It was a rainy autumn day when I saw her sitting in front of the cosy café for the first time. Wearing a beige trench coat, comfortably taking one sip after another out of her cup while being lost in thoughts. Raven black hair was flowing down her head and shoulders as gentle waves flow during a summer breeze. Something about her intrigued me, woke the urge of getting to know her. However, I was too shy, too unsure whether I would come off as weird. “Hey, I just passed by and couldn’t help talking to you…” No that sounded strange and creepy. She was probably enjoying her lunch break not wanting to be bothered by a random stranger. So, I passed by her. I also passed by the next day and the following week as well. Until this one fateful day, the 7th of October. It had rained the whole morning and a thin layer of fog was floating over the ground. I saw her sitting in front of the cosy café again and was about to pass by her when she suddenly looked up and smiled. At first, I was unsure whether the smile was meant for me. However, she asked in a friendly and slightly amused tone: “Are you planning on just looking at me and passing by like every day?” So, the smile must have been meant for me. I stood there, surprised, and uncertain how to react. God damn, was my mouth open? I hope not. Smiling, she ended the awkward silence. “Why don’t you come and sit with me?” She asked while gesticulating in the direction of the empty chair at her table. “Of course, only if you have time.” “N-no, I mean yes! I have time right now.” I replied while clumsily sitting down at the table in front of her. She just looked at me and smiled again. However, this time I believed to recognize a shade of sadness in her smile. Or maybe it was not sadness but melancholy. Desperate to say something I scanned the table and my eyes landed on an origami, a little red butterfly. “Hey, that little butterfly looks nice! Did you fold it?” I instantly regretted the question, as her smile vanished, and sadness veiled her face for a short moment of time. Then, she quickly stored the butterfly in one of the pockets of her coat. “No.” she said quietly. Even though I was surprised by her strange reaction, I did not pry any further as the topic seemed to upset her. Instead, I asked her about her job, and we talked about our lifes. She told me that her name was Maivi and that she worked as an independent author. Also, we shared an interest in ancient philosophy. We instantly clicked. I always had a hard time talking to strangers however, with her it was different. With her my words and our conversation flowed naturally. After roughly one hour that felt like 20 minutes, she smiled at me again and told me she had to leave now. We waved goodbye, I looked after her while she elegantly walked down the wet and foggy road, her trench coat floating loosely around her body. The next morning, I showered, shaved, and used my favourite aftershave. Then, I looked in the mirror trying to tame my short but curly brown hair. I even used mouth water after brushing my teeth. Something I normally never do. I wanted to impress her. My plan was ready. I would join her at the cosy café again. Then I would ask her out on a date. Dinner at my favourite Italian restaurant. I put on my black duffle coat, slipped in black chinos, and finished off the outfit with a pair of white sneakers. Before walking out of my flat, I checked myself out in the mirror one last time and damn I looked good. Confidently, I walked towards the cosy café but froze in disappointment when I saw her empty chair. She was not sitting there. For the last week she sat there every day but now she was gone. I desperately tried it again day after day for the next week until I gave up. She was not going to come back, and I would not be able to ask her out. I would never see the woman, I instantly clicked with again. With this realisation, sadness crept into my life. I would probably never meet someone like her again. It has been a once in a lifetime chance and I missed it. For the next two and a half weeks, I continued to live in a state of regret until this fateful Halloween night. I should tell you that I love Halloween. The decorations and the costumes, which paired with the magic of autumn created this unique atmosphere, always cheered me up. I had bought lots of sweets and was giving them away to the kids the whole night. It had gotten late already, when the last children ringed, collected their sweets and left. Only the pale silver moonlight pierced through the darkness of the night, when suddenly someone knocked against my door. I had just sat down again, got up with a sigh and opened the door. “Trick or treat!” I could not believe who was standing there. “I saw you giving treats to all those kids and thought I would give it a try as well.” Smiling, Maivi looked up to me with her big, dark chocolate-coloured eyes. I couldn’t help but smile as well. “Unfortunately, I have no sweets left but you can come in for a hot chocolate or a tea if you want. Your effort shouldn’t have been for nothing!” “I will take you up on that offer!” she replied and came inside. We had a long and interesting talk. She told me that her brother passed away a year ago. The morning sun was already starting to rise when we finally said goodbye. Tired but happy, I fell into my bed and slept till the evening. It was October again. Nearly one year later. Shortly after last year’s Halloween night, Maivi and I had become a couple. We lived a happy lovers live and only argued rarely. However, since the beginning of October, Maivi seemed off. She seemed depressed and did not have the usual cheerful energy. And in the morning on the 8th of October, she was suddenly gone and also did not answer her phone. I panicked and aimlessly wandered through the town, hoping to find her. Finally, I returned home, devastated, and hopeless. In this moment, my phone suddenly rang, and Maivi’s number showed up on the display. With mixed feelings and a rapidly beating heart I accepted the call. She told me with a weak voice how sorry she was and that she did not want to make me worry about her. She said that she wasn’t ready to talk about what happened but also could not hide her feelings and therefore, she had run away. She promised to tell me everything and asked me to meet her at a lake close to our town. Even more worried and not knowing what to expect I got into my car and drove to the lake. I rushed through the wet and cold autumn night, wrapping my coat around me to shield me from the wind. The forest which surrounded the lake had already lost most of its colour. Fog billowed between the barren trees. When I finally reached the lake, I saw Maivi sitting on the shore. I sat down next to her, silently, and put my coat above her shoulders. She acknowledged me, with a quick glance and a weak smile, after which she continued staring into the lake. A few minutes of silence followed, then she started to tell me everything. How her brother died two years ago on the 8th of October, this exact day. And how they met at the cosy café every day of the week before his death. The cosy café where I had seen her for the first time. Afterwards, they used to wander to this lake and stay here until the evening. I did not know how to react, so I just looked in her beautiful but sad face for some time and then I hugged her tightly. While we were still hugging, she continued to tell me that her brother used to fold the red origami butterflies for her, every time they met at the café. How she fell into a deep depression after his death and that the relationship to me cured her depression and gave her new hope in life. We ended our hug and I told her that she could always count on me and how sorry I felt about her brother’s death. She nodded and said: “I believe that he is happy. Happy for me to have found new joy. Isn’t that the least we can do for the persons that leave us behind too early? They wouldn’t want us to be sad for the rest of our life because of what happened to them. Wouldn’t they want us to find happiness and hope again?” As if he wanted to confirm what she had just said, a small red butterfly suddenly landed between us and stayed there, sitting in the silver glow of the moonlight.


#Hello r/Shortstories! I’m back again to celebrate another writer completing their ! Let’s take a moment to give a big to u/stickfist! A lovely member of the WP and ShortStories community, both on the sub and on discord, Stick is an absolute delight to have around. And he recently earned his mod hat over on r/WritingPrompts! He has his own subreddit, r/StickFistWrites, where you can check out all his work. He has participated in Serial Sunday since it began. His serial, *By Any Other Name*, has 26 parts! And it’s a truly excellent read. Great job, Stick! I hope you’ve treated yourself to something wonderful.   ***   #By Any Other Name - Written by u/stickfist **A brief synopsis from Stick:** A forgotten space colony gains the attention of the Galactic Council when it’s discovered that the inhabitants haven’t aged in two hundred years. When a delegation lands to restore communications, they find that not all colonists want to be reintegrated. Some are willing to die for their ends. Others are willing to kill. If you haven’t had the chance to read this yet, sink in with some snacks and a yummy beverage! | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |   ***   #A Chat with u/stickfist about Serial Writing The writing journey can be challenging, but full of wonderful and unique experiences. No two writers’ journeys are the same. So let’s take a moment to talk with Stick about his experiences with serial writing. ##**What have you learned throughout the serial writing process?** Early on, I would write long installments with multiple scenes, forgoing things like character development or pacing. Over time and with feedback from the readers, I learned how to slow down a scene, how one good scene is better than two or three rough ones. Pacing is not about pushing words in front of the reader’s eyes, but about giving them a reason to keep reading. ##**What did you enjoy most about writing this?** The campfires! It was gratifying to hear my words and how people responded to them. The feedback I received was priceless. ##**What was the biggest challenge you faced and how did you overcome it?** I didn’t initially think I’d have so many threads to tie up by the end of the story. One of the ways I kept things organized was to use software. I wrote this in bibisco, which allowed me to write narrative strands, character bios, and location notes, all of which could be explored while I wrote my chapters. Endings are still hard and I know there were places to expand or improve to make it more satisfactory and who knows? Maybe I’ll revisit this world again. ##**What advice would you give to writers who are thinking about writing a serial for the first time?** Don’t worry if the project deviates from your original vision. When you sit (or stand) to write an installment, think about where you want the characters and the readers to be by the end of the chapter. It’s okay if every installment doesn’t advance the plot, if instead you give a reader a reason to be invested in the characters. Don’t rush. But do start.   *** ##**Thank you, Stick!** Stick, thank you so much for taking the time to talk and share with us. You’ve given us some great advice. Congrats again on finishing your 26 part serial! That’s such a huge accomplishment and you should be very proud. I’m so glad I’ve had the opportunity to have a front row seat to your writing and growth over the last several months. I wish you the best of luck on your future projects. And I do hope to see your writing around Serial Sunday again. Fellow writers and readers, please take a moment to leave u/stickfist some love in the comments below! You can even ask him questions!   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


