7:39 PM October 6th Seven days. It’s been seven days since I turned fourteen, and the only things I can think about are the cake I ate, and my mom’s decision to abandon her only daughter and husband. The shock that went through my body rapidly transformed into indescribable sadness the moment I read the text she sent. Every inch of my flesh feels like it’s burning with rage, yet frozen from the cold black mirror between my palms. A rush of chilly breeze brushes between the surface of my skin and my clothes. I habitually glance down at my body, completely occupied by the fact that I had been abandoned over a text message. I see my veiny hands holding my phone, and without notice, I shatter it on the pavement. How can she do this? A bond between a mother and her daughter should be invincible, shouldn't it? The little moments of joy and grief, the big events such as your wedding or your first day of high school. When you’d come home from school with a craft that you had just specifically created for your mom, the day you found out you had gotten your first period. It should all be in there. Shouldn’t it? I struggle to get up from the park bench. I push myself up slowly, yet I still feel the dizziness going through my head, spinning throughout my thoughts. And for a moment, I feel emptier than I have ever been. I feel every organ in my body rubbing against my bones, every vein, every movement. It was a pain I have never experienced, pain that only was caused by a simple text. You are so stupid, I tell myself. I dig my hands into my pocket, look at my broken phone, and restlessly walk back to my house. I’m barely even able to drag my feet on the ground, but I observe every motion in the distance. The mother cradling her baby on the park bench across the park, the boy trying to cross the monkey bars, the muddy dirt on the grass. You deserve this. I hear the voice in my head louder than the leaves crunching under my feet. I feel a rush of anger running down my spine before I enter my house. But the moment I step foot on the doorstep, I am attacked by my dad. “She took them!” He yelled, referring to my brothers. I look around and every piece of furniture in the house is exactly where it should be. The couch on the left side, just an inch away from the black, wood side table, The white curtains hang perfectly off the curtain rod, the carpet is pure white, the family frame on the fireplace. But my dad’s mind is not where it should be. I stare back at him as he launches towards me. “She took them!” I recognize this tone. It was the tone he used when I would come back with a B. It was the tone he used when his soup was a little too hot for his desire, the tone he used if I wore my hair a certain way. “I know,” I whisper with any and all courage I have left in me. “And she left you here with me. What am I even supposed to do with you?” He clenches his fists, hovering around. He suddenly stops in his tracks, looks at me, raises his hand, and without doubt, he swings it against my cold cheek. I don’t even flinch. I can smell the strong scent of alcohol in his breath. I look down at his left hand, holding a glass of whiskey, his favourite. “You made her leave,” He points at me. “If you weren’t so difficult all the time!” He raises his voice louder. “Why can’t you just be normal? Why can’t you just eat? The food is right in front of you. Why is it so hard for you to understand this?” Silence. 10:03 PM October 6th I grab my small notebook and a pen, and with relief, I start recording my intake for the day: Apple- 95 Calories, 0.3 grams of carbs; Green Tea- 0 Calories, 0 grams of carbs. I stare at my notebook with pride. It is the only thing I am able to control. Every bite, every chew, every swallow. It is the only thing that keeps me from losing my mind, it keeps me sane. But it was only a matter of seconds when my peacefulness would be disrupted. My father shows up to my room uninvited, and in his hand, he had a slice of cake on a plate. “You’re going to eat this cake.” It’s a big slice of chocolate cake. My birthday cake. The brown frosting is messily smeared on the plate and the fork in his hand. “I’m okay, I just ate dinner.” I lie. “This isn’t a question Ria.” He replies quietly. He isn’t doing this for me, he’s doing this to get my mom to come back. “But I’m not hungry” “You’re going to eat this damn cake or you know what’s going to happen.” He says in a stern voice. I tense up. I feel my heartbeat in my throat, I hold back the tears. He brings the plate to my bed, places it in front of me, and steps back a little bit, only to stand there and cross his arms. I smell the cake, and I immediately feel nauseous. I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I bite the first piece, then the second, then the tenth. He just watches me. 7:34 AM October 7th I wake up the next morning with a still full stomach. I feel the heaviness of the cake on my arms, my stomach, my thighs. I immediately run to my scale. Forty-six point two kilograms. I feel a knot in my throat, I feel the tears streaming down my face. I can’t go to school like this. I can’t be fat. I cannot be fat. I will not be fat. I am in control. School was when all of this started. That one little comment that sparked up the conversation between my friends about my eating habits. I started to notice any comment that had even a slight mention of food or my eating habits. I remembered every bite I have ever had, every meal at a restaurant, every sip of a carbonated drink. That was the first time I truly understood what shame felt like. It wasn’t a feeling I got when I failed a class, it wasn’t a feeling I got when I cheated. It is a feeling I only got when I ate food. It is a feeling I get when I bite into a sandwich or a fry. It is a feeling of disappointment, defeat, weakness. As time went by, I started getting repulsed by the idea of food more and more. I thought that if I started to eat healthier, then I would have a different outlook on food. I made meal plans that had designated days for certain foods, a specific amount of water I would have to drink per day, and I definitely made sure to never eat more than two bites of something in front of any of my friends. Now the only thing on my mind is that cake. It took all of my mental strength to pick that fork up and eat it. I told my dad that I wasn’t feeling well and that I was going to bed just so I could process the fact that I finished the cake. All I feel is humiliation. Sitting on my bed, the only thing I can think about is the nauseating feeling throughout my body. My stomach, for once, feels full and I can feel my muscles in my throat tense from eating that much. It wasn’t even a lot, just a slice, but my body feels like I just ate enough to feed a small country. All I know is that I need to lie down. I can feel my body getting heavier from that cake. I feel disgusted with myself. Fat, fat and more fat, is all I see in the reflection. I feel my heart start to beat out of my chest as if I can feel every cell in my body move through my dense figure. I could feel my stomach getting bigger. My fists are clenched so tight around my waist covering the vile image staring back at me. This has to stop. The only way to feel better is to gain more control. I have to, that is the only way I will stop feeling so revolted. I am in control. I close my eyes and start to count back from one hundred. Something about numbers calmed me down. I think it was knowing the exact number that would come next that grounded me. I knew I was right, and I knew I was in control of what I was saying. 3:23 PM October 7th I came to my house after school, with no motivation or energy to do anything but sleep. My head was spinning and I have my usual migraine. I can still feel yesterday’s dinner in my stomach and I want to curl up into a ball underneath my sheets and hide from everything. The only thought pounding in my head is the chocolate cake. I grab the bottle of water standing on my nightstand and chug it, feeling the water stream running down my throat, filling my stomach just a little, sufficing my intake for the day. I grab my notebook from my bag again and I write down today’s intake: 7 bottles of water, 0 calories, 0 grams of carbs. I weigh myself again, forty-five point eight. Not enough. I hear a voice in my head. I lay in my bed, frantically searching for a way to calm my breathing, but it isn’t stabilizing. I suddenly feel the world around me spin. I am engulfed by a wave of panic, and the next moment, I’m on my feet getting ready to go for a run. Running is the only time I feel like myself. Running is the only thing that can create a safe enough atmosphere for me to live in. I’m on the sidewalk, my feet are in motion, and I am Ria. The wind gushing against my face brings back a rush of blood to my lifeless, pale cheeks. I could hear and see every little thing. Every falling leaf, every voice in the distance, every face in the perimeter. My breathing is controlled, my eating is controlled, my body is controlled. I am in control. I manage to avoid my inebriated father after my run and skip dinner by pretending to study for a test, which is probably the biggest accomplishment of my day. I do not have the mental capacity to handle the same emotions that went through my head last night. I just could not feel the same way I felt last night, it was horrifying. By the time I get under my sheets, I notice my body shaking, my teeth jittering from my cold figure. My shoulders roll forward, caving into myself, my legs tuck into my chest as if I’m protecting my body from distant criticism. My head was dizzy and I could hear my stomach growl, almost a euphoric sensation. Allowing my body to feel like it was swaying in my bed, I fall asleep with a smile on my face. 5:47 AM October 8th I just woke up, physically. Emotionally and mentally I’m drained. The weight of the guilt from the cake still sinks my chest. The weight of my mother’s departure creates a larger force on my body, deluding the number on my scale. I step on it as I do every morning. I don’t look at the scale right away, my anxiety is eating me inside out. I feel a slight rush of heat travelling to my face. I rub my hands against my thighs, attempting to remove the gallon of sweat I managed to make in ten minutes. Forty-five point three kilograms. The number was looking at me, practically laughing in my face, making fun of my inability to achieve such a simple task without messing it up. I pinch myself. I brush my teeth vigorously, knowing the mint taste will prevent me from taking a bite of anything. I need to lose five kilograms. I am in control. My legs are bouncing as I brush my teeth, anxiously waiting to go for my morning run. I take a deep breath, I shake my limbs. Right arm, right leg, left arm, left leg. I repeat that again, and again, and then again. I did it four times. That's bad luck. My heartbeat starts to race, but I try to brush it off. I run my 10 kilometers. I come back before my dad wakes up, and quietly leave to go to school. 