I don’t make it to the downtown area very often. Very few people do. Like many small cities, the downtown section has fallen out of favor. The younger crowd gravitate to ‘the mall’, or more ‘cool’ hangouts. That relegates established merchants on the strip to dwindling sales and even fewer repeat customers. On one particular evening however, I found myself among the dusty storefronts of yesteryear. I parked in front of an abandoned parking meter and walked the strip with mild nostalgia. There were still a few of the legacy stores from my youth but most were long gone. In their place were exotic boutiques catering to the yuppie crowd, or abandoned storefronts of a once-thriving business. I still remembered my mother holding my hand while we walked down the sidewalk. We’d go into the dime store or clothing establishments. Those places had a particular smell. It wasn’t unpleasant, just unique to the time period. I smiled faintly as I walked, remembering the memories. Down a side alley, I saw a store called ‘The curiosity shoppe’. It definitely hadn’t been there in my youth, and by the looks of things, it wasn’t a new business either. It must have been established in that foggy, intermediate period between my early childhood, and more recent times of my formative years. As one might expect with a name like that, I was genuinely curious what was inside. Of all downtown businesses I passed that evening, it was the only one I entered. A pleasant, bespectacled man of advanced years greeted me from behind the counter. He didn’t ask if I needed help. He didn’t follow me around inside the store either. He simply remained at his post. I was so used to the high-pressure tactics of modern establishments that it startled me. Either he didn’t care I was there, or wasn’t worried about me stealing anything. I decided he was just very relaxed in his selling approach. It was refreshing. The wares in the store were largely nondescript. That’s not to suggest they were uninteresting or boring, but ‘this and that’ was as apt of a description; as any. Strangely, I found myself becoming increasingly more curious by the very mundane nature of them as time went on. It was the exact opposite reaction of what you’d expect. I asked the old gentleman about a number of the items on display in genuine interest. One-by-one he politely explained each thing and their purpose. Not once did I consider buying any of them. They didn’t even list prices. It was like some sort of oddity museum, and he was the curator. After losing track of the time, I felt a bit light headed. I actually had to squat down on the floor a minute. The old man didn’t seem to notice. Honestly, I couldn’t fathom how he could hope to stay in business. His items were moderately interesting to inquire about, but not nearly compelling enough to buy. Regardless, I didn’t want to leave his store empty handed because I felt bad for him, but there was nothing I really needed or desired. He sensed my ambivalence but eschewed it with a dismissive hand wave. “You just come back some other time and bring your friends and family.”; He offered apologetically. “I’ll have more things to examine soon.” I nodded and thanked him for not expecting a ‘pity purchase’. Oddly enough, the gentleman no longer looked that old. He still had on his glasses, but he barely looked past middle aged! I was stunned by my significant difference in perception. I waved goodbye and staggered out onto the sidewalk. It was all I could do to dizzily trudge back to my car. It was as if my blood sugar had dropped to dangerous levels. When I made it home, I forced myself to eat something. After that I felt a little better. The next morning, I rested up and felt like my old self again. Not drawing any connection with my sudden loss of energy, I mentioned the place to a number of friends. It was more in passing, than an active suggestion to patronize the store but I’d inadvertently piqued their curiosity too. In short order I‘d driven a number of friends, family members, and business associates to visit ‘The curiosity shoppe’. Only later did a few of them relate their startlingly similar experience. Exactly as I had been, they were genuinely interested in the store items in a general way, but hadn’t bought anything. They also felt deeply drained and were surprised to realize the proprietor looked much younger when they left. One even described him as “a ‘thirty something’ merchant with the wire-rimmed glasses of an old man.” They too mentioned the store to their family and friends. By the time I made the connection, I had already spread the epidemic to hundreds of people. The proprietor was getting younger with each visit while the customers were being drained of energy. I‘d increased traffic to ‘The curiosity shoppe’ exponentially! I had to stop this energy vampire from sucking the life out of anyone else. I shuttered to think how the experience would affect an older, or weaker person. It was imperative I shut it down before someone died. I was seriously hesitant to call the cops. What would I say? That a junk shop downtown was draining the life-force from all who entered? No matter how true it was, it sounded preposterous. I just decided to call city hall and lodge a formal complaint. I wasn’t sure what that was going to be, but I figured I could make up something when the time came. When the operator answered, I informed her that I wanted to file an injunction. Without clarification or more details, she switched me to a detective. “Frank. I got another one for ya.”; She bellowed over the intercom system. Before I had a chance to prepare my bogus statement, the detective chimed in. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. ‘The curiosity shoppe’ downtown, am I right?” He sounded more than a wee bit miffed at what was apparently a reoccurring complaint. I didn’t respond. He continued. “Listen, I don’t know if this is a college prank; or if half the town has gotten into some bad hooch, but there is no business in this town by that name. The address everyone keeps giving is an abandoned storefront! It’s been empty now for 23 years. For the love of god, tell all your buddies to stop calling the station! We’ve got enough real police work to attend to without all the wild goose chases.” I hung up and immediately drove over to the downtown alley. It isn’t possible but I witnessed the empty building with my own eyes. The dust on the floor and windows was a quarter inch thick. I don’t know how it could be, but it was as if it was never there to begin with. Obviously not all of us could’ve experienced a mass hallucination.


eases back into his chair and breathes a sigh of relief. It was his 92nd birthday; retirement age. No more 10am starts, no more having to relinquish three days a week to the full-time employment rat race. Finally.. free. He relishes the moment, feeling his chair snug him warmly, its material continuously and amorphously shifting around his frame to maximise comfort. The quality of the air, the heat from his coffee cup, the light beaming through his window. Goldilocks would be jealous, he joked to himself. “Sim-space, show me my father’s television from 2018 please.” The sim-space AI assistant quickly peruses the latest scan of its owners memory and inquires, ‘The Samsung, Mr Chivers?’ Marnold confirms with a nod. The boundaries that contain the sim-space glow to resemble an empty cuboid against the wall, warning any bodied-beings not to come close. For a second, Marnold hears that call of the void that so many do and wonders “what would happen if I put my hand.. ?” He’d heard the horror stories, obviously, but couldn’t quite fathom the science of it. Some picoseconds later however, there popped into existence a perfect reconstruction of the television from his memory inside the sim-space. Marnold picks up the remote, a device that was used to remotely control electronic devices back in Modern times, and looks through the simulated content on the television. Marnold squints at the screen, reacquainting himself with the 2-dimensional nature of Modern video. His eyes widen at a collection of pixels - ‘World Snooker Final’. It had been too long since Marnold had last watched a real game of *chess with balls* - as he would put it. His finger instructs the remote with a button press, and a pulsing infra-red energy bathes the room momentarily. The television summons to life a broadcast of yore; a gentle ensemble consisting of a giant green table centre-screen, with smartly-dressed human beings knocking sticks and balls over it. Marnold catches himself daring a smile, “the good old days.” He puts his feet up on the stool in front. “Grea’granda!” Plucked away from his contentment and with a whiff of irritation, “Wh-wha? Who’s there?” “It’s Russ you fool, happy birthday -slash- retirement! Thought I’d whip by, ya know, see how you are. Thought it better than just sending another dopamine hit.” Marnold smiles. He could never put his finger on it, but there was always something better about seeing people - he had never fully signed up to the idea of reading a well-wishing and injecting the enclosed gift of dopamine. It felt nice, sure, but he couldn't help but feel there was something missing. Cards, too! Of all the social-niceties that Marnold hoped would die off with technological progress, cards had stuck around like a bad smell. Maybe 92 is when you start getting cranky he thought to himself. “Ahh thank you, it *is* good to see someone non-digitally once in a while,” he replies, concealing his cynicism nicely. Russ points to the sim-space. “A television? C’mon gramps, of all the things you could will into existence.. a television?” Marnold squirms. “Well the good vibes sure lasted didn’t they(!) Listen, sprog, being 50-something may feel like it has conferred some sort of worldly understanding upon you but, believe me, you’re just starting out. You still have no idea what the important things are in life. And if you can’t appreciate the simple things in life, you have no foundation for the complex things. This television is my simple thing. It is my birthday. My retirement day. And I wish to spend it as I mean to go on - appreciating the simple things.” So rarely does he socialise these days, Marnold had almost forgotten how quick he was to anger. “Simple things, simple minds. That’s what father says.” Marnold mumbles his frustration, “Yes. I know *exactly* the kind of person my son-in-law is.” A palpable silence hangs. It’s funny how tension can manifest socially, no other emotion can fill a room in the same way. The 2040’s wave of pheromonologists got close to understanding it before *you-know-what* happened. Russell’s cortisol-meter started shrieking which didn’t subtract from the awkwardness, but does at least act as a call-to-action for someone to cut the tension, “Well- what are you watching then?” “Snooker” is the unenthusiastic, staccato reply. Marnold continues watching the screen emptily, pretending to be engrossed but projecting annoyance. “Didn’t know humans used to play.” Russ responded. Marnold groaned as though those words were daggers to his sensibilities. “Yes... It’s just another domain that AI took from us. God damn