He wasn\`t aware of the deer, before he heard its screams of agony. As he went closer, he could see, an arrow piercing the deer\`s lungs. The heart however, had remained untouched. The gentle brown eyes pleading for mercy. “My poor brother, who has done this to you?” The only thing he could do, was to redeem the animal from its suffering. So he took his bow, shooting with deathly accuracy. It was sad to see the spirit leaving its empty shell, yet it would have been crueller if he had done nothing. He patted the soft nose, “rest in peace, my brother.” Two green eyes from between the trees, made him shocked stepping back. The creature came closer, it looked like a lizard. No, more like a dragon without wings, covered in moss green scales and with a snake like body. He looked around. He was surrounded by them. Suddenly a presence appeared behind him, he wanted to flee but stumbled. His bow fell to the ground and before he could pick it up, a hand enclosed his neck. The grip was not violently, but firm telling him not to move. “Don\`t be afraid of my children, they won\`t hurt you. Unless you have a black heart. You killed the king of this forest, and my husband.” The dragons were now crawling up to him. “You know, there are humans, who kill for fun. And humans, who kill to survive. Which one are you?” “I did not know... he was already wounded, when I found him.” *Liar!* The creatures around him whispered, distrust reflecting in their eyes. Even the wind seemed to be against him, as if it wanted to say that humans cannot be trusted. “Why did you come into my forest, human?” “Because I had no choice, my kind is hunting me.” “And now they followed you, disturbing our balance. In one way or the other, you are responsible for his death!” “So, I can\`t escape death, either you or they will kill me, am I right?” Bitterness swung in his tone, the woman let go of him. He turned around to her, “your actions are your own. You cannot escape the consequences.” “I see, then I would prefer it to be killed by your kind.” “Why? If you leave my realm you are allowed to live.” He shook his head, “my fellow humans will find me, and burn me in place. If you kill me, I may be able to keep my dignity.” The woman seemed sorrowful, “they resent you… for what?” A weak grin occurred on his face. “I reject their faith, I follow ancient path\`s wisdom. Your wisdom, Lady Gaia.” She looked to the deer, “so you really released him from his pain…” One of the dragons was cuddling with his hand, careful he stroked over its scales. “You seek death, to flee from life.” “No, My Lady. To be afraid of death, means to be afraid of life itself. I lived my life as best I could, but my deeds led me to an early end. I can run but I can\`t hide, it is better to face fate. Than to survive as a coward. I embrace death, as I embraced life.” The mother bowed her head, “you are wise for a human. Yet we don\`t kill, like your kind on the battlefield, everything goes its way.” He handed over his dagger, a triskele was carved into its pommel. “I know. Everything is better, than to be executed as a traitor in front of thousands of self-righteous, judgmental, hateful eyes.” He leaned against an old oak tree, the dragons followed. Lady Gaia came towards him. Her divine, green-glowing appearance carrying the light of life, and at the same time the darkness of the night. She embraced him one last time, like a child. “You are no traitor, just someone born in the wrong place. You shall reincarnate in my realm. My brave, wise child.” The dragons sat on his feet, on his legs even on his stomach. One seemed to hold his hand, with his tiny claws. Looking at him, with soothing eyes. He looked upwards to the tree canopies. Such a wonderful view. “What is your name?” “Aderyn.” A fast pain emerged, when she slit his throat. “Now sleep, Aderyn.” Her motherly voice was the last thing he heard, closing his eyes. The wind blew towards him, a gentle, warm breeze of summer air. Carrying his soul away. The goddess placed the dagger beside his body. The dragons bowed their heads, then disappeared into the green. Leaves whirled around her figure, then she too had vanished.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: Welcome to Week 4 of my favorite month, **Spooktober!** Each week, your prompt will be *inspired by the horror genre*, with 2 bonus constraints (which are not required but worth extra points). I do encourage you to lean into the genre and try new things! But you are not required to write horror or Halloween-themed stories. These are just starting points. - **Theme: ** - **Bonus Constraint 1:** Genre is Paranormal or Supernatural Horror. - **Bonus Constraint 2:** Include the phrase “nothing truly dies”. This week’s challenge is to use the above theme as inspiration for your story. The theme (or the idea) should appear in some way within the story. You may interpret it any way you like as long as the **connection is clear** and you **follow all post and subreddit rules**. Use of the bonus constraint and image are not required. You can check out my ever growing if you’d like some fun, spooky music! **Don’t forget to after the submission deadline!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting.   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I hold a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. You can complete the following things for points. - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points, unless otherwise stated (not required) - ***Actionable* Feedback:** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Submitting nominations:** 5 points (total) *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 5 detailed crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.*   *** #Rankings - **First:** - Submitted by u/wileycourage - **Second:** - Submitted by u/katherine_c - **Third:** - Submitted by u/katpoker666 - **Bay’s Spotlight:** - Submitted by u/TheLettre7 - **Crit Star:** - u/wileycourage - **Crit Star:** - u/TheLettre7 - **Crit Star:** - u/BrochaTheBard - **Crit Star:** - u/katherine_c - **Crit Star:** - u/katpoker666 *Note: Crit Stars receive 1 Crit Credit on r/WPCritique, but in order to receive Crit Credits, you must have made at least 1 post on that subreddit or have linked your accounts on our Discord.* *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires and other fun events! - Join in our weekly writing chat on . We discuss a new topic every week! New here? Come introduce yourself! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


"Mermaids "reproduce" by turning human women into their own. A female pirate captain has a run-in with a mermaid who intends to transform her." **Story synopsis:** The Story: Eleanor is the captain of a pirate ship with a well-run crew. That is until she meets an unlikely creature on the open water. *** *** #Chapter 3.1 The brightness of the sun changed the world around the ship. The water was translucent, the life below it visible upon inspection. The light blue seemed to change perspectives from dark to optimistic. For Eleanor, it seemed a double-edged sword. It was a new day, separated from the monstrosity that she had encountered last night. But it was also time for her to wake the crew and formulate a plan. She had moved away from the creature, yet towards what was coming. There was no doubt in her mind that Isabelle was coming when the moon peaked later that night. She turned away from the water and moved toward the places her men slept. She had spent very little time resting the night before. She wrote down her experience and moved on, back to the wheel. Real sleep was not an option. Before she reached the door, it swung open. Eleanor and Nathaniel had a near miss, almost colliding with each other. "Good. You are awake. Please get the rest of the men. I want all of you out here," she commanded. She was expecting a round of questions. To her pleasant surprise, he raised a single wide eyebrow and turned back around. When he came back up again, the men were single file behind him. "Good morning," Eleanor said after they were all on deck. She stood in front of the entire crew, arms crossed against her chest. Her feet stood on the spot where Isabelle's tail had been the night before. "I know this is unexpected," she continued. "We had talked of one more day of leisure, and I'm not one for formal meetings. But things have changed. We have very limited time, and I have something important..." she hesitated, shifting her weight. "…and strange to tell you," she continued. "While you all indulged last night, I stood on deck, as Nathaniel can attest. I saw something where I stand that has threatened to come back for me and threatened every man who fights it." "What do you mean by 'something,' captain? There were no other ships last night." one of the men in the back spoke. "That is the issue, John," Eleanor shifted her weight onto the other hip, arms still crossed. "I need your trust. Trust that I was awake. Trust that I was sober. After all, the barrels were down below with you." "Elle was up here when I rounded up the game dice. I attest," Nathaniel's voice boomed. His small testimony was all she had to back up her claim. She did not know how much value it would hold in their minds. He was the first mate but also close to her. It could sway them in either direction, but Eleanor saw it as better than nothing at all. To her surprise, Nathaniel continued. "The air felt different on deck when I came up and saw her. It smelled saltier and made my skin prickle. Believe our captain, all of you." Eleanor took a deep breath, giving the rest of them a moment to ask any questions before she dove into the story. With no objections or remarks, she began. "I am just going to get on with it. While alone up here last night, a creature of the sea made her way onto the ship. She had a long blue tail like that of a fish and a body and face of a human. On the surface, she looked like the mermaids you see on ships' masts and in old texts. This would be hard enough to see and share with you all had she not dark eyes and dangerous teeth. She was not a maiden. She was a monster curled in front of me, breathing our air." She stretched out her arms and shifted her weight back to both hips. The lack of sleep and adrenaline had her jitters coursing through her. "A mermaid, captain?" a voice asked, accompanied by a snort. "That's not a creature. That's a myth. Are you sure you didn't fall asleep standing up? For a moment?" "I thought I had fallen asleep at first, Isaac. I thought it over all night long," she said. She knew her men would obey her, but they had every right to question her sanity at a time like this. She needed them to push through it, though, and fast. "But it kept going," Eleanor continued, "and if it was a dream, then I am still dreaming. Yet, I cleaned up a sticky pool of ocean water from our ship after she had gone. "I know this is not easy, but it does not get any easier. You have all followed me onto this boat. You have followed me onto enemy boats and foreign shores. Now you must choose again. The mermaid who came last night, the creature that landed on the wood of my ship, told me she would return. She called me by name and gave us 24 hours' notice. "She told me her name was Isabelle as if it were appropriate that such an abomination had a human name." "A mermaid named Isabelle is coming back to our ship?" Isaac asked. The doubt rang clear in his voice. He was not digesting the story easily. He likely spoke for more of the men, even though there were not even murmurs among them. "Yes, Isaac. She sat on this spot I stand on and threatened to slay us all if we fought her to keep me above the water. This is the decision you all must make. If you choose not to believe me and mutiny instead, I will stand on deck at the full moon and keep you all safe. If the creature is true to her word, she will leave you alone if you stay away. If you choose to believe me and choose to keep me, she will fight. If she fights, then we all must fight. And that means preparing, and fast." Eleanor walked back over to the helm of the ship as she finished her speech. "I will give you all a moment. Send Nathaniel when you have decided. It's all or nothing, men. We all fight, or none of you do," She said and took the spokes of the wheel. She dared not look back. If they decided not to believe her and questioned her sanity — she wanted them to at least know she wasn't desperate at the end.