10:17 AM October 8th The only thing that is occupying my mind is the number on the scale. Forty-five point three. Four, Five, Three. Was I really that big? Did I eat too much? Was I not trying hard enough? It has to be the cake. It’s the cake. I can barely keep my eyes open during class, I’m exhausted, consumed by the three numbers on the scale- Four, Five, Three. My hands are too cold to even write anything, too cold to even tuck my hair behind my ear. I subconsciously lead myself to the library, skipping my third-period class. As I sit down in the chair, I feel my eyelids shut close. They weigh fifty pounds. It is so cold, I start shivering. The weather is changing, which is what had to explain my drowsiness. After school, I go straight into my room, eager to see my scale. It’s been seven hours and I have not had anything to eat today. I hope that helps. I take my clothes off and weigh myself. Forty-five point three. That number taunted me. I can’t remember the last time I was so frustrated with myself. For sure the number would have had to drop at least a little; I didn’t even drink water today. I was doing something wrong, I was eating too much. 6:27 PM October 8th I’m so exhausted, I’m trying so hard to finish this repetition of crunches. I can’t even do a hundred. Seventy-seven, seventy-eight, seventy-nine... 3:48 AM October 9th I wake up on the floor. I don’t even know where I am. My anxiety starts to build up as I quickly realize I’m in my room. I look around, it’s pitch black. I try to scramble for my phone before remembering that I broke it. I start to panic; I have to know the time. I have to know the time. I jolt up from my anxiety. I feel lightheaded; I stood up too fast. I lay on my bed to calm down for a minute. After I regain awareness, I immediately head downstairs to the kitchen. Every step I took down those stairs felt like stepping on knives, every bone in my body felt like glass, every inch of my skin felt like paper. I look at the microwave- it’s almost four in the morning. I’m trying to recollect memories to put yesterday's pieces together but I can’t even remember past three in the afternoon. I try to go back upstairs, but I can’t, I'm so tired. I lay down on the staircase, and I feel every glass bone break, and every paper skin rip. But the exhaustion was overpowering the pain. I can’t stay awake. 9:32 AM October 9th I wake up to a force on my head. I try to lift my head up. There’s no one there. I fell asleep around four o’clock in the morning. I was so tired. I could not move a muscle in my body; breathing became so difficult as my rib cage felt as though it was crushing my lungs. My head is spinning as I try to process my thoughts, but last night’s nightmare suddenly replays in my head. I dreamt that my mom was serving me dinner. She put a plate in front of me; on it were two steaks the size of my face, a steaming mountain of mashed potatoes with peas rolling down the side of it like an avalanche. I was forced to eat it, or else my mother would leave again. It felt so real, so I ate. I snap back into reality, but I quickly start to feel a panic attack coming. I pinch myself, bite my lip, bite my nails, none of which were able to calm me down. My leg is shaking so fast, that stresses me out more. I feel the deep emptiness, contradicted by the flooding amount of emotions going through my body. My mind is racing. 12:59 PM October 9th I can barely walk up the stairs at school. Every tiny movement is a marathon for me. It feels like I’m walking out of time. I head to the washroom, close my eyes and sit on the floor. My stomach is finally empty, no more cake. It’s paradise. I finally feel like I am me again. I feel my eyes rolling to the back of my head and I enjoy every second of it. I sit on the floor for ten minutes relishing the feeling of my body finally being able to let go of any tension and relax. I feel satisfied. I am in control. Next period is gym class, my favourite class. On my way to the locker room, a girl stops me and compliments my physique. She asks what workouts I have been doing. I love hearing that. I tell her I have a whole planned routine for the week and tell her she could find the same workout online. For a minute I feel accomplished. I feel as if the drowsiness and the shivering were worth it. I knew it is worth it. I empty my gym bag and begin to change. I stand up and all I see are stars. I knew I got up too fast, I keep doing it. My entire body starts to feel like an electric current is going through it. I have to sit down but I can’t move. Every noise around me amplifies. I can’t have a panic attack now. I can’t get a panic attack now. My head starts to spin and I feel a harsh force hit my side. I was out cold. But only one thing matters- I am in control. 2:36 PM October 10th I barely open my eyes, the bright light above me is blinding me. I try to speak but the dryness of my mouth prevents me. I can’t move either, I can’t do anything. I try to make a noise, a grunt, a sigh, but nothing is coming out. I start to get really anxious. What time is it? What day is it? Where am I? All I want to do is scream out to my mother, all I want is for her to be next to me. But she’s not. With all the power that I have, I turn my head ever so slightly. My head feels like metal. I see my dad sitting in the corner of the room, snoring. I tried to call out to him but I barely got a whisper out. I had no energy. My eyes start to rapidly move around the room. I look down at my body and see three IVs stuck in my arm filled with potassium, sodium chloride and another chemical that I don’t recognize. I immediately realize I am at the hospital. My thoughts start to rush, I start to panic. I can’t get admitted now. I haven’t lost all the weight yet. The heart monitor starts to ding faster, and before I knew it, my father is awake. He looks at me, sighs, and walks out of the room. He walks back into the room with a doctor. “Hi Andria, I’m Dr. Fenech and this is my intern Oliver Yaseen. How do you feel?” I can’t speak. The fluids coming from the IVs create a burning feeling in my arm and I just want to rip them out of my arm but I can’t move. My father is sitting in the corner, drinking his coffee, but I know he mixed alcohol with it. ”I know this might be confusing to you right now, but you’re in the Intensive Care Unit. Your body gave out during gym.” The doctor clicks his pen. I don’t respond. “Your body is extremely malnourished. It’s a miracle you’re even alive right now. Have you been eating?” Every word that comes out of his mouth created a feeling of hatred, loathfulness, despise in me. But it was myself who I hate. I hate my brown hair, my brown eyes. I hate my round face, droopy eyes. The way my nail beds look, the way I laugh, the way I speak, my voice. It’s silent. “Your inpatient program start in a week, right?” Dr. Fenech asks. I try to nod my head, but all that came out was a sigh. “I understand it’s frustrating for you right now. However, we might need to start tube feeding you sooner.” My heart rate starts going up. The doctor notices it. “Your vitals are extremely low. Technically, these vitals shouldn’t even be real.” That doesn’t matter to me. I think. Voices start to fade, and before I know it, I’m asleep. 8:11 AM October 11th I woke up to the nurse fiddling with a plastic bag. Her blonde hair effortlessly fell down her shoulders. Her blue eyes are observing the bag so carefully she didn’t even notice I woke up. I look around the room and it is empty. It feels so peaceful whenever my dad is not around. His traditional personality oppresses me. His desire to make me look presentable and be the girly girl he wants all the time made me hate being the only girl. I started straightening my hair in grade five because my curly hair was too messy. My clothes were all picked out by him. His absence leaves me at ease and calmness, but not before the nurse realizes I’m awake and smiles at me. “Good morning” She speaks so softly, but loud enough that I can hear it. “How are you feeling?” “Okay, I guess.” I whisper. She tilts her head and furrows her eyebrows, alluding to her inability to hear me. I shrug and she chuckles. Her laugh is so cute. “I’m sorry to hear. It might not be the best time for this right now but I have to insert the feeding tube in you.” I can already hear myself think about all the ways I could burn off these calories. The idea of even gaining the slightest bit of weight makes me feel like five hundred kilograms of weight are dropped on my chest. I’m not in control.


Incoming call 1 Aug 2023 0700 Agent 1: Good morning, what is your zombie concern? Caller: Has the zombie apocalypse started? Agent 1: No sir, we are all safe \[Disconnected\] Incoming call 2 Aug 2023 0701 Agent 1: Good morning, what is your zombie concern? Caller: Has the zombie apocalypse started? Agent 1: No sir, we are all safe \[Disconnected\] Incoming call 3 Aug 2023 0658 Agent 1: Good morning, what is your zombie concern? Caller: Has the zombie apocalypse started? Agent 1: No sir, we are all safe \[Disconnected\] Incoming call 4 Aug 2023 0708 Agent 1: Good morning, what is your zombie concern? Caller: Has the zombie apocalypse started? Agent 1: Sir, have you called every morning for the last few days? \[3 seconds of silence\] Caller: Has the zombie apocalypse started? Agent 1: I’m just curious because I set this up as a joke and you are only my 4th caller, they all said the same thing and sounded like you. \[6 seconds of silence\] Agent 1: Caller? Are you still there? Caller: Yes those were all me, and are you telling me that this service is not a proper zombie survival call centre, its all a joke? Agent 1: Yes sir, I’m just a student who though they might get a few jokers call to see what the service was and make a few pennies and have a laugh. Caller: OH! Umm…. It might be worth getting a few employees quickly. Agent 1: Why? Caller: No, No reason. Just a hunch that you might see a pick up on callers. Agent 1: Why? Caller: So the fact that i’m the only one to have called you means that, as far as you know the apocalypse hasn’t started. Agent 1: As far as I know there has never been any reports of any apocalypse but I’m now a little concerned that it may have started but reports haven’t gotten to me yet and that you know something about it. Caller: Ok, thank you. \[Disconnected\] Agent 1: What the hell was that about? Incoming Call 9 Aug 2023 2324 Agent 3: Good evening, you are speaking to Jane. What is your zombie concern? Caller: Hi, could I speak to your… boss… manager… the person in charge of this line? Agent 3: Could I ask what it is concerning? Caller: Tell them that its caller number 1 wanting to talk to them. Agent 3: ok… OH! Give me a second. Slack message \[Jane 09/08/23 11:25pm\] Caller 1 wants to talk to you. \[Alex 09/08/23 11:25pm\] Can you remember how to transfer callers? Transfer them \[Jane 09/08/23 11:25pm\] yes Agent 3: now transferring you. Agent 1: Good evening, have you started it yet? Caller: OH GOD! You know? Agent 1: Know what? Caller: OH GOD! YOU DON’T KNOW! Agent 1: Are you for real? Zombies are real? Caller: Yes Agent 3: \[gasp\] \[inaudible\] Caller: and you need to prepare for a LOT of calls. Agent 1: SHIT! \[ 2 seconds of scilence\] Agent 1: I have been preparing, I have a few friends who can also take calls and even been publicising the number around the net, I’ve even been getting a few pranksters call up. Caller: Pranksters? Please tell me none were from {location retracted} Agent 1: Give me a second, I’ll check Caller: And I think you need more than just a few friends. \[12 seconds of silence with some slight thudding noises\] Agent 1: no, none. Caller: Good. \[3 seconds of scilence\] Agent 1: Hang on a second, how do I know your not also a prankster?Caller: umm… just look \[loud banging and muffled shouts from callers line\] Caller: Shit. Look up my phone number and get many people answering your phones from all around the world, your service WILL be needed and don’t look me, I will be dead, dead dead, not zombie dead and don’t \[Crash then 2 loud bangs with caller disconnecting immediately after second one\] Agent 1: Jane, you're still there arnt you? Agent 3: yes… did we just hear what I think we heard? Agent 1: I hope this is one very elaborate joke because if it isn’t then yes we did. \[20 seconds of silence\] Agent 3: are you going to look up their number. Agent 1: I suppose so, im a bit concerned what I will find. It could be something confirming zombies exist or it could be a rickroll and I’m not sure which one I would prefer. \[42 seconds of silence\] Agent 3: the fact I can’t hear Rick Ashley, things are bad. Agent 1: Yep, can you wake Mark up, I will see if Bob is home, staff meeting in my kitchen in 10 mins.