robots - they have no philosophy! Pure pragmatists. They completely destroyed snooker - turned it from a gentlemanly game into an arms race.” Through a flattened smile and nodding dog routine, Russ’s lack of interest was obvious. He signals to the entrance with his thumb, “Well I’d better be goi--” “-- an arms race I tell you! That’s why there’s so many rules governing the game these days. It started off as a friendly between bot and human - just a novelty, like that Jeopardy show and IBM’s Watson?” Marnold looks to Russ for a bodily cue to continue.. nothing - at least, nothing encouraging. "Ah well," he thinks to himself, "it’s my birthday and I'll rant if I want to." “Well, maybe it’s not living memory for you youngins but the world went crazy for the first bot v. human snooker match. It’s ironic thinking back on it now, we were clapping our eventual oppressors. Everyone tuned in to witness flesh versus circuits and saw a microcosm of their future. ‘Ronnie O’Sullivan vs G147-365’. Man vs machine. And what a machine(!) A jumped-up laptop connected to a junkyard frame. It couldn’t even pick up its own cue - it had to be carefully inserted into its grip by a technician.” Russ was looking in Marnold’s direction, but you couldn’t charitably say that he was looking *at* him. Looking *through* seems more appropriate; his mind clearly pre-occupied. “It was a bloodbath - metaphorically, of course. I mean, the bot started off quite slow, sure, but it was learning. Every time it whiffed a shot, it updated its algorithms to appropriately account for the mismatch. By halftime, the only shots Ronnie got to take was when it was his turn to break! G147 was hitting maximum points routinely by the end. And you know what? Not one of them were as beautiful as Ronnie’s 5 minute corker back in 1997.” Russ, eyeing the clock on the wall, noticed a pause amid Marnold’s white noise and felt he had to prove he was listening. “Uhh... 1997 huh?” Marnold, noticing that Russ had only picked up on the last word he’d said, continued with spiteful grace. “Yes. 1997. But that’s what I mean by no philosophy, there’s no meaning in what they do. It’s just all numbers and logic gates. No art, no style. Pure pragmatism.” “It didn’t end there though. Ooooooh no. Then the bot v bot matches began. Every country in the world slowly jumping in to prove their AI researchers were the best. You know, like how America and Russia fought a proxy-war by proving who could get to the moon first - thereby proving who was technologically superior? Snookerbots were fast becoming that, except it had no end goal. They just competed endlessly, accepting diminishing returns on their victories each time - perhaps preferable to other forms of national chauvinism, granted.” “But they’d be outfitted with fancy cameras and sensors - detecting every possible detail of the table. The knap, the humidity, the moisture of the cloth, microscopic blemishes on the balls - even mapping the material density of the side-cushions! Soon enough, they were making shots that made no euclidean sense since they could take advantage of unseen imperfections in the table and balls. It used to be that people would clap astonishing feats; maybe an amazing curve shot, or a cunning safety play. But it got to a point where the audience could only appreciate what they were able to understand - everything was so baffling. It was like chaos theory to everyone but the participants.” Marnold continued with his frustrated nostalgia, “And the sonic booms! That was a game changer. The balls were starting to chip - and sometimes explode - from the impacts of the bots cuing them. So they were upgraded to some nano-whatever to allow the bots to really let rip. And boy, did they. They would hit the cue ball so fast that a mini sonic boom would disturb the entire table! The algorithms of course learned to account for this and soon enough every match was just a stalemate of mini explosions. No country's bot was able to win any more, all they could do was not lose by default - ie, their bot suffering a mechanical malfunction. So, a once-great game became a war of attrition.” With Russ’s vague silhouette in his periphery, and still looking at the screen (though paying it no attention), he continues. “They’d reached an impasse - every bot was as good as the next one. No further improvements to be made because they were limited by the human imagination. Viewership figures dwindled, sponsors started pulling out and human snooker players were even being asked to come out of retirement - what a novelty(!) They all refused, naturally.” “So, some hot shot from America gets the idea of asking the bot what it needs to improve. This is what happens when you don’t read and heed Asimov. The bots’ AIs up until this point were permitted to update their algorithms in accordance with sensor data. It was not permitted for an AI to freely rationalise - and for good reason! But, this was pseudo-Cold War 2, and global dominance had to be demonstrated. Now, I’m no AI researcher but I’ve heard it explained as them creating a sort of positive feedback loop between perception and reflection, causing something analogous to consciousness. I mean, whatever, however they did it, they did do it. And so, they fed it the question: What do you need to improve at your task? And do you know what it said?” A silence goes unacknowledged as Marnold leaves his chair and heads towards his bookcase. He thumbs through a few newspaper cuttings and, after an insociable amount of time in quiet, he produces an article that had the ‘scoop’ back in the day - a printed transcript of the AI’s thought process. Marnold turns around to hand it to Russ but is met with an empty room, and then an empty spirit. He’d left. Marnold slowly lowers his out-stretched arm, article in-hand. He wondered how long he’d been speaking to himself for, and starts his own feedback loop of doubt and self-loathing. “God damn it..” he scratches the back of his head and makes for his chair again. As he settles in, the material again moulds around him with a pathetic agency - but it is of cold comfort now. Unpacking Russ’s gift, Marnold loads the syringe and looks longingly at the television. “Happy 92nd Mr Chivers...


# Happy Saturday, serialists! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ This week it’s all about the *Calm Before the Storm*. **Serial Saturday has a healthy mix of first timers and TT serial veterans, but we all have one thing in common:** Characterization can make or break us. When we go into a serial it can be easy to focus on the action-- tense scenes and endless heartbreak. *… No?* Let’s take this week to focus on characterization ( \^-- Sidenote, this song is amazing as a mood piece for 'Calm Before the Storm', take a listen.) Kiss those boyfriends/girlfriends/cats goodbye, because we're about to get on the bus to Plot Crazytown, Population: Serial Saturday serialists. If you’re brand new to /r/shortstories and thinking about participating in Serial Saturday, welcome! Feel free to consider this assignment basically a ***slice of life*** piece. Strengthen your setting and tell us why we should care about your characters. Ideally the groundwork you lay here is what will keep us caring about your character when they fail, and the strength and weaknesses you cover here is what will help your characters face challenges and live to see the dawn. That can come down to showing us a skill building scene, an illustration of your character’s beliefs, or taking a moment to strengthen a relationship. Basically, literally, friendship is magic, If you’re starting Serial Saturday with a TT continuation, consider this assignment your chance to inform us or endear us further to your characters before their , err, I mean, world changes forever. Do they know they’re about to be a protagonist in your universe, or are they ? Maybe your story isn’t about people. Maybe your story is about the crushing weight of forces beyond our control. In that case consider using this as a chance to lead us through a montage of your sleepy town and it’s unsuspecting residents. Perhaps your main characters use this moment to take stock of the good, the bad, and the ugly. Polish those guns. Write those will and testaments. Send the letters that never get opened. Things to think about for this assignment: Where does your character live, work, and play? Do they have nervous tics? When do those come out? Are your characters identifiable if you put them in a police lineup? What are their humanizing flaws? What does that look like? What do they do that endears us to them even when they *should* be unlikable? Show us what that is in this assignment. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **Top picks from last week’s assignment,****:** **Fan favorite with the most votes:** /u/Ryter99, This week the **Smoking Hot Serial Sash:** /u/Xacktar, And honorable mentions: /u/Kammerice, /u/Lynx_elia, **Remember, top picks depend on your votes dm’d to me,** u/aliteraldumpsterfire, so make sure you send in your votes at the end of campfire! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **The Rules:** * Submit a story that is between **500 - 750** words in your own original universe. * Submissions are limited to ***one*** serial submission from each author per week. * E**ach author should comment on at least 2 other stories** during the course of the week. * That comment must include ***at least one*** **detail** about what the author has done well. * Authors who successfully finish a serial lasting longer than 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the sub. * Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule. *Yes, we will check*. * While content rules are more lax here at /r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely family friendly" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail!  **\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*** **You have until \*next\* Saturday, 8/29, to submit and comment on everyone else's stories here. Make sure to check back on this thread periodically to lay some sweet, sweet crit down on those who don't have any yet!** \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* # New to /r/ShortStories and Serial Saturday, but want to join in the fun? We appreciate all contributions made to this thread, and are happy to offer the freedom of choice for our current and new users alike. All submissions are of course welcomed. We hope you enjoy your time in the community. * Leave a story from your original self-established universe, between **500 - 750** words here in the comments. * Leave at least 2 comments on other people’s stories mentioning at least one detail on each that you liked. * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. **Join us for Serial Saturday’s Campfire!** * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serials Campfire on the main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start on Saturdays at 9AM CST. **Don’t worry about being late, just join!** * There’s a *Super Serial* role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! **Reminders:** * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday post.