The stress of our discovery left us with a calling to be somewhere that felt safe. The blustery winds and thoughts on our minds kept us up and it wasn’t until mid-afternoon the following day that we met up with the Deer Drum boat. By the time we met up with the refugees, we had been without sleep for a day and a half. My eyes were bloodshot, and my skin was pale. I could feel my brain being slow, parched of energy, and every sentence took that little bit longer to process. “You look like shit,” Xander said, laying eyes on me. I smiled as soon as I understood the statement. Unable to come up with a better response. “You need sleep. You both do. Our boat’s comfier than yours.” “We need to discuss Tima Voreef,” I slurred. “Will what you need to discuss still be the same in four hours?” Kurbani retorted. I offered no response. “Sleep. We can discuss it later.” Kurbani took us down to the hull of their ship to a spare couple of cots. I fell asleep quickly, but it was a light sleep, constant guilt sweating from my pores. A whole island was living the same lie I once lived under, and I couldn’t shake it. When I awoke I found Alessia had already headed up top. I emerged onto the deck to find an evening sky. The sun was hovering on the horizon, and the dying embers of the sun’s heat clung to the air. Alessia and a few of the Deer Drum refugees were sitting round in a circle in the middle of the boat. Behind them, near the helm, I could see Lachlann teaching guitar to Novak again. Novak’s fingers were slowly gaining confidence with the frets and strings. Chords were beginning to sound more consonant with each day. Next to them I could see Mirai with a fishing rod dangled over the side of the boat. Her face was steely, patient, prepared. Alessia spotted me. She shifted slightly on the crate she was sitting on and indicated to the empty space beside her. I walked round the group and sat down. “Alessia was telling us about Ruthogrey Landfall,” Xander said. “Very useful information. Should be able to get whatever we want from them now,” Eir added. “I don’t know what to do,” I said. “How do we tell the people of Tima Voreef and Ruthogrey the truth? How do we make them believe us?” “What do you mean ‘tell them the truth’?” Alessia replied, scrunching her face. “How do we tell them that the leaders of the island are the same person faking a war? It’s a big thing to break.” “You want to try and tell everyone?” Alessia replied, leaning away from me. “We have to. It’s the right thing to do.” “It’s the stupid thing to do.” Alessia scoffed. I gave a nervous uncertain laugh. “What would you rather do?” “Use the information to get what we want from Runar. Bribe him with our silence.” “And leave the entire population of both islands in fear of a perpetual war that will never come.” I could feel my voice rising. “I’m not happy about it, but... yes.” “You can’t be serious,” I stood up, the anger forcing my legs to stand. “You’re going to just turn your back on two whole islands of people.” “What’s your plan? Start a revolution and then leave them to an *actual* war?” Alessia said, raising her hands. I paused, my head bowing slightly. “I don’t know. But it’s not right.” “What have I been telling you? You stick by your actions. You want to go free Tima Voreef, you go ahead, but you stay there. And you fight with them. And maybe, you die with them. You don’t get to start shit and then bolt with your conscience clear.” Alessia paused, waiting for me to respond. I offered nothing, and so she struck again. “And if you go, you’re already turning your back on what you have committed to. To everyone here. You can’t keep thinking you can solve every island’s problems in a day.” I turned my head away from Alessia. “What do you all think?” Kurbani grimaced. “The truth has consequences. Sometimes unforeseen ones.” Sirad let out a small huff. “You have to pick your battles. Decide which fights you can’t win. And I’m not sure that’s one you can.” I closed my eyes, fighting back the swelling guilt in my words. “So we leave them.” Alessia dipped her head. “I know you don’t want to. I don’t want to either. But we have to do what we came here to do. Focus. Lose sometimes so we win further down the line.” “I know. I just…” I paused, taking a deep inhale. “You ever know that something can be right and yet *feel* so wrong?” Alessia smiled. She stood up and placed a sympathetic arm on my shoulder. “More often than I would like. But what we’re doing is right. I promise you that.” I bowed my head. “We’ll head over in the morning, speak to Runar, find out the truth, and be on our way to find whatever bastard did what they did to Deer Drum, okay?” Xander leaned forward, inserting himself into the conversation. “I’m coming too.” “What?” Alessia replied. “For this one. I’m coming too. We, or at least one of us, needs to hear it.” I raised an eyebrow. “Xander. I’ve…” I hesitated, trying to frame the words delicately. “I’ve seen you when you lose your temper. Are you going to be able to hear this?” Xander raised both hands. “I promise. We’ve discussed it already and agreed I’d go when you found out.” I looked at Alessia. “Someone who looks intimidating might not be a bad thing,” she shrugged. “Runar looks like he’d respond well to a raised fist.” “I can be intimidating,” I muttered. Alessia looked at me and cocked her head. “Okay,” I replied. “We’ll set off in the morning.” \ The next day, Alessia, Xander and I set off in Alessia’s boat back to Tima Voreef. The sail was short, and it didn’t take long till the full scope of the harbour came into view. Xander’s eyes widened as he saw the large town stretched out before us, and the constant bustle of activity. Then he blinked and his eyes focused once more. He began scanning the sights until his gaze caught the massive ship I had seen when we first entered. “That the boat you were telling me about?” he asked. I nodded. “How many people do you reckon that could hold.” I shrugged. “Alessia?” She turned her head from the helm, sizing up the boat. “Comfortably. As in, two to a room. Maybe fourty or so. Pack it full, few hundred probably. Need a good fifteen or more people though just to sail it.” “Could go anywhere you wanted in that thing,” Xander smiled. “Except between rocks,” Alessia muttered under her beath.“It’d be fast though. Boat that size will be pretty much the fastest in The Archipelago.” Xander turned back from the view as we drew closer to the harbour walls. Eventually, we found a good mooring and climbed up onto the shore of Tima Voreef. As we walked down the promenade I couldn’t help but lower my head. Each time I caught the eye of one of the islanders, I could feel my stomach turn with the uneasy secret. I wanted to whisper the truth in a passer’s ear. Speak it out loud, at least once. But I knew I couldn’t. So instead I clamped my lips shut and walked as quickly as I could, biting down on my tongue till the physical pain matched the shame I felty. Around us though, the pressure on the island was still there. The tension and fear were tightly wound, propelling busy frightened feet to their next mission. It felt wrong to not be afraid too, to not fear that at any second ships from Ruthogrey Landfall would be firing bombs upon the island. I wanted to be afraid, I wanted to conjure up that fake trepidation just to not feel like a fraud. We turned through the streets until we reached the offices where Runar had agreed to meet us. Inside, we were greeted by a guard who led us up a series of stairs and into a wide, open hallway. The room was surrounded in deep, rich colored wood. Around us there were maybe a dozen desks, at each sat a worker with their eyes glued to a large ledger in front of them. The walls were lined with shelves filled with thick green spines. At the far end, next to a large table, was Runar. He smiled upon seeing us. He leaned against the table, his hands stretched out, perched like an eagle. “I assume your trip was a success.” Alessia led us to the front. “Runar, this is Xander. He is from Deer Drum. The island that was wiped out. We want to know who did it. We did your favour.” Runar gave a wide smile, colorless teeth showing. “We appreciate your efforts. I’ve reviewed the records. The seller was called Sannaz, they came from Stetguttot Heath. I’m sure you will understand we can’t give you any more information than that.” “Show us the record,” Alessia said, a pause between each word. Xander took a step forward. Runar looked the imposing figure up-and-down. There was the briefest flinch before his demeanour returned. “You did a favour for us. We did a favour for you. The trade is done.” “We know your secret,” I responded. “I’m sorry?” Runar replied, a soft chuckle hidden in the undertones of his slow and cautious voice. “Joan Moreno. Philomena Rubio. Same person. That’s who we transported for you. Just sending the president between islands. There’s no war coming. No one’s in danger. You’re just spinning a lie.” Runar’s grin grew even wider. He let out a small cough. “And let’s say, that this accusation, were even true. What would you do about it? You’d be arrested before you left the room.” Alessia turned around, looking at the busy workers behind her. “We could shout it out in here. Really loudly. Yeah, sure, won’t change things today, and we’ll still be arrested, killed, whatever.” She turned and leaned in closer to Runar, staring into his eyes. “But people will have heard. That little doubt will be lodged in their minds. And they will talk and tell people. And those people will have that same nagging doubt. And slowly it’ll spread throughout the island until you aren’t in control anymore.” “That seems an unlikely story,” Runar replied, holding his ground. “Probably,” Alessia responded. “But that’s a risk you’d have to take. One you could nullify for the smallest of costs of giving up one of your buyers. I know which one you’ll take.” “Do you really consider yourselves capable of taking down an island?” Runar smirked. Alessia thought for a moment, her eyes trying to overpower him through staring alone. However I sensed a moment to aid our negotiations. “I imagine you used to get some of your coal from the Kadear Coalfields. I know your supplies will have stopped lately. Presumably you heard of what happened there.” “What happened at Kadear was unfortunate,” Runar said, his lips pursed. “However, we make do, and I hear it will be recovering soon. But what relevance is that?” “I’m from Kadear. It ended because of me. So I don’t consider myself capable of ending an island, I know I am. I’ve done so. And come imprisonment or death, one loud sentence in here can cause you more trouble than you know hiding that record is worth.” Alessia turned to me with a warm smile, but