(IP) The Door to Doom  The windows of the ancient, crumbling castles were aglow with light and life, and it brought the boy to a halt. All these years, he’d been told that the stories he was so fond of chasing were just that: pretty stories told to children at bedtime. But he was standing right here, the proof right before his eyes.  The buildings felt haunted to the explorer, and for a moment, just one, he was rooted to the spot, unsure on whether or not to go in. But he could almost hear his ancestors’ voices on the wind, urging him on. After all, he hadn’t come all this way just to turn tail and run home. Despite his unease, he went forward, and he held the reins of his mare, making soothing noises. She followed him, nickering nervously.  What secrets hid within these ancient dwellings? It was so odd to see them in real time, instead of illustrations or photographs in books. A cold wind brushed across his face, making his horse’s mane ruffle. It felt like an omen, a portent of what was to come. He raised his head and he could’ve sworn he heard faint music.  Were there people inside? Even now, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. He could feel eyes on him, and it made it hard to breathe. He tied his horse’s reins to the remnants of an iron gate, and he reached into the pocket of his tunic, reassuring himself that his weapons were still there.  Despite the fear he felt, his curiosity was that much stronger, even if it meant risking his life.  \*\*  He ducked inside the first entrance he saw, and he bit back a gasp. It appeared that he’d stumbled upon what used to be the castle’s armory, there were weapons still within their sheaths, and somehow, they weren’t rusted or corroded. In fact, they looked freshly sharpened. That creeping feeling of unease reared its ugly head again, and he spun around, certain that there was someone or something behind him. For a moment, his imagination conjured endless possibilities: a restless spirit, a vicious, angry banshee, a winged beast who would rip his heart out of his chest--  But he could hear the music, as well as a soft voice, somehow male and female, ancient and childlike.  “Do you know what you’ve stumbled upon, boy?” The voice asked, its voice booming in the cavernous room. “If you break the seal, it will mean doom for us all!”  “What seal?” The explorer asked, and the voice sighed, stirring his hair with the breeze it created.  “It is a long story, boy. It would take an age for me to tell it all.”  To the explorer, the voice sounded tired, annoyed, but cultured, as if the spirit had been a noble when it was alive.  “But you mustn’t break it, or it would mean doom for not just this old kingdom, but the entire land. You’re lucky it was I who came across you, and not any of my brothers and sisters.”  “But why?”  “Because, you dear, foolish human boy, they would kill you.


This night, I am a sardine, riding the stuffed subway. The atmosphere is a mix of hot salami breath, boozy exhalations, overboard perfume, and the intrusiveness of freshly smoked weed. People pressing, gravelly coughs, wonky ringtones, shuffle shuffle shuffle. No place for the anxious or the introverted or the healthy. My brain buddy says to me, by way of consolation, *There there. At least you aren't in India.* Or China, or London, or.... Yes, I have seen the photographs. People squished against glass doors, and professional train stuffers that won't take no for an answer. In this, my lifelong town, we haven't come to that pass yet. *Hey, if you pass out, at least you won't fall.* We careen through tunnels of semi dark. On a curve, I am prodded by elbows and my foot is stepped upon by a hard heel. In the jostling, I can't tell whose, and no one says sorry excuse me or anything of the like. From my forced vantagepoint, I fix on a pair of female hands but I cannot see their owner. They rest upon her skirted lap, and, oddly, they don't hold a phone. She moves them in peculiar ways for a young person, cupping one hand within the other and rubbing slowly back and forth as if in arthritic pain. Joining her hands, she then raises and lowers them in seeming prayer or supplication. Finally, she reaches into her pocket or purse, brings out a small circlet of paper, and slips it onto her ring finger. I see that it's a cigar band and I chuckle to myself, having seen this sort of thing in the movies where the boyfriend asks the girl to marry him but can't afford a ring. She plays with it for a few seconds, turning it round and round, then takes it off, as if to put it away. She drops it on the floor, then quickly picks it up. I glimpse a head of long straight tawny hair, and her young face in profile. She sees me and I redden a bit, smiling sheepishly. Apparently conscious of an audience now, she stops fidgeting. One hand rests flat upon her knee, and the other is closed loosely in a fist. With two more stops to go before I reach mine, I begin to sidle towards the doors, but stop for a moment as I draw close to her. She's unaware, I think, because she has her head down and is toying with the ring again. Slips it back on once more, then looks straight ahead. She sees me, and gives a Mona Lisa smile. I feel like her decision's been made, and I smile back. The doors open and I push my way out onto the platform. I stop for a second, thinking. Yeah, I knew it. I know it. This girl, who is now a woman, I have seen before. Her life of running away is no more, and I'm so happy. Yeah, I'm happy.


I was walking out of the park this afternoon when I ran into some trouble. It is July 27th, 1974. My trouble began at approximately 3pm. It dark now, though I am not certain of the time, and the difficulty has only gotten worse. In fact, it has spiraled into something quite terrible. I was in the middle of a great jog; the weather overcast, and plenty of people in the park, so I felt safe. Sometimes Cherryville Park turns into a dark and seedy place. Sometimes the wind carries with it restless transients from all over the state, who seem to sniff each other out and join forces, magnetically, as if one transient sees another and thinks, ‘Oh. Another transient. We are so light and feathery, without mortgages to pay or pantries full of food, that perhaps if we join forces we will carry some weight. Perhaps if we glue our feathers together they will formulate some purpose on this earth that we lacked individually.’ And the transients form together and help each other get food and look out for the vulnerable in the park. The child. The lone woman running. We are grateful to have our transients. It is when the transients decide to get up and *leave* the park that the trouble starts. But when I began my run at precisely 2:33, there were plenty of the benevolent creatures, cooking their street animals and their roasted vegetables over their fire pits, tipping their sooty hats to me as I slugged by (I am not a very fast jogger). Despite my snails pace, I began to feel a runner’s high, and fell into sort of a trancelike state, staring intently at the trees, and even sensing that each individual leaf on them has a life of it’s own. Then I tripped. It was a shallow nodule in the root of a tree, or a stump. It could have been a rock. Whatever it was, my toes slammed hard against something, sending me head first into the grass, and had I not reflexively thrown my arms in front of me in that split second, my head might have suffered some injuries, and an ambulance would have been promptly called to whisk me away. If only that had been case! I sat up, perched in a state of shock, and then I tried to stand. My ankle was completely torn from the fall; I couldn’t move it. There I was sitting in the grass, wincing and cursing, when a transient approached me. This was a delightful-if-somewhat-odorous man wearing a long trench coat that must have been black in it’s better years. He had on fingerless, moth-eaten gloves and a top hat that was shorter than an actual top hat (I do not know what to call those things). He was thin, tall and cheerful. He seemed malnourished, but happy. His malnourishment suited him, if such a phenomena is even possible. He knelt to hand me a fresh daffodil to cheer my hardship, smiled, and reminded me that there were children in the park, so please do not curse. I sheepishly apologized and thanked him for the flower, though I would need more than that to be able to walk home! As if reading my mind, he held out an index finger, signifying to me to wait, and ran several yards away where his transient group was herded over a trash can, sorting through their knickknacks I suppose. He returned swiftly with a roll of white tape. Amazed, I saw it to be just what I needed to fix my ankle! I thanked my transient friend, and began to pull some tape off the roll. He gestured for me to stop this nonsense, waving his arms about and making a big show of things, insisting that I rest and let *him* do the work. I wasn’t sure if transients knew the ins and out of wound-mending, as I barely knew the basics myself. But as I watched him work, I realized that his sort probably knew how to fix injuries better than most, and out of necessity, as transients are rarely seen at doctors’ offices and only go to hospitals in cases of dire emergency. And before I knew it, I was on my feet again, having thanked my transient, and limping my way back to the park entrance, ready to take the four block journey home at a slow and steady pace; grateful for the help of a kind stranger. The last thing I remember is seeing the backside of the Cherryville Park welcome sign before my knees buckled, I went crashing back to the ground and I blacked out entirely. When I came to, it was pitch dark out and the park was entirely empty. There are only a few flickering street lights to show me my surroundings, and from their light I discovered in horror that I was, and still am, on the ground again and sitting upright, yet this time strapped to a large tree with hundreds of strands of that damned tape holding me in place! There must have been multiple rolls of it used! It is a very thorough job. My torso is completely covered in it, from shoulder to waistband, and my hands are at my sides so I am utterly helpless to move! For several minutes I called out, only to hear the echo of my own voice. There is not a person in sight, not even the transients who make the park their home! I soon realized that, while this is strange, and my situation helpless, what *really* terrifies me is the lack of noise. The locusts and fireflies have been beaming and buzzing all summer long, especially in the nighttime, yet I do not see or hear one. Not even a moth hovering by the street lamp. Not one sound of a bird calling or a car engine in the distance. Not even the wind. I know that my ears are not damaged because I can hear the sound of my own voice. So where did the other noises go? Where did the other *life* go? The trees and bushes are entirely still. Not one blade of grass sways in the air. The more I stare, the more it seems that I am not in the park at all, but I get the feeling that *someone* or *something* wants me to believe I am. There is nothing to do but wait. And now, to my terror, there is a wolf approaching me. I heard it a moment ago, just as I was contemplating the stillness of the leaves. Just as I had unfolded, in my mind, the notion of being watched. There came the noise of footsteps pressing upon the grass, creeping, piercing the stillness. And when the thing emerged from a large bush several yards to my left, I shuddered with my entire being. I swear it is the height of a small car. Scrawny, with a filthy grey coat, matted and mangey, but piercing blue eyes. Starving, angry, evil, about to consume me.