The tree was dying. It knew that it did not have much time left. The season had been dry and other, bigger trees in the forest had used up most of the nutrients and moisture that were still left in the soil around it. It was still a thin and small trunk with only few branches and shallow roots. It lacked the resources to compete with the bigger trees around it. What use would it be to struggle against that already decided fate? Every day was just one day closer to the inevitable end. But one day a stranger came to the forest. A human. The tree did not know humans well. They rarely visited its part of the forest. On the rare occasions one found their way here they did not stay long. This day too the tree expected the human to leave after a brief look around. But that is not what happened. With wide eyes full of wonder the human took in the vibrant environment. It seemed to be fascinated by all the trees and flowers that grew here. And then the human‘s gaze fell onto the dying tree. With browning, too dry leaves and in some places almost naked twigs and branches it was not pretty to look at. The tree was sure the human would soon point its attention to the prettier and healthier plants around it. Instead the human stepped forward and touched one of its dried out branches with gentle fingers. It took out some kind of container from its pouch and slowly started pouring the liquid from it on the dry soil around the dying tree. Water. The human had given it water. The tree soaked it up as fast as it could. It wasn’t quite enough but it was more than it had gotten in what felt like a long time. A fighting chance. Hope. The container was empty now and the human put it back in its pouch. It looked reluctant. Then the human made some noises that the tree did not understand and left. It was a short encounter, but it had fed the tree‘s dying flame of hope a little. The water had not been much, but it was enough to tide it over for just a bit longer. It had a chance now. And unexpectedly the human visited again. And again and again. Each time bringing water with it and one time even some fresh, rich soil that it put around the tree. With the human‘s help the previously dying tree began to flourish. On the outside not much difference could be seen yet but the changes were happening. The tree had fanned out its roots. It was growing them deeper every day in order to have a stable base for the future, with better access to the nutrients deep inside the earth. It was also growing little buds, where flowers would bloom in time. There weren’t many yet, but they gave hope for the future. One bud was almost ready to bloom. It was hidden behind some leafs though so it wasn’t directly visible. One day the human came by again but didn’t act like it normally did. The human sat down on the ground with their arms slung tightly around themselves. Water started leaking from their eyes and desperate noises escaped their throat. It sat there like that for a long time. The tree did not know what was wrong with this human. It did not understand the behaviour the human was showing right now. But the tree knew one thing. It wanted to do something for this human that had done so much for it. With much effort it rustled some of its leaves. Some of them fell to the ground in front of the human. The human looked up startled by the sudden noise. A beautiful, vibrant flower bloomed, no longer hidden by leafs. The tree had poured all the resources it could muster at that moment into that flower. This flower was all it had to give. The humans eyes grew wide and the water stopped leaking from them. A big smile formed on the human‘s face. With gentle hands it touched the vibrant flower, careful not to accidentally damage it. "Thank you" Even though the tree could not understand the human language it understood the message the tried to convey. The flower was the tree‘s thank you and the human had understood. Sometimes with just a little help life found a way to persevere. And as long as there was a little life left there was hope. The human stayed with the tree a long time before going away that day. And the tree knew that the human would always come back. As long as there is life there is hope.


Pim and Paula have been together for years. They live in a house with a red roof, round windows and a lovely veranda in front of the door. Every evening they sit together on the veranda and watch their green neighborhood. The children playing football noisily, the parents walking dogs and the sun setting through the trees. While Paula is reading a book, Pim is dreaming away in his rocking chair. He thinks of castles, ships and long journeys. The next morning Pim closes the door behind him and leaves for work on foot. He walks around the corner and waves to the children in the school bus, smiles at the mother who is already running after the bus with a lunch box, and thinks about his dream. Would it be possible to visit castles? Pim would like to surprise his girlfriend and they haven't been away together for a long time. And castles are very romantic. "Can I offer you an ice cream, sir?" Pim is startled from his thoughts and looks surprised at the ice cream seller. “They are very tasty, sir. There is a competition where you can win a trip, so today I am giving them out for free." "Win a trip?" The man had immediately caught Pim's attention. "What kind of trip?" “A boat trip past castles and beautiful mountains and a trip to Köln.” He still holds the ice cream in the direction of Pim. "Who knows, you might have a chance." Pim takes the ice cream. He carefully opens the package. An ice cream with chocolate and a note: Unfortunately, you did not win this time, but do not worry because you still have a delicious chocolate ice cream! Pim thanks the ice cream seller and walks on to work while he eats. During his work, Pim keeps thinking about beautiful castles and long-distance travel. Will he buy another ice cream on the way back? As a result, Pim quickly becomes a new regular customer of the ice cream seller. On the way there, during lunch and back home, Pim buys and eats chocolate ice creams, strawberry ice creams and vanilla ice creams. On Wednesday afternoons he even hands out ice creams to the children in the park. He does, however, open the packages himself before handing out the ice creams. "So, are you lucky today?" The ice cream seller hands Pim his last ice cream of the day. “Not yet, unfortunately. But maybe this ice cream will change that!” Enthusiastically, Pim opens his ice cream. As soon as he sees that it says again that he has not won, his heart sinks. He rubs his hand over his stomach which starts to hurt slightly. "I think I ate too many ice creams." Pim hums when he says goodbye and walks home. “Why have you been eating so little lately? Are you feeling alright?" Paula gets up and puts a hand on Pim's forehead. “You don't feel too warm. Do you have pain somewhere?" Paula looks at him with concern. Pim gets up and walks towards the veranda. He just wants to sit in his favorite rocking chair. "My stomach is a bit bothering me, nothing else." Paula follows him and sits in the chair next to him. She leaves her book on the table between them. "You can read, I'll close my eyes for a moment." Paula is concerned. She doesn't know Pim like that. When Pim is at work and Paula is walking to the park, she sees Pim standing at the ice cream seller. Curious, she approaches them. "No ice cream today?" The ice cream seller asks in surprise. "No, not today." Pim looks sadly at his wallet. "I have no more change." Paula immediately walks to them and already has her wallet. "Oh dear, I still have some change for an ice cream." She looks at the ice cream seller. "Two please." The ice cream seller immediately takes two ice creams and gives one to Pim and one to Paula. "Good luck!" He winks at Pim. Pim looks at his girlfriend. “Sorry Paula, that's why I probably had a stomach ache yesterday. I had eaten too many of these ice creams. ” Paula shrugs. “Doesn't matter, just eat. ” And she gives him a kiss on the cheek. Pim opens his packaging. A green inside? Would it be so? "Come on! Paula! Grab your stuff, we won!” In the packaging it says: Won! A boat trip to Köln. Leave when you want and enjoy the mountains, castles, the great outdoors and a beautiful day trip in Köln for 10 days.