converting it to a smirk and drilling her eyes upon Runar. “Give us the record.” Runar stared back at her, holding her gaze. Alessia furrowed her brow that little bit more. They stared in silence, until for the briefest moment, Runar looked away. Alessia seized the moment. She tilted her head to her left, but keeping the eye contact. “Go on. Get the book. We’ll wait.” Runar let out a mumbled groan as he pushed himself from the desk and walked over to one of the shelves. He pulled out a large green ledger and placed it on the table in front of us, before opening the pages and flicking through until he found the correct page. He scanned the names on the left-hand side until he found the entry. “Here we have it,” he said, the resentment in his voice unhidden. “Sannaz Lytta from Stetguttot Heath. Purchased seventy handheld weapons with ammo, eighty-five heavy arms and thirty-four mercenaries.” “Mercenaries?” I replied. “Yes,” Runar replied plainly, his voice going through the motions, knowing the questions to follow. “You sell mercenaries? You can buy soldiers?” “Yes. It is a more expensive offering, rarely bought, but some people are in need of more specialist forces which we can provide.” Alessia shook her head. “It wasn’t a team that attacked Deer Drum. It was one person. And a team of hired murderers. One man.” “You hire out people to commit murders on civilians?” I said, trying to contain the volume of my voice. Runar took a step back. “Our mercenaries are only for conflicts. They are soldiers. Not maniacs.” “Tell that to the thousand people I buried who were killed by them,” Xander said. I could see his fists tighten. “You killed us.” Runar took another small step back. “As I say, our mercenaries are trained soldiers who are there to help in situations of war. They are not there for casual slaughter-” “And yet that’s exactly what they did,” I interrupted. “A few, a small number of rogue people who followed orders that they were trained - albeit wrongly - to follow. Now, we will of course look at our training to ensure that this doesn’t occur again.” “Nearly two thousand dead. None of them armed.” Xander replied, his head tilting forwards like a cornered bull. Runar took a deep breath. “Look, this clearly isn’t what any of us wanted. I am aware that you have lost people. But nothing will be gained by further violence right here, right now. So, I ask you, what will we need to ensure you leave here peacefully.” “You can’t buy my mercy,” Xander hissed. “No. I do not expect it,” the grin slowly returned to Runar’s lips. “But perhaps we can find a way to achieve clemency. You can leave here with worthless blood on your hands, or you can leave with something that will help you.” Xander lifted his head. He looked to the left and walked to a window at the side of the room that overlooked the harbour and out to sea. “I might have something,” “Yes?” Runar said, walking next to him. “You know this doesn’t change things. I still want to see your whole horrible island burn to the ground. And I would gladly have revenge upon you.” Runar let the hate in Xander’s words dissipate before responding. “What do you want?” “We came here on a boat. Purchased by those good people,” he said, pointing to us. “You’re going to buy it back from them. For the same amount of money they spent on it.” “How big is this boat?” “Three masts. Eighty metres or so,” Alessia added. Runar responded without hesitation. “Done. No problem.” “We’ll still need to leave too,” Xander replied. “So you are going to give us a boat in return. That one, at the end of the harbour.” He pointed to the giant four-masted behemoth at the end of the promenade. Runar paused, his jaw clenched. He nodded for a few seconds, going over the cost. “We would happily offer you a boat more suitable to your level of sailing experience.” “You give us that one,” Xander replied, his shoulders tightening once again. “Okay,” Runar replied as softly as he could. “You will also make alterations to the interiors as we instruct. Make it fit for living, not for war,” Xander added. “Provided you pay for those alterations-” “We’re not paying for them. You are.” Runar bowed in concession. “We will of course need to come up with a convincing story for our workers. Fake payment receipts, a story of who you are and what you are buying.” “You’re not going to paint us out to be war mongers,” Xander said. “No. That won’t be necessary,” Runar smiled. “Perhaps you are merely building a ship fit for a very rich, unknown island. The details can be worked out later. But importantly, you would agree to keep quiet as to how you truthfully acquired the ship.” Xander rocked his head, contemplating. “That we can do.” “And in return for all this, you leave here, not happy, but… peacefully.” “We won’t spill your secret, and I won’t spill your blood,” Xander said. “And you are both happy with this too?” Runar returned to face us. “As long as Xander is, we are,” Alessia said. Runar ordered a clerk to get the relevant paperwork. While much of the deal rested upon a trust in each other, I suspected the cost that we had driven from him was, in the grand scheme of things, so small that he gave it little worry. We took a small scratch out of his pride and the revenue of Tima Voreef, but otherwise, it cost him nothing. The two islands would continue just as they had done before. We walked outside of the office building an hour or so later. As soon as we were outside, Xander turned to gaze upon his new ship. “Why do you want it?” I asked. “We decided we quite liked the sea. There’s nowhere we wanted to go,” he said, looking out across the blue horizon. “So, we’re going to copy you for a bit. Go off. Sail. Explore. Meet other people. Become a travelling island.” “You’ll make a great crew,” Alessia smiled. “Thank you,” Xander replied. “We owe you both a massive debt. You saved us. We’ve lost a lot. But we have a future now, thanks to you both.” “Are you planning to go to Stetguttot Heath too?” I asked. Xander shook his head. “I want revenge. But that isn’t what we want to make the lives of the kids about. We’re just going to…” he paused, and raised his hand, before pointing out to the great expanse of blue to the north. “Point the ship at the horizon, and see what’s on the other side.” He let out a small chuckle that hid a glassy tint to his eyes. “Sounds like an excellent plan,” Alessia grinned. “You find him though,” Xander replied. “Pass on my feelings when you do.” Alessia smirked. “That I can do.” Over the next week we helped the islanders of Deer Drum with the renovation of their new ship. For seven straight days carpenters and metalsmiths from Tima Voreef could be seen walking back and forth on the gangway as the ship’s interiors slowly transformed. There was still a hull for transport. But portholes meant for guns had been ripped out and replaced with communal areas and kitchens. Cramped and dingy rooms meant to be full of bunks were replaced with apartments and family units. By the time they were complete, they had built a town. One ready to sail. The last few islanders set foot on their new home on the eighth day. Novak immediately decided to see how long it would take him to run the full length of the gargantuan boat, and set off tearing as far as his legs would carry him. Sirad walked over and inspected the fine, new ropes, testing their tautness with a pleased expression. Eir walked over to us and hugged us. “Thank you both. I hope our paths cross again.” “I’m sure they will,” Alessia replied. She departed, and headed down to the decks below. Xander and his family were the last to say goodbye. Novak was still sprinting across the deck, but Mirai stood by her family’s side. She leaned against Xander, one of his long arms draped across her shoulder. “Take care out there,” I said. “We will,” Kurbani said. Mirai looked up at me. “Thanks for teaching me how to fish,” I leant down slightly to meet her eye. “You’re the best this boat’s got. Don’t let them tell you otherwise. It’s good to know you’ll all be well-fed as long as you’re here.” Mirai broke from her father’s grasp, ran over and embraced me, leaning against my chest. I paused for a second before I returned the kindness. “Safe travels,” Xander said, turning from us. Back on the promenade we watched as the boats ropes were untied and the floating town of the Deer Drum refugees drifted out into the waters. No sooner had the ship left than I could hear Lachlann playing the guitar, singing his old song. *My friends, come along. Don’t you hear the fond song?* *The sweet notes where the nightingale flows?* *For to hear the fond tale of the sweet nightingale,* *As she sings in the valley below,* Then, as he reached the last line, I could hear another voice - Kurbani’s - sing it back in unison. *As she sings in the valley below.* I couldn’t hear the second verse as Lachlann’s voice became overpowered by the waters lapping up against the harbour. But then, just as I began to turn and head away, I heard a chorus of voices from the boat, the whole island singing the final lines of the verse. *As she sings in the valley below.* *As she sings in the valley below.* I let the sounds reverberate in my ears, soaking them up in my soul. I knew I would likely see the Deer Drum refugees again, but for now, they were gone, and I would miss those voices. I turned and began slowly heading back along the promenade. Alessia walked alongside me, her gaze staring at the paved surface of the harbour wall. Eventually, she looked up. “I have something on the boat. For you.” “Oh yeah?” I chortled, unsure of what to expect. “I’ll show you,” she said, picking up her pace. We walked to the boat and climbed down the ladder onto the deck. Alessia led me to the entrance to her cabin, and down the steps into the ship’s hull. As we descended the smell of sawdust and fresh paint hit me. We climbed down the tight staircase, until at the bottom she turned and pointed towards a door that had never been there before. “I figured since we’re going to be travelling together, if you’re going to be crew, you deserved somewhere to sleep that wasn’t in the cargo hold.” I pushed open the door. The otherside was a tiny, small room - no more than three metres deep and two metres wide. But to the side there was a small bed, at the back there were drawers, and the walls were lined with shelves. Alessia spoke from behind me. “I know it’s small, but I had to cut it out the cargo hold, and still need space to store goods.” “Thank you, Alessia,” I said, turning to her. “I guess this makes us officially shipmates now, so… congratulations?” she shrugged. I laughed. “Seriously, thank you.” She turned and started heading back up the stairs. “Don’t be too thankful. You did pay for it.” “Sorry.” “I spent some of the money Tima Voreef gave us. Not a lot. Just a bit. But I guess it was technically your money,” she paused. “Money you stole. But yours I guess.” I followed her up to the deck, chuckling the whole way. “You know Sannaz Lytta won’t be on Stetguttot Heath anymore, right?” she said, the smile turning flat for a second. “I know. But, it’s a start. One clue after the next, right?” “Exactly,” she said. “So let’s get sailing?” I nodded. “Untie the ropes *crewmate*,” she said, her tongue sticking out between her teeth. “We got weeks of sailing ahead of us.”  \ Next chapter 9th September.


