booze throws off the switch. “So, you ready?” “Yes, yes.” He opened a cabinet, pulled free a rubber-banded envelope, and handed it to me. “It’s all there, you can count if you want.” “Not needed,” I glanced at the shelves, the floor, the books, “I know you’re good for it, with a place like this.” “Okay, so how do we do it?” “First you give me your dominant hand. Left handed? Okay, don’t meet many of those. Place your wrist against mine — the one with the imprint — and close your eyes. I’ll do the same. There’s power in the ink, it just does the rest, like magic, really. Once it happens, you’ll be in here, and I’ll be back in my own, back home. You’ll be left to deal with your old body, but we already agreed to that. Okay… deep breathe in, deep breathe out… One, two, and three!” Nothing. Not a good damn thing. I didn’t feel the tug of being flipped, didn’t feel the pull of switching, of wrenching free of the flipper and thrown back to my body back home, didn’t hear the sound of the whirring, or feel the warmth radiating between us. “Did it work?” Black asked. “No, but this happens sometimes on the first go. Let’s try again. Breathe in, then out… One, two, three!” Again, nothing but clammy flesh on warm skin. I opened my eyes. Black’s were still closed, though he was frowning. “Is everything okay?” he asked through pursed lips. “Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine. Let’s try this one more time.” Again, nada. *What the fuck!* I pulled my wrist away from his, he opened his eyes, and I handed him back his money. “Sorry ’bout this, something’s funky with this flipper, don’t know what.” I turned to leave, but he grabbed my hand and dug his feet into the carpet. “No, wait, I have to have this body… I can’t stay in this one anymore… The cancer, in my lungs, constant pain—” I wrenched my hand free from him. “I can’t do it, buddy. It won’t work. I just tried three damn times. Maybe in a month, if I can get it fixed, then we’ll talk but until then—” “I don’t have a damn month!” he screamed, shaking his fist. “I can’t live like this anymore! You— you promised me that body and now you’re taking our deal back?” “Look Black, I gave you your money back. No harm, no foul. Deal’s off.” I turned and strode towards the door. *Have to get out, have to leave this place before— ah, shit… door’s locked.* “Can you unlock this, Black?” I asked as I faced him and something overwhelming and sharp enveloped my body. My legs crumbled underneath me. I rapped my chin on the floor, felt the crack of my teeth, and something warm was pouring out from me. I groped the flipper’s body. *Not piss, not shit… Ah, blood, goddamn blood.* I tried to roll over, but my arms were too weak now. I breathed heavily into the carpet, heard footsteps come over and felt something on my arm. I rolled onto my back, blood pumping out from my chest. Mr. Black knelt down, eyes red-rimmed and teary. “Now maybe it’ll work,” he said, taking my imprinted wrist and placing it to his. He closed his eyes, breathed in, then out. Nothing. “To— told you, buddy… Not, not gonna work… No— now this flipper’s gonna die and I’ll be, I’ll be back in my body and you’ll be left with a corpse.” I grinned, tasted copper. The world went dark. It went cold. His wrist was on mine when I closed my eyes, and it was still there when I opened them, kneeling over the flipper’s body. *Oh fuck, oh fuck no!* I dropped the wrist like it was red hot, straightened slower than I was use to, heard my knees crack, and shuffled to the window behind the desk. I looked into the reflection. Touched Black’s face, his melting forehead, the sunken cheeks… *fuck, fuck, fuck.* I checked my wrists. No imprints. I lifted his shirt — none — unbuckled his pants — nothing but shriveled gonads… There was no imprint, he wasn’t a flipper, he was me and I was him and I coughed into my palm and looked into my hand and saw blood— the cancer… about a month to live. I walked around the desk, peered down at the corpse on the ground. Mr. Black was inside, or, maybe— I ran to the phone on the desk, picked it up, dialed my home number. Ring. Ring. Ring. “Hello?” I said on the other end. “Hello? Who is this?” I asked, in the study. “Mr. Black, who’s this?” If you like what you read, you can view more of my work in my subreddit at .