Laura and James sat in their respective seats in the car. SUV, more precisely. Laura recently traded her 2019 Audi Q5 for a 2020, since its superiority went without saying. She often complained, though, that it wasn’t the same. Many of the 2019’s features, though older, suited her purposes more closely… but she put those thoughts out of her mind. This was the 2020 and was therefore better: it’s self-evident. Besides, cars don’t last that long. One year into a car’s lease and you were bound to start experiencing problems. To say James disagreed would be unfair to the word. James relished buying cars old enough they could legally drink a beer. He also wouldn’t pay any more for a car than he had in his chequing account, which often wasn’t much. Most recently, he sunk into a 2002 Mini Cooper. It was the second Mini he’d bought, though this one was less powerful, older, and more rotten than his previous one. His previous car- Bebe Rexxha, he named her- died in an accident with a BMW X5. God rest her soul. James loved the thrill of buying a neglected husk of a car, then sourcing parts cheaper than from any mainstream outlet. Wrecking yards, Amazon, Kijiji… if you knew where to look, you could restore a $1200 car to road condition for less than $500. James always kept a suite of tools in his trunk; new problems strike on their own schedule. But, having touched every system in the car, he had the quiet confidence of knowing he could fix anything in an hour for less than $200. The Audi gave James a headache. *New car smell-* coveted by many- poisoned James like chemicals sublimating into the air as they seeped out of plastics. Which is what it was. Laura drove. She worked constantly, and so she loved the car’s Bluetooth phone connectivity. She also loved to keep the panoramic sunroof open: the light and air it drank-in made her feel free. Nevermind that the air conditioner needed to run at twice its normal output to offset the heat, or that her speakerphone calls with clients featured the question “What?” more than anything else, as the wind turbulence drowned the finer points of the conversation. They sped down the road. Metaphorically. Something in Laura’s upbringing disinterested her from questioning authority: if the road was marked 80km/h, she drove 79.5km/h. Nevermind that even to do 100km/h on a road this wide and clear felt like a crawl. Nevermind that other traffic trailed tightly behind her like sleeper-carriages shackled to the Orient Express. Nevermind that any police officer worth his salt would tolerate 10km/h over the limit, if only as the margin of error in his radar-gun. But James accepted it was ‘*speeding*’ inasmuch as it was the fastest she’d go, today. Ahead it lay. It was massive- it must’ve been a Caribou. James had never seen a Caribou before, but this wasn’t a deer. He hadn’t seen Elk or Moose before either… but something in his lizard-brain drew on the experience of his caveman ancestors: Caribou. There were a few cars parked on the shoulder around its wide, flat mass. It was deep in the distance, so James couldn’t make out which of the cars hit it. Hopefully everyone was okay. James guessed it was 8 or 10 kilometers away. At 80km/h, that gave them around 5 minutes before they came to the obstruction. “Jeez- that looks pretty bad up there. Do you think we should turn down County Road 9 and avoid the whole thing?” asked James. He was proud of himself- he’d only recently moved to the area but was starting to remember roads outside his immediate neighborhood. “It’ll be okay” said Laura. “Um- can you tell me what you mean by ‘okay’? I don’t think they’ll have removed it by the time we get there… we’re only a few minutes away and if we turn-off, we can avoid getting stuck there, too.” James again focused his eyes on the situation, and saw that cars were beginning to queue up around the caribou, waiting on someone (currently no one) to haul the heap out of the way. “I prefer not to dwell on the negative” said Laura as County Road 9 flew past them. With cruise control on, she was free to focus her mind on the bright, clean air washing over her from the sunroof. Still going 80km/h, James estimated they’d come another couple kilometers closer to the situation ahead. “Oh! There’s a café attached to that gas station up ahead- they have good sandwiches there, remember? Maybe we can pull-in for lunch and, by the time we’re done, they’ll have cleared that problem.” James often solved problems with his stomach. “There’s no problem.” Said Laura. James’ subconscious shielded him from the full impact of that last statement. What did that even mean? *‘There’s no problem?’* He could tolerate something like *‘I don’t mind waiting’* or *‘I think it’ll be gone by the time we get there’* or ‘*surely we can go around it’*… but to say the problem doesn’t exist? James was attuned to *gaslighting* statements like these- statements meant to invalidate another’s perception of reality, without evidence, by exploiting the implicit trust of a relationship. Although James couldn’t consciously process this, he did begin to feel the telltale signs of rising anxiety in his body. Tightened muscles. Flattened emotional expression and slowed speech- reactions that lowered his odds of doing anything rash. “Laura, honey: do you see the caribou on the road ahead? It’s blocking both lanes and there are cars stuck in both directions. I want to get to Alicia’s house, too… so if our goal is to get there on time, we need to go another way. Otherwise we’ll get stuck until someone takes that caribou away.” ‘Who *does* take dead caribou away?’ James wondered. “I prefer to focus on the positive. I don’t know why you keep bringing this up” said Laura. James’ anxiety increased another notch. Through this conversation, a few more kilometers had slipped past them, not to mention the sandwich café. The phone rang over the Bluetooth system: Laura’s mother. Her voice was battered by the 80km/h winds thundering through the sunroof, but they could hear the gist of what she said. “Isn’t that strange? A caribou, in this part of the country. They don’t normally come this far. Yes- it’s on the news. Everyone’s talking about it”. Laura said “That’s amazing! I hope nobody was hurt. Fortunately James and I are headed to Alicia’s house. Okay. Bye!” James was bewildered. Is there a difference between denial and repression? Is saying *“there is no problem*” the same as *“I choose not to acknowledge the problem”?* I mean, there are obvious semantic differences… but in the end: if they have the same outcome, aren’t they the same thing? The queue of cars ahead of them looked to be a kilometer away now, maybe less. The phone call and James’ philosophising took more time than he expected. “Laura- slow down. Please. Those cars are getting close and there’s no point racing up to them” “We’re fine. Nothing’s wrong.” “Laura- cut the shit. There’s a dead goddamned caribou up there: if we don’t hit it, then we’re going to hit one of the cars that stopped to avoid it. Slow down- we’re still doing 80 and those cars are coming up, fast.” “I just don’t like to think that way, okay?” “What the fuck is wrong with you? We’re going to smash this fucking car and you don’t care?” “If we slow down, we’ll be late for Alicia’s. That might hurt her feelings, and I don’t want to hurt anyone.” “Are you fucking serious? If we slam into those cars, you and me and others are all going to get hurt… plus we’ll *never* show up at Alicias’s. How does that make any se-“ James never lost consciousness but the impact left him punchdrunk. Airbags wilted around them now, and the interior of the Audi stank of burnt sulphur. The man in the car ahead of them was already out of his vehicle- he was unhurt, thankfully. Beside James, Laura wept softly. “Why the fuck are you crying? What the fuck was that?” James was furious with Laura. They had all the time in the world to do something- change course or slow down- and she did nothing to make it better. “I’m just sad that we didn’t make it to Alicia’s.