Fred was driving. He didn’t have a sense of where he was headed, but he was determined to get somewhere. It had been a few days since he started, and the roads were a comfort at this point. His car was old but it wasn’t in bad shape. He had been listening to the radio. He had played the albums he kept in the car. He got sick of hearing the same songs after a while. It was getting late in the night... early in the morning? It was after midnight, that’s for sure. The silence surrounding him was cushioned by the engine’s pur. Fred had driven a few cars into the ground at this point in his life. This baby, this sugar, this girl… he hoped she lasted on him. She was a good car. Got him where he needed to go without any fuss or muss. Not that he needed to go anywhere anymore. So he was driving. It was quiet. It was dark. He was wide awake. His gas tank was getting low and there was a station a few miles down the way. He didn’t really feel like stopping, but he would do his due diligence. It wasn’t the middle of nowhere but it felt like it that night. Woods all around, a lonely, two-lane highway and the stars in the sky. It wasn’t bad, but Fred could remember better times. When he pulled into the gas station, it was close to 3:00am. Thank Christ for graveyard shifts and awful, old coffee. $20 worth of gas, a respectful, silent exchange of tired glances with the cashier as Fred tried to make the coffee taste like something other than burnt dirt, and a cavalcade of stray cats around the gas station were all parts of Fred’s reality. He counted seven cats before he pulled out and returned to the road. Even checked under his car before getting back in, just in case. He heard more cats than he saw. He gave 3 weeks notice before leaving, but they still gave him a hard time. Whatever, it was over. That was the past. The present was uncertain. The future was… not on his mind. He had time. He had money. He had to drive for a little bit. That’s just what he felt. He had kept his apartment sparsely decorated and he was always throwing out what he didn’t need or use. Fred used to hoard everything he could. Just collecting anything that caught his eye. Building a facade of identity around himself. Books, films, albums, trinkets and clothes that defined who he saw himself as, but it was all useless junk. Lately, he told people he preferred a minimalist vibe at home. He really just didn’t want all that shit anymore. He really just wanted to be able to pick up and leave at a second’s notice. So he did. Sure, he took a few days to put things in storage and told a few people he would be gone for a bit, but it wasn’t anything big. He wasn’t “moving.” He wasn’t making any drastic changes. Atleast, not yet. He didn’t really have a reason to change things. He needed to quit, that was for sure, but there was no animosity. He was just done with that job. That chapter. Fred has a pretty modern mentality about work. About life, really. He just keeps moving through it, trying to do what interests him until it doesn’t anymore. Spending as little money as possible from his own wallet. Let the company feed him. Let the company teach him. Let the company keep him alive. Let the job fulfill him. When the feeling dissipates, then maybe it’s time to find a different company. A different line of work. A different lifestyle. Just a change. There were a few destinations floating around in his sea of memories, but they weren’t his alone. He was looking back at the life he used to have. The different lives he lived. Acts in a play. A collection of short stories. Moments in time. All the loves he shared and the places they went and how happy they had been. Fred developed a distaste for travel as years went by. Something about his generation being obsessed with seeing the world made him less inclined to do it. He’d been places. Famous and infamous places. He’d seen things. Unbelievable and mundane things. Those memories were all tied to the company, though. Most of those memories were tainted at this point. Those old feelings of affection soured with age. Thinking about “seeing the world” leaves a bitter taste in Fred’s mouth. He felt insincere when he traveled. He was supposed to be in awe of the differences and enlightened by the similarities between home and away. He was supposed to explore and take it all in and experience the culture. He didn’t really care about any of that. He just wanted to be somewhere new with someone who could mean the world to him for a time. Permanence does not exist. Fred just wanted to enjoy moments as they happened. Simple as that. So why drive? He needed the time to think, he thought. He needed to come up with a plan. Something. A direction to go in. He wasn’t old, but he wasn’t young anymore. No one gave him the benefit of the doubt these days. He was an adult. No sympathy. Not that he wanted any, it was just an interesting juxtaposition. Adults have to already know things. Questions are taboo. Children got it easy. Ignorance really is bliss. He’d been fighting his debt for years, but, now that it was gone and his finances were a cushion instead of a noose, he was kind of lost. He’d been working against his own actions for so long. He dug his own grave, but he had clawed his way out. The debt wasn’t behind his back in the mirror, looming over his head or whispering in his ear anymore. He felt less anxious and more free, but, goddamn, he didn’t know what the fuck to do with the feeling. The sun was far from up, but a subtle glow was building on the horizon. Every few minutes, the world took on a new hue. The night had been pitch black apart from a few passing flashes of headlights. Fred’s eyes registered every change in light as the world took form around him. He’d have to stop and stretch soon. Maybe he’d grab an hour or so of sleep. He saw life out the corner of his eye. A stork on the side of the road, lifting off from an overloaded drainage ditch. He saw death near the center of the road. Tried not to look. Tried not to think about what it had been. He kept driving. There’s no poetry in modern technology. He picked an album on his phone and connected to the car’s bluetooth... what a disgusting sentence... whatever. Harvest by Neil Young. It was getting bright and the old songs drifted around Fred’s mystified mind. A few years back he had a handful of panic attacks on his way home. He was moving from another state and his car was overloaded. He could barely see. The entire drive was an anxious mess. 14 hours straight with limited visibility, and most of it at night. He got cut off at one point and sometimes, just sometimes, he wonders if he actually died then and everything since then has been a new, different, alternate life. Things changed after that trip. He had been anxious before, but something on that drive brought it out more. On this road, in this car, on this drive, Fred felt alright. There was a girl a while back. She always had to have a purpose, a destination, an intention, a goal… just something at all times. It was exciting. It was exhausting. It broke Fred in every way eventually, trying to keep up with her. For years Fred’s anxiety used her voice to push him. To poke and prod and tell him that he wasn’t doing enough, he wasn’t being enough, he wasn’t good enough. She was gone and moved on, but Fred’s mind turned on him still. He couldn’t remember what he wanted before her, and he didn’t know what he wanted without her. His reclamation of his Self was a slow process. He’d made mistakes and had missteps along the way, trying to recall what he wanted before depression and anxiety left him wanting nothing but a moments peace. The drive was helping, though. It felt familiar. Exit signs and billboards came in and out of focus. His stomach was attempting to get his attention, and Fred had every intention of a good breakfast at some point, but not just yet. It was time to pull over and walk, though. It was at a standard interstate rest stop. Not too filthy. Not clean. Snacks and sodas and the fake coffee machine. A few maps and coupon books. He used the restroom, washed his hands, and stepped into the morning sun. It was bright. It was warm. He’d been to this rest stop before. He’d been here alone, with family, with friends… familiarity. It was almost cozy. He stretched a bit and cracked his back. Wandering the expansive grounds, he wondered about everything but the drive. He’d been going for so long, sorting through his thoughts with barely a word to a single person for days and days. It was messy. He’d gotten a little confused at this point, to be honest, but it felt good. He just needed to keep reminding himself that he was doing it because he wanted to and he had the complete freedom at this moment in his life to do whatever he wanted. He slept for about a half an hour and awoke with a jolt. He couldn’t tell if he had been dreaming or if someone had blared their horn or something else, but it wasn’t a comfortable way to wake. When he got his wits about him, Fred decided that the jolt was a good burst of energy and started the car. He rubbed his eyes, checked his mirrors, and pulled out. Back on the road. Civilization seemed to grow with the light of the day. More exit ramps. More gas stations and fast food chains. Fred wasn’t pretentious or uppity, but, if he was stopping for breakfast, he wanted a good meal. He let the miles pass and lamented at the empty coffee cup. Harder and further and for longer and longer, he wanted to get as much time and as many miles as he could before hunting for something to eat. No real reason. He was starting to run on instinct, starting to do for the hell of it again. It felt good. He picked a ramp near a quaint, small town. He’d driven through before. Some old road trip. Some family vacation. Time in cars with people he loved. Fred found a diner. Coffee. Eggs. Bacon. Coffee. Toast. Coffee. Fruit. Coffee. Back to the road, refueled and unperturbed. Decent diner service. Decent diner food. Chalky coffee that was bereft of flavor, so he added cream and sugar. He was starting to miss his coffee back home. That was the good shit. Let’s not kid ourselves, though. Caffeine is the heart of the matter. Taste doesn’t make a difference. On and on he went. Full speed ahead. Lost in thought. Letting what will be take the lead. Eventually, he’d stop and stay for awhile. Somewhere. Until then, the road is his home.