It is my first day back in school since it happened. Everything is different now. I am different. I walk down the hallway feeling paranoid, like all eyes are on me. I dread passing by groups of boys laughing and being loud. My heart is beating fast, I am out of breath. A panic attack is coming and I know it but I continue walking. They've become something daily for me now. My eyes are glued to the floor, I don't dare look up. At last I reach my classroom and hurriedly enter. Everyone is looking at me. Some with pity, others disappointment, third disgust. I can hear them whispering to each other, glancing in my direction, pointing their fingers at me. I run to my desk and sit, plugging my earphones in, trying to block them out. I struggle to stop the tears from spilling out. I feel ashamed, dirty, disgusted with myself. The class goes by. I can't focus, I can't think about anything but what had happened. The teacher doesn't tell me anything. She knows. I am collecting my books to go to my next class when someone taps my shoulder. I flinch, panic taking over me. I turn around to see one of my classmates. A girl I would talk to before it happened. "Hey, I'm sorry I didn't mean to startle you." She smiles at me apologetically. I smile back, trying to be polite. She is pitying me, I can see it. "Want to go to the next class together?" She offers. I accept with a quiet nod, thankful I won't have to go through that hell alone again. We walk there. The whole time she's talking to me but I can't concentrate, everyone's looking at me, everyone is... They all know. We enter the classroom and sit down. She places her bag next to me. That's not her usual seat but I don't say anything. She exits the room. I feel another tap on my shoulder. It's much harder, making me flinch once again. It's a boy. He laughs at my reaction. "Don't be all defensive and shit, I know you enjoyed it." He turns to look at his friends and they all laugh. I can feel the hot tears in my eyes. "Aw, you're gonna cry. Little whore. You wanted it, admit it. You just didn't want everyone to think you're a slut for sleeping with him so you lied." With that he leans closer, whispering "We all know the truth." Then he proceeds to grab my inner thigh, giving it a squeeze with his huge hands. I am frozen, I can't move. Everything that had happened replays in my head. They are laughing. I try to stand up but my legs give out. I need to get out of here, but I can't. I can't breathe. They all know, they're laughing, they know. I feel so dirty. Maybe they're right. I am sitting on the floor, hiding my face in my knees, crying. I can't stop, I'm going to die. I am going to suffocate. He is coming for me. Again. I feel hands on me and scream. A feminine voice speaks out. "Shh, shh it's okay. You're here. Nobody will hurt you. It's okay. Breathe, copy my breathing." She rubs my back comfortingly. A male voice says "Fucking freak. At least we know she's a good actress." I cry harder. The girl screams at him. I can't hear what she's saying. I'm not paying attention. "Hey, hey, hold my hand. I am here, nobody will hurt you. They are gone." I hold her hand, gripping onto it for dear life. She continues to talk to me, chasing the thoughts away. After what seems like eternity I am able to breathe. I turn to see the same girl that walked with me to the classroom. "Why are you doing this for me?" I ask, my voice raspy from crying. She smiles a sad smile and speaks. "Because the same thing happened to me once." Yo, ya'll that's my first ever post on reddit! I'm kinda nervous to share my writing, as I'm not very good yet and on top of that English isn't my first language, buttt I hope ya'll like it.