There I was standing, in a pool of blood. Not my blood, not a loved one’s spinal fluid, not an enemy's tears. Rather an old friend’s blood. The dark red, thick, and vital substance spilling out of her back like a waterfall. Didn’t know I could see one’s life escaping someone’s body in such a clear and precise way, I always thought I’d have to see the soul leave, the eyes close, or the smile fade. But that doesn’t appear to be the case, all I had to see to know they were gone, was the blood spilling out of their lifeless body. I texted back saying the job was done, and later saw the money deposited. *Why’d I have to kill my closest friend for money?* I’d say to myself. But quickly replied with: *Eh, you’ll find friends easily, but money like this? Not in a lifetime.* This didn’t seem right, my gut told me so. But could one say this was for the greater good? Could her life possibly be worth this much money? I didn’t like this thought, but the possibility of it being true was still there nonetheless. I drove home, only thinking of her. The closest friend I’ve ever had. She was the only thing keeping me going in my life. She’d comfort me when I needed it, she’d smile when I did, she’d cry when I did. She has done so much for me and so much with me. But unfortunately I cannot go back. The only thing I can enjoy now is the outstanding price that she was labeled with. I needed to call someone to talk about this, but I had no one. *Friends come and go, but now you’re set for life.* This thought kept reassuring me everytime she came to mind, but I kept fighting it. I sat in my bed, only processing what had just happened. *Why would anyone want her dead? She was the sweetest thing.* Tears began to build up, smearing the light entering my eyes, and finally spilled out like the blood of my dead friend. I can almost feel as if the same blood leaving her body was leaving my eyes. I stayed in bed for the entire next day, until I finally got up at around midnight. I walked to a sink in my bathroom and washed my face. After wiping, I stared into my mirror. Something was off, it wasn’t my red face covered in tears, not the dread that was showing, it wasn’t even a visual thing. It was my thoughts. They began to change, no longer were my thoughts my own. Everything I was thinking before wasn’t entering my mind, it was something else. *You will pay for your crimes, you will pay for your betrayal, you will pay for your doings, your blood will color the rivers of hell to a deeper shade of red, your skeleton will be crucified on the ceiling of the underground, and your soul will be eternally damned to endure the suffering of your selfish deeds.* I was sitting in bed after I washed my face, dividing my attention on my old friend and what I just heard in my head. My thoughts were racing at a million miles an hour, and I couldn’t keep up. *I just need to go for a walk to clear my head.* I walked out of my apartment and strolled onto the streets. I kept walking until I came up to a bench in an empty park. I sat down on the cold metal chair staring into the darkness of the tree covered landscape to take a break. After staring and thinking for around an hour, I finally got sick of looking at the same place and got up to go home. But as soon as I stood up I spotted an illuminated shape in the distance, colored yellow. I couldn’t make out the shape exactly. But eventually the shape started nearing, getting closer. As it neared I made out that it appeared to be a pair of eyes. I didn’t know whether or not to run. *Could it be a wild animal?* I however, stood there staring at the shape out of meer curiosity. At this point the thoughts from earlier began to repeat in my head, this time a little louder. *You will pay for your crimes, you will pay for your betrayal, you will pay for your doings, your blood will color the rivers of hell to a deeper shade of red, your skeleton will be crucified on the ceiling of the underground, and your soul will be eternally damned to endure the suffering of your selfish deeds.* It was quiet at first, but it started getting louder as the mysterious pair of eyes neared. I started to notice a general body shape, it was skinny and skeleton like. *You will pay for your crimes, you will pay for your betrayal, you will pay for your doings, your blood will color the rivers of hell to a deeper shade of red, your skeleton will be crucified on the ceiling of the underground, and your soul will be eternally damned to endure the suffering of your selfish deeds.* I heard it now, I could hear the loud footsteps. But I couldn’t even run, I was so paralyzed with fear that running didn’t appear to be an option now. *You will pay for your crimes, you will pay for your betrayal, you will pay for your doings, your blood will color the rivers of hell to a deeper shade of red, your skeleton will be crucified on the ceiling of the underground, and your soul will be eternally damned to endure the suffering of your selfish deeds.* As it got behind tree directly in front of me it got out; the light from the nearby streat illuminated it. It wasn’t like anything I could’ve imagined it to be. It was a monster. A humanoid skeleton double my height, it had the skull of a goat, blood covered the head, the arms ran all the way to the ground, the toes and fingers were a foot long each, branches ran out of its neck, vines covered the body, and the yellow eyes were unbelievably bright. Now that my curiosity was satisfied enough I tried to run. I only ran for a few seconds. The footsteps neared faster than I could’ve expected. It grabbed me by the head and pulled me up to head level. The long fingers cradled my head with an unbelievably strong grip. Looking at the ground the monster said, “*You will pay for your crimes, you will pay for your betrayal, you will pay for your doings, your blood will color the rivers of hell to a deeper shade of red, your skeleton will be crucified on the ceiling of the underground, and your soul will be eternally damned to endure the suffering of your selfish deeds.”* I yelled out, “I don’t understand, what are you?!” “Look into my eyes and you will see” Its head turned to face me but I closed my eyes; I didn’t want to look into its eyes, but the grip got stronger the longer I waited. It started hurting now. I finally opened my eyelids, and stared into its eyes. I didn’t see eyes anymore, I saw Hell. I saw the pure embodiment of suffering and pain, I saw blood spilling instead of tears out of countless weeping souls, I heard dreadful screaming and crying, I saw no hope or happiness, I heard no laughter or joy. As I looked away the monster told me, “This world is running out of room for pathetic souls likewise to yourself. Balance must be restored to this world, and justice must be reigned on those who plague this world with darkness.” The creature’s other hand grabbed me by the torso, with the other on my head. It pulled on both sides. My neck seared with pain until my vision clouded with darkness. I woke up in my bed. My heart pounding, my neck hurting, and my vision blurry. *What a horrible dream. I can’t stay in bed after something like that.* I got up to just process what I just dreamed of. I sat in front of my mirror again, too afraid to look at it again. But I finally built up the nerves to look into it. As soon as I saw myself my thought repeated. *You will pay for your crimes, you will pay for your betrayal, you will pay for your doings, your blood will color the rivers of hell to a deeper shade of red, your skeleton will be crucified on the ceiling of the underground, and your soul will be eternally damned to endure the suffering of your selfish deeds.* It shocked me deeply at first, but I was reassured with *Damn, that dream was a little too immersive. I need something to take my mind off all this.* I went back to my bed, and turned on my tv. The news was on. I sat there watching for a while trying to take my mind off that dream. A story came up talking about a woman the same age as my friend being murdered. My heart sank with fear and disbelief *This can’t be true, this has to be a coincidence.* They identified the victim, and it was my friend. *No, no, this can’t be my doing.* I checked my bank account via my phone and found the exact money sitting in my account. I sat there for a long time, bewildered. *I can’t believe it, I really murdered her. This can’t be happening, she really is gone. But what was that so-called dream last night? It couldn’t have been real, there’s no way.* I sat there with tears in my eyes and my thoughts racing until I drifted off to sleep. The air in the room got cold, I woke up and looked to the window to my right and saw that it was open. I didn’t remember leaving it open, but I got up to close it. As I started to get out of bed I saw the same creature on the ceiling. It was in a spider-like position staring at me. In its eyes I saw the same horrible things as before. It jumped down on top of me and grabbed my neck again and twisted until darkness came again. I woke up again. *This inception stuff is getting on my nerves, I have to get to sleep. I will figure out all of this tomorrow but I need rest.* I could barely sleep, but I eventually drifted off. I started dreaming, but the only thing I could dream about was the dark place I was presented by the monster. I felt as if I was there. But the longer I dreamed of it, the more clear the thought of my murdered friend got. Numerous weeping souls were next to a red river. I now couldn’t stop thinking of her, and began to cry along with the rest of the others. The river in front of me began to darken along with the blood tears leaving my eyes and entering the water. I woke up again, I quickly looked around and saw nothing. It was morning at long last. I got up out of bed, I remember being clearly awake last night, and I knew my friend was gone forever. It was all my fault as well. And for what? Some stupid cash? She isn’t worth any amount that could’ve been put on her. If only I was aware of that before I killed her. I got dressed and walked to my door to leave the room for a while, I needed to slow down my thoughts on more time. I walked along the same path as last night. When I got to the bench, I walked back home. I couldn’t bear to look at the bench. I was still traumatized from last night. I walked back home. I was back at my room. I got in my bed to do my daily crying over the whole event. When I finished, I got out of my bed. When I got out of my bed, I saw the monster right in front of me. *No, no, no, it’s real? This can’t be real, let this be another dream please.* It tried to grab me, but I ran out of the door in a heartbeat. I got out and ran through the city. I found a building and ran inside, I didn’t even care where I was, I needed to get away from this thing. I found a bathroom and locked myself inside it. I stood there for a long time. I sat there for an hour, whimpering. Eventually she came to mind again, guilt filled my body, the fear of death was no longer prevalent. But then suddenly an arm busted straight through the wall. It was the monster’s arm. Its arm grabbed me by the neck. It pulled me into the wall and then everything got black. I awoke again. My eyes were filled with tears, I wiped my eyes and looked around. It was the same bathroom. Except there were no holes in the wall where the hand should’ve been, only my tears all over the floor. I got up, and got out of the stall. Someone right outside the stall. He asked me if I was okay, I replied that I didn’t know. I walked away from him and outside of the room. I was in a small restaurant. I got out of the building and took the route to where I think my apartment was. *This is all my fault, I killed the only person who ever understood me. I can’t keep living with this injustice. I need to fix this.* When I got home, I reached into my gun safe grabbing a revolver, searing with rage. I went into the garage, got inside my car and drove. I knew exactly where my client lived. He is the one who paid me to kill her. After driving for only a few minutes, I got to a house. The door was locked, but there was another way in, through the windows. I grabbed a nearby rock and threw it at a window, it broke and I entered the house. A startled and familiar man ran down the stairs and found me there. Without hesitating for a second I shot him in the chest. His body fell to the floor, I walked up to him and shot him repeatedly while chanting, “You will pay for your crimes, you will pay for your betrayal, you will pay for your doings, your blood will color the rivers of hell to a deeper shade of red, your skeleton will be crucified on the ceiling of the underground, and your soul will be eternally damned to endure the suffering of your selfish deeds.” The gun finally ran out of bullets, so I punched his corpse until my hands bled. I finally stopped and cried on the floor. I couldn’t keep living with what I did, I needed to do something to make this right, killing the client was only part of what I needed to do. I ran into his kitchen and found a knife. As I stared at the knife I cried more, sobbing continuously for the longest 20 minutes of my life. She could never get out of my mind. *I have to do this, it’s the only way to make things right.* She never left my mind in the duration of that time, until I finally lifted the blade. I got it into position, the blade of the knife shining in the light. I waited a bit comprehending what I was about to do. But I had to do it. I swung the knife towards me and stabbed myself in the stomach. The pain was immense, but eventually faded along with my senses.