Many centuries ago, when magic was as common as the springtime rain, a giant whale lived in the ocean deep. His name was Agathus, the Guardian of the Sea. He was awake the day the ocean came to being and knew each creature by its primal name. Throughout the centuries he grew and grew, and on the day that land arose, he was thrice bigger than the largest peak. And, by the time that humans learned to travel seas, the ancient giant’s shadow stretched for miles as he moved below their fragile ships. One stormy day, while wind furries danced wild spirals with the son’s of lightning and of rain, Agathus calmly followed western currents deep below the crashing waves. He glanced above to see the silver crackling of the darkened sky and spied a lonely ship, tossed savagely between the treacherous waves. Agathus sighed. The world above the waters was still young and full of growing chaos. Without a doubt he knew the ship with all its forty souls would soon be swallowed by the sea. The ancient whale was set to pass them by, resigning them to certain doom, when something made him pause. Between the crashing of the waves, the thunder of the skies, and the curses of the sailors, a single voice drowned out the chaos with its soothing calm. A mother huddled with her babe, below the rocking deck. Her crying son she cradled to a song, in hope to soothe his final hour. Agathus listened to the gentle lullaby she sang: The starfish sing a lullaby As mermaids drift to sleep Give them your worries and your fears They’ll drown them in the deep. And then they‘ll send you dreams of gold On waves of sea-weed foam The starfish song will keep you safe Until you come back home The ancient whale was touched by the courage of the soothing song. “Today is not a day that such a one should die,” he whispered to the sea. And so, Agathus rose beneath the sinking ship. Allowing it to safely cradle on his back. The sailors all fell to the deck as an enormous landmass rose beneath their ship. Looking with gaping mouths at still the storming sea, now miles away on either side, they raised a cheer to all their spirits and their gods. The mother and her child, still hidden below deck, paused but for a breath, and then continued singing to her child. Agathus stilled his movements and honed in to hear the lullaby once more. The gentle song felt soothing to his heart. His eyelids growing heavy with slumber’s honeyed call. The ancient whale slipped into a most pleasant dream. … Two hundred years did pass before Agathus once again awoke. He felt his body weighed. Instead of one broken and helpless ship - now a small town was perched upon his back. A port was anchored to his side. His back stung from the rows of plow scratches of the human farms. A grove of fruit trees delved like splinters in the giant’s hide. *I did not give them leave to stay. With just one dive, I’ll make them dearly pay.* Agathus took a breath but then he paused. A lullaby wove through the night. A Father’s voice sang soothing to his daughter’s twins. The starfish sing a lullaby As mermaids drift to sleep Give them your worries and your fears They’ll drown them in the deep. Agathus heard the care within his voice. *Perhaps, just one more day, I’ll let the humans stay upon my back.* Agathus stilled to hear the ending of the song, and with each verse, sleep pulled him deeper into her embrace. …. Another century slid past with Agathus asleep. Then on a freezing winter’s night, when blizzard’s raven covered all with cold white feathers of his wings, the whale awoke in agonizing pain. The town had grown into a kingdom of 10,000 souls. Four massive ports were now staked firm within his flesh. A thick oak forest delved its twisted roots into his aching back. And deep beneath his second rib, the humans had begun to mine his pearl-white bone. Agathus tensed with anger and disgust. He readied his descent below the ice-cold waves. But then a child’s voice began the lullaby anew, he paused. A little beggar girl was shivering as she sang her straw-made doll to sleep. The starfish sing a lullaby As mermaids drift to sleep Give them your worries and your fears They’ll drown them in the deep. And then they‘ll send you dreams of gold On waves… On waves.... The singing stopped. A bought of coughing racked the child’s frame. Agathus waited for the girl to finish the last verse. The love he heard within her voice kept all his pain at bay. Yet, she did not resume the tender lullaby. With one more ragged breath, she clutched her doll, curled tight beneath the quickly falling snow, and closed her weary eyes. Agathus felt her tiny heartbeat slowing like the echo of a distant call. He knew the winter frost had come to claim her soul. And, as her heartbeat gave a final thump, Agathus shook with fury and dismay. *That they would let a little one as this die in the cold. They don’t deserve another day’s reprieve.* Agathus took a breath and dived below. The human kingdom given freely to the deadly sea. … None guessed of why the isle of Berianth had disappeared. Some spoke of witchcraft, ghosts, and spirit’s whimfull wrath. The few who did survive kept endless search for land they claimed their own. And Agathus, the guardian of the sea, lay resting on the ocean floor, still angry, hurt, but wiser than the day before. As gentle ocean currents tended to his wounds, the Ancient swore to never lend again his back to those above. And as he slowly drifted off to sleep once more, he called to mind the ending of the fateful lullaby.


With a *bang*, the doors of the saloon burst open, nearly flying off their hinges. Where they were now stood a shadowy cowpoke, with a big iron on his hip. He took a look around (which had his big ears swinging in the breeze), before waltzing up to the bar counter, and taking a seat on one of the various stools. All the patrons kept their gaze on him a moment longer, before returning to their business. The bartender walked over to him, polishing a wine glass. “What'll you be having sir, on this fine evening?” asked the bartender, his beak clacking against itself with every word. “A shot of tequila, if you wouldn’t mind.” replied Austin, flipping the bird a coin. “And don’t call me sir, the name’s austin” continued the rabbit. Snatching the silver dollar out of the air, the bartender put down the glass and grabbed a smaller one. He took it over to a keg and filled it up at the tap. Then, he slid it down the counter, where Austin caught it in his fuzzy hand. He quickly downed the shot, the booze burning his throat and sending a tingle up his floppity ears, making every strand of fur stand on end. “Well mister Austin, what’s your business round’ these parts? I’d reckon I've not seen your face before.” setting the glass back on the counter, he replied with a smirk “ Well, if you must know. I’m here looking for an outlaw, calls himself Wilson wilks. About yea’ tall snake, green scales, missin’ an eye. Kinda’ hard to miss, actually. You by chance wouldn’t happen to remember seein’ a fellow like that, would ya? '' the bartender’s beak opened to speak, but no words came out. His gaze drifted to the side of Austin, and his face went pale. It looked like he’d seen a ghost. After a moment of awkward silence, Austin piped up. “Uh sir, is there a problem?” snapped out of his daze by the jackrabbit’s voice, the bartender managed a reply “uh, sorry mister, can’t say I have.” midway through the sentence the avian snuck a look at his pocket watch. “Well, would you look at the time. Sorry mister Austin, afraid I’m past due to close up shop. Last call for drinks fellas, last call!'' At this, most of the patrons simply got up and walked out, but a few of them walked over to the counter. one shambling, clearly drunk. After they’d made their orders and downed their shots, they too made their way out the door. Once the saloon was clear, Austin spoke up. “Well, that’s a shame. Hey, think I could get another shot of tequila fore’ you close up shop?” to which the bartender sighed, and answered “I suppose'' he grabbed the shot glass he’d left from his last one and refilled it. He slid it down the counter, to be caught by Austin's furred hand. He downed it and got up but set back the glass, before walking out. Right before he took a step through the doors, the bartender spoke “Oh, and mister austin. Good luck!” Austin looked back, and was about to ask what the luck was for, until a gunshot rang out, followed by a stray bullet embedding itself in the wall next to him. With this he turned his gaze to the source of the slug which was a shadowy figure, obscured by the low sun. Austin didn’t need to see his face, that cheap shot said it all. “Wilks! I’ve been looking for you, but I must say: It’s all too kind of ya’ to do the work for me.” With a smirk, the scaly sharp-shooter proclaimed “Big words from someone who’ll last about as long as a pint of whiskey in a five hand game a’ poker” the time for talk over, their hands slowly went to their hips, closing around the open holsters. The town fell silent, save for the soft rustling of a tumbleweed as it rolled by. The moment felt like an eternity, as they both waited for the other to make a move. In an instant, they both drew and fired at once, yet only one of the bullets hit their marks. The snake hit the ground with a *thud*, as a poorly-aimed bullet whizzed past Austin's ear. He deposited his big iron, his muzzle still smoking, back to his holster. With that he walked over to the scaly mass that lay in the dirt, and hoisted his adversary's green tail up, draping it over his shoulder. And, with a grunt, he started the walk to the sheriff’s office. As he dragged the snake, the slithery bugger coughed, a few drops of blood coming up. With a raspy voice, he managed weakly “nice ssssshhot” and with the end of the thought, he went limp.