Not so long ago there lived a president who loved to build things. He loved it so much that he spent all of his money (and often the money of others) on building things and putting his name on them. Apart from this, his biggest interests were in going on television or hearing himself talked about in the news. He had a different building for every occasion and a different answer for every reporter. Many loved him. Many did not. One day, two business men came to see the president. They claimed to be patriots, suggesting that they knew how to make the finest walls imaginable. “We weave them out of a special material which only we have the technology for.” Not only were their walls extraordinarily “large” and “strong”, but they were impressive in that they were “practically invisible” to those without a keen eye or intellect, yet “impossible to miss” for those who understood the “art of the wall.” The president was impressed. What a HUGE opportunity this presented! “With a wall such as this” he thought, “I could truly tell which of my advisors are worthy of their positions, and which are lame.” “Also, I could use such a thing to keep people who look different than me out of the country.” So, he immediately promised the two patriots a great sum of money to build a wall for him. “No need,” said the two “we will simply make the Southern Kingdom pay for it.” “Even better!” thought the president. The business men brought in their contractors and set up cranes and big trucks with coils of “high tech nanocarbon” (which were really just empty spools) to create their incredible wall. The contractors slowly wove their way through the air across miles of border, using great care to create the most convincing pantomime. Many miles away in his palace, the president found himself pondering. "I wonder how they are coming with my wall!" He became uncertain when he remembered that only those of keen eye or intellect would be able to see the wall. Certainly, the president, with his brilliant mind and vision, had no cause for concern with such a matter. However, he decided to send one of his “best people” to see how the project was progressing. "I'll dispense my most trusted lawyer to the border," thought the president. “He's very smart and has been of great help with many of my building projects. He also understands the importance of keeping out people who are different from me.” So the trusted lawyer went to the construction site where the two patriots sat supervising their crew as they pretended to knit across the skyline. "Crap!" thought the attorney, staring blankly at the open space before him. "I don’t see it!" But he kept this thought to himself. The business men encouraged him to look closely at their creation. “Isn’t it a thing of beauty?” they asked while struggling to maintain expressions of seriousness. “Won’t the president be pleased?” The two went on discussing the quality of their material and the unparalleled craftmanship of their work. The stymied lawyer stared and nodded in response. Try as he might, he simply could not see the wall (which wasn’t really there in the first place.) "Double crap!" he thought. "Could it be that I am lacking in vision and intellect? Am I unfit for my position? It would not do for the president to think so! I must keep this to myself in order to protect my position!” "Is everything okay?” asked one of the businessmen. “You haven’t been saying much.” "Oh…right.” Said the president’s trusted counsel. “I was just…overwhelmed with the brilliance of it all. What a wonderful thing you have created!” he continued. “I’ll be sure to let the president know what an incredible and patriotic service you have been providing.” "Great!" said the two tricksters, and they discussed the many “technicalities” involved in bringing such a marvel to fruition. The lawyer paid close attention so that he might be able to convey the many wonders of the wall when he shared his report with the president. “One last thing” said the pair. “It seems our neighbors to the South are having some difficulty with cashflow. We all know what an unreliable lot they are.” The lawyer nodded in agreement with the last statement. “Unfortunately,” the devious duo continued, “we will not be able to complete construction without immediate funding. What a shame it would be for the president to be denied the glory of such a magnificent achievement!” To the president’s delight, his attorney returned to the palace and gushed about the “amazing” sights he had encountered. “We must make sure this important work continues” cried the president while fantasizing of the fanfare he was sure to receive. “We shall have the people pay for it. After all, it is for their own benefit.” Over time, the president sent other officials to check in on the project and test the aptitude of those in his cabinet. Each of them became