Old Chi Wepps crushed a cigarette out on the bow of his john boat with a worn, wet boot. The darkness of the swamp was made sexy by a full moon bouncing its ass all over the blackwater, and in the distance the old man heard an outboard motor start up. A couple gators lay slopped and twisted behind him done bleeding now through holes in their heads. He had harpooned them both and then popped them with bang sticks after he pulled them to the side of the boat thrashing and chomping. He fingered his .38 Smith and Wesson holstered to his side to make himself feel a little better, and lit another cigarette. He took a long drag and puffed smoke in front of him toward the direction the buzzing, far-off motor. It was coming toward him, and the motor sounded clean to his ear. He reckoned it was a newer motor, and it was more than likely the law. Ain’t nobody out this late but him, and whores, and the law. He’d be damned if he ever got caught poaching, and he wasn’t about to get caught this time. Chi pull-started his small motor, and it revved and sputtered its blue smoke as he puffed his cig glaring down as if daring his motor to quit. He knew the approaching boat was too loud for its occupants to hear his small two-stroke, so he took the tiller handle and revved off to his starboard scattering duckweed and rippling moonlight on the water in his wake. Tilling the boat with his left hand he scratched the thick gray scruff of his beard with his right hand burning some of his loose, long hair with his cigarette. He smoked it down until he tasted filter and flicked it. Chi did not give one muskrat fuck. If any law man caught him he’d shoot him in the face without a second thought; he’d stomp their skulls until he had to scrape brains off his boots. He knew every inch of this swamp and had lived out in it since he was a little boy, and he thought of the swamp as his special lady and was headed straight for her sweetest spot. Even if he didn’t get to his camp tonight there was always a spot he could crawl into. He chuffed to himself a little his hard eyes never changing. Chi thought to himself how in his older age the swamps’s sweetness meant more to him than the women he had known as a pup, and that called for toast. He rummaged into his jacket pocket and took a scarred, wide flask out. He gave a hard pull on it not taking his eyes off the water. The motor behind him was gaining. He reveled in the burn the whisky left in his throat. *Fug them,* he thought. *Dey caint catcha me.* To his surprise he heard another outboard with the one behind him setting a new, high vibration, and Chi felt pure heat pour from his face and neck. He quickly put his flask away, curled his hand around the cold pistol at his side, and scowled. “I drive dis boat straight to da momma’s pussy see how dey like it.” Seeing a tributary bushy and hidden he pushed his tiller hard right and swooped his boat port into the overhanging vines and a trickle of black water. Sixty seconds in he cut his motor and took off a long wooden pole that was lashed to the side of the beaten boat and began to pole silently along as if he were a gondolier in Venice, and the two gators behind him were lovers whose new lust had shot each other’s brains out. Chi chuckled as he heard the boats pass him by full bore, and had a surge of excitement when he heard the unmistakeable thunk of one of the boat’s lower units smashing into the submerged cypress stumps and the dismayed cries of its occupants. The other boat motor cycled down quickly to idle, and Chi knew they’d be helping the injured in the other boat, and not following a little ole alligator poacher like him. He poled on for another mile or more using his push-pole to swipe down spider webs from the low hanging brush. He covered the gators with tarp, and started to prepare his camp right in the boat. Grasping an aluminum pole from the bottom of the boat he seated it into a bracket in the middle and strung a vinyl tarp that was bordered with mosquito netting up over it and snapped it in place all around the boat. Affixed to the top end of the pole was another bracket with holes drilled into it to which Chi pushed tent-poles into and then pushed the far ends of those into small brackets into strategic areas along the rim of the boat which lifted his tent all around him. Done with this he laid down on top of the wet tarp face-first on the gators. He kissed one of their heads smooching and smelling the fishy smell and humping them a little as he listened to the faint sounds of dismay coming from the injured lawmen not just a mile or so away. He sat up and let the sounds of the swamp drown away his focus on duties, and so the buzzes and chirps increased their value and loud dankness took him in. He sat back right on them gators and laughed. He pulled out his flask and laid some jerky on his chest took a pull of whisky and lit a smoke. He chewed on some jerky savoring the seasoning and chuckled when he heard a scream. Chi thought he heard a burly voice yell, “Fuck you!” into the night. Maybe one of the lawmen was dead. He patted the back of one of the gators he sat on and said, “Oh, I love you babies!” Those alligators he hunted and took gave him his Marlboro and biscuit money he liked to call it, and he never hurt nobody who ain’t tried to hurt him. And he ain’t never hurt none of the ladies who came out to the swamp to give him their bodies and their cheer by his firelight, except that fair one that stole from him. The one that took his heart away from the swamp and kept it wrapped in that black mold town like dirty panties in her pocket, and she wouldn’t let him leave and come back to his shacks in his wet, green world. But his swamp was a jealous, mean bitch, and she meant to have him back. And her pull was slick and humid, and she was so sticky he could not pull himself off of her. So he took that thievin girl like he takes them gators, and he took her back to the rolling greens and blacks, them snapping teeth and fangs, that swirling algae and moist, earthy decay that was her soft breast where he laid his head, and he gave both their beating hearts on back to her for good.


Captain George Sullivan applied more power to the B-25’s twin radial engines and pulled back on the control column. The versatile bomber climbed to avoid the thick toxic dark ash columns spewing out of Mount Vesuvius. The five able American airmen were accustomed to the deafening noise onboard *Lady Flamenco*, as well as to the strong odor of cordite and spent oil. It was late March 1944. The crew ate fresh eggs for breakfast before they took-off to bomb a concentration of Wehrmacht troops southeast of Rome. Their plane was hit by heavy enemy anti-aircraft flack during the shallow dive-bombing run near Monte Cassino, but no major damage was inflicted. Luck ran out for the crew aboard the bomber which followed. Their right wing was shattered by flack and the leaking fuel ignited. The aircraft exploded before it hit the ground. No parachutes were spotted. As soon as they were safe overland under Allied control, the P-51 Mustang fighter planes broke away and left the empty bombers to fly back unescorted to their airbase south of Naples. Sullivan’s heart rate stabilized. He peered out the cockpit window at the circular Mount Vesuvius. The eruption was into its sixth day. He was captivated by the streams of bright red lava which flowed without resistance into the defenseless and abandoned villages situated on the fertile foothills of the volcano. He questioned the event of a lifetime he witnessed. *Who inflicts more devastation, God or Man?* Sullivan glanced back into the cockpit and reviewed the familiar wall of dials in front of him. There was enough fuel to complete the return leg. He settled back in his seat. His confidence was at an all-time high with one more mission to fly to conclude the tour of duty. *I’m a lucky sucker. I’m going home soon!* Before starting the mandatory checks and slow descent for landing, Sullivan extended his hand into one of his sheepskin flight jacket pockets. He took out the worn-out black and white photograph of his high school sweetheart. The snapshot of Betty was with him wherever he traveled since leaving Madison County to join the Air Force. To most, she was an ordinary miss. For Sullivan, she was the most beautiful girl he ever met. He felt blessed with Betty and was set on marrying her as soon as he got back home. Sullivan turned the photograph around and read the handwritten message on the backside. *Go do your duty and come back to me. Love, B.