Me and my older brother have had an interesting relationship. We were best friends when we were kids, but ever since my parent's split and I moved in with him, we haven't spoken once. It's not like I didn't try, I used to strike up a conversation with him, but he would just sit in his lazy-boy chair and stare at me with his stupid eyes. I think he blames me for my parents divorce, which I understood. I got into some legal troubles when I was 16, I won't go into details but there was a long and stressful trial and I think it pushed them over the edge. My parents didn't want me living with either of them, so they left me with no choice, I had to live with my brother. My brother never verbally expressed his anger towards me about the incident. He knew it was something I deeply regretted but he still couldn't get past it. I've never brought any friends over to my brothers' apartment, the place is kind of a mess and my brother does virtually nothing to help clean up, he mostly just sits there in his lazy-boy and watches TV until it was time to go to bed. So one day I decided to clean the place up and invite my friend Austin over to hangout and have some drinks. Immediately when Austin walked in he complained about the smell. "I know it smells man I think there's some leaking in the walls and its turned into mold, I got a guy coming next week to take a look at it." I assure him. "It's all good man I know how that stuff gets, where's your brother? I thought you lived with him?" He asks me. "He's in his room doing something, probably sleeping honestly, he always gets up super early." I reply The night goes on as normal, We had some drinks, smoked a bowl and played some video games. My brother didn't make an appearance at all throughout the night, which i'm kinda glad, he's a buzzkill. "Has your other brother always been this way?" Austin asks me "Like a complete mess?" I ask him jokingly "Well I didn't want to say it like that, but yeah I guess" Austin laughs back. "He wasn't like this growing up, we would always hangout and do shit together, he was the talkative one in the family and he kind of kept us all together, well until my parents split up." "Oh shit, i'm sorry man." Austin offers his lifeless condolence to me "A lot of tough shit happened in our lives and it drove my parents apart, he felt like he failed this family and couldn't keep us together anymore. He blamed himself for it, but mostly I think he blames me for it." I confess to him. "Why would he blame you for it?" "I got into some trouble back in high school, It costed my parents a lot of money in legal fees and it caused so much stress between them that they just couldn't handle it anymore. I understand why he blames me for it, if it wasn't for me we'd still be a family." "What did you do that made all of that happen?" Austin's very curious at this point. "I really don't like to bring that part of my life back up, I've repressed it for so long and i'm just a totally different person than I was back then." "Well damn man, i'm sorry to hear all that, have you ever tried to talk to him about it?" He asks, as if i haven't tried. "I used to try all the time to get him to talk to me, I stopped trying because nothing I do will get him to talk to me. I understand he's angry with me but we're both adults now, If he doesn't want to talk to me then that's his decision." Austin can hear the anger in my voice. "I know it must be tough man, but there's gotta be a way to get him to come around, he's your only sibling and you don't want to burn that bridge yet. You have to appreciate them while you can." Austin says to me as if he has gone through something similar. His words resonate with me, even though my brother has refused to talk to me for all these years, I have to still try, for the sake of our family. Me and Austin have another beer until he heads out for the night. It's pretty late now and I doubt my brother's awake, but I figured I'd go see if I can talk to him for a bit. I open his bedroom door and he's laying in bed with the TV on, I can't tell if he's asleep or not but I decide to try to talk to him anyways. "Listen man, I don't want us to keep going on like this. I know i've done some shit in the past, but I think we just need to learn to get past it, we're all that's left of our family and I don't want to lose that." at this point i'm practically begging him to say something to me. He remained silent. "Just fucking talk to me." at this point i'm practically shouting so he must hear me. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen, It was an accident!" My brother's lifeless corpse lays silent on his bed. "I didn't mean to kill you.


As I made my way through the busy highways and street lights, I finally arrived at a red bricked building that had matching patios stretching out across the complex. This place certainly looked bigger online. I walked through the front door and was greeted by Phyllis, a nice old lady who owned the building. Her hair was curled and white and she wore a face that has seen many like me come and go before. “Here are the keys,” she said as she handed me two gold keys that dangled on an old bottle opener. We walked up the stairs three stories and she brought me to room 304. She opened the door for me as she began to explain, “rent is due on the first of the month and try to keep it down. You got neighbors to your left, right, above, and below you. If it gets too hot, open all the windows. If it gets too cold, put a jacket on.” The door opened into the hallway of my apartment which was dark until I hit the light switch. To my left, a restroom door that had a sink that dripped like a metronome in a music class. To the right, my bedroom, where a twin sized bed sat in the middle of the room with a light green cover that I knew I desperately needed to replace. At the end of the hallway, a large space that was illuminated by a single large window. A full kitchen that still had a stove that still had coils and a refrigerator with outdated coupons and a chinese menu taped on its face. The window had a wooden table that was complimented with a wooden chair right in front of it. I put my things down and sat down at the table. I stared off into the view. The sound of horns and people walking by filled my ears. In the distance, the sun was setting and I can see the cloud beginning to change its color to a hazy purple. One by one, the windows on every home from each busy street began to turn on. “Did I really leave it all for this?” I thought to myself as I let out a final sigh. As I stepped away from the window, I couldn’t help, but notice a small house right next to our red bricked complex. It was easy to miss because all the other buildings towered right over it. It is a light grey duplex with white frames that wrapped around the doors and windows. I have a clear view at the many bouncy balls that got stuck on the roof over the years, and a gutter that has not been well maintained. The backyard had a rusted swing set and weeds that over grew the jungle gym. The front of the house had an old bike that was leaning on a mailbox that stood over a chain linked fence. The side of the house that was facing my complex had a large window which lit up as I began to look. From my high angle, I could only see a desk with a laptop and notebook resting on its surface. I can see the reflection of a flat screen TV and a lamp that radiated a luminescent white light, similar to the shine of a full moon. I can hear Randy Newman’s “You got a friend in me” playing from his TV screen. There were lines all over the carpet, which made me feel like there must be a train set or some sort of children’s toy that was used regularly in the home. Then I saw a young boy, who must have been about 15 years old. He wore circular glasses and had the hair style similar to Harry Potter. It was not well maintained, but how can you blame him, he’s a teenager. His body was skinny and frail and he focused on his laptop as if nothing in the world mattered. On his desk, he had two stick figures. It was Woody and Buzz Lightyear from Toy Story. A movie that I watched when I was not much younger than that boy. At that moment, I see a dark blue BMW pull into the driveway. A middle-aged couple get out of the car. A short woman in pink scrubs walks out of the passenger side carrying a brown paper bag full of groceries. She walked with a fast pace and approached the front door quickly. The man walked out of the driver seat with a briefcase in one hand and a bag full of take-out in the other. He walked slowly and took his time as he walked towards the front door. He had his tie loosened and his blazer unbuttoned. They seemed to move so gracefully that I felt this was just another daily occurrence for them. The boy looks up from his laptop, closes it, and shuts off the light. I never thought I’d feel so close to home by being so far away. I assume that the couple are the boy’s parents and it reminded me of what life was like for me at a time. On birthdays or holidays, my parents used to bring home take-out as well. We didn’t have a large duplex or even a BMW, but my parents tried their best when I was just a boy. But that was when I was just a boy. I unpacked my things and got ready for my next day, the first day working at the new office. I could have stayed back home, but with an opportunity to be a part of the first new staff at this new office, I had to take it. Plus I needed to get away from it all. The office was filled with new equipment and every desk was packed uniformly into its own cubicle. Every single employee was from another branch and the only thing we had in common with each other was the fact that we all left our homes to start fresh here. We all left everything we knew to be a part of the grand opening of an office that handled all the finances for a company that supplied door handles, door knobs, door locks, and door stoppers to offices and businesses. I know my line of work isn’t the most exciting, but it pays the bills. I easily adjusted to my new life as my routine remained the same. I would wake up, drive to work, park in the same spot, walk through the same door, sit at the same desk, talk to the same people, eat at the same restaurant for lunch, look at the same websites, leave work at the same time, and figure out what was for dinner on the way home, driving the same route. I would eat my dinner on the same wooden table and look out the same window. The only thing that was different as the weeks passed was what my neighbors were up to. Without sounding like some total creep or stalker, my favorite part of the day became eating dinner while watching what this family was up to. It was the closest thing I ever had to home. They had their own routine too. The couple would come home at the same time, 6:30PM every single day. Most of the time, they had take-out, and most of the time, they moved in their routine ways. Now unless it happens during my working hours, I have never actually seen the boy leave the house. I have only seen flashes of him looking at his laptop or rewatching the Toy Story series on his flat screen TV. Many times, I envied him. To have take-out almost every night, to have a room all to himself, to have both parents catering to him and loving him, it really seemed like every kid’s dream. On Sundays, both of the parents were off and sometimes, I could smell the sweet smoky smell coming from the flames of their backyard bbq. It reminded me of times when my dad taught me how to use the smoker. He taught me that patience was the key to getting that tender and juicy element. We used to cook together all the time. That was until he got sick and well, everything changed since then. As time went on, I furnished my home, bought some new clothes, and finally learned how to prepare some meals. Of course I was motivated by the ingredients that my neighbors brought in in their brown paper bags, but for the most part, I was able to craft some ideas of my own. I finally managed to save up to buy a TV, nothing close to the size of my neighbors flat screen, but it was big enough for me to enjoy some light relaxing television. But I quickly learned that I wasted my money, because my nights typically ended with me looking out the window to see what my neighbors were up to. One Tuesday morning, I felt a tickle in my throat and my body was aching. Randy from accounting has expressed to me that he was feeling under the weather last week and I knew I knew I should have taken an Emergen-C. I called out sick that day and went into bed. The pounding from the apartment above me and the children running around below me made me realize that this place is impossible to rest during the day time. Then it hit me, this was the first time I was home during this time, and I walked towards the window. The driveway was empty as I expected it to be. The boy was in his room, but this time, his laptop was closed. The boy had his arms on the table and his head pressed against his forearms. I thought he was sleeping, but after looking a bit closer, he was crying. He had Buzz in one hand, and Woody in the other. He weeped and weeped. I wondered what he was crying about. I thought to myself how he has two loving parents, gets to eat take-out every day, has a home to himself, and is still crying? How can that be? It made me wonder how in the world could someone that has so much, spend his Tuesday afternoon crying and weeping. Tuesday afternoon? Shouldn’t this kid be in school? I fought so hard to not just go down there or scream out my window to the kid. I just wanted to scream out, “What do you have to cry about !? You have it made!” But then I quickly realized how much of a creep I would be if I were to approach a 15 year old kid and tell them that I have been watching them for weeks through their window. But it killed me as I wondered what he was crying about. I laid awake for the next few days, wondering what was wrong. I couldn’t come to any conclusions. I thought about all the things a 15 year old boy had to worry about. When I was 15, I was crying over my father’s illness, my mother’s stress, and the time I spent in isolation. Could he be crying over a girlfriend? A sad movie he saw? What was it? About a year passes by and I stop looking out my window every single night. Whenever I do look, it tends to be the same old things: the boy looking at this laptop, playing with his figurines, and a busy parent couple rushing in and out of the house. But one afternoon, I got home early from work and decided to take a look outside. To my surprise, I saw the BMW in the driveway. How strange. In my whole entire year of observing, I’ve never seen the BMW in the driveway during the day time. Did the couple skip work today? Did they take the day off? The boy was not in the window as well. It almost seemed like no one was home. But at night, the couple came outside to the patio. I can only see their legs and I can hear the boy sitting across from them. They were enjoying dinner outside tonight. It was a beautiful sight to see. After seeing the boy cry when he’s home alone, it felt nice knowing he was loved when he had company. Later that night, I noticed a different pattern in how the boy moved. Instead his normal gait, he hovered over the room. For the first time, I saw his father go into the room with him. He stood behind him as the boy opened up his laptop. And then it hit me. The marks in the carpet, they way the boy moved, he was never walking around the home, he was in a wheelchair. It suddenly all made sense as to why he couldn’t move around freely. A few months have passed and I forgot about the boy. By now he should be a bit older and hopefully even got a haircut. I decided to take a look outside the window one night, but his room light was off. “Must’ve called it a night early,” I thought. And then it happened again. And again. And again. I felt embarrassed to say that I was worried about this kid I have never met. Someone I have only known through the four corners of my window peering into his. One morning I noticed a for sale sign up in front of the house. This was my first chance to actually get to take a look inside of the home. I put on my light jacket and headed downstairs. I saw Phyllius on the way down and said hello. “Those poor folk next door,” she mumbled. “They’ve been living there for three generations,” she explained as her voice began to crack. “Why are they selling their home?” I asked. “Well, son, they just got no one to pass it down to now,” she replied. My heart sank as I was finally able to make sense of everything. I ran back up my room and began to sob uncontrollably. Then I began to laugh. Not the type of laugh from hearing a joke, but the type of hysterical laughing that happens when you just don't know what else to feel. Then I began to feel like a jerk. How could I, a healthy adult, at one point in my life envy a kid who was sick. How could I have ridiculed his reasons for crying when he probably felt more alone than anyone else in the neighborhood. I saw first hand how much time he was alone, and the entire time, I could have been there for him. I wept for days over a kid I never even met. I stopped looking out the window for a while. I just couldn’t handle the view of that table that sat at his window. Where I would usually see a young kid sitting, I now saw an empty chair. The BMW was in the driveway all the time now. I think the couple decided to take some time off. They have been showing the house to many different people throughout the weeks, so I decided to finally walk down to take a look. I rang on the doorbell and was greeted by the man who was now in sweatpants and a t-shirt, definitely a different set of clothes compared to what I was used to seeing. Behind him was an empty wheelchair with two figurines on the seat. I viewed the house, but it was really too much for me to handle. That night, I looked outside the window again. It really bothered me how I could feel so alone in a city surrounded by others. But it was also strange to me how I have never felt so close to home, through the view of my window. In a new town and in a new place, it is this family I have been observing that made me feel like I was a part of a family again. I’ve felt alone before, just like that kid sitting at his desk, but now I really felt alone all over again. In a way, I feel like he was my only friend out in this new city. The most tragic part of it all, is that he will never get to know. He had someone that depended on him, someone that valued him, and someone that was there all along.