unnerved to discover that they were unable to see anything at all. Fearful for their careers, each shared ecstatic reviews with the president in effort to avoid being exposed as inept. Soon the palace twittered with excitement for the massive erection occurring in the South. Then the entire land followed suit. The president, feeling empowered, took to the media boasting incessantly about his wall and extolling its (and his) incredible virtues. In truth, nobody was able to see the wall (because there wasn’t one.) However, many commoners who were loyal to the president started claiming that they could see it. So strong was this phenomenon that some even convinced themselves that they actually could see a wall. Amongst this population, any view to the contrary was considered treasonous. Citizens voicing concern over this mass delusion were chastised with labels like “fake” and deemed as unpatriotic. At long last, the businessmen announced the completion of their project. A grand celebration was planned. “You won’t believe your eyes!” Stated an excited president who was eager to further capitalize on his wall. On the morning of the celebration, the president arrived at the planned sight. He had been looking forward to this day for what seemed to be an eternity. “Take me to the wall!” the head of state demanded. “We are at the wall, sir” his driver replied, catching his employer by surprise. “Of course,” said the magnate. “The sun was in my eyes.” A sense of horror washed over the president as he realized that he could not see a wall. “Could it be that I am somehow lacking? What would happen to my reelection if this were to be known? How could I recover the image I’ve worked so hard to create?” he queried. Nothing scared the man more than looking like a fool. A conclusion was quickly reached. “Nobody can find out about this!” As the day progressed the president was able to return to form. He took opportunities to demonize those with differing perspectives or complexions. He gloated excessively. He happily accepted praise from supporters who had come to revel in their shared victory over sensibility. When the time came to address the crowd (and the nation) the president proudly took stage in front of an empty background which extended for miles. “Isn’t it beautiful?” he said to rounds of applause. From the crowd a voice called out. “Look out! The wall is falling!!” The president hid in terror from the imaginary fallout. The world, seeing the moment for what it was, laughed. And so it came to pass that the president, heavy with pomposity and light in reason, was crushed by the weight of a wall that never existed.


Hi! I've written a few other stories before, but haven't ever posted them online. They've all been cringey, and I am expecting this one to be a bit cringey too... haha... but don't be surprised if I get bored and randomly decide to discontinue the story 'cause I get bored of it. That happens to me a lot. Also, it would be nice if people talked about the story as if it were real, the way it is in r/nosleep. You don't *have* to, but it would be nice. Anyways...  I was born on what is now known as September 12, 986 A.D. My name is Victoria Windsor, and my parents were the Duke and Duchess of a small part of England. I grew up happily. Despite the time period in which I was born, we faced no illnesses of any sort and nobody who tried to attack us survived. There was a good reason behind this; you see, my parents and I are vampires.  They may have been the Duke and Duchess for some humans, but they were the King and Queen of all the vampires in Western Europe. Over time, that grew to the whole world. Nobody could overcome their power... physically. Royalty in vampirism is based on the rank of your power. Imagine it as a scale set from 1 to 100; the most powerful vampires are ranked at 100, the weakest at 1. My parents and I were the only vampires in the world who reached 100. All of the Aristocrats were above 50. Everyone else was below 50, and power only grew with time. However, this doesn't make vampires less strong. A level 1 vampire could tear the strongest human alive into shreds in less than a minute, but a level 15 vampire could do that to a level 1 vampire. Now imagine a level 100 vampire... that's me.  It would take a level 1 vampire 2,000 years to achieve the power I had at birth. I can smell a vampire from miles away; I can jump as high as Big Ben with one leap; I can crush a boulder by touching it; I can run five times as fast as the fastest animal alive; and many more minor powers. These are things that all vampires can do to an extent, though. Some vampires have special, unique powers, powers that no vampire before has had. Mine is shape-shifting - I can turn into anything and anyone, at any time I wish. That includes younger and older versions of myself. It is quite an advantage in the modern era.  