* As *Lady Flamenco’s* tricycle gear touched down, the climatic impact of the Vesuvius eruption was felt as far away as northern Greece, about one thousand kilometers eastward. Black snow made of a mixture of feathery ice crystals and volcanic ash covered everything. For the locals of Kastoria, this weather phenomenon was perceived as a bad omen. Adonis was a dark-skinned athletic fisherman in his early twenties. He was not too tall but not too short either. The Italian occupation of Greece had little impact on his tranquil life. Almost every day, in the early hours, while the people of Kastoria slept, he and his fellow fishermen ventured out to the deeper waters of Lake Kastoria. Most times they came back with a good catch. By midday, they sold everything in the market and to the local tavernas. Afterward, they often gathered to eat a fresh village salad and drink ouzo. Life worsened in Kastoria when the Germans took over from the Italians in late 1943, but the lake rich in aquatic life saved the population from starvation. One day, a friend of Adonis invited him to attend a discreet gathering of aspiring Communists in one of the tavernas. He welcomed the escape from the dullness of occupation. At the small restaurant, Adonis locked eyes with a young lady. She had olive-colored skin, green eyes, and long pitch-black hair. She gave him a half-smile in return. Her name was Thalassa and they got to talking. Afterward, while walking home with his friend, Adonis declared that he had found his future wife. Thalassa fancied the courtship which followed. She welcomed the romantic excitement into her otherwise boring life. Thalassa came from an affluent family of mink furriers but only the males ran the business. She told Adonis she wanted to be equal amongst men. Communism was her means away from an adult life of home cooking, cleaning, and bringing up children. Thalassa was not bothered by her parent’s dislike of the poor fisherman. Her mother kept saying she had to find a man of equal or better social standing. Adonis’s mother wished her youngest son would stay away from Thalassa. She feared the rebellious political activities would get Adonis into trouble with the occupying forces. For Adonis, Communism was an excuse to be with the woman of his dreams. “For a few drachmas, a rotten collaborator will report you to the Germans. They will arrest you for being a Communist. They are not forgiving like the Italians. They punish…” As a passionate devotee of the Greek Orthodox Church, she even tried to convince him to make a lifelong commitment to God in order to stay out of trouble. “I am not going to become a priest or monk…the Church is not for me…” “Tfou, tfou, tfou…make sure you pray every morning before you head out to the lake!” The black snow continued to pile up that late March afternoon. Undeterred by the weather, Adonis and Thalassa strolled hand in hand down the boardwalk by the lakefront. Thalassa stopped in front of a wooden bench. They sat down. The sun was setting in front of them. She shifted toward Adonis, took hold of his rough-skinned hands, and focused his dark brown eyes. “Things are getting worse by the day…I have decided to join the Resistance in the mountains,” Thalassa said. She often expressed her wish to join the Resistance, but Adonis never attributed much to her desire. When it came to the occupation, they were not like-minded. “Let’s keep our heads down and wait for the war to end. We don’t have to prove ourselves to anyone…” “It is not about that. I heard the Jews will be rounded up tomorrow. I cannot be oblivious to the events unfolding around us.” “What about the two of us…our love? If we do not take up arms, the Germans will leave us alone. Is that not worth staying back for?” “What is our love without freedom and equality?” “You mean without equality and freedom…” Adonis realized it was pointless to argue with Thalassa. She wanted to be a liberated woman, to challenge tradition and breakaway from her close-knit family, and then fight for a free Greece. Marriage came last. As the sun disappeared below the horizon, they stood face to face. “Long life to you,” said Thalassa. “Be safe. I love you. Forever.” They kissed one more time and said goodbye. *Many years later…* An aging Adonis sat on the wooden bench by the lake. His mature skin was damaged by years of exposure to the sun while out fishing on the lake. These days he was too fragile to sail out to the deep waters, but from time to time he used a cane rod to fish along the shorelines. He took out small dual blade pocketknife and worked the carved initials on the backrest, just as he did many afternoons to make certain the engraving did not fade away. While Adonis chipped into the engraved initials, an old round lady sat down by his side. He stopped carving and shifted toward her with an expression of fatigue. She had wrinkles on her face, snow-white hair and blue eyes. Between them, they had countless stories to tell, but most were forgotten by now. Adonis, as polite as always, said hello. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Greek…” “Ah…I speak a little English. My name is Adonis.” “Nice to meet you. My name is Betty. I am a tourist from America.” She wiped the sweat from her forehead and drank from her bottle of water. “First time in Greece?” “First time in Europe. I am amazed at the colorful beauty of your country. Just like in the movies. Have you ever been to America?” “All my life I stay in Kastoria. I never go far away.” Betty could not decipher the carved Greek letters. “What are you doing with the knife?” “T for Thalassa and A for Adonis.” “Adonis is you…and so I suppose… Thalassa is a woman close to you?” Adonis looked out toward the Pindus mountains which rose up beyond the lake. “Thalassa was a brave woman with the Resistance. She was killed by Germans in the mountains many years ago.” “You loved her?” A single tear rolled down his cheek. His lips trembled and he placed his hand over his heart. “Yes, very, very much.” Driven by an impulsive desire for human contact, Betty reached out and placed her soft hand above his. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I also lost my love during the war. George was a pilot. He was killed in Italy on his last mission…every day I think of him and what could have been…” The two elders cried as if they had shared a lifetime. They both knew that tears do not extinguish the memories or make the pain of loss go away. “I wish I had gone with Thalassa into the mountains…but I was not brave. I was just a fisherman.


I am a seed. There are few joys as great as the wind. It whispers in your ear when you’re alone, and it screams along with you while carrying you far away from home. It tells you secrets - like when to wait, and when to grow. It’s always there, and nothing can stop it. I love the wind. I was too heavy for the wind, so she dropped me on a rock with the best view a seed could ask for. Rolling waves of blue stand before me, with a large wall of rock standing behind me, protecting me from falling as I grow. The mist from below can barely reach me up here, but I landed in a bowl of fresh rainwater so I can still drink. Time to sit and grow. I love the wind. My stem reaches out for the sun, my roots for the soil. I can’t find any closer to the waves of blue and white, so I’ll push my roots towards the rock. It’s fun to watch the waves crash against my wall, sometimes little things pop out of the water and rush back in. I can taste the salt in the air here now, so I’ll need to push my roots deeper. I miss the wind, but I need to grow so we can play together for a long time. I have many stems and leaves now, I am no longer a seed. I’ve been kissed by the sun but the wind hasn’t whispered hello in a long time. My roots have dug through the rock to reach the soil. It took a lot of hard work, but I wanted to see my friend wind again so I have to grow strong. It’s been quiet for too long. I miss the wind. I have a few branches now, and birds have started to visit me. I have a nest in the crook of my first branch, I can hear the little birds chirping away. I need to grow so I can be taller than the wall, I’m not too far off. My roots have covered this rock, growing thicker with each sunlit kiss on my leaves. The soil tastes delicious, keeping me strong and making me stronger. Soon I’ll be able to see the wind again. I really miss the wind. My trunk is strong and my branches thick. My topmost leaves have met my friend wind. It’s good to hear from the wind, it’s been very lonely. The birds have roost on my limbs, though they never speak to me. Their chattering at least made the itching worth it, it was nice to hear another voice. The birds have flown off for now, and the wind is back. The soil doesn’t seem to be feeding me as much as it used to, I’ll need to grow longer roots. I love being a tree. I love the wind. My roots have grown big. You can’t even see my rock under them any longer, I can feel it. I talk to the wind all the time now, and the wind talks to me. We sing and we scream, laugh and dance. I talk to the wind about my journey back to meet her, and hear the wind laugh to put me at ease. I will never have to miss the wind again as I can only grow! Oh, what a wonderful feeling! I will always love the wind. The soil isn’t feeding me. I’ve tried to grow, but I no longer can. My branches feel heavy and stiff, a few have flown off into the water ahead. The wind is screaming at me to wake up, but she can’t hear me any longer. I can only creak and groan to her, my leaves have long since gone to dance with the wind on their own. Still, to hear her comforts me, and lets me know I’m still here. I cherish the wind. The wind can’t hear me as I crash against the wall, upside down. The last yell the wind gave me pushed me off my wall. My branches have all broken on the rocks as I continue to crash against its surface. My roots broken or falling too. I know the wind didn’t mean it, she was just trying to help me remember who I was. I was a seed, dancing with her. I was a sapling, and I was ready to grow to meet her again. I was a lonely tree, missing her. I became a strong tree. Strong enough to speak with her once more, for far longer. The water is reaching up for me now, and all I can think about is how lonely she’s going to be. I really do love the wind. I grew from a seed.