Racing towards class, dropping a pencil here, some paper there, and half a sandwich he just took a few bites from slipped from his hand and stuck to another student’s shoe, Cliff panics. He sees the teacher reaching to shut the door of the classroom he is desperately attempting to run into. “Wait! Wait”, the clumsy middle-aged student pleads as his eyes meet with the wintry stare of the teacher’s. If it hadn’t been for Cliff’s determination to make it to that door in four leaping bounds, he would have been frozen in place by Mr. Tenor’s extreme, frostbitten gaze. Slipping into the door, Mr. Tenor shuts it on the unbuttoned plaid shirt that Cliff had thrown on this morning, or is it afternoon, in his hurry to get to his final exam in class on time. Looking sheepishly at the professor, he quickly makes it to his assigned seat in the circle of students. This is the smallest class of only 16 students, all the chairs and easels are in a circle facing inwards towards whatever is on display in the middle. There have been times that it was a single branch on the small square platform that was built roughly out of darker colored wood and stood only about one foot high, and there have been times when a naked lady has sat upon a chair on the platform. One never knew what would be the item of design for the specific day, Mr. Tenor never gave this information in advance. He would only give advice on what tools would be needed. Typically for the classes Mr. Tenor advised charcoals, pastels, and maybe some watercolors but he never suggested what he did for this class. For this class and this final exam he had suggested bringing leaves. He didn’t specify how many leaves or what type of leaves. For this exam he absently told them while they packed up their items from the last lesson, “Bring leaves of your choosing, and I suppose you should bring along your charcoal as well. Hmm... needle and thread may be useful, but that is up to you”. Cliff was already struggling to please the professor so he brought a shopping bag full of various leaves he found in his yard, on his walks, in the courtyard, and at the park. He was very happy with his selection of maples, oaks, birch, apple, cherry, rhododendron, lily, and many other leaves he selected. He was ready with his full set of charcoals as well as three sizes of needles and some green, yellow, and brown sewing thread. Looking around, he realized he may have over-brought on the items the professor advised to gather. Most of the other students only had a handful of leaves, one charcoal piece, and only a few had needle and thread. He carefully looked at each student realizing he brought about three times more than anyone else in the entire room. He shifted a bit in his chair, he really needed a good grade but now he wasn’t sure he did the right thing with all of his choices. He thinks to himself, “Was there a limit on supplies? I don’t remember a limit being mentioned, but that was the day I dropped my lentil soup and it splashed all over my life drawing”. He continued to ponder to himself until a typical sound interrupted him in this class. “Ah-hem”, Mr. Tenor’s usual start to a class, “You may wonder what the supplies I suggested are for, and you are about to discover. First off, thank you for being a very studious class this semester. Abby you have been the delight of the class, Greg you have been the most elaborate in all your art pieces, and finally, Cliff you have been the thorn in my side this semester. To the rest of you, you have been mainstream at best.” Everybody groaned in unison, Mr. Tenor was known for picking favorites, negative or positive. Cliff held his professor's gaze and then finally looked down at his leaves hoping the professor would just look away. “Ok, everyone”, Mr. Tenor rasped, “For your final exam, Meet Ms. Anne.” At this introduction a young looking middle-aged woman comes out onto the stage in nothing but a linen sheet. She takes light steps towards the stage, hops up like a floating bird, and stands next to the battered, cobalt blue wingback cushion seat provided. She stands next to the chair and happens to be looking directly at Cliff, making brief eye contact, he blushes, and then she continues to scan the rest of the class. He watches her, the way her hips bop back and forth, her purple hair falls lightly around her head escaping the bun she threw it in, and he notices the way her left foot keeps tapping lightly as she inspected everyone. She slowly walked around the chair, then finally after examining everyone she settled into the cushions, letting the linen sheet hang over her body. “Ms. Anne will not be a life portrait for you today”, Mr. Tenor informs us with a very sinister smile, “You are to use your supplies to create her. It should be more than just two dimensional, and I must see your creativity shine. You are graded solely on your imagination and creativity in this one.” Stunned, the entire class stared at him blankly. This is the first time he has graded on creativity alone, he usually wants the piece to have some aspect of tangible grading structure. He usually grades on appropriate scale, shading, contours, shape, form, and sometimes lines. Up until this time, he always made sure there was a measure of objectivity in what to grade, not something as abstract as just creativity. Nobody knew what to do. They were all stunned and wondered if their teacher had been swapped. Then they as a whole realized, it was just like him to confuse the class on the most important assignment. “I will start your timer in five minutes, get set up”, he instructs the puzzled students, “You will have 90 minutes to complete your final”. Cliff leans down over his supplies and starts to organize them around him. Charcoal pencils on the easel, thread in his pockets, needles are in his grandmother’s old little stuffed, red pin cushion, he thinks he just might be ready to pass this exam. Mr. Tenor supplied the paper for this exam, he wanted it to be on mixed media, sturdy paper. Cliff watched the other students look at Mr. Tenor, following him as he walked around the small art circle and checking on the students’ readiness. Once the five minutes were up and the students were all settled, Mr. Tenor walked towards the middle of the circle next to Ms. Anne. He slowly turned around and looked at each individual student and their easel. Nodding his head slightly, he seemed satisfied that they were all as ready as they were going to be. Mr. Tenor is a stern, rigid teacher, but he was always fair in making sure everyone had adequate time to get their projects done. Ms. Anne looked up at him expectantly, almost like she knew he was going to tell her to do something next. Breaking the silence he instructed everyone, “The exam now starts, Ms. Anne will rotate her chair every 15 minutes that way each student has enough time to see her from all sides to be able to create her in whatever way you see best. This exam is not an easy one, but I think you will learn a lot from it. Ms. Anne, please remove the linen sheet.” Ms. Anne removed the sheet. She was still dressed in a cream colored, strapless slip that fit her form and highlighted each bump and dip in her body’s natural curves. She was a lovely life model. She settled back into her chair, crossed her right leg over her left and leaned into the tattered left armrest while placing her left hand just under her chin as if it was just too heavy to keep up any longer. Once she had settled, each student started their assignment. Nobody knew exactly what to do, this was a strange test that had not been leaked to the students from previous classes. Surely this would have been something that was common knowledge if Mr. Tenor did this odd exam for his final. Maybe this was the first time he has done something like this? Mr. Tenor walked over towards his own desk, opened the drawer, and pulled out his sketchbook and started to sketch to pass his time. During tests he never monitored like other teachers have in Cliff’s experience. Mr. Tenor didn’t hover, he didn’t get involved, he generally sat at his desk or an easel and did something artistic himself. There have been exams where Mr. Tenor even did his own test to show the students the expected final piece. It was always the worst way to be shown how to do something, generally Mr. Tenor finished in half the time allotted and was ten times better than any of the students’ works. Snapping himself out of the stare, Cliff focussed in on his work. He didn’t know what or how, but he was sure he was optimally prepared to be the most creative. Having the most supplies seemed to not disappoint Mr. Tenor, but seemed to impress him. Cliff was sure he could finally impress Mr. Tenor, he now had eighty-five minutes to do so. Grabbing a sturdy piece of charcoal, Cliff first made a quick outline sketch of Ms. Anne on the chair. Erasing the chair, Cliff turned it into a pillar like one would find propping up a bust of a famous historical hero. He then sketched next to the pillar a wall that would be covered in vines, looking down at his bag of leaves he had quite a few English ivy ones in there from around his grandmother’s home. “Mr. Tenor?”, Cliff spoke up, “Could I put some headphones in please?” “Of course Mr. Clifford, whatever helps you to finally succeed at something in this class”, the professor said without even looking up from his sketch. Putting his headphones in, turning on his favorite rock opera band to set the tone, Cliff picked back up his charcoal and began setting the scene of a lucious Roman garden that Ms. Anne deserved to be placed in. Her pose was light and delicate, her facial features strong, and her laid back position gave the impression that she didn't have a care in the world. As he sketched the scene, he made plans for where the leaves would go and how he would use the thread. He drew around her a garden of great beauty, he sketched in the branches of the assortment of bushes in the back, the trunks of the trees, and even the lily of the valley along the bottom of the stone column. He used the green thread to secure the leaves in place, the red thread for the outline of Ms. Anne’s slip, and the brown to give the trunks some texture. He sketched in her face when she had been facing closer towards his side of the classroom, and focussed on her background when her back was towards him. “You have 5 minutes left”, Mr. Tenor said as he tapped on Cliff’s shoulder, jolting him back into the surroundings and he scanned the room quickly. The other student’s faces did not look relaxed, many of them had creased faces and stern expressions. It looked like Abby, the delight, had been crying for most of this exam, and Greg stared off into space as if he was already done or wishing he could be anywhere else but in this classroom. Cliff focussed back on his piece, he added the final shading to the slip with his charcoal and then clipped off some of the excess thread from the tree trunks. He had left some pieces of the green thread hanging down in the background to look like a willow tree lined river bed. Mr. Tenor walked slowly around the room, looking at all the students, his face giving nothing away in regards to his feelings. There were two known facial expressions of Mr. Tenor, disappointment and grave disappointment, neither were currently on his face. He walked back to Cliff and stood behind him for only a minute, but Cliff had thought all time and space stopped in that one moment and froze for at least half a millennia. “Time is up”, Mr. Tenor announced. There was a shuffling of charcoal, feet, and supplies. Per usual protocol, all students stood up and took 3 steps back from their easels to examine their work. As Cliff started to stand, Mr. Tenor placed a hand on his left shoulder with his fingers firmly gripping in. Cliff’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest, or stopped, and all the color left his face. He failed. He knew he did. “Stay”, commanded Mr. Tenor. He then walked past Cliff, his easel, and to Ms. Anne. He picked up the sheet and handed it to her to let her know she could cover up if that is what was most comfortable to her. She simply took it, folded it a few times, and draped it over the back of the chair. Mr. Tenor looked at her and nodded his head slightly towards Cliff. She lightly hopped off the middle stage and walked past Cliff’s easel and then turned around a to look at his completed exam. She made a small gasp, stifling it quickly. He must have failed and the teacher was just embarrassing him for it. Cliff felt all the color rise into his cheeks as he blushed in shame. Ms. Anne then walked around the room slowly, examining each and every student’s piece. Walking herself back to Mr. Tenor in the middle of the room, she sat down on the small podium, nodded to Mr. Tenor and then looked away from him and up to the ceiling. “I probably do not have to remind you, but I have already determined your grades as usual when we do these exams”, Mr. Tenor informed nonchalantly with a tone that was so close to boredom it would almost sound like he was rounding back to amusement. Cliff’s heart sank. He really wanted to do a good job in this class. “Greg, you have failed this exam. You only used charcoal for this exam in creativity. Abby, your tears added an interesting touch, but were not part of the suggested items to use. You will be graded down for using items not required. Cliff…”, Mr. Tenor paused, shifting his weight onto his left leg and looked Cliff in the eyes, “You have passed with full marks. Your piece is the best the class has ever seen. I am quite impressed with your creativity and use of your items. You made Ms. Anne into her very own goddess in her heavenly garden. We both agreed your piece will be sold at the school’s next fundraising auction, as long as we have your permission.” Cliff’s jaw hung a few inches lower than it normally occupies, he could not find the words to say anything, his mouth was dry, and his heart fluttery. “In your own time, Mr. Clifford”, Mr. Tenor said and then turned around to the rest of the class, “Go ahead and see what he has created then pack up your items and make your way out”. Cliff stayed seated, Mr. Tenor hasn’t suggested submitting a student’s art piece to the annual fundraising auction in about a decade. It was common knowledge that he is very strict and does not usually suggest a student’s art in fear it will ruin his reputation as an expert artist himself. Each student walked past Cliff, he wasn’t paying attention to what they were saying, he was just staring at Ms. Anne to the side of his easel. She had the sweetest smile she kept offering him. He came up with an idea. “Mr. Tenor”, he said shakily, “I will be happy to donate my piece to the annual fundraiser, but I require a bargain. A date with Ms. Anne and the piece is yours to auction.” Mr. Tenor gripped his wrist tightly, looked at Ms. Anne, and pursed his lips together. Cliff realized just in those two moments that this had made Mr. Tenor very uncomfortable, but why? Ms. Anne and Mr. Tenor made eye contact and spoke in a secret language in those moments. He glared at her hard, almost piercing her soul, and she just gave a single blink in return. “Ms. Anne? What is your decision at Mr. Clifford’s request?” She looked at Mr. Tenor, smirking so slightly to the right, her cheeks rosy, and stated, “Oh Dad, I will go out with Mr. Clifford on a date so you can put his piece up for auction”. All the students stopped, the room was silent. Mr. Tenor had a daughter? Wait, the man is capable of emotion enough to have a daughter, to make a daughter, and she seemed to like him?! “You’re his daughter!?”Abby barked. All the students had stopped and were staring at Mr. Tenor, he was shifting his weight from one leg to the other, gave his daughter a look that could have killed, and then remarked, “Well, yes, did you think I only live in the art department?” “Mr. Clifford, you have your answer”, he quickly told him. Cliff wasn’t so sure what he just did to himself. He was now possibly going to date Mr. Tenor’s daughter. Anne walked over to Cliff and placed her hand on his, looked down at him and simply whispered to him, “He isn’t as scary as he seems. He kept talking about how much he really liked you. I am happy to go on one or more dates with you, I feel I already know you with how much Dad had talked of you”. Cliff blinked. The next thing he remembers is he is looking up at a bunch of faces looking down on him. Thank you for your time to read.