When I was 20, I was riding my steed in the forest a few miles away from the now-long-forgotten village of Westbrook. Back then, a few hundred people lived there, so it was nice and populated for the time period. I smelt a vampire, which was odd, as I didn't know of any vampires who lived in that area. I didn't want to appear suspicious to the humans, so I took the longer form of transportation, and rode my horse to Westbrook. When I arrived, I hid behind the trees, wanting to see what was going on. I saw almost all of the villagers standing around a lone human, tied to a post, the villagers chanting things, and holding torches.  *Ah,* I thought. *A witch trial.* I then realized that the “witch” was the vampire I had smelt from all those miles away. It would be best to intervene before something actually happened to this peasant of a vampire - they were scared and had obviously never dealt with something like this before. It seemed like they didn’t want to hurt a human, so I tied up my horse to a tree, gathered my skirts, and walked up to the village square.  “What is going on?” I asked in my most regal voice. Nobody heard me. “WHAT’S GOING ON?” I yelled. Everyone grew quiet and turned to look at me. Upon realizing who I was, they started to curtsy and bow, some of the younger children nearly tripping over their own feet. “What is going on?” I repeated myself once more.  “Y-your Grace,” stuttered a villager. “The evil woman at the pole is a w-witch. She is being punished for her crimes against our Lord the God and humanity. Once she is dead, she will be sent to hell, to be tortured eternally for her crimes.” I tried not to scoff at her, and it took a lot of willpower. There is no *god,* at least not the one they speak of. (Sidenote: while writing this part I am listening to Take Me to Church lmao). I know this for a fact - my parents were alive when their so-called Jesus died for them. They lived in Rome, and such a thing would have been announced throughout the city - nay, the *country.* My parents didn’t hear anything of it, which would be surprising if Christianity was real, as they were of a high noble ranking. As for Judaism, my grandparents lived in Egypt during the time they were supposed to be enslaved - but no, there were no Jewish slaves of that amount, and the Red Sea didn’t part for Moses, as they didn’t escape as their Torah said.  I waded through the sea of kneeling villagers, and they parted for me as if the Bible was real and I was Moses, them the Red Sea. I started untying the ropes holding the young vampire to the pole, quickly slashing from and breaking some a few times when I thought nobody was looking. The young vampire stared at me, wondering why I was doing this for her - she probably couldn’t tell that I was a vampire, too.  “This ‘witch’ is coming with me,” I stated to the villagers. I saw some staring in disgust at the vampire, others nodding their heads fearfully. I grabbed her arm and pulled her towards my horse. I heard the village going back to normal after a few minutes, then turned to face the vampire to confront her.  “What is your name?” I asked.  “P-Peasant Rosa,” the vampire stuttered, scared. “What is it that Your Grace wishes from me?”  I just laughed. “Nothing, Rosa. I just wanted to save you from those awful townspeople.” She gawked at me. “They know *nothing*,” I said more harshly. “And that’s *Your Highness* to you.”  She blinked a few times before realization hit her. “Y-you’re the *vampire princess?* Princess Victoria?”  I laughed. “Who did you think I was? Some random Lady - no, Vampire Princess - come to save the day?” I could tell that Rosa was trying to suppress a smile. “Go on, laugh!” I urged her. She did, and it was the most beautiful thing I have ever heard in my entire life - up to the present day, after a thousand years, I haven’t heard a more beautiful sound. It was the sound of my future wife gaining hope.  “I could smell you from miles away, and checked to see what was up,” I explained. “I was just taking a trip with Bailey over here,” patting my horse’s head. “You can pet her if you want.”  Rosa ran her fingers through Bailey’s soft mane. “I’ve never actually touched a horse like this before,” she grinned. “Especially not a horse like yours.”  The vampire community doesn’t tend to care about your personality - it doesn’t matter if you’re a man or a woman, black or white, gay or straight - as long as you can get done what needs to be done, they’re fine with it - so it was perfectly ok when Rosa and I got married 50 years later.  To Be Continued (Hopefully).  Note: I’m not gay myself, just a straight ally, but I am an atheist. For some reason, I had this strong temptation to write about gay vampires who are a thousand years old yet still childish and going through high school in the modern world… yeah, I’m weird.