A God and a Girl in a Pool  The whole night was a fever dream. My God was even there. She wore a tight black t-shirt and three necklaces—a lock, a key, and a crystal. You could see the top of Her pineapple tattoo in between her breasts and all four piercings in each ear. We swam in our underwear underneath pink and purple pool lights. We kissed underneath the moon. Touched elbows underneath the stars. I love the feeling you get when you swim at the bottom of a pool. When you look up, you see the world in a screaming color. But when you look forward, all you see is crystal clear. I stopped holding my weight and let my body sink. She swam toward me. I reached out to grab Her hand and swam back to the top. We stared at each other above the water, Her back towards the side of the pool. My God looked so beautiful with her wet hair and Her tight black shirt all wet and Her three necklaces dangling. Water droplets dripped from Her chin. It was easiest for me to make the next move since I already grabbed Her hand first and I could easily push Her against the wall so we have something to lean on.  Like a shooting star suddenly deciding to soar in the sky, I moved to Her body and grabbed her waist. I felt my breasts against Hers and kissed Her mouth softly. I tasted the chlorine on our lips. She bit my lip and I bit Hers back and She bot mine again, harder. My God is so soft. I still kicked my feet softly underneath the water to hold my body up when She pulled my body towards the cement. Now I don’t have to kick anymore because She is holding me up. I wrapped my legs around Her body and took in the moment. *A God and a girl in a pool.* The colors pink, purple, and blue. The smell of chlorine. The sliminess of shaven legs underwater. The softness of Her lips. I used to think I was going to hell for loving the salt on Her lips. Now I know I was wrong. I know I’m saved. *This* is heaven. My legs are still wrapped around Hers as I snap back into reality. We kiss against as if we were breathing for air and needed it out each other’s lungs. Eventually, she swims towards the ladder.  She grabbed my hand and led me into her studio apartment. Plants. Plaid tablecloth. Christmas lights. No couch. Just floor cushions. A painting of Buddha. A messy bed with a white comforter. Small kitchen area. Salt lamp.  I told her I loved her place and she said thank you and we went on her bed to watch cartoons on her laptop and she opened a bottle of red wine and we smelled of chlorine and the night was perfect. But just like the wine, the night slowly seeped away, like pool water drying on my skin.


Some summer days are too wrought with time. The kind of time where you \*have\* to think of something to do, and today, I was knocking around the house just trying to pass the time. I even found myself standing at the kitchen window, totally zoned-out and simply watching my mother out in the garden. Eventually I found myself sitting at the table with a drawing pad- figured I’d try and exercise my creative muscles. It was hard to keep my brain and hand from just stopping and remaining still, so I resolved to turn on the radio. The only thing that served to do, however, was inspire me to rap my hands and tap my feet. Restlessness had become me, and I had to just get up and move. After moving to the sink, I began tapping my knuckles lightly in tune with the song on the radio, and as the song reached its crescendo, I matched it with one hearty knock of my knuckles. In that moment, I began to feel a bit more relaxed, a bit calmer. Perhaps now I would finally be able to start being productive, back to the table. But then, the moment my back was turned I heard it, a *knock*. I glanced down at my hands, my feet. I didn’t make *that* sound, but the knock I heard was the same pitch, length, it had the same punchy sound my musical knock was. It had startled me so that I had to turn down the radio. I surveyed the kitchen windows- no one was there, no birds, no dogs. I figured it must have been the front door, but to my dismay, when I opened it, there was no one there. So I popped off the back porch to ask my mother why she knocked on the door, what she needed. Evidently nothing as she had not left her spot in the garden, and my question only confused her. Back inside I was left without conclusion - I heard a knock, but there was no perpetrator. So back to the table I went to try drawing again. I turned the music back on from the radio and my eyes fell down to my paper and work began. Thankfully I was able to get some ideas down on paper- I think the music really helped. I found myself once again tapping along when my pen was down…tap, tap, tap, tap\*.\* Unbeknownst to me the radio’s battery was dwindling down, and then it simply died. In the silence that filled the space, I heard it… *tap, tap, tap, tap.* There is was again, just like before- there was an echo to the sounds I was making. I brought my hands up to my face. I had to make sure the sound wasn’t coming from me, even subconsciously- I lifted my feet. The windows were still clear. *Where the hell were these noises coming from?* Before I knew it I was tapping my fingers again, t-t-t-t-tap. I hadn’t even realized it- must have been out of nervousness. Once I caught on, I stopped. But there it was *again- t-t-t-t-tap.* Was it coming from… the floors, the walls? This echo, if it truly was one, was beginning to induce some sort of mania in me. I wasn’t sure where its origins were, and almost without thinking I swiftly knocked my hand on the table- BOOM BOOM. It echoed back- *BOOM BOOM*\- instantaneously. I gently wrapped my knuckles on the table- brr- *brr* in return. There is something echoing me, there was no way to deny it. *But where the hell were these noises coming from?* It was too loud and too clear to be coming from the floor, so I ran up to the wall, and I knocked once more. 7 times, loudly, softly, quickly, slowly. And it all came back to me, from the wall. I froze- confused and afraid. Then, from the wall, there inexplicably came a firm and deliberate *knock-knock-knock.* Whatever was producing the sound was now brazenly going first. *How did it know to do that? Can it see me? Why is it doing this?* My hand shook as I laid it upon the wall and delivered my own knock-knock-knock. The air was heavy and thick with the presence of nervousness. *Tick-tick-tick-knock-tap-tap-knock.* Tick-tick-tick-knock-tap-tap-knock. And then the sound moved, downward. *Tap-tap-tap-BOOM.* From the vent at the floor this time. Tap-tap-tap-BOOM. Somehow, then, the vent rattled. Slowly a thin, white whip of smoke emerged from the vent. I raised my head parallel with its movements upward towards the ceiling. I held my breath as it gently lowered itself and graced me with its presence. The whip angelically swarmed around my upper body- warm and ethereal. I extended my arm and its smooth contours wrapped around and extended off of me. Behind it, it left a warm- almost glowing- sensation on my skin. It flowed through the air, contracting and extending as it discovered the dimensions of the kitchen, and then it seemed to settle. I froze, only my eyes being able to follow it. On the table where I was working it rested, only for a moment, and then it seemed to materialize a form. The smoke directed the movement of my sketchbook, lightly flipping over a page. As well it picked up a pen and began to write. When I could finally break myself from my stasis, I slowly approached to see what was written. “Thank you” A flurry of breaths came out of me as I tried to make sense of what I was seeing. *What is it thanking me for? Was it stuck in the wall?* But… its gratitude filled me with warmth, and the white whip of smoke moved into the noon-day light coming from the window. It floated like an angel, the light glittering on its form. *I need to show someone.* I ran to the porch to signal mother inside. Mother must have sensed the urgency in my voice, and she hurried from the garden into the house, leaving the door open behind her. As soon as she stepped into the house she saw the beautiful smoke, her eyes followed it as it spun and floated towards her. She stuttered with disbelief, but her eyes were bright and a smile grew. *I’m not the only one who can see this!* It felt as though we were stuck in time with this hypnotic glowing force, then it made it to mother. Slowly it descended upon her. Gracefully it slid from atop her head downward. It lay softly upon her shoulders. It then wrenched tight around her throat. Mother fell to the ground. The smoked creeped out the open door. … Mother hasn’t woken up, and I don’t think she will. I keep trying to check if she has a pulse, but my hands are shaking so violently. I don’t know who to tell, I don’t even know how to explain what happened. But what I do know is that thing is out there now. And I let it out.