So there was this dress… It was a famous dress, well amoung our smaller group of friends it was notable. At this time in my life though this dress belonged to the girl I was dating. If I were to guess now it was a sleeveless mini dress. Very smooth fabric and silver. What made it famous, or infamous depending on how you looked at it, was that the person it belonged to had talked all her male friends into trying it on, and taking a picture of them in it. The second that saw it I wanted to wear it. (It might be helpful at this point to tell you that I was born a male, and at this point in my life I still figured I was a cis gendered straight male.) However being a guy in the late 1990’s it wasn’t something I was just going to jump right into. I was also dating the owner of the dress. Anyway, one day while hanging out with my girlfriend and one of her friends they hanged up in me. The boyfriend of the other girl had already had his picture in her photo album. So why not me? They bugged me for hours, and I honestly liked the attention. I finally agreed and gave into their request other than the picture. I Kicked them out of the room because there was no way I was leaving my boxers on for this. I striped quickly and couldn’t help but smile and blush. Then I put the dress on, smoothed out the stomach, turned to admire my butt in her full length mirror. I know right? I was such a girl even back then. Then there was a knock at the door and I walked second the room to open it. Stopping because my socks were limp around ankles. I bent down and pulled them both up so they were more than halfway up my calf. Then stood up and smoothed it out again… as if I was going to walk on the red carpet or something… When I finally open the door my girlfriends mother was standing there alone. There was a long awkward moment of realization for the both of us. Her eyes went wide for a second behind her glasses as she looked down then quickly back up. “Hi.” She said still dumbfounded that her daughter’s boyfriend was in her rather revealing dress. “Hi.” Was all I said back. “Is Jess in there?” Her mother asked me, now with a single finger covering her mouth. “Nope.” Was all I said wanting to cross my legs and make myself smaller. “Any idea where she is?” “She was supposed to be waiting outside the door.” I shrugged at her wanting to die immediately. “Oh okay, I’ll see if I can find her.” “Okay.” Was all I said and closed the door. The next 5 minutes or so was a lot for me. It involved a lot of blushing and covering my face, then a lot of getting dressed quickly. Then a lot more blushing and wondering what the hell they were talking about. After the two of them coming back to her room and laughing at me for about 20 minutes I finally got the conversation between her and her mother. “Are you aware that your boyfriend is in your room dressing in your clothes?” “Yes Mom.” “You want to explain why your boyfriend is in your room wearing your dress?” After Jess took the time to explain everything her mothers response was a long sigh. Then her mother said “Oh Jessica,” and walked away. And I hope you enjoyed my second most embarrassing story.


The roadside was overgrown with the dewy green of spring. The woodlands were quiet except for the clicking pecks of Woodpeckers, and the hum of throttled engines. A two coach convoy of double-decker buses was making its way past the river-bend. The two were in good shape if not slightly dented, with holes peppered throughout. The leader of the pack was painted a rather good looking red, while the trailing coach was slightly more orange colored. Large quantities of good paints were hard to come by in the post-clyism world. If you could find something close enough, you were lucky. The two buses were associated with a larger fleet of coaches, that ran consistently down Route-24, in the leafy North West. This region was in much better affairs as compared to the tumultuous South-west with the ongoing Navajo wars. Though not without its trouble. Gas was still scarce. Perhaps even more so, as supply lines from the South West were constantly disrupted by Navajo. There were weeks at a time when only a couple odd buses could be ran though the region. The difficulty was compounded by gangs of bandits that roamed the area, so fuel was scarce. It was also likely to be stolen. This was one of those weeks. The convoy was leading down a slightly narrow feeder street, as the main route had flooded. What was once a road was now a few feet under water, and while the convoy could have just plowed through the river, it was likely that they would've stalled out and died. Stalling always leads to death. So, yes, flooding. Flooding was not convenient, but post-clyism life was often not convenient, rarely was it. And the coaches were especially privy to this. They knew the drill: find a detour, don't stop, keep cruising. Never stop cruising. And so the convoy continued through the woodland, undeterred by the obstructions posed to the main route. The cabin of the main bus was wildly noisy. These vessels were antique machines, and not in especially great condition. The captain sat behind the driver, intently peering over his shoulder. Something did not look right. Above the noise, the captain alerted the flagman to wave the "get ready to slow down" flag. A window on the starboard side slid down, and out it came a diagonally split yellow and red flag. The flag man waved this flag vigorously, until the trailing flagman waved back a white flag meaning OK. The trailing member began to slow, and soon the convoy was at a full stop. The pneumatic brakes seized and purged their remaining pressure. This was very uncommon. This was very bad. The captain of the leading bus and the first mate of the trailing stepped off onto the asphalt, and convened. At that moment, the problem became clear. The two men were expecting a bridge that no longer existed. Looking down into the river below, the captain could see the fragments of said bridge. It appeared to have fallen recently, as it's presence was used to great effect days before. It was no secret that the many bridges in the North West woodlands were prone to collapse. Most were more than a century old. However, the captain did not suspect mere ordinary collapse. From the side of the bridge, the captain got a look at the iron supports. They were horribly sheered and partial melted and in the grass, the first mate spotted what appeared to be blasting cable. This confirmed the captains theory. The bridge had been blown apart at the supports. Quickly, the captain grabbed the first mate, and the two scurried up the hillside, back towards the blacktop. The captain ran with the boy all the way to the trailing coach. The trailing captain was confused and worried, but the leading coach declared that they were going to have to turn around. The leading captain was sweating bullets as he sprinted back to his bus. He had turned white; for this was truly, an unprecedented terror. The leading captain alerted the flagman to signal with the "let's get moving" flag. The flagman waved the flag with a powerful yet fluid motion, indicative of its urgency. The OK signal was received, and the captain ordered the driver to begin a U-turn. This was to be a difficult maneuver. Slowly the craft inched forward, with unease, working its way back and forth, over and over, to make a U-turn. Minutes passed, with each growing more tense, more unsure. It was coming, that they knew. No one, but a backwards hick would blow a bridge without reason. It was a trap and they were going to try like hell to get out of it. After several more minutes of casually bumping into trees, pissing off birds, excessive shouting, and awkwardly avoiding one another, the two buses made their way back down the road, hoping to make it back to the main route. Hoping to make it back home. The gunnery was on high alert. They didn't know what was coming or where it was coming from, so they had to keep their eyes and ears open. Lest they be slain, which to each man seemed a less than stellar choice. On top of the coach, the gunnery could still feel the hum of the engine, as well as the cool morning air of spring. It was very refreshing, almost nippy. It would've been nice if they weren't about to die. And indeed it seemed they were, because as a gunnery, they were the first line of defense for their coach and also, perhaps, the most exposed. They got all the view they wanted, except for when they couldn't see the guy who shot first. With this in mind, the gunnery mounts were trained every which way. They swerved in an instant, at every stick cracking dear, and bird call in the surrounding woods. It never once occurred to them that it might be on the road, where most things are. And in fact it was. The captain gave a holler, noting the presence of a barricade. The gunnery swerved once again, finally training on a single target. Further down the road a triple-decker bus was turned starboard side out, in an attempt to create a make-shift barricade. Men stood in the road, and one made a gesture to the upper deck. The enemy gunnery took aim at the convoy. The one man began to wave his arms in a stopping gesture. He seemed confident this would work, but as seconds drew on, he became concerned. The convoy was not stopping. The leading captain ordered full speed ahead. There was no stopping for other motorists, no negotiations, they had this one chance to floor it and ram the motherfuckers. The captain ordered the flagman to prepare to signal the other coach to pull alongside. Not yet, but if the driver should've died, the other would have to pull ahead. This was near suicide, but stopping was not an option. The gunnery opened up. Firing on the man in the road, in hopes that he was the captain. And that he was, that is, until he was shot dead running for cover. The enemy gunnery began to fire, and many other small arms popped off from behind the starboard wall. Little pops and bangs lit up the windshield, and bits of metal whipped through the cabin. The trailing gunnery took aim at the enemy gun, with a distinct disadvantage: the enemy had the high ground. The gunnery knew that he wasn't likely to get a body shot, or a head shot, but he reckoned that he could shred the other guy's legs, and so the gunnery took the shot. Tearing through the thin metal walls of the third deck, tiny chunks of metal ripped through the gunnery's legs, severing many arteries. He was mortally wounded. As many others tried to shoot the driver and carry the mortal captain inside the bus, It seemed that failure was imminent. There was no leadership and the convoy was coming fast. About a hundred yards down the road, the convoy continued it's charge seemingly unphased. A man or two had been shot through the foot and the flagman caught flak through the shoulder, but he was alive, most of the crew was, and disregarding the myriad holes punched through the front of the bus, it seemed this would be a successful assault. About a dozen men bailed out of the triple-decker, some firing stray rounds as the dove to the ground. It was at this moment that the convoy blew straight through the tail end of the bus, breaking the blockade. The triple-decker bus caught fire from the resulting fuel leak, cooking any of the crew who survived the impact, and sadly wasting fuel. The double-decker convoy continued down the road, the leading bus, once a lovely red, now scratched and shot to hell. The two buses continued until finally they met with the main route. From there they returned back to the bus yard. The run was a bust, but the buses were intact, and the crew were mostly spared. The leading bus was painted orange, and mended the best that post-clyism tech could muster. As for the bridge, that posed a much larger issue, the resolution of which had much less to do with buses..