Last week I was driving to an office party for the holidays and my GPS decided the quickest route to the destination was through a part of downtown I didn’t know. That’s what I get for blindly following computer software. It may calculate the drive time and the shortest distance between two points but it doesn’t factor in the relative safety of the neighborhood. Once I realized what was going on, I was already too far into a really bad area, to just turn around. I decided to play it cool and hope for the best. With any luck, the route would soon lead me away from the urban blight. Then I was stopped by a traffic light. A homeless man was standing on the curb holding his cardboard sign. They always seem to pick a spot where it’s too difficult to avoid eye contact. As a general rule, I don’t roll down the window or open my door in places like that. I’ve seen too many mugging and robbery videos to risk giving away a few bucks. For that reason, I tend to avoid reading the depressing messages scrawled on their signs. Strangely enough, I felt compelled to read his. It seemed like it might be prudent. “You’ll be dead very soon.” I actually snorted. If he was hungry or jonesing for a fix, he sure wasn’t going to score any pity cash from me with that ‘uplifting message’. The naysayer of doom on the sidewalk would definitely benefit from less caustic signage, I thought to myself. The light changed and I eased off the brake. Frankly, I was anxious to get out of there. His message was downright creepy and foreboding. Perhaps he hoped to be arrested for making malicious threats and receive ‘three hots and a cot’ at the nearest police precinct. At that point, I didn’t care. I was happy to witness him fade away in my rearview mirror. I don’t know if it’s deliberate or not, but once you get stopped by one light, they all seem to catch you. Maybe they’re programmed to make it impossible to drive through them without having to stop constantly. If so, it’s a gas tax conspiracy. I can’t prove any of that of course, but it never seems to fail. When I pulled up to the next four-way intersection to wait on the light, another street person was standing there. With recent economic downturns, the neighborhood appeared to be overrun with vagrants and ‘lost souls’. This guy was just as nondescript as the previous one. At least he wasn’t holding a threatening sign to freak out passing motorists. I studied his layered clothes and grizzly features. For the briefest moment I thought he might be the same individual I’d saw four blocks earlier (but I knew that couldn’t be). Logistically there was no way he could’ve traveled that distance as fast as my car. To be perfectly honest, I only remembered a few details about him. It was his sign I couldn’t ignore or forget. Beyond that, they could have been identical twins, or nothing alike. Before the light changed, the guy reached down to the ground and picked up his very own cardboard note. While somewhat different in wording, it’s message was no less startling. Honestly, it was more so for one specific reason. “The end is near for you Bill Holland. Repent.” I don’t mind telling you that I was stunned, and in utter disbelief. As you might have guessed, my name IS ‘Bill Holland’ and I had no idea who that guy was; or how he came to expect me to see it! It’s not like I regularly drive through that area or that anyone knew I was going to be stopped by the traffic lights there. The dark details of his sign were incredibly startling and specific. They were tailored just for me. I was so shocked that I didn’t notice when the light changed to green. The car behind me honked in impatience. I managed to put my focus back to the task at hand of driving through the ‘hood’. I squealed my tires and roared out of there like I was in a death race. Despite my accelerated pace, I only made it past a couple more intersections before the next signal turned red. I debated blowing through it and going full throttle until I made it to a safer place but there was too much cross traffic. I had to stop. I was greatly relieved to see the whole block was vacant. There was no one visible on the street corner at all. No pimps. No drug dealers. No prostitutes. Regardless, there was still an ominous message waiting for me, just the same. An unattended cardboard sign was propped up against the brick wall of a nearby building. I tried to resist reading it but my curious eyes betrayed me. “You took a wrong turn. Go back.” That was the LAST thing I’d ever do. I had no intention of driving back past the previous two sign holders. I wanted to put as much distance between myself and them as I could. I cursed the phone app for taking me on such a bizarre journey but when the light changed, I impulsively diverted from the specified GPS directions. I took an immediate left turn away from the planned route. As soon as I did, the phone started ‘redirecting’. “Shut up!”; I shouted at the damned inanimate object making my life a living hell. (of course it told me to take the next three right turns to rejoin my original path). I didn’t care at that point. I was anxious to avoid any more threatening messages by strangers holding up handwritten signs. Despite my best efforts to avoid falling any deeper into the twilight-zone like conspiracy, that’s exactly what happened. I was feeling mildly rebellious by defying the cheerfully-voiced GPS directions when my car headlights fell upon a number of reflective street barricades. The road was completely blocked! My premature smugness was replaced with frustration and dismay. I had to turn around but nothing said I had to return the same way I’d came. As I arrived back at the intersection, I could hardly believe my eyes. The other two directional choices were also barricaded! They were NOT blocked before. I was sure of that. Someone was messing with me. The sinister author of the last sign was going to get his way after all. I had no choice but to drive back toward the unknown sidewalk provocateurs. My heart raced as I felt like I was falling into their well-laid trap. The unattended sign was no longer there. That made sense I suppose. I was now headed back where it had directed me to go. One by one, all of the cross streets were now blocked off. I was on a one-way trip, headed toward an uncertain fate. I thought about stopping the car but there was a certain measure of artificial security in being inside a locked vehicle. Slowly I crept back toward the source of my tension. I was tempted to call 9-1-1 but what would I have said? That some creepy homeless people with cardboard signs were menacing me in an ‘urban barricade conspiracy’? It would have sounded as crazy as it actually was; and I didn’t even know what road I was on anymore. I’d long since shut off the GPS device and all the street signs were either missing or covered with spray paint. Drums were on fire in the alleys. Cars were up on blocks. The shell of buildings all around looked as dangerous from a structural standpoint as from the desperate individuals inside. The confines of the car was my safety blanket. The second sign holder was still there on the corner; waiting. When he saw me, he changed position to align with my vantage point in the car. His sign now warned that I was about to ‘meet my doom’. I checked to confirm my doors were locked for the 20th time. I scanned the streets for the unexpected. I was alarmed to witness him drop his sign and start walking directly toward me! Slowly he faded from view in my mirror. I was only one sign holder away from making it out of the area; or possibly approaching the cunning trap they had waiting for me. The first guy was leaned up against a building near the spot where I’d originally saw him. It was the end of the line. I knew it and they knew it. The barricades were across the road and I had nowhere left to go. The homeless guy started pulling off his knit hat and overcoat in some gesture I didn’t understand. Then he stepped out of the filthy coveralls he wore. I honestly didn’t know what to expect next. I had my foot on the gas pedal and was about to gun right through the road barrier if he came toward me when he started peeling off a fake beard and wig. I thought me eyes were playing tricks on me. It was one of my managers from work! He held up a brand new cardboard note: “Welcome to the party, Bill! Surprise...


I am not what you might call, *heroic*. i was completely content living my life, ignoring other's problems, i had a few friends but no one close. that is, until one day i leave for a run, i walk out the door and feel the quake, 'huh, has doom eternal released?' i wondered. i turn and notice a silver dragon of about twenty feet in length from head to tail, ten feet at the shoulder, and crimson red eyes staring right into my soul. i open my door once more and slowly back away inside, then, "ALEX! Where have you been?" i hear in my head. 