(Descriptions of fictional crimes investigated by the story's main Character Max.) Detective's Fate It's august of 2008..... Max is a detective living in Chicago He checks his pistol and puts on his police badge as he walks out his front door. He has been searching for a serial killer known as the Caller for years and always been one step behind due to the red tape..... More importantly the chief's lazy attitude towards getting search warrants and actions approved by the courts for raids. Twice Max had good intel on the suspect's locations and photo evidence showing him at the sites. The department needs more vigilant, caring officers and leaders but no one steps up to do it, instead they just complain about the slow progress and officers. And hinder investigations. Now Max has decided that it might be time to stop playing by the rules and catch this scumbag.... .... .... Starting his car Max sets his GPS to the address that "The Caller" was last seen and pulls out of his driveway as the 50 miles of directions pop up. The killer's nickname being for his signature of calling in as he is committing the crime. As he drives he remembers his first case, five years ago now..... ..... ..... A woman, Joane Taylor, was found dead in an alleyway after going out for the night. She showed no signs of struggle leading the police to believe she had drank to much and expired from alcohol poisoning.... ... The death was written off as a "party gone wrong".... That is until several more were found and the coroner decided on a whim to test for other substances. Once it came out that the deaths were possible murders... The calls started coming in, almost like the suspect wanted credit before revealing himself.... Then ways of the deaths began changing as the Serial Killer explored his twisted desires searching for his preferred method. The last case being a young woman found stuffed in a dumpster after the killer apparently got scared off.... Max will never forget it.... .... .... The GPS finishes and the car beeps its final direction, taking an exit off the highway. Ramps out here are always confusing... Which is funny since he has driven this one for five years now... The chief says he should sit this one out but he can't... The latest victim 3 months ago. Marie Spelner, a waitress out on her smoke break talking to her spouse on the phone. Survived by her husband, no children or living relatives. .... Max Spelner turns into the driveway of the house he was directed to... Stepping out of the car he walks up and knocks on the door. Looking at the house he knows the family must be doing well if they live here.... Raising his hand to knock again he hears a scream from inside.... A second later the door is answered by a middle aged butler holding a tray with wine glasses on it... "Hello Sir, I'm sorry but this house does not wish to partake in any offers at this time..." Max calmly says. "I'm not selling anything." The butler looks confused for a moment before his eyes dart over Max's shoulder seeing his unmarked cruiser and he nods. Looking past the butler Max sees that a woman is cleaning up after their dog. "Have you seen this man?" Says Max holds up a picture of the one suspected of being the killer. The butler gives it a once over before replying. "I'm sorry sir, no I have not." His tone sounds like he is lying... .... "Are you sure?" The detective asks. "I would not lie about something like that, sir." He states, his eyes not meeting Max's. The woman calls from inside "Fletcher, who are you talking too?" "Some man asking about a killer" he calls back. "The killer is an inside job!" The woman quickly states. "What?!" Max says. "The Killer, it's an inside job." She says again, louder this time. In the same Max also hears a child begin to cry in another room. "We should start from the beginning, it will be easier to explain trust me." The woman says. 'She seems to know what is going on.... "How do I know your story holds water?" He asks out loud. "Oh I wouldn't lie. I have been following the case myself and it seems like an inside job to me." She states, somehow sounding hurt. "Is there anyone else in the house besides you two and the baby?" He asks noticing the baby isn't crying anymore. "Just Fletcher and I live here, the baby is my cousins but he just stays the night sometimes." She replies. Max draws his gun and enters the house upon reasonable suspicion of an emergency in progress or suspect on the premisses as the man seems to be deceiving. While the woman still seems unconcerned that the child is now silent. He pushes past the butler and rushes towards the area he heard the crying. passes the entryway, the dinning room, and a kitchen before finally finding a child in a playpen. "There there..." He says in a sing song voice picking up the child. "I'm officer Max, do you know where your mommy is?" The child just cries louder. Then he sees the man from the photo walk out of the bathroom, upon seeing him he bolts for the door and Max sets the child down gently then gives chase. He runs through the house, following the man as he can hear the woman screaming at him to stop but he doesn't." "Stop or I'll shoot." The man doesn't even break stride. Instead he runs out of the front door and jumps into his car. Furious that the man might escape he fires at the car as it drives away. The back window shatters and he hopes he got his tire, but he doesn't wait to find out as he runs to his car and initiates a pursuit.... He flips on his concealed lights in his cruiser as he reverses down the drive and into the street. The suspects car is fast but he manages to keep up with it weaving in and out of traffic as people move over for the siren. As they approach a red light there is heavy traffic in the intersection..... .... The suspect slams on his brakes and Max's cruiser only just stops short of hitting it. Jumping out the Detective points his firearm at the vehicle running up beside seeing heavily tinted windows. "Get out of the car and on the ground now!!" He shouts as he moves to the driver's side door. After seeing no response.... Max throws open the door and the driver is gone with the passenger side open. He quickly runs to the other side catching the man trying to sneak off tackling him to the ground and then takes his arms putting them behind his back. Max grabs his radio and calls it in as the man cries. As he is waiting he hears a noise that sounds like static..... "Wrong guy moron.. Did you ever stop to think I wanted you close for this one. That I planned everything...Even framing the pothead..... I almost lost interest until you pulled in the driveway... The attic is kinda cramped tho... I think I'll go carve some meat. Maybe graduate to other things to. I'm not sure yet. Lets see if you can catch me before......" A familiar voice says over the radio then cuts off... ... Max looks at the man on the ground. "Why did you run from me?" He asks. "Cause I have like 19 grams of marijuana in my pocket." He replies... "Do you know how stupid that is?! I don't care about that I'm looking for a killer." Before he can answer Max hears the woman from the house screaming for her life and a child's cries on his radio. Then from below Max. "He's in the house, he's in the house! My mom and the baby!" The man on the ground says crying. Max uncuffs him and runs to his car heading back to the house as he lays down rubber on the road... ... ... As he approaches and pulls into the driveway he notices the front door is open. "Hold on I'm coming!" Max screams jumping out of his cruiser... He runs into the house finding the woman's body arriving too late. Moving over to her he checks for a pulse but she is gone, a large gash in her neck. As he stands up he slips in a fluid but gains his balance and tries not to think about what it is.... He rushes to the room the baby was in finding the play pen empty. He leaves the room searching the rest of the house and still doesn't find the child. "Where are you!!!" He calls out.... "This is the Callers first kidnapping and the media would eat up the fact I failed to stop the man." He thinks as he blames himself. Sirens begin to blare in the distance as backup is about to arrive... ... ... "There's a woman dead and a baby missing! The woman is in the dinning room straight ahead of the front door, Hurry!" He yells into his radio... Looking over at the mother seeing a piece of paper on the floor. He walks over to it seeing writing. "So close... Looks like I'm a kidnapper now.... Good luck finding me.... And... I so enjoyed killing that sweet wife of yours. Might do it that way again. Not to the kid tho....later Max. Ps. This game is so fun.." It says. "He was here..." Is all he can muster as the team enters. "He was right in this house and I missed it because her son freaked over weed and ran..." He says as another officer speaks to him gently. "Don't beat yourself up Detective, it's not your fault. He must have hid before you got her and left after you arrived." The words do little to comfort him "First day back on the job and the killer escaped taking a child..." He says as he walks away. The chief arrives in his new lexus with a screeching of rubber as he lurches to a halt. He quickly exits and leaves his door hanging open as he rushes into Max's face.... "I told you to stay away from this case MAX!!!!....(takes a breath)... "If I catch any flak from my superiors, I won't suspend you.... That'd be to easy. Desk duty and an entry level demotion. The new guy will have a higher rank than you if things go my way.... Now get outta my sight...". "(Sighs)... "This job is gonna be the death of me..." He says walking away from Max and towards the Coroner's van..... ..... ..... On the way home the detective stops by the store close to his house which is unlike him because he usually follows the same routine. He nears the front door and he hears a kitchen timer ding loudly from behind him as his car explodes throwing him through the storefront windows as they are blown out..... ..... Alarms around the lot and others nearby create a cacophony of noise. His head pounding as his body aches, Max pushes himself up and collapses as the store manager runs over to him telling him not to move as he dials 911.... .... .... Waking in the hospital Max recalls the feeling of the Shockwave as he flinches in phantom pain. "Who woulda thought its like holding a ringing metal bat that hurts your hands but all over and way more intense." He thinks. He suddenly feels tired and falls asleep.... .... .... .... The next time he wakes, he sees a breaking news story that Jane Saltani is reporting on.... "Young toddler Accidently Shoots Serial killer/kidnapper ending his life and Alerting residents in the Area." The news anchor says. Sighing to himself Max thinks about how crazy that is and laughs. Tho he really wanted to bring the guy in. He closes his eyes to get some much needed sleep as his door opens. Max looks up to see a man with a silenced pistol pointed at him. "Hm. Now they think I'm dead. Funny how they just assume they got the right guy. Just like.... You did Detect... ....." Max hears but then hears no more as his end comes at just over the speed of sound.... The Caller leaves the hair of another intelligent convicted murderer that he obtained in a spot that's believable and quickly leaves..... He disables the surveillance system and sends a virus out to any device that has received video data from the hospital. Erasing and corrupting the systems. Leaving a master hackers finger prints on a glass from his home.... "Sorry, no witnesses." He says to the security guard as he fires... ..... ..... .... ....