(I know Im really bad at writing but Im annoyed because my sister couldn't be bothered to read it and I just want someone to read my story. Also Im not an adult or anything so my grammer is probably bad and so is the story itself sooo yeah) **The higher up, the bigger fall** **Chapter one - Something new, Something different** Gia's eyes are locked on the plain white roof of her room, just about as plain as her life is—her body sweating from the heat of the sun glistening through the small window of her apartment room. It's only affordable because the bathroom and kitchen are shared with the other residents. The hollow silence is filled with all the philosophical questions swaying freely in her head. The stale air coming in from the slightly opened window breathes her back to consciousness. She realizes she needs to get up. Though it's hard to find a reason why. Still half asleep she reaches for her phone, her eyes snap wide open when she sees that school started twenty minutes ago. “Again?” she whispers to herself with a low sigh, while grabbing her towel and heading to the bathroom. The second the hot water caresses her skin she regrets getting in. Her body feels lighter as if she can let go of all her worries. Her eyes close and she starts to slowly drift away. “EEK!!” her whole body flinches at the sudden attack of cold water stabbing at every part of her body. Like a reflex, her hands dart for the shower handle. Gia concludes that the world is telling her to stop wasting time and actually go to school. She puts on her clothes and looks in the mirror before leaving. The bags under her eyes have gotten way more apparent after the little sleep she got over the weekend. Her short black hair looks messier after being exposed to the water, and her choppy bangs covering her face are making it harder to see but she doesn't have the time or motive to fix it. Instead she covers it with the same hood she's been wearing for the last week. When Gia catches sight of the school her heart freezes and she completely forgets to breathe. *I don't know why I'm even hesitating, It's not like I care. I just have to get through today, It's fine. I'll be okay.* She thinks to herself, swallowing the anxiety down her throat and into her stomach before entering the school gates. She walks into the classroom during the middle of the session and doesn't even bother knocking. The teacher sighs loudly and is about to open his mouth to give another one of his never-ending speeches about how much she's disrespecting him. And of course, he's also going to give her detention, well that's what she thought but he stops himself mid-sentence, readjusts his tie, and says with a calm voice “You're late, again. I understand it's the first day of the week but I would appreciate it if you showed some respect and came to class on time so that you don't disturb the rest of the students.” Gia tries to avoid looking at him but she just has to check if he's being serious. Her brows dart upwards when she sees him forcing a smile at her, for the first time in… well… a long time she feels the urge to laugh. The urge is even bigger than her confusion right now, so much that she rebelliously cracks a smile. All eyes are on her but she is so distracted trying to contain her laughter that she forgets to move until the teacher clears his throat and says: “Gia, would you please sit down”, there's slight aggression in his tone but he's still adamant about keeping calm. She hurries to her seat but only when she sits down does it strike her. The unfamiliar scent. The person sitting in front of her, this entire time she hadn't noticed. Gia freezes in time, her own soundproof box with only her thoughts entering and nothing else. A refreshing scent of roses. Her wavy auburn hair flows gracefully down her back, her white clear skin, so smooth and shiny it's reflecting the sun. A transfer student? There's something off, something magical about her presence, like a blossomed flower in the midst of a dead forest. If only Gia could see her face, if only she could hear her voice, or just know her name. The curiosity is killing her, she can't think of anything throughout the whole class, thoughts like *If I had just come on time* and *Why isn't she turning around even once?* Never has she felt this much interest in someone or something. Every day is surrounded by loneliness and emptiness, frozen, stuck in the same never-ending loop. But today is different, she can feel it, the heat melting into her life. And the source is the girl sitting in front of her.


His name was Arthur Syracuse but, most people called him John. Nobody could say why exactly and he wouldn't look at you if you asked. The same shroud of uncertainty surrounded his presence at the Kansas City courthouse on that April afternoon. He was there, in the perfect spot when the gun shot rang out, standing directly in front of a congressman. He took the bullet square in the shoulder saving the congressman's life. A few months later, a stout and bureaucratic looking man stood on a porch. He was seeking shade from the oppressive heat and asking if anyone had seen Mr. Syracuse. Naturally, nobody dared recognize him by that name so, none could be of service until a voice came from the neighboring shade. "What can I do you for?" John said in a threateningly calm voice. "Yes, sir. I've been sent at the request of..." the fellow started before being interrupted. "Cut to the chase, fat boy. I got a busy day ahead of me and unless you're ready to be knee deep in cow shit, I suggest you move it along". John looked like he meant it but, an uproarious laughter came from inside the house. "He ain't got shit to do today. Don't let him lie to you." a beautiful woman came bouncing to John's side, dressed in a man's oversized shirt. She slapped John on the ass before reaching her arm up to his shoulder. "Come on babe. If you were gonna kill him he'd be dead already. Let him speak." John sighed, "You heard the lady. Speak your piece." The sweating man hurried down the neighbor's porch and onto John's. He began "Here-" "Excuse me." John interrupted, "Did you introduce yourself to the lady?" She dug her knuckles into John's side. "Stop fucking with the man. I can introduce myself but, I don't think we need to know each other's names. Do we, Sir?" "No, Maam. Now, I'm here on official business from -" he started again but John turned back inside. "Sir, ten thousand dollars!". John turned back to face the man who was wearing a slightly too small suit. "For what?" The man motioned inside and John nodded. They sat down at the table as Mrs. Syracuse, presumably, filled a glass of water for the rapidly evaporating gentleman. "So. The congressman is eternally grateful for your saving of his life. He wants to reward you with a job. As you know, he doesn't believe in hand outs. He believes you've given him an opportunity to do great things but, he still has to do them. So in turn, he will give you the opportunity to do great things as well." "I hear a lot of persuasion and not much substance. What is the job?" John impatiently asked. "Right. The man in this sketch. He's wanted for a litany of felonies. Some despicable acts. Truly heinous-" "Hey!" John said sternly. "Enough with the dressing." "Sorry", the gentleman continued "Force of habit. His name isn't known but, he's been referred to as the reaper in some towns, the ghost in others. The sketch is poor, as you can see. It also came from an unknown source but, it's what we've got. The man is considered armed and dangerous. He usually works alone but, occasionally works with others. Those others typically end up dead. He's smart. He was last seen near Amarillo and believed to be headed south." "10 thousand isn't enough" John said. Mrs. Syracuse sat down at the table and leaned forward just a bit. "Now, Sir. You didn't come all this way to get a No, did you? Do we seem like patient people? I'll give you one chance. How much is he really willing to pay?" The man took a drink of his water as sweat continued to pour down his face. "$100,000 and a paid, ceremonial position as Lawman of the West, provided he wins his bid for president". "President?" John shook his head. "Yes! And can you imagine the headlines when someone from his own district goes and cleans up the district of another?" the man smiled at the brilliance before quickly realizing he was the only one enjoying the thought. "Alright, half upfront, half when either the job is done or, when I or we die trying. Either way, I get my money. I've got mouths to feed." John said. "Of course." the gentleman pulled out an envelope with keys to a safe box. He handed them to John before hurrying out of the house and into the scorching sun. "Well, Suzy. I hope you're ready to ride." John smiled. Suzy looked at John as she fell onto the bed before asking "Worried you wore me out last night?" John looked up at his muse biting her slip. "Sorry, love. We've got to go. I know a guy down there who knows the lay of the land. The sooner we get there, the better." Suzy rolled over and unbuttoned the top of the shirt. "Come on, baby". John got up and walked over to his calling siren. He leaned down and kissed her deeply before pulling back. "We don't have time for loving." Suzy let go, falling back onto the bed, lightly annoyed at the failure of her seduction "Pretty sure we have two minutes. Any more would be a record" she said with a grin. John slapped her exposed ass and started to pack for the trip. Suzy walked up behind him. She leaned in and kissed him on the back of his neck. She whispered in his ear, "Share my pain" and bit her teeth into his earlobe. "Feel better?" John asked. Suzy licked the little drop of blood on her teeth "Yeah. Let's go get this son of a bitch".