I watch the beach and try to think of happy thoughts, but like the waves, they come and go. My cheeks are sun kissed, and my lips taste of salt water, and days like these slip away like rainstorms.  In my foggy memories you are mine. You sit next to me on this beach on my blanket in my daydreams. How did I lose something that was never mine?  I like to pretend I’m in a movie sometimes. I imagine that someone would want to photograph me. I crave it. I think I'd look nice in a photo here. With my pink blanket with woven diamonds on it, my brown basket, and my black and white striped swimsuit. I think the reason I crave a photo is so I can double check that I'm real, double check that I'm here. Days like this feel like rainstorms that don't feel real. I wonder if the inside of my body still works the same when I'm in a place I love, a place I try to love at least.  I should be happy, just like the waves should keep coming up until they touch the edge of my blanket; but they never do. Gravity just pulls the white caps back. I close my eyes and try to be content with the darkness, but the darkness never comes because the sun is so bright it peaks through my closed eyelids. I grab a towel out my basket and put it over my face and lay down. I wish I could make time stand still, appreciate this moment, and be content with the day, but my body fights against the current and pushes me to sit back up and take the towel off my face. I sit up in the sunlight again before I find my body standing up and walking to the water.  I stand where the sand first meets the lips of the ocean. Anytime I'm here I always count how long my footprint can leave a clean imprint until the wave washes it away. One, two, three, and gone. The waves go away, but they always come back, just like my thoughts of you, which were gone for so long this time. I walk further from my blanket and basket, and I swim underneath the ocean's tongue. When I stand up I am only knee deep, but when I get on my knees my head goes all the way underwater. It feels so good to let my hair get wet, to feel my crown get washed off and go back to wild.  I wish I was one of those people who could open their eyes underwater, but alas, I cannot stand the burning sensation. I wonder what the ocean looks like while you swim in it. I wonder if looking at the water is like looking through a mirror that your reflection isn't in. I wonder how different it is from looking at a pool underwater. I bet the difference is like my brain without the thought of you, like a warm, sunny day that I could actually appreciate.


It was a quiet drive. Sue and Dan hadn’t been arguing, but the tension between them was palpable. They were both wearing black, as was customary, and they weren’t listening to any music. Sue was lost in her memories. Dan was… pondering. He had something to say, but he really did not know how to say it. “What’s on your mind?” Sue cut through the silence. Dan was taken aback. “I don’t want to say…” “Just say it.” She was blunt. She meant it. “Ok. fine. Why am I going?” “Because I need you there.” Sue stated. “That’s why.” “But… it’s weird. I don’t know. I feel really uncomfortable and we’re not even there yet.” Dan was struggling to put it to words tastefully and tactfully. “I just… I need you to do this with me.” Sue softened a little. She was coming out of her thoughts and back to the present. It had been a long time ago, but the memories flooded back quickly enough. “Are you ok?” Dan asked. Sue looked out the window. “I’m fine. I’m still processing everything, i guess.” Dan flipped his turn signal. “Well, we’re here. Do you want to wait a minute? Maybe talk some more about things?” “No,” Sue took a deep breath. “We should just go in.” As they walked, Dan started to hang back. Sue noticed and reached back, taking his hand. He caught up to her and, when they reached the door, he let go and opened it for her. The funeral home had three rooms for viewings and a lounge. One room was empty, one room was set up for a viewing but the casket wasn’t there yet. The third room was where Steve’s viewing was being held. Dan looked longingly at the coffee pot in the lounge. It was empty. He started toward the lounge. “Where are you going?” Sue asked. “Do you want some coffee?” Dan asked meekly. “Dan, please. I need to do this, can you just be here for me?” Dan nodded and they entered the room. It was an open casket, and Dan’s eyes were immediately drawn to the face of this man he had never met. Steve. He heard stories. He knew a few things, but Sue didn’t talk about him much. They were together for a long time, Sue and Steve, but that was a long time ago. They hadn’t spoken in almost a decade. Sue just found out this morning about the viewing. About his passing. Apparently, he had been sick. He looked thin… at least his body did. She knew he had been sick, too, but she didn’t tell Dan. The big C. Dan didn’t ask what kind or how long before it took him. It wasn’t really a conversation this morning. Just tears. Confusion. Then, a resolute decision. Dan didn’t want to go, but Sue wouldn’t let up. Dan tried convincing her to go alone or to go with an old friend. She swore she didn’t keep up with any of the friends she and Steve shared. Sure enough, narrow eyes moved her way when they entered the room. There were a few people whispering and looking in their direction, but it was a packed house. Out of the crowd, a stately woman with a somber face approached. “Hi Mrs. Diane.” Sue said to the mother of the deceased. “I am so sorry.” Steve’s mother smiled warmly and hugged Sue. “Thank you for coming. It does mean a lot.” Dan realized he had been staring blankly at the casket. He was avoiding eye contact with Steve’s mother, but he slipped and they locked eyes. “Dan, is it?” She asked. “It is.” Dan was surprised. “I’m very sorry for your loss.” “Thank you. I can’t remember, did you ever meet Steve?” Mrs. Diane asked genuinely. “I did not, but I was familiar with his work and Sue told me a few stories.” Dan admitted. “Pity. He was a wonderful soul.” Steve’s mom looked down, then glanced over her shoulder at the casket. “If you’ll excuse me…” “Of course.” Sue reached out and squeezed Mrs. Diane’s arm before letting her go back to her motherly duties. Dan looked around and was met with some sharp stares. His intuition had been on point. He wasn’t really welcome here. Sue started to move about the space, looking for a place to sit. Dan followed doggedly, head low, eyes on her heels. The sea of people, of family and friends, seemed to part ways around them and close in again. Did everyone know who they were? Was he imagining it? His eyes were drawn back to the casket, but his gaze was caught by the photo next to it. He recognized that face. Before the illness. He’d seen it before. Handsome. Hard to look at. Hard for Dan, at least. Sue found two chairs along the wall and they sat. A few old friends that Dan had met before came out of the woodworks to embrace Sue. Dan sat and tried not to take in the room. He caught a glimpse in the corner of a collage of photographs. When Sue had finished catching up with the few friends who cared to talk to her, Dan pointed out the collage. “If you wanted to go look at it, would you mind if I went to the lounge?” Dan sheepishly asked. Sue was distracted. “That’s fine, yeah.” Dan had never been so relieved in his life. An instant later, he realized he had to walk through the room alone to get back out to the lounge. Terror filled him. He braced himself for the worst. Nothing happened, though. Everyone was content to ignore the intruder. There was a man about Dan’s age brewing the coffee when Dan got into the lounge. Dan perused the vending machine and tried his best to be invisible. “You doing alright?” The man asked. “What’s that?” Dan replied. “Are you doing alright? You look… scared. Don’t like funerals?” The coffee finished and the man poured himself a cup. “Oh, uh. I guess, yeah. Does anyone like funerals?” Dan studied the stranger and tried to place if he had seen him before. Nothing came to mind. “Coffee?” the man offered Dan the pot. “Yes, please.” “You sure? Caffeine can increase anxiety and you’re practically shaking.” The man poured him a cup as he spoke. “I’m Robby. I’m a cousin. That’s why you don’t know me. I know you though.” “You do?” Dan croaked. “Yeah, you’re Dan. You’re with Sue.” Robby spoke softly and plainly. Non Confrontational. Dan sipped the coffee that was still too hot and cringed. “I feel… like I shouldn’t be here.” “Dan.” Robby moved closer and placed a hand on Dan’s shoulder. “No one gives a flying fuck about you right now. Just stick with Sue like you’re supposed to. There’s a whole lot of sad people here today, and you’re not one of them. You’re just Sue’s shadow.” Dan nodded. “Yeah, got it. Thanks.” Dan was grateful for the advice. He made his way back to Sue, who was still at the collage. She was holding back tears as her eyes fixated on a picture of she and Steve. It was down near the bottom of the collage, it was poorly lit, and they looked utterly ecstatic together. They made a beautiful couple. Young. Innocent. “That was our christmas card photo.” Sue choked out. A voice came from behind. “Yeah, Grandma still had a copy that we found when we cleaned out her house.” Dan and Sue turned to see a face that resembled the handsome photo, but not the one in the casket. This was Steve’s eldest brother, Paul. There was no doubt. “Thanks for coming, Sue.” Paul embraced her, and he extended a hand to Dan. “Paul. You’re Dan, yes?” “Yessir,” Dan shook his hand then returned to being invisible. Sue and Paul looked at the collage together as he filled her in on the last years of Steve’s life. Dan lost himself staring at the photo of his wife and the man that she almost married before they ever met. There was something dwelling within him. An old flame was growing. Green with jealousy. He felt like such a fool. He was jealous of Steve for dying, for being immortalized. Dan never wanted to lose Sue. He knew that Steve’s life wasn’t easy after the two parted ways. Now and then, there would be an update from an old, estranged friend or even an article about his work and the life he was leading. His fame dwindled. His health dwindled. His life got smaller and smaller. There was a lot of attention when he was originally diagnosed, but that went away when people realized he probably wasn’t going to pull through. Who wants a sad story? Dan pulled himself out of his pondering and, relieved, realized he was still a fly on the wall. Paul hugged Sue again and walked away. Sue was wiping away tears when she turned to Dan. “We can go soon… I just. I don’t know if I want to go up to the casket.” “Ok.” Dan had never felt so out of place in Sue’s life before. “I haven’t… looked at it. Does it even look like him?” Dan didn’t know what to say. It didn’t. It didn’t look like him at all. It looked nothing like the photo next to the casket, and even further from the Christmas photo with Sue. It… he… Steve was gone. That was a body. A frail form. There wasn’t life or a soul or anything that resembled whatever Sue loved. That’s what Dan thought. “I think it would be better if you didn’t.” Dan softly spoke. Sue’s chin quivered and her eyes filled with more tears. “Ok.” she choked out. “Let’s go.” They turned and made their way to the door. No one tried to stop them. No one noticed them. Robby had been right. They didn’t matter. All that mattered to every single person there was their moments with Steve. Their memories. That was all they had now. They didn’t have time for Sue and they couldn't care less about Dan. When they got in the car, Sue broke completely. She sobbed bitterly as Dan sat, ready and waiting to comfort or drive, whichever she signaled was best. “Home.” was all Sue was able to get out and Dan sprang into action. He pulled the car out of the parking lot and drove them back to their life together. Away from this moment. Away from the memories. Away from all that had passed.