My name is Rook and according to my human mommy I‘m the most adorable and courageous kitten in the whole wide world. That must be true since I have never seen another kitten like me before. Mommy often asks me how I manage to be so cute, but I myself don’t know how I do it. I guess it just comes to me naturally. Every time I walk towards her and start purring she practically beams with happiness. She lifts me up to cuddle and kiss me and she always tells me how much she loves me. Every day she makes sure I know how much she cares about me and loves me so I never have to doubt that. It is a nice feeling to be loved so much, even though sometimes she overdoes it a bit with the cuddles. I can’t just stay still forever, can I? That would not befit a courageous, fierce kitten such as I. There are always moments where I make up for it though. When I am tired I don’t mind all the pets and cuddles so much. Then I can let her take her time and she seems to appreciate that immensely. I am such a generous kitten. ***The kitty and the roaring monster:*** Some days a big, bad monster comes to life inside my home. Normally it sits completely silent and motionless in the living room. But once in a while it suddenly starts roaring and moving across the floor, sucking in everything in its wake. It is very dangerous and gives even me, the most courageous kitty of all, a bit of a fright sometimes. The monster has a really long nose through which it sucks in the stuff on the floor. Its body is big and fearsome, making much noise and it has a long, black tail, which is stuck into the wall. When the monster roams the room, I try my best to show it (from as far away as possible) that I am the more dangerous predator. I go the furthers corner of the room and fluff up my tail and show my claws. Naturally I do this so that it knows that it would be dangerous for it to approach me and certainly not out of fear or something like that. I am a courageous kitty after all. Fear should be afraid of me and not the other way round. Once the monster becomes silent and motionless again, I carefully approach it after a while. Safety is important after all, even for such a dangerous predator like me. After making completely sure that it no longer moves, I climb on top of its body to demonstrate my dominance over it. Just so it really knows who‘s boss. When I do this my mommy always praises me for conquering the beast so bravely so I must be doing it right. I let her pet me for a bit, but not too long of course, and head towards my favourite napping spot. It has a really soft and fluffy blanket and is right by the window. I curl up, having finished my tough work of the day, and take a well-deserved nap, knowing that I have conquered the monster and defended my home from all dangers. How befitting for my title of most courageous kitty in the whole wide world. ***The kitty and the mystery of the disappearing prey:*** I am a super dangerous predator. So of course I regularly have to chase and catch prey. One of my favorite preys is a little blue mouse. It has a really long grey tail that is wound around a stick. I simply love chasing after that mouse. Sometimes it moves super fast and I have a very hard time catching it. During those times I watch for a while and wait for the right moment to pounce. The right timing is very important. I see the mouse go by and know exactly where it will go next. There, the right moment has come. Target locked and pounce. I got it. Once I catch the mouse in my claws it struggles a lot. But that is ok. Even if I lose my grip the chase simply begins again. It is super fun. There is just one prey I can never seem to catch. A mysterious prey that only appears when my mommy is lying under a blanket and that always suddenly disappears without a trace once she gets up. Blankets are dangerous business. Whatever is under there always seems to appear around where my mommy‘s feet should be. I am sure it is trying to attack and grab her feet. Therefore, as the most courageous kitty in the world it is my duty to defend her. So whenever something starts moving under the blanket I immediately start pouncing on it. I bite it and try grabbing it with my claws, so it knows that it should leave my mommy‘s feet alone. My mommy always starts squeaking when I do that, but I am sure that is only because the thing under the blanket is trying to attack her. She tries to save me by grabbing me and dragging me away from the prey, but as a brave kitty I will not be discouraged from my duty. No prey shall escape me. So many times I was sure I almost had it. Yet in the end I can never seem to catch this mysterious prey. Some day though I am sure I will finally be able to best it. Just you wait.


We wait. Snow flakes flutter down, like ash from a burning forest. Breath coalesces in the air, swirling and enveloping me. The cheap khaki only comes in two sizes, too big or too small. My own uniform compacts my form, and I struggle for every breath. The cold bites off toes, noses, fingers, and pierces already sloughing lungs. I remember – who was it now? - shouting at me to get up, to man the fire-step. He's not here now, somewhere else. There is no one else. The trench snakes for miles across a diseased land, weaving in and out of the pockmarked landscape. Every now and then, artillery thuds. We can't see where it lands. We have been told to wait, so we do. For king, honour and country, we wait. I chew a stale biscuit, which breaks into thick clumps. Most of the food is gone now, eaten by rats, or men. Or both at the same time. Hunger wracks my body, like a fever. My guts clench and unclench. I remember someone, their name eludes me, who gnawed off his own finger. Got there before the cold did. I have no idea why we are here. Only that if we were not, we'd be disgracing ourselves. Funny thing, patriotism. Sends men into holes in the ground, human excrement up to your thighs; that's on a good day. The only thing that is reasonably dry is our rifle, which protrude like extra limbs, jutting out awkwardly in oilskin cases. I often see an old friend, who only ever has his back to me now, face down, trying to swim in the mire. Doesn't look like much fun. Everyone avoids him as he careers around - sometimes he knocks into the walls of the trench. I yell at him as he passes, tell him to watch where he's going. Everyone else stares at me. With blank, piercing eyes, they shake their heads sullenly. They begin to mutter. I feel something digging uncomfortably into my ribs, right over my heart. It's a piece of paper – a blotched, frayed picture of smiling woman in white, hugged up close to a young, handsome man. Tears streak down my grimy face, passing cuts, bruises, scars. I try to remember who this depicts, but flies away from my stumbling grasp. It's cold. Sometimes, the mire freezes, and we have solid ground to pace along. I see my friends face in the mire, a bellowing laugh on his face. He's enjoying himself now. Then a murmuring begins, and dull thuds shake the earth, disturbing clumps of snow that patters down. Men, before just milling around in the cramped walls, jump up, and yell raucously. A new cloud, otherwise alone in the clear expanse of the sky, drifts towards us. More rain, more soggy biscuits. Someone something over my head, and I fall over, startled and shouting. I want to rip the contraption from my head, but it distorts my vision. I tear at it, but my movements are slow and awkward. I get up, angry at this unnecessary attack. I peer over the barbed wire, cowed by the sudden obscurity of my senses. Shadows approach in the gloom the discoloured cloud. Reinforcements! I wave my arms hysterically and scramble out of the trench to which we have been confine for so long, snagging my legs on the thorns of wire. A red smile grins at me from my leg. I scream louder and louder, and go to say my name, but it catches in my throat, my tongue cloyed by a coppery fluid. I feel warmth spread down my neck, across my chest, painting the picture scarlet. For once, it's warm enough for me to lie down. I crawl back to my friend, see my colleagues make the sign of the cross, a mutter their condolences – but I want to sleep. I close my eyes next to my old friend: now I swim to, but with a smile.


There are no roads out of the yellow flower town. In the yellow flower town, the streets shine under the moonlight and tiny sparkles of gold lines the sidewalks, the skies are always clear and the wind carries the scent of spring which gently rustles the crowns of old oak trees. The air smells of daisies and roses and the metal tang of gold, of flying skirts and the always lingering ghost of another’s touch. In the yellow flower town, I dance the steps of a waltz for one, my arms holding up the shape of another, always there, never here. In the yellow flower town, everything is at the same time a truth and a lie, a reality and a façade, the beautiful dream which you float in and the ugly reality for which you return to. Where the sky is clear and the air is sweet and where the cage of roses and romanticism will trap you forever. In the yellow flower town, I fell in love with Aphrodite. Aphrodite with her beauty; Aphrodite with her eyes coloured by eternity; Aphrodite as she rose out of the sea foam, perfection manifested, creating dreams with one hand and heartbreak with another. Aphrodite who shot an arrow to my heart and gently held me as I lay on the ground, my wound bleeding perfect crystals of tears. Aphrodite who whispered dreams of summer nights, who floated through those gold speckled streets as the moon weaved kisses in her hair. I fell in love with Aphrodite and Aphrodite is nothing but a pipe dream, Aphrodite is nothing but a figure in the distance, dissipating as I drew nearer. Aphrodite is nothing more than what we make her to be, but I am not a ‘we’. Still, Aphrodite does not let go. I do not let go. I do not wish to let go. There are no roads out of the yellow flower town. Someone once told me that flowers have a language of their very own, where they spoke only in colours and aesthetics and vague feelings. Yellow flowers represented happiness, friendship and new beginnings, yet I am trapped here amongst the sunflowers and the daises and the dahlias. Vines and stems hook around my wrist and ankles, twisting into chains which weighed me down, tying me down until I was no longer able to move. I fall into a bed of love, of summer nights, of the moon which wove kisses in my hair. I rejoice in only the ghost of lingering hands and the shadow which whispered meaningless sweetness in my ears, my arms holding up the shape of another, never there, always here. I fell in love with Aphrodite in the yellow flower town from which there are no roads out. I fell in love with an idea, a concept which wormed its way into unreality, something of which I could not bring into the world alone. I am in love and I am so very alone, I am in love yet the word felt meaningless, directionless in my mouth, I am in love and I love no one. I am trapped within the yellow flower town with its clear sky and sweet air and empty promises, where a figure shrouded in mist took me by the hand and taught me what love is. I am trapped between a dream and a nightmare, on the cusp of reality and yet so, so far away from it. I am trapped in a halved embrace, reaching for something that was never there in the first place. There are no roads out of the yellow flower town.


(IP) Family Ties He’d gotten up at dawn and could already see the swarm coming, their pinchers clacking ominously. They were like a mass of moving smoke, deadly and lethal. He should have known that