On a dark and Eerie night, I was walking alone down an asphalt path, leading somewhere which has long since been forgotten. I could not see an end, only the long path stretching out amidst a sea of grass and flowers. I look up at the sky and see a black orb amidst the stars, so dark it could only be described as an abyss, ‘the moon’ I thought. I kept looking up and saw something I could not explain. The moon, spanning what felt like a fifth of the night sky, glowing with more vigor than the sun ever could, yet it still could not cast as much as a beam of light on this dark path. A man walks past and asks, "Oh, why the long face, young man?". I look down at him, letting my eyes off the beautiful moon in the sky, "There are two moons." I exclaimed. "Well of course" he answered, "On a night such as this they come in droves!". I didn't understand what he meant, "’A night like this'? What's so special about tonight?" i though to myself. I look back at the man, but he had already walked farther down the path. I tried to follow him, but my foot fell through the asphalt and into a pool of water that wasn't there a second ago. I pulled myself out of the water and looked up to see a massive pirate ship go past me, a ship covered in neon green lights with passengers drowned in said light, it floated past me with a violent force. Before I knew it, it had disappeared into the fog before my very eyes. Wait, fog? I looked around, and suddenly I was surrounded in a thick layer of fog. I couldn't see more than a few meters in any direction, for some reason i could see a bench, completely unclouded by the fog, it was a surreal sight. I walked along the path through the fog, the journey to the bench was simple and short. Once I sat down, I felt an overwhelming sense of comfort, "Just for a little bit, I'll close my eyes." I said. I sat down on the bench, and closed my eyes, suddenly, as soon as I closed my eyes a melting heat drew over me, I opened my eyes and somehow, I was in a desert, surrounded by sand and rock, the heat of the sun was ever prevalent, but its light had been completely eclipsed by the moon. oh, what a beautiful moon, I'd almost forgotten its mesmerizing glow, but wait, weren't there two moons? I looked around the sky until I spotted the orb of darkness, even with the glowing sun it was completely black. It wasn't a moon, but I didn't know what else it could be. I heard steps from behind, a girl my age walked past me, I ran up to her and walked along the path with her, we didn't say anything, just relish in the comfort of the little company we provided each other with. We walked and walked, the occasional glances were cast between us, after what felt like hours, the heat still hadn't as much as made me sweat a drop, the girl also looked completely unfazed. She stopped and i did the same, she looked off into the horizon and I followed, I didn't know what I was looking at, something distant was kicking up dust and sand, it was shrouded in its own personal cloud of said dust and sand. When I got a proper look, I was so shocked at what I had seen. At least a dozen dinosaurs were trampling the sand beneath them as they ran in a craze towards us, I was completely flabbergasted, I had no idea what to do. Suddenly the girl grabbed my hand and ran towards the hoard. Somehow, she threw me on top of a triceratops and then got on herself, we were on top of the stampede, completely out of harm's way. The back of the huge lizard beast felt oddly comforting? I don't know how to describe it, but I took one last look at the girl which had seemingly saved my life, as I knew somehow that I would never see her again. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the bench, but this time i was neither in a dark and dreary field filled with flowers, nor in a desert filled with fossils and sand, but in a rainforest. The first thing I saw was the path, the same I was walking in the field, same slithering, cracked and sun-bleached asphalt, it stretched far into the rainforest. On the opposite side of the path from where I was sitting there was a ravine, a giant crack in the ground, spanning the whole side of the road, looking out over the gorge I saw countless rollercoasters, some looked brand new, some looked hundreds of years old, I saw a couple carts go by, none of them populated. As I trekked through the jungle, marshes, and surrealistic forests of flowers, I could feel I was almost at my goal. As I turned one last corner, I saw a house; it was small, yellow, with two stories and a small shed. But in the place where a door would usually be, there was a toilet instead, a normal white toilet made of porcelain.


Inside of a dark room, two figures sit on either side of a table. A man wearing a white lab coat holding a recording device and a camera behind him. On the other side was a humanoid, dark blue robot, standing 2.5 meters and weighting 300 kilograms. The robot's head was resembled that of a woman's face. A one way window lines one of the walls hiding the people watching. "This is an interviewer for Cerric Robotics," The man said. "interviewing Participate 2 of our Full-Body Cybernetic Surgery Program. Please state your name for the recording." "My name is Mara." "Thank you Mara. Now please explain why did you enter our program. If you don't mind of course." Mara sighed. "Well, uh, I was in the navy, and my ship was raided b-by, and there was a fire." The tone of her voice suggested she was upset and holding back tears, though she lacked the ability to cry. "That's enough for now Mara." The interviewer interrupted. "Now, please tell how were your first few days in this new body like." "It was... new. I had to relearn to walk, use my arms and hands, and speak. But I have to say the hardest part was breathing, or should I say learning that I don't need to breath." "I imagine that would be difficult." Mara's breathing started becoming heavier. "Is it stuffy in here? It feels stuffy." "Is there a problem Mara?" The interviewer asked, concerned. "Yeah, it's find. I'm just a little nervous. I can feel my heart beating fast." "Mara?" "I don't have a heart." Mara said in a panic. "I don't have a heart." The interviewer looked towards the observers. "Please calm her down." After a few seconds, Mara's breathing slowed down to a normal pace. "Are you ok Mara?" The interviewer asked. "I'm fine, just a little itchy." "Itchy?" The interviewer asked. "Never mind. How has your physical therapy been going so far?" "It's going." She said. "Nothing weird or anything like that happened. I'd say the best part is the one of the other patients I take classes with." "Please tell me more about this patient." Mara smiled. "She's apart of a different program, though I don't know what the program was about. She's very nice and funny, and we've became fast friends." "Mind telling me her name?" "She calls herself K." The interviewer was confused. "I'm not familiar with this K." He turned back to the observers on the other side of the glass. "Do we have any female participates with a 'K' name?" "She told me that she's the daughter of someone who works here." Mara said, hoping that would help. She was scratching her arm. The interviewer was confused. "We don't have any employee’s children in any of our programs." "Huh, weird." Mara wasn't paying attention. "Why does my skin feel weird?" "Should we stop the interview?" "Where's my skin?" "Someone please deactivate the subject." "I don't have skin. What did you do to my skin?" "What do you mean that something is interfering with the controller?" Mara stood up, the force of which flipped the table. "K told me you stole my skin. Give me my skin back!" The recording stopped. "What should we do about the subject Mr. Cerric?" Asked one of the scientist. The office of Cerric Robotic's CEO was surprisingly homely for a robotics company CEO, with book shelves lining the walls and a nice, soft couch better suited for a therapist office rather than a robot engineer. Behind his desk, an older man with a mechanical arm pondered the question. Finally, he answered. "This is obviously a case of outside interference. I suggest keeping Mara and the other participates in their quarters for the time being, and focus our efforts preventing something like this from happening again." "What about the-" Another employee asked before being cut off. "Create a statement explaining the situation. Don't lie about what happened, but you don't need to tell everything. If that's everything, please be on your way." Silently, the team of scientist and PR left the office. Cerric, finally alone, sighed. "Kaitlyn, what did you do?" A voice, resembling that of a text-to-speech device, replied to his question. "I am making friends." The CEO burst out of his chair and slide open a small latch in the wall behind him. "Your *friend* nearly killed someone because of you." A pair of bright, glowing, purple eyes appeared from the darkness on the other side of the wall.