#What’s New This Week Please see the ‘Ranking System’ section of this post for the new point system! #Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join.   *** #This week's theme is Darkness! This week we’re going to explore the theme of ‘darkness’. What hides just beyond the eye, in the shadows? Are your characters aware of this lurking danger? Does it affect how they interact or behave? Maybe the ‘darkness’ is living within a character. At one time or another, we all struggle to balance the light and dark, the good and the evil, within ourselves. These could be thoughts, ideas, temptations, desires, or something entirely different. Things like this drive our characters and bring them to life on the page. What dark clouds hang over your characters? What darkness lies within them? Will they be able to overcome it? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. /   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I release the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * September 5 - Darkness (this week) * September 12 - Release * September 19 - Journey   *** **Previous Themes:** | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   *** #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme (not using the theme is a disqualifier).** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.** * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread (on two different stories, not two on one) to qualify for rankings every week.** The feedback should be actionable and **must** include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings the following week.** You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements each week. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of family friendly for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the exact same name each week. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   *** #Reminders: * **If you are continuing an in-progress serial, please include links to the prior installments on reddit.** * **Saturdays I host a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge**. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **You can nominate your favorite stories each week**. Send me a message on discord or reddit and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. Making nominations awards both parties points (see point breakdown). * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news!   *** #Last Week’s Rankings - - u/gurgilewis   - - u/Zetakh   - - u/wordsmith89   - - u/OneSidedDice   - - u/WorldOrphan   - - u/Kissie818   - - u/Bavarianlageryeast   *** #Ranking System There is a new point system! Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points! Here is the current breakdown, going into effect this week: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap) *Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above.Your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points.* **Nominating Other Stories:** - Sending nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total)   *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday. Check out to learn more! - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts.


The axe head glinted in the afternoon sunlight as Theophilus swung it in a wide arc. In front of him, the cord of wood split down the center with a neat thunk. He placed another log on the stump and swung again, his arms moving with the well-practiced rhythm of one who has done the same task a thousand times. As his body worked, thoughts crawled petulantly through his head. *She’s always harping on about the importance of books and learning.* Swish. Thunk. *But Father Hedden might be the most boring man alive. How does he even stay upright? He’s so thin that the next breeze might carry him off.* Swish. Thunk. He paused to swipe the sweat from his forehead. *And all we ever read are the dusty boring old histories of the country. Weren’t my ancestors warriors? Why aren't any of the stories about them actually interesting?* He stepped to the woodpile, grabbed another log. Swish. Thunk. *But no. Instead I’m stuck trying to read about how King Abelard, in the second day of the third month of the Year of the Stallion, brokered a deal with the Duke of Wherever, blah blah blah, established a treaty with so-and-so…* Swish. Thunk. One callused hand shoved thick black curls out of his face. *At least I only have to see the old fart once a week. And if I stay late cleaning the kennels, he only has me until fifth bell, which is less than two hours, I think. Plus, the more extra chores I pick up, the more Alden will take me on hunts.* Swish. Thunk. *If only I could spend all my time training instead of wasting it on reading and cutting wood-* Theophilus froze mid-thought, mid-swing, at the distant sound of metal hammering on wood. He spun to face the house, and the shine of light on armor was visible even from across the field. From here, he could tell that a squadron of the king’s men were pounding on his mother’s door. He knew these men - saw them often at the castle. Every day when Theophilus entered the gates, he looked up to see them posted high on the ramparts, keeping a watchful eye out for danger. Off-duty, they could be found lounging casually against the guardhouse walls, betting on card and dice games, flirting with the washerwomen, feeding the hounds surreptitiously with table scraps. As Theophilus watched, his mother opened the door and nine of them filtered into the house, leaving the last man to hold the horses. The squadron captain nodded respectfully as he entered, but something felt off. *Why are they wearing full mail? And they never carry both swords and spears unless they’re practicing for battle, or on parade.* The thought hit him like an axe cleaving through a log. *Oh blessed Aurum please no oh Lord please I beg of you please by Your Glorious Sword I pray please please please* Theophilus started running. It felt like his body was moving in slow motion as he fumbled briefly with the latch on the gate and sprinted the length of the field, dodging the uneven ruts the sheep left in the grass. When he was halfway across, he heard the first scream from the house, and his speed doubled. *Dear Lord if I have ever been a worthy servant to Thee I pray that you keep her safe oh Aurum please I can’t do this without my mother I beg you please by all the life in my body please* Breaths came ragged through his throat as he vaulted the fence and stumbled in the mud around the trough. As Theophilus picked himself up, he glanced in through the window and stopped dead in his tracks. The shutters were half open. Inside, two soldiers were holding his mother’s arms, and others were opening cupboards and tearing the mattresses off the beds. Theophilus locked eyes with her, and she shook her head almost imperceptibly, cheeks streaked with tears. *Please Aurum I have not asked for much in my life and I will never again ask You for a single thing if You would just keep her safe and please oh please let us get away and let them not know and let us escape please please Lord* A soldier stepped in front of her, and Theophilus recognized him as the captain of the squadron - Mit. "Where. Is. He?" Mit spat, uncharacteristic anger in his voice. Theophilus' mother only shook her head, lips pressed tightly together in a thin line. Then Mit cut her throat. As his head filled with a wordless scream, some animal instinct forced Theophilus to move. He stumbled around the corner of the house, hitting his shoulder hard on the wall in his haste. At the sound, the soldier watching the horses turned to look at him. Theophilus knew him; Dunstan, a red-haired, friendly man, married to the baker’s daughter. If Dunstan stopped Theophilus long enough for the rest of the squadron to finish tearing up the floorboards in search of him and come out of the house- Theophilus’ mind’s eye could only replay the way his mother’s body fell, lifeless, like a dropped sack of grain. Dunstan raised a hand and opened his mouth - to explain or cry for help, Theophilus would never know. Before he could make a sound, Theophilus was upon him. The axe, still in his hand despite his desperate race across the field, was raised high into the air a final time. The sunlight sparkled brilliantly on the blade. With the practice of a thousand repetitions, the muscles in his arms and back tightened. Swish. Thunk. He had hunted alongside the King’s guards, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with them in the face of a charging boar, each man secretly hoping the animal chose another’s place in line to die. He’d set the hounds loose to drive pheasants out of the brush into their waiting arrows. He’d led them down trails in the forest that few knew of, and even fewer could follow. He’d watched longingly as they stalked the King’s deer, had curried their horses in exchange for spear lessons, asked their advice, looked jealously at their swords. He’d watched Dunstan flirt, court, and marry Ellie, the baker’s daughter. He knew these men. Hell, he’d wanted to *be* them. Riding west on Dunstan’s horse, pushing the animal the fastest it would go, Theophilus could not-- would not -- think. He would not think. Not of what he had seen, not of what he had done. Clenched tightly on the reins, his bloody hands began to shake.