A frail old man sits in his favorite park, on his favorite bench feeding the pigeons that gathered around his feet. It's what he did every day. It was really the only pleasure he had left in life. Everything else had been taken from him. The old man gets a scowl on his face as he remembers the things he lost. He lost his achievements. He lost his building. He lost his reputation. He had revolutionized the world. But his quarrelsome and suspicious nature made sure he made enemies. And he had made plenty of enemies over his years. His enemies were incredibly powerful. Not only powerful but influential as well. Enemies that made sure he was known as a hoaxer, a charlatan, a fraud, a crackpot… Enemies he was sure were responsible for setting fire to his first building. Enemies that put him in his current position; penniless and living out of a small hotel room. The old man lets out a depressed sigh as he continues to feed the ever growing group of pigeons in front of him. He still can't believe that even after all he's done, he's going to be remembered as a failure. The old man was so wrapped up in his own despair and occupied with feeding the pigeons, he didn't notice he was being watched. That was until a well dressed man approached the bench. The old man was of course aware he was being watched. They had been watching him for years now. Hell, he knew the people watching him had rooms down the hall from his. He was old, not stupid. "The fools" he thought to himself as the well dressed man got closer to him. The old man noticed this man was different than the others. The others tried to stay hidden while they spied on him. The well dressed man looked different. The old man couldn't quite place why the man looked different. It almost looked like he didn't belong. Like he was trying very hard to look normal. "Do you mind if I sit here?" the well dressed man asked the old man. The old man said nothing and didn't even bother to look up from feeding the pigeons. "It's a beautiful day out today, wouldn't you agree?" the well dressed man said as he sat down next to the old man. The old man still said nothing but he did notice that the well dressed man had a book on his lap. But it wasn't enough of a curiosity for the old man to say anything. The well dressed man sighed and leaned forward. "I know who you are sir." The old man really wasn't surprised. He had been well known once. He had been famous. "I know what you have done." the well dressed man continued. "I know you're worried that you will be remembered as a failure." That caught the old man's attention. But he still did not say a word to the well dressed man. "I know you live in the hotel across the street. I know why you keep pigeons in your room. I know that you're being watched." the well dressed man said. The old man turned his head and stared at the man sitting next to him, locking eyes with him. A look of absolute shock was on the old man's face. The eyes of the old man asked the question the old man couldn't find the voice for, "Who are you?" "I have good news and bad news for you sir." the well dressed man said. "The bad news is and I am very sorry to say that tonight sir, you will die in your sleep." The old man was shocked but for some reason he believed what he was just told. He stopped feeding the pigeons and hung his head. He began to tear up. He wasn't surprised and in a strange way, he felt some relief in finally knowing it would all be over soon. "The good news is you will not be remembered as a failure. In fact I have the proof right here." said the well dressed man as he patted the book on his lap. The old man couldn't believe what he was hearing. He was almost ready to yell at the other man for lying to him. But before he could, the well dressed man said "Would you like to see it?" The old man nodded his head and was given the book. The book had all its pages glued together, except for the middle of the book. When the old man looked inside the book, he couldn't believe his eyes. Colorful pictures danced in front of his eyes in a way he had never seen before. The text that accompanied the pictures was so clear, he was absolutely amazed. After 10 minutes the pictures had stopped and the old man had tears in his eyes again. But this time it was from joy. He was going to be remembered! He was going to get credit for everything he has done! The well dressed man grabbed his book, stood up and began to walk away. "Th...Thank you. Thank you so much" the old man said as he finally found his voice. The well dressed man stopped, turned his head and said "You're welcome Mr. Tesla." With that, the well dressed man turned around and walked out of the park.


# Happy Saturday, serialists! Welcome to Serial Saturday! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # This week it’s all about GOALS. Let’s talk about wants and needs. Get out your notebook! Questions to ask yourself when thinking about serial goals: Do your characters *want* something? * How badly do they want it? * How far will they go to get it? * What’s standing in their way? Other people, distance, finances, knowledge, or outside forces? * Are there lines a character *won’t* cross to get what they want? * Will their wants change? Will the journey enrich them more than the destination? A character’s want doesn’t have to always be a grand plan. Sometimes it’s as simple as wanting a nice quiet night at home while the world falls down around their ears. Sometimes it’s just being the best version of themselves. The best student, friend, parent, or follower. Sometimes it’s working towards the weekend or that sweet, sweet ice cream sundae that makes it all worth it. Sometimes it’s . Next, what do your characters need? * Are their needs actually important to the story, or anyone else in it? * What will happen if their need isn’t met? * Do any of those needs conflict with each other? * Why do they need that item *right now?* Needs won’t always be physical. In fact, most of the time they’re not, unless the thing your character needs is a drink of water after wandering in the desert for three days. At some point your characters may come to a point when they are willing to sacrifice what they want in order to get what they need, or vice versa. Finally, what story do *you* want to tell, as the author? Do you want to tell a story of humility and compassion? Finding causes worth fighting for? Discovering that the real treasures were the friends we made along the way? You don’t have to know the answer to all of these questions right now, but it is what we’ll be thinking about this week. Even the most wholesome slice of life stories have these important elements that keep us engaged as readers. Setup and payoff can be simple wish fulfillment, or it could be ten layers deep. This little post isn’t meant to cover all the delicate facets of wants, needs, and story goals, but it should get you thinking about where you want to take your story and what your focus should be. ***You do not need to set up and accomplish the want, need, or goal in this single installment.*** Wants, needs and goals should be a theme we see as a cohesive thread that pulls your story together. This is the serial post to do lay that groundwork, if it hasn’t been an established theme for your universe already.  **\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*** **You have until \*next\* Saturday, 8/22, to submit and comment on everyone else's stories here.** \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* # Top picks from last week’s assignment, : **Undisputed fan favorite with the most votes:** /u/Kammerice, with his of Mouse Noir. For those who are not apprised of Kammerice’s mouse investigator story, I wholeheartedly recommend catching up with it, you will not regret it! This week the **Smoking Hot Serial Sash** (my top pick of the week) goes to two authors for absolutely nailing the spirit of the assignment: /u/Ryter99, for in the tragic tale of the Bundarr we know and love, And /u/Mazinjaz, for And in no particular order, a couple other fan favorites: /u/Mobaisle_writing, /u/Chineseartist, \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # New to /r/ShortStories and Serial Saturday, but want to join in the fun? We appreciate all contributions made to this thread, and are happy to offer the freedom of choice for our current and new users alike. All submissions are of course welcomed. We hope you enjoy your time in the community. **The Rules:** * In the comments below submit a story that is between **500 - 750** words in your own original universe. * Submissions are limited to ***one*** serial submission from each author per week. * E**ach author should comment on at least 2 other stories** during the course of the week. * That comment must include ***at least one*** **detail** about what the author has done well. * Authors who successfully finish a serial lasting longer than 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the sub. * Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule. *Yes, we will check*. * While content rules are more lax here at /r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely family friendly" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # Take a look at our inaugural Serial Saturday post for some things to keep in mind. **Join us for Serial Saturday’s Campfire!** * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serials Campfire on the main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start on Saturdays at 9AM CST. **Don’t worry about being late, just join!** * There’s a *Super Serial* role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! # Reminders: * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday post. Join to chat with prompters, authors, and readers! Have you seen the ? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule.


I wish we spent more time together. I have a faint memory of us playing catch with that bouncy red ball. Even then, you were in a rush to leave. Why couldn’t we be like other families? When you were off work, you’d wash your car and I would get to clean the rims. Every time I was sitting in the back of my friend’s car, his dad would be driving, and I wondered why it was not you. They say there's 24 hours in a day and even then, I only get you for two. At times, I felt like I’ve only seen you in the evening. And even when you got home, you looked too tired to play, too tired to acknowledge me, too tired to be bothered. You bought me new shoes. Shoes that are now worn from walking to school, walking from school, running home, and running away. I wanted to play sports, but I know you’d never come to see me so I didn’t even try. You constantly told me an education is important, but you never taught me anything. You told me what I had to do, but never showed me how. I see you’re getting older, I can hear it in your voice. I witness the way you move and how age really is more than just a number. I feel like I’ll never be the son you wanted. I hope you forgive me. I wish we spent more time together. I was in line to buy some lunch, but got this bouncy red ball instead. I thought that it was bouncy enough for it to jump back so you can have something when I am not around. You loved it and it was worth getting scolded for being late to work. Sometimes I see other families, and I wish we had what they have. You’re old enough to help me wash the car. The rims are low to the ground, so you wouldn’t need to climb a ladder or chair, and it requires a lot of attention to detail, something I need you to learn in life. Sometimes I wish I could leave this place. Working here consumes me...but it is the only way for me to make sure you can live comfortably. I would trade it all to just pick you up from school someday. The hour I see you before school and the hour when I get home make all the hours of work worth it. You’re outgrowing me. I get home from work and you’re never excited anymore. I guess you’re learning to live without your old man. I hide my sorrow behind my sighs. I try to buy you anything you need. With the little we have, I spend it all on you. I don’t understand these trends, but I want you to have the best. I wish you shared more about what you’re involved in, I don’t know how to support you now. I wish I knew more about education. All I know is that you need it, so you don’t have to live like me. I see you getting older. I can hear it in your voice. You’re washing your own car now, working your own jobs, and taking care of yourself. I know I’ll never be the father you wanted. I hope you can forgive me. I wish we spent more time together.