The sensation of cold water on her head awakened Fiona from her already inconsistent sleep. It had rained through the whole night, and so she had fled into an old ruin of a building. It was still cold but the crumbling walls protected her from wind and rain. Now however, the water was dripping from somewhere down on her. Drip, drip, drip. Okay enough, annoyed Fiona got up. Drying her pelt with professional determination, the tabby cat heard a noise followed by the chattering of birds. She went to the next opening and peeked into the direction of the clacking noise. There were two crows quarrelling over a snail, which had hidden in her shell. Taking the shell in its beak the one crow tried to shatter it on a stone. But the house was hard and so it jumped up again into a new direction, where the other crow would catch it and repeat the process. Croaking in excitement and anger because of the task they had. Fiona felt her stomach rumbling, she too was hungry. The thought of catching one of the crows crossed her mind. But it would be dangerous, sharp talons and deadly beaks could be the last thing she saw. Fiona was not fully grown, not too long ago her mother had chased her away. She had not caught much since then, mice and hummingbirds. But never a prey as big and dangerous as a fully grown crow. The black feathers glittered in the sunlight, and again the shell was thrown against the rock. This time the house shattered, revealing the snail inside. Its feelers were searching for shelter, in the suddenly cold world. Yet the crow already plucked it from the ground, swallowing it whole. Fiona felt sorry for the snail, but crows needed to eat too. Which reminded her of the empty stomach inside of her own body. The crows flew away after concluding that there were no more snails around. Fiona’s gaze followed them; they had a nest not far from the building. Fiona thought, when there was a nest then there was prey as well. Young hatchlings not as dangerous as their parents. Hesitantly she followed, stalking through the thicket sneaking to the giant tree trunk. The tree was not very high, the greatest danger would be to get up and down out of sight before the parents would return. Patiently she waited until the two pitch-black birds set out again in search for new prey, they could feed to the hungry throats. Swiftly she climbed up, using her claws to get a hold at the uncompromising wood. The smell of young birds filled her nose and soon she could hear the twittering hatchlings. Not too long ago she herself had cried after her mother like this. Pity came over her, encouraging her conscience. Perhaps she should leave, searching for another prey. The short-haired cat looked at the sky, their parents were nowhere to be seen. Food was not always easy to find; it could go a day or two without anything to feast upon. Again, Fiona could feel the emptiness of her belly. She ignored her heart’s voice and broke the neck of one of the four little crows. Swiftly as she had climbed up, she got down again. Hiding under the next best bush. When the crows returned, she could hear their cries of losing one of their dearest ones. They flew around searching and croaking in fear of never seeing their child again. Fiona left the scene after the meal, a dark cloud hanging over her. In the morning her heart was full and her belly empty. Now her belly was full and a hole had opened up in her heart. Everyone needs to eat and everyone needs to die someday. Everyone wants to live, but not everyone survives the struggle of life.


I pulled the coat closer around me as the chill of the February day seeped through my coat. The road was packed with traffic, and I kept walking along the sidewalk. I slowed to a stop as I came near the crosswalk and pushed the button and waited, watching the multiple of cars with their snug drivers and passengers inside. My stomach grumbled and I grimaced. I glanced up at the road sign, reading the words “Blue Lakes Blvd.” My stomach grumbled even louder and I patted it. “Hold your horses,” I grumbled back, “Lunch is right there.” Indeed, it was. I could see the DQ logo standing out above the small square building, a line of cars in the drive through. I’d rather walk the two miles to this DQ, as the one on Addison was not known for being speedy. More then once I had been forced to wait for a long time. “I could really use someone to talk to,” I grumble. “Maybe if my lazy, no account husband would work from home and not at the hotel, I could talk to someone.” “*Hello from the outside!*” The voice caused me to start, and I looked around. No one was nearby, a kid was sitting on the hood of his car in the parking lot roughly four parking spots from where I stood. I shook my head. “Damn paranoia,” I grumble. “This is what happens when my hubby won’t even let me get a dog! The jerk!” Now, you might think that I dislike the jerk. Nope, I love the jerk, but I wanted a dog. It was hard staying at home all day. I pulled the phone from my pocket to see if anyone had texted. Not my mom, not my husband, not the mother-in-law. Not even my best friend had texted me. So, back in the pocket it went, the phone feeling weird rubbing against my cold legs through the jeans. The crosswalk light lit up after what seemed like a couple minutes, and I started walking across the road. Luckily, we didn’t get too much in the way of ice, and the road was fairly clean of slush. As I was walking across, I barely got pass the first set of cars when I heard the voice again. “*Take me out tonight!”* It was songful, keeping in time with the lyrics. I frown, looking behind me. Nobody was following me, and I glance towards the cars. The driver nearest me was in what appeared to be a very angry yelling match with his dashboard. I frown and shake my head. “Well, at least it’s date night and indeed, I can’t wait to be taken out tonight.” *“In the dark of the night, evil will find her!”* “All right!” I snap, rushing across the road to the sidewalk on the other side of the road. “Whose talking? Don’t you dare think to tell me I’m not hearing you!” *“I’ve got a hand in your pocket and a key on your chain!”* I glanced down at my pocket and indeed put my hand in there, following the suggestion and pulled it out. It was an iPhone and as I looked at it, the screen was filled with the album cover of *One Foot* by Walk the Moon. It was currently paused. I look at it, and frowning, pushed the home screen to close it. That was a hubby song, he liked it and I don’t know why it would be on my phone. Instead, it did not move, but stayed on there. “This is strange,” I mutter, “Why aren’t you working? You better not freeze up, I know you’re a piece of junk but that’s no reason to act this way.” The screen changed to an entirely new song and the phone suddenly sang out, “*I’m sorry that I let you down, l-l-let you down!*” My mouth dropped open. Was my phone sentient? Was the robot revolution at hand? My husband would love writing such a story. Phones secretly conspiring to take over the world. He’s a real nerd. A grin to myself and I decide to test it, because of how silly it was that such a thing could actually be sentient. “Alright, let’s pretend that you are sentient,” I say aloud, “What day is it today?” *“It’s just another manic Monday!”* it replied cheerfully. This puzzled me. It was being a little too sentient for my taste. Like reddit bots. You ever see those things? Sometimes they are crazy scary with how easily they get conjured up and have full length conversations. Deciding to play along, I decided to ask one more question. This time I ask the phone, “What was my dad’s favorite song to sing to me?” The lock screen changed to an entirely new album cover. The Temptation’s “My Girl” album cover popped up and sang a single lyric from it. This was enough to convince me that my phone was indeed sentient, like Chucky from *Child’s Play*. I just hoped that it wasn’t going to try killing me. I was a little confused as to why it could only speak in music though if it had indeed become self-aware. It reminded me of that one movie, where a robot can only talk through the radio. I forget the name, the hubby could probably answer that. I didn’t have long to ponder though this turn of events. The phone decided to speak up and ask its own question. *“Why haven’t I heard from you?”* the Southern-accented voice of Reba strong. I blink a few times. “What?” I ask, “I don’t understand.” “*It’s been a long, long time*.” “Look,” I sigh, “I’ve been really busy, ya know? Besides, you’re a phone. I use you talk to others not at you.” “*Do you really want to hurt me?”* the phone replied. I mean, I wanted to chuck it a few times for being old and I’m pretty sure it was junk and virus filled. However, I wasn’t going to say that. My mom had always taught me to not say anything that wasn’t nice. So, I wasn’t going to say that. “Look, I don’t really want to,” I tell my phone, staring at it. “I just.....look, why now do you want to talk to me? Why reveal yourself after all this time?” The phone suddenly went silent. It didn’t respond and I was reminded of a youtube video buffering. It had that feeling to it. No, it had a thoughtful feeling to it. Like it was trying to figure out how to put into words what it wanted to say. Not sure how to word things in such a way not to make the recipient angry. The pause came to an end and the phone’s question came. “*Where is my mind?”