The elevator door opened, emerging was Maggie Strout, young blond woman, with round red glasses. She was wearing a dark grey skirt suit and holding a big folder between her arm folded across her chest. She readjusted her glasses and walked out of the elevator as the door closed. Walking in the white hallway looking at the door numbers. She obviously didn’t know the place well, checking almost every doors. She finally stopped at door 111. She readjusted her suit and glasses, then knocked softly. *“Hu… it’s Miss… hu Agent… Agent Strout…”* she said in a really low voice. *“Enter.”* replied a voice behind the door. She opened the door and as before Colonel Carty was sitting behind his desk, with barely any light. Writing documents. He looked at her, and said ; “*Close the door and sit Strout.”* She nod and executed. As she was closing the door her folder felt on the floor, single page papers flying all over the place. *“I’m… I’m so sorry Sir. I’ll pick them up.”* As she nervously bend over to grab the papers, the Colonel started staring at her, his glasses covering his eyes completely as the desk light was reflecting on them, creating a mirror-like barrier. *“Agent Strout, do you think this is an appropriate attire for a mission of this importance?”* the Colonel said, still staring at her. She turned around, and looked at him, his glasses directed at her. “*I will change before the mission, Sir, this is my office cloth–“* *“Very well, I’m just trying to help.”* Replied the Colonel as he went back into writing on his document. Maggie finished to pick the paper, and rearranged the folder. She stood up and pulled her skirt down as she walked toward the chair. “*Sit please.”* the colonel said. And without taking his eyes from his document he continued ; “*Have you been briefed on Frank and the recovery mission for Entrance 38?”* *“Yes Sir, I am just a bit confused as to why Agent Dallay is still on the mission… or even in the Brigade, Sir. It seems as he had many reports filed against him.”* *“The reports are just because he is a drunk.”* *“But Sir, isn’t that an iss-“* *“It’s not, Agent. This is not your common Military Operation. We, well, we can’t be too picky in choosing our Agents. As you might know.”* The Colonel took his sight from his document and looked at Maggie. And he added : *“I would have thought that someone in your position would especially know, Agent Strout.”* She looked down. “*As I can read from your report, you weren’t even in the military when we found you.”* The Colonel moved some document that were on his desk, and looked at them. “*I was made aware that you barely passed the physical exam. If it wasn’t for your immense ratio for connectivity, we would have never found you. Or even brought you aboard. Isn’t that right?”* “*That is correct, Colonel.”* replied Maggie as she was still looking down. *“Frank was ALREADY in the Military, in addition to that he was one of the pioneer in developing the Sneeze Program.”* *“Yes, Sir.”* *“He went a bit off when he lost his daughter. But we still have use for someone like him. His ratio is even higher than yours. He can connect to well over 90% of Openers.”* *“I read his file. It is indeed impressive. Definitely one of a kind.”* said Maggie as she now stared at the folder she was holding. *“Yes, Agent, and that is why we need you to make sure we can still count on him.”* *“From his file, Sir, it seems that only Entrance 38 has been a problem in term of mission. But he hasn’t been getting along with most of the Agent he was associated with.”* *“Frank is a good Agent when it comes to connectivity to an Opener, that is why we NEED him, but he is not the most easy person to be around, and we need to make sure we can still make use of him. That is why you are here, you understand that, right?”* *“I see from his file that all the agents that were assigned to him asked for a transfer after only a single mission. That is until–“* *“Until Agent Clobet, yes. That is quite a tragedy. We had finally an Agent that could control Frank drunkenness’ and put up with him. Tragic indeed.”* *“There isn’t much in the file about what happened during Entrance 38.”* *“Frank has been vague, that is the first mission where Frank lost an Agent.”* *“Well, physical test after Agent Dallay was back show an extreme high alcohol level, I mean, Sir. It’s pretty obvious that at some point–.”* *“Frank is always drunk, something else happened with Entrance 38.”* *“But, Sir, most likely the level–.”* *“Something else, Agent Strout.”* *“Yes, Sir.”* Maggie open the folder, and looked at some papers and then said ; *“Colonel, it seems there was also a possibility of contamination. But nothing was found.”* *“Yes, that is something else we need you to look into.”* *“The Opener felt something coming back with Frank, they are rarely wrong. But nothing was found. Did the office was searched?”* *“It was, but nothing was found. It does happen that sometimes if only a fraction of the traveler are back – in this case Agent Clobet didn’t come back – the Opener feels something is off. After the search the scientists down there, thought it was just that.”* *“And you don’t?”* *“Call it a gut feeling.”* *“Noted, Sir.”* The Colonel started writing again. Then, without looking at her, said ; *“Your job, is to keep an eye on Agent Dallay while you both go back to clean up Entrance 38, and report anything suspicious.”* *“Aside from his drinking problem.”* *“90% Agent Strout.”* *“I beg you pardon?”* The Colonel stopped writing. Put his pen down, and looked straight at Maggie. *“Agent Strout, 90% is the connectivity compatibility of Frank. Let me be extremely clear, we need him. I don’t care if he is a coke-head, wife-beater, drunken bastard that can barely speak. What we need you to do is just go back to Entrance 38 with Frank, grab the body of our lost Agent while keeping an eye and find out if there was some kind of foul play with Agent Clobet and if Frank somehow managed to bring something over from Entrance 38. Are you up to the task, or should we bring someone else?”* Maggie stayed silent for a moment. Looking at the Colonel mirror glasses. She took a breath and finally replied ; *“I am, Colonel.”* *“Great then, if there is nothing else?”* he replied while showing the door. “*Thank you for your time, Sir.”* Maggie stood up and started to walk to the door. As she opened it, the Colonel said a last thing ; “*68% isn’t bad, Agent Strout, but it’s not 90%.”* Maggie nodded and left the room.


W While I nodded quickly typing, suddenly there came a tapping. As if someone gently rapping, rapping underneath my keyboard. “Some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my keys-” “Shut the fuck up!” spoke a small man on a latter peeping through the W key. He wore an orange hard hat and vest over a long white shirt and black tie. “Why hello,” I uttered quite startled by his appearance “am I bothering you, sir?” “The absolute nerve of this guy!” he yelled below the W. Followed by an eruption of cheers and laughter. “This dipshit wants to know if his typing is bothering us? You know what pal; no, you go right ahead and keep it up. We absolutely ***love*** when you do that shit. It’s not like a giant finger constantly pounding over your head hurts or anything.” the small man began to slowly climb back down his ladder. H Half a minute after the small man descended into the W once more, I sat to ponder the metaphysical consequences of small people in my key. The entire reality in which I had lived was turned completely upside-down within a moment. And when that minute was up, I continued my task. But no more than a letter was finished when there came a small man through the H key. “Hey, asshole!? What the hell did I just tell you!?” the small man spoke, skipping the nicety of a knock. “Hello sir, I had made a clear effort to avoid your W.” I smiled, assuming the confusion had been settled. “Oh thank you that makes me feel so much better. No fuckface! You keep drumming those sausages and we’ll have some issues! Keep your fucking shit to yourself we’re trying to sleep!” and with that, the small man shuffled down his latter once more. I I sat, staring at my keys. Looking for all clues to the uninhabited characters. When my eyes passed over the letter I my fingers reached to connect my thoughts to paper when the small man popped out. “You fucking piece of shit what the fuck are you thinking!? Three fucking times I’ve had to tell you to stop I’m fucking tired man!” a crowd groaned from under the I “I’m sorry sir, I was not aware you people were so prevalent in my keys?” “You people!?” he leaned back, and a loud gasp was brought after from the small people in my keys. “I apologize. You have my word I will not make any more strokes. Your home is safe from my creative process.” I reached my hand for him to shake on our deal. “Oh, so now that you know we’re here you’ll behave yourself? You know what, no! Fuck you, you judgmental piece of shit. Fucking type you mother fucker!” his face grew red. His crowd seemed to agree. “I just thought that-” “You just thought that what? We’d settle for your middle-of-the-road fairytale compromise? No act like a fucking man and type you piece of shit!” “But you said-” “Oh, so now that I’m calling you out on your bullshit you care? No, I ***want*** you to type. So, you can know just how much of a fucking prick you are!” and with that, he slammed my I shut. I sat thinking for a moment when. “I said fucking type already!” the small man called through the L. And so, after a quick reread of what I already wrote, I continued. ***While I nodded quickly typing, suddenly there came a tapping. As if someone gently rapping, rapping underneath my keyboard.


Ananias watched the first ball of clay strike from the edge of the crowd. A man stood before the cliff with arms outstretched. His eyes remained open but he showed no emotion even as the clay began to rain. The rising sun signaled the beginning of the execution and the impatient crowd did not wait for the blessing of the priest, who mouthed words lost among the roar. Many aimed for the man's face only to watch their clay fly over the cliff, though some hit their mark. Some came with bowls filled, while others traded their salt to vendors, who had come with their carts heavy. Soon, the clay piled up past the man's waist and he struggled to keep his arms extended with the added weight. The fallen clay at his feet rose as fast as the sun, and as it reached his chin, the priest raised a hand, stopping the crowd immediately. The priest approached the man followed by his aides, he gestured to them, and they began to wash the clay from the man's face with wet cloths. Addressing the crowd; the priest did not raise his voice. "So ends Saul. A man who sought to test our faith and further us from our lord. He sought to destroy the tower, and though he succeeded in felling it, the tower is eternal as our faith. Many have sacrificed their lives building the tower, knowing their ancestors would one day reach the heavens. That day will come. Saul stands as the foundation. We will build anew." As the priest turned to leave, Saul spoke. Though he had remained silent throughout the drawn out execution, he cried a few words in a strained voice that pierced the crowd. "We make the same mistakes!" Those still gathered approached Saul and pressed their remaining clay into the mass that trapped him. Some spat at him, others cursed him. He kept his blank stare and responded to nothing. Many remained past noon to watch the clay begin to harden and see if Saul would finally break. They became bored when it became clear he would not gave them the satisfaction, and eventually Ananias found himself with only a priest's aide, and a group of impatient men who had not ceased in taunting Saul. One called out to Ananias: "What's that in your hand? You should know he can't hurt you. What are you waiting for?" Ananias looked down to the clay still clutched in his hand. He had squeezed much of it out between his fingers absentmindedly and had somehow forgotten he still had it. Ananias dropped the clay at his feet and the man yelled out in protest. Ananias ignored him and walked towards the statue of a Saul. He studied him for a moment. Saul did not seem capable of it. No man alone did. To destroy the tower that had stood for generations in a single night. The reason seemed clear. Saul had spent his life building the tower, and now knew he would never see it finished. Still, something did not seem right. Why would he remain to face execution if he was responding to a life in service of the church? "It doesn't matter." Saul's head bobbed as he moved his jaw. The clay had begun to harden under his chin. Ananias was startled and jumped slightly before asking "What did you say?" "It doesn't matter." Saul responded. "What doesn't matter?" Saul let out a long sigh before saying once more "It doesn't matter." "What does matter?" Saul met Ananias's stare. "That's a good question." With that, Saul closed his eyes. Ananias looked out over the cliff, along the river to the horizon before leaving Saul to rest.