'what?' i wonder to myself. "I've been looking everywhere for you. why are you even hiding in this dimension?" She, judging by the voice in my head anyway, looks around. "it's so beyond bland" i frown, 'why has she been looking for me?', "dimension?" i ask aloud, then shake my head. "sorry, but i've never met you before, you've got the wrong guy," i explain. i then slam the door shut and run to my basement. i grab my shotgun, and wait, "Alex, for the love of god, stop with the games." i hear in my head, "Crystal is worried sick and rocky is about to die of boredom!" she angrily exclaims, "i haven't a clue what you're talking about." i shout in my head. "not so loud you're gonna give me an aneurysm." she chided "you have the wrong guy, i've lived here my whole life, just stop will you?" i plead, not wanting the dragon to destroy my house but not wanting to leave for fear of my life. "oh please," the dragon said again, "as if i'd ever hurt you." great, she can read my mind, "because you gave me permission to do so" she said annoyed, that gave me an idea, so i poured out all my memories, relived my life and showed her everything i knew. "oh," was all she said, "deep cover?" i frown, "what?" i ask, "nothing. you're right, i have the wrong person," i smirk, "finally," then frown some more, "what did you mean by 'deep cover'" but i didn't hear anything else, i slowly walked up the stairs, not believing for a second that she's gone, i look outside to see the world has gone back to normal. i look at my hands to find them empty, no shotgun. how is that possible? i looked at the clock, "damn, need to get to work," i rush up to my room, get ready, wondering what the hell just happened. i get into my car and sit there for a second, something was bothering me, i grab my car registry and take out my license, 'Richard Margret'. i rub my temples, the dragon had called me Alex, and it felt completely normal. i shuddered, remembering the dragons question "deep cover". i shove the registration into the glove box and my license into my wallet and drive to work, something's wrong, and i need to figure it out before i can return to my precious status quo. "this is gonna be annoying, isn't it?" i ask no one in particular, and drive to work. "well, it could be worst," i mumbled, typing away on my computer. my job was simple, find ways for my clients to save money. of course, my clients were a few small business owners who wanted to make their hobby their job and haven't a clue, so i more or less have to explain that the best thing they can do is to do as i say or close up. i deal with the occasional ass, but all in all a good and well paying job. i find myself only an hour into my shift when i'm forced to engage a 'Mr. Positive'. "sir, your numbers look quite promising, if you keep up with the plan you'll be well on your-" "that's bullshit and you know it!" he shouts, i mute myself and give a sigh as he berates me. i look at the cubicle across the way and see an old friend smirking at me. "what?" i ask, he just smiles and looks over my shoulder. i turn to see my boss's secretary stealing glances at me. so i wait until she looks once again, giving a wave, i make her blush and look away. i turn on the microphone and interrupt the screaming man and decide to call his bluff, "sir, if i find you are attempting a bankruptcy scam i will call my supervisor and-" he apologized, thanks me and hangs up. i shake my head, been there done that. i get up and register my 1 hour lunch break. "oof, pleasant customer?" my friend asks, "shove it Michelangelo" i reply. i sit down and begin eating my salad, until that secretary from before sat down next to me, "hey," i smile, "hey," i sit there, waiting. i always find silence is the best answer for women, "look, i hear good things about you from mike and-" i groan, "dammit Mike" her eyes widen, "what's wrong?" she asked. i look at her, she looks back at me with a concerned, well-meaning gaze, and she's pretty cute. no harm in trying, "he keeps trying to get me hooked up," i smile, "though i suppose a date with a beautiful woman isn't the worst way to spend my evening," her eyes widen, her blush deepens. "what do you say? meet me at Rodear's?" i ask, she beams, lighting up like a spotlight. "see you there." she nods, gets up, and walks away. i smirk, catching Mike's eye, he winks and i flip him off. tonight's gonna be a good night. i left the club with the secretary, Alice apparently. As we both stumble in the night, she pulled me into an alley and straightened up, this put me on edge. she lost her stupor and i frown. "you look way to sober," i mumble. she grinned then opened her mouth, a pair of fangs revealing themselves, "what?". i awaken in bed, i get up and go through the motions, until i'm at the table. i grip my neck and rub the area she would have bitten, "what was that? a dream?" i groan as i look at my bare chest, i was covered in bruises. "ouch" i hiss, then i realized something, i don't have a hangover. "what the hell?" this was getting ridiculous. i go to work, and notice mike at work early. i go up to him "hey mike" i say, smiling. he starts, "Rich?" he asked in genuine shock, then recovers. "Alice called earlier, said you guys hit it off. wanna share details?" i laughed a bit, his shock was enough proof for me. "so, why did she try to kill me?" i asked, going dead serious. he looked guilty, Mike sighed, "and here i was hoping you really didn't remember".