* That was an odd question and stumped me. How exactly do I answer that question? I wasn’t a philosopher, and I wasn’t a technician. I didn’t know how to respond to such a question. That was some deep, soul-searching question that was beyond my ability to answer. “I don’t know,” I respond. The phone responded with “Hurt” by Johnny Cash. The way it played it, it was very slow and melancholy. I felt my heart strings being tugged and I didn’t like it. I had enough troubles with heartburn to deal with that. So, I urge it to ask me another question. “*Do you believe in magic*?” That was an odd question. I blink at the phone, wondering why it was asking me such weird questions. Where was its mind? Did I believe in magic? What, did I miss the owl with the invitation to Hogwarts or something? Was I accidentally in Salem and the Sanderson Sisters going to eat me alive? Don’t know why they would, I was a full-grown woman, dammit! “Look,” I said, my stomach growling loudly, protesting my not having fed it. “I guess I do, but I don’t know what that has to do with anything. Look, I’m hungry and....” “*What is love?”* I glance at my phone and I’m getting a little frustrated at these nonsensical questions. I was hungry, I hadn’t realized I had stopped moving once I got to the other side of the road, DQ was close by and I was being asked questions that weren’t part of my major in college. If it wanted some of these answers, it should watch a TED talk. “Well,” I say trying to be polite, “That’s a very interesting question. Love is about finding your soul mate that makes you feel appreciated, and that you are enough. You don’t need to hide your vulnerabilities to them. It makes you feel good, sad, happy, frustrated and wonderful at the same time. What’s with that question anyways?” “*I love you, you love me,”* the phone sang to me in the Barney theme-song, then it shocked me by changing the song. “*I know he’s just not right for you.....I know I can treat you better, Better than he can!”* The song lyrics caught me by surprise and I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. This was some silly nonsense that honestly, I was too hungry to deal with. The phone was proclaiming it’s undying love to me? Didn’t it see the ring on my finger? Hadn’t it been in the same room when we did more than declare our undying love for each other? “You are so silly phone,” I giggle like a little girl. “What does that even mean? I have a husband.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: This is your final **Spooktober** prompt. And this week we’re taking a dive into the slasher horror genre. Show me someone who survives against all odds, a final girl, or even an unexpected hero that takes the killer down. Or maybe you want to twist it and go with the big bads POV. One of my favorite things about this particular subgenre is the age-old question at the very end: Is it *really* over? Have fun! - **Sentence: I wouldn’t let him win.** - **Bonus Constraint 1:** Genre is Slasher Horror. *Please keep the subreddit rules in mind while writing. Nothing overly gory, graphic, or explicit please.* - **Bonus Constraint 2: A weapon malfunctions.** This week’s challenge is to use the above sentence in your story, in some way. You can change the tense and/or pronouns if you like, but the sentence should remain intact. **Stories without the sentence will be disqualified from rankings.** Use of the bonus constraint and image are not required. You can check out my ever growing if you’d like some fun, spooky music! **Don’t forget to after the submission deadline!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting.   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I hold a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. You can complete the following things for points. - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points, unless otherwise stated (not required) - ***Actionable* Feedback:** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Submitting nominations:** 5 points (total) *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 5 detailed crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.*   *** #Rankings - **First:** - Submitted by u/luckiestredditor - **Second:** - Submitted by u/wileycourage - **Third:** - Submitted by u/Prof_Bloodsoe - **Bay’s Spotlight:** - Submitted by u/RobbieMargo - **Crit Star:** - u/TheLettre7 *Note: Crit Stars receive 1 Crit Credit on r/WPCritique, but in order to receive Crit Credits, you must have made at least 1 post on that subreddit or have linked your accounts on our Discord.* *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires and other fun events! - On **November 11**, we’re hosting a **World-Building Interview** on our Discord. Come check it out and sign up by November 4th to get in on the fun and chat about your world with other writers! - Join in our weekly writing chat on . We discuss a new topic every week! New here? Come introduce yourself! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


"Well, that was a lovely visit to my sister's." Olivia skips through the woods like a young girl. "No, it wasn't. I never finished cleaning the grass," Jim says. "Don't worry. I'm sure someone will clean it," Frida says. "Oh my god." Reid rolls his eyes. "I can't believe it. It finally happened. I reached my breaking point with you two." "What?" Jim asks. "The grass was fine. You were just running your fingers through it," Reid says. "You just can't handle the level of fine details that I can," Jim says. "Wow, it's actually nice witnessing the freak-out for a change," Polly says. "Shut up, Polly," Reid yells. Olivia claps her hands at that quip. "And Jim, do you even know where we're going?" "Of course, I do. It's currently the morning. The sun rises in the south and sets in the north. As such, we need to go this way to go southeast back to our home," Jim says. Reid blinks his eyes. "That's it. I quit. I can't handle that level of stupidity. If the rest of you want to stay with him and die of starvation lost in the woods, go right ahead. I'll be going to back to the house." "Okay, have fun," Frida says. "Uh, I agree with him. I think we're going the wrong way." Polly joins Reid. "I don't really care who I go with. This has been such a wonderful day. I guess I'll stick with Jim because going with you two is more work," Olivia says. "What the hell? How is it more work? You're going to be walking no matter what," Polly says. "I wouldn't expect you to understand, Polly. I don't want to change directions." Olivia waves which angers Polly. "Come on, Reid." She grabs his arm and drags him away from the trio who shrug and continue on their path. "I cannot believe them." Polly pulls at her hair. "They're so idiotic." Reid nods his head. "If it wasn't for us, they would've died so many times." "And the audacity to act as if they're smarter than us." "Exactly, they can't string together a sentence without making three ludicrous statements." "It's disgusting." "And Olivia is always teasing me." Polly shakes her head while Reid laughs. "That isn't funny." "You got to admit she's smarter than the other two." "But she's so mean to me." "I don't know. She hasn't actually hurt you has she?" "She placed a raccoon in my bed while I was asleep." Reid nearly falls over in a fit of laughter. "I forgot that. That was amazing." "You're lucky I didn't get rabies." "Are you sure you didn't?" Reid asks. Polly pushes him. "Alright, I'll knock it off." "Do you even know where we are?" Polly asks. "Uhh." Reid straightens his back and rubs his head. "I was following you." "I was following you." The two stare at each other for several moments. "We have to keep moving. We can't let them get the better of us," Reid says. "Absolutely," Polly nods, "Let's keep going." "I found a sparrow's nest." Jim is in a tree to help navigate. "Oh my god, toss it down here. I want to see," Frida says. "Okay." Jim lets go with both hands. At that moment, the sparrow returns and starts to attack him. He falls off the tree and land on his back. "Are you okay?" Frida runs next to him while Olivia giggles. "I'm so glad I went with these idiots," she says. "Stay calm." Reid hyperventilates. "I think I saw that tree before," Polly says. "No, you didn't," Reid yells. "Yes, I did. I made that carving to mark it. See." Polly points to a scratch on it. "No, you didn't." Reid grabs Polly's shoulders. "We are not lost. That mark was put there by someone else." "Reid, we are lost. There's no use in denying it." Polly grips his arms. "I know what I'm doing. I'm not going to let Jim beat me." Reid breaks off into a dead spring. Polly chases after him. "Wait, Jim isn't winning. He's probably even more lost right now," Polly shouts. Reid stops moving, and Polly pants when she reaches him. "Told you we were fine." He points at a small metal bunker. "Did you know about that place before you started running?" Polly puts a hand on his shoulder to stabilize herself. "Of course I did," Reid says. "Bullshit." "Either way, it's still shelter. Come on." Reid starts walking again causing Polly to lose her balance. When they reach the door, Reid knocks several times. After getting no response, he opens and walks inside. The first room is furnished with a table, two chairs, and a small couch. A large bookshelf lines the walls with two doors beside the entrance breaking the bookshelf. On the table, there's a large bowl of cooked corn. "Fantastic." Reid walks over and starts eating the corn. "Uh, are you sure that's a good idea? Someone clearly lives here," Polly says. "If someone lived here, they wouldn't leave a bowl of food out in the open with the door unlocked. Besides, we can leave when we're done," Reid says. "That's true." Polly joins him, and they finish the bowl of corn. "Say. It's getting late. Maybe we should nap here too?" "Great idea." Reid opens one of the doors to find a storage supply of food. The other door has two cots and a door to the bathroom. The two go into the room and lie on cots. "Reid, can we switch cots? Mine is too hard," Polly says. "Absolutely not," Reid says. They fall asleep. They are awoken by the sound of metal crashing against metal. "Haha, got you intruders," a voice from outside says. "Damnit," Polly says.


At ninety-two years old, Herman Barrett had been through a hell of a lot in his life, and complained about it a hell of a lot more. In his mind, however, he’d earned that right. Those kids today, those yuppies, those whippersnappers, just didn’t know how good they had it. The things his generation had gone through to give them the cushy, oversaturated lives they blasted shamelessly over the internet. He’d make sure they knew it though. Darn sure. Herman was born on the cusp of the Great Depression. His father slaved away in a rubber factory to put food on the table of their ramshackle apartment, earning a fatal cancer as an end-of-year bonus. By the time Herman finished high school, he faced death himself, serving in a little thing called WWII. Barely able to fend off his local bullies, he was placed against the might of the Jerry army, promptly wounded when he misfired his own artillery shell. He woke up screaming on the boat back across the Atlantic, his searing side loaded with shrapnel. The war hadn’t been all bad though. Without it, he wouldn’t have been forced to recover in that dreary Toronto hospital, his bedpan emptied by a pretty nurse named Cordelia Robbins. Once he’d been deemed ‘healed enough’ to leave, he took the opportunity to marry her. Though he wanted to stay in the city, times were tough, so they left for Cordelia’s sleepy hometown of Day’s End, where he could work in her father’s metal shop. They moved into a small two-floor home on the corner of Swindon and Bristol, where they spent some seventy-odd years together. There they raised three boys and a host of dogs, celebrated birthdays, anniversaries, Christmases- a barrage of happy memories. Times had changed though. They’d certainly changed. Now Cordelia resided in a brass urn on the mantle, and Herman’s only regular human contact was with Juanita, the caregiver his eldest son hired to maintain his fragile longevity. Herman had convinced himself that Juanita was more for his son’s peace of mind than his own wellbeing. At the very least, her daily visits meant that he didn’t have to be locked up in a home- he’d take a second load of shrapnel before he let that happen. Currently, Herman was seated at his kitchen table. He was flanked by the usual fare- orange pill cups and bowls with hardened-on oatmeal residue. Juanita was across from him, watching the blood pressure monitor that gripped his forearm like a chain. “Hold still” she instructed, voice professional despite her shrinking patience. “This is stupid!” Herman spat back. “Thing’s so tight it’s gonna chop my arm off!” Juanita rolled her eyes as the rubber cuff swelled, the gauge arrow rocking side-to-side until it finally settled on a reading. “One-forty-five, Mr. Barrett. Still high” she reported disapprovingly. “You need to lay off the cupcakes.” “What cupcakes?” Herman asked, brushing a rogue sprinkle from the tablecloth. His caregiver sighed heavily, pulling off the monitor with a crackle of Velcro. She placed it in a bulging grey case of what Herman saw as further instruments of torture. “Are we about done?” he grumbled. “The Wendigos are on at 2. Although a lot of players have stupid hair nowadays, you ever notice that? What happened to just a nice, short Sunday cut? Now you’ve got mohawks and dreadlocks and hipster beards and all this crap.” “You still need to do your exercises.” “Exercises?!” Herman gasped. “Oh no, I’ve got things to do. Important things. The exercises can wait. I’ll just double it up tomorrow.” Juanita frowned. “No arguments, Mr. Barrett. This is your health we’re talking about. You refuse to use a walker, so your legs need to be in tip-top condition.” She always said that. *Tip-top*. It drove Herman insane. Juanita lifted a rolled-up mat from her bottomless chest of supplies. “I’ll get this set up. You just stay here and relax…and that means *stay*.” She flicked on a nearby radio, the Glenn Miller Orchestra swelling from nothingness. Herman scowled, watching as Juanita disappeared from the kitchen. He didn’t *mind* her company, truth be told. She was someone to speak to. Someone who would listen to his long, meandering stories. But she was certainly no Cordelia. Cordelia wouldn’t have forced him to do exercises or have his blood pressure taken or swallow pills the size of his head. She would’ve wrapped her arms lovingly around him from behind, whispered sweet nothings in his ear, her red locks brushing the side of his face. She certainly wouldn’t have made him stay in any one spot, that was for sure. Gripping the chair-back, Herman hoisted himself up, vertebrae cracking like pistol shots. He’d been warned not to move too much on his own, especially up and down the stairs. One morning Juanita arrived to find him lying sideways by the bottom step, hip bone jutting out like a dorsal fin. He was admittedly not as swift as he used to be, but an old war wound plus being almost a hundred basically guaranteed that. He headed defiantly to the den, with a stride resembling Frankenstein’s monster. Rather than a cane or walker (“what do you think I am, some kind of old man?!”), Herman had set up an elaborate trail of chairs throughout the main floor of the house, allowing him to grapple his way around. It also gave him quick places to rest, which he needed every few feet. He was already out of breath by the time his slippers sunk into the den carpet, the Orchestra but a muffle of brass. He collapsed into his favourite armchair, a thin sunbeam slipping through the musty drapes. The chair had been there over fifty years now and, though stuffing burst from the seams and it groaned and creaked just as much as he did, to Herman it was the most comfortable thing in the world. It also gave him a perfect view of the fireplace, the inside blackened with soot from blazes long ago. The mantle was covered in old volumes and trinkets, his wife’s urn resting in the centre, on eternal guard over the house she once kept. Beside it was a yellowed photo of the couple from the day they’d moved in, standing on the front lawn over a wooden “SOLD!” sign. His arm was around her, their sparkling ’46 Ford in the driveway. Looking into his own younger eyes, Herman saw himself as almost handsome. He had thick black hair rather than the grey weeds that now sprouted from his scalp. His skin was clear instead of liver-spotted, he stood tall and at attention rather than hunched over like Quasimodo. Cordelia looked even better, though she always had. Despite the black-and-white of the image, he could still see her fiery red hair, the blue of her eyes, the smear of pink on her lips. He could hear her laughing as she told her father to keep the Kodak steady, the smell of wet paint wafting from the new garden fence. “Mr. Barrett!” echoed Juanita’s voice, interrupting his memories. Herman grumbled. Maybe if he pretended to be dead she’d leave him alone. However, his caregiver was already leaning in the doorway, wearing an arm brace. “What are you doing in here? The sooner we start, the sooner we finish. You know that.” He took a longing glance at the photograph. A young Cordelia was smiling at him. “Fine” Herman murmured. It was best not to argue with the woman who controlled his medication. Hoisting himself out of the armchair, he ignored Juanita’s outstretched arm for support and headed down the hall, using seatbacks like stationary crutches. He soon arrived, gasping for oxygen, in what had been a rec-room in its infancy, when the boys were growing up. Back then it was home to a train set and a ping pong table. Once they went off to school, Cordelia transformed it into Herman’s gently-used office. Now it was filled with junk. Towers of cardboard boxes lined the walls, nearly blotting out the overhead light, each crammed to the brim with mementos from ninety-two years of life. The old ping pong table hid behind it all, cobwebs strung from the legs like a second netting. When Herman did bite the big one, his sons were going to have a terrible time sorting through it all. It brought a wry smile to his face. “Alright, Mr. Barrett, easy does it.” He groaned as Juanita slowly lowered him onto the rubber mat, laid out on the dusty tile. He was on his back, as helpless as a turtle, staring up at the plaster ceiling. Juanita tightened her arm brace and rolled up the hem of his corduroy pantleg, exposing a near-skeletal limb. She slowly stretched it upward, trying to combat the stiffness, knowing what was coming. The leg had been raised barely five degrees when Herman started barking in agony. “That’s enough! That’s enough!” As his face contorted, Juanita gently returned the leg to a resting position. The left was always more tender, though probably not as gut-wrenchingly painful as Herman made it out to be. Ignoring him, she went to work on the right. “So, I was speaking with Charlie this morning…” she reported. Charlie was Herman’s eldest son, now a senior himself- he was also the one who paid her to routinely torture him. He had escaped Day’s End for the city the day he turned eighteen, a lifetime ago. “He said you need to finish the final draft of your will.” “Isn’t that some punk lawyer’s job?” “You still have to write it. Charlie just wants to make sure that all your…assets” she glanced around at the looming boxes “…end up where you want them to, and not an estate sale.” “Estate sale? They’ll have to pry this stuff from my cold dead….” Herman clenched his teeth as Juanita gave his leg another jolt. She’d learned how to shut him up when she had to. “He also suggested you leave something to charity. Maybe the Salvation Army?” “Not that thieving cult.” “Well, think about it then. It’d be nice to leave a legacy.” As he stewed over the thought of his will, she suddenly wrenched his leg up a full ten degrees. Herman screamed. “Stop it! Are you trying to kill me woman?! You’re fired! You’re fired!” Juanita let go of the leg, and it flopped to the mat with dead weight. She knew her job was stable- Charlie had assured her as much, no matter what his father said. Herman ‘fired’ her at least once a week. “I can tell you’re tense, Mr. Barrett. Why don’t you try some of those stretches I gave you in your chair tonight, and we’ll give it a second shot tomorrow? *Tip-top*?” Herman sighed. “*Tip-top*.” Juanita smiled weakly, sympathetically, and gathered her equipment. Herman stomped back to the den, and simmered in his armchair until he heard her car back out the messily-paved driveway. Then the silence of the house overtook him. \*\*\* Slowly, Herman hobbled out onto the front porch, a steaming TV dinner in his unstable hand. He wasn’t sure what it was- beef, maybe chicken- but Juanita had left a whole pile of them in the freezer. Must’ve been on sale at Costco. Keeping his free hand on the doorway, he lowered himself into the plastic chair that lounged atop the steps, bordered by a rusted railing. He heard a small crack extend beneath his weight, and prayed he wouldn’t fall through. However, he needed a change from the drab interior of the house, and from the ghosts that lingered there. The front porch was the furthest he could go without needing another new hip. The summer street stretched out before him. It was a row of near-identical suburban bungalows, bathed in the shade of maples and ashes. Sprinklers waved lazily across blooming lawns, catching the late afternoon light. The tire swing across the street twisted in the breeze, and from nearby yards he could hear dogs barking, underscored by the rumble of a distant passing train. A car hummed by- it wasn’t a ’46 Ford, but an ’18 Toyota. Day’s End was picturesque, sure, he couldn’t deny that. Perfect small-town Ontario. But it wasn’t his. It was Cordelia’s. He preferred the facelessness of the big city, while this community- a *damn commune* as he labelled it during their rare spousal arguments- was all hers. Whenever they used to sit out on that very same porch together, as afternoon melted into evening and evening faded into night, she would strike up conversations with whoever passed by- the dogwalkers, the mailman, the mothers bringing their children home from school. They all greeted her with an enthusiastic “Hello Mrs. Barrett!”, as if Herman was just part of the scenery. She gushed as though each was her own child, asking them about their day, their feelings, their cousin’s wedding, everything. Even during Cordelia’s last days, people from all over town brought cards and flowers and homemade chicken soup to try to cheer her up. They were always surprised when Herman answered the door, as if expecting Cordelia to leap out of her bedridden, near-death state to come greet them- which she certainly would’ve, had she been able. When she finally passed, people stopped visiting. Stopped coming to converse. Herman was a pariah, the eternal outsider. He had always wanted to leave- he was a city boy after all. But getting his wife to pack up and move would’ve been like wrenching a child from its parents’ arms. Although he was now ‘free’ (he hated saying things like that), he was long past his expiry date in being able to set up a life elsewhere. So he would die in Day’s End, he assumed, in Cordelia’s shadow. His own passing wouldn’t be the local tragedy that hers was- people would only remark, “oh, the house on Swindon and Bristol is up for sale”. The only prevalent reminder of what had once been was a wooden sign staked in the dirt of the front garden, declaring ‘*Two Old Crows Live Here*’. Cordelia had seen it at the garden centre shortly before Herman’s ninetieth, and thought it was cute. The One Old Crow hadn’t gotten the nerve to remove it. The One Old Crow disliked Day’s End. He took a deep groan when, suddenly, a foam projectile flew from nowhere. It bounced off the porch railing, careened off the chipped doorway, and knocked the TV dinner from Herman’s hands. It splattered to the floor, trails of meat juice making their escape from the plastic tray. “Ah! Look what you made me do!” Herman shouted, despite having no idea what happened. “I’m…I’m sorry mister.” Herman turned his head. The voice had come from the young boy next door, standing on the lawn at the edge of the Barrett property. He was six or so, with hair like a mop and a t-shirt with the logo of a rock band he was much too young for. *Everything wrong with today’s Day’s End*, Herman thought. The kid’s Nerf football sat in the remains of the TV dinner, smeared with gravy and mashed potatoes, slowly shuddering as it came to a rest. “I’m sorry” the boy said again. Herman was about to lay into him, when the thought of Cordelia gave him atypical restraint. “No, it’s…fine” he muttered absent-mindedly. He prepared to hoist himself up, intent on grabbing another dinner, when he noticed the boy was still staring at him, wide-eyed. “What do you want?” “You’re so…” the boy said slowly, as if knowing his comment was inappropriate, but not being able to put his finger on why. “…old.” Herman was slightly stunned. “You bet your butt” he muttered, almost out of nowhere. He nearly said a different word, but maintained his restraint. It was just a kid, after all. “Why do you walk so funny?” the boy asked. It was the type of question only acceptable when it came from the mouth of a child. Herman had seen this particular child before, running around his front yard screaming, playing with his football, forcing Herman to crank up his radio inside. It struck him that he had no idea what the boy’s name was. “I was hurt in a war.” If he was going to answer the kid, he might as well make it interesting. “A war!?” the boy exclaimed, his jaw nearly striking the grass. The inevitable question came next. “Did you ever kill anyone?!” Herman frowned. The closest person he’d come to killing was himself. But the kid didn’t need to know that. “Oh yeah, a *lot* of people. Tons of bad guys. I once had Hitler himself in my sights.” The boy probably had no idea who Hitler was (Herman doubted the town’s education system), but it blew him away nonetheless. “That’s so cool!” he gasped. “Then what happened?!” What did happen? He met Cordelia, moved to Day’s End, had some kids, grew older and crankier. Then he thought of something the boy might like. “I worked at a metal shop. Made all kinds of stuff. I got to use a blowtorch.” That was enough to send the kid spiralling into awe. Herman felt awfully good about himself. Maybe his young neighbour was more curious than he assumed. “Ryder!” called a woman’s voice from the screen door of the adjacent house. The boy glanced over his shoulder. “I gotta go. Suppertime.” Herman was about to nod his head goodbye when he felt a…strange sentiment. “If you ever want to hear some more of my stories, you come back to my porch at anytime, you hear? I can tell you about the time I sailed across the ocean.” He quickly added, “as long as your mother says it’s okay.” The kid lit up. “I will mister!” “Herman. My name’s Herman.” “I will Mr. Herman!” Herman leaned down and lifted the football, wiping off the gravy with his handkerchief. “Go long!” he exclaimed. The boy, in fact, had to rush forward to catch it, but caught it all the same. At least he was still playing outside, Herman thought. He wasn’t one of those drone kids he pictured, glued to the screen of some iThing like a B-movie zombie. Herman watched the kid run off with the energy he wished he still possessed, bounding over the toys scattered across the lawn. The One Old Crow smiled. “See you soon.” \*\*\* “Mr. Barrett!” Juanita called out, her keys fumbling in Herman’s lock. “Mr. Barrett, are you awake?” The door creaked open, and she kicked off her shoes. The house was eerily silent, as if completely abandoned. Juanita hated mornings like this. It was just like the one where she found the old man lying at the base of the stairs, comatose in pain from his shattered hip. On one hand, he could be fine, gently napping in bed. Or there could be something horribly wrong. She walked up the thin, carpeted entryway and turned into the den, worried by what she might find. The scene, however, appeared relatively…peaceful. Herman was lying in his favourite armchair, feet up on the ottoman, slippers pointed towards the ceiling. A NASCAR race blared from the static-y TV, the rapid colour flashes reflected in his reading glasses, which drooped low on his nose. At first Juanita began crossing herself, thinking he was dead, but then she noticed the slow rise of his chest beneath the wool sweater. Herman gave a snort-like snore, turning his head side-to-side as if troubled by whatever he was dreaming about. The war, maybe. Juanita walked over and switched off the TV, plunging the house into total silence. Admittedly thankful that she wouldn’t have to put up with an *awake* Herman for the time being, she tip-toed into the kitchen to set his pills for the day on the counter. That’s when she noticed a printed document lying casually on the tablecloth, beneath an antique lamp. Its letters were blocky and all capitalized, as if drafted on a typewriter. She felt a wave of surprise at the title stenciled across the front- *Last Will and Testimony of Herman Barrett*. Feeling almost voyeuristic, she began flicking through the still-warm pages, hole-punched and bound together by a thick paperclip. She reached a section labelled ‘Endowments’. Herman’s physical and financial holdings were to be split three-ways between his sons, with Charlie gaining ownership of the house. She was surprised to see her own name listed, as the lucky recipient of his wife’s old clothes and belongings, still jammed in boxes in the spare room. *Typical Herman*, she thought. She was probably the only other woman he knew. However, Juanita was most astonished by the last item listed. It was a significant financial endowment, made out to the town of Day’s End. Herman had scribbled beneath it in red ink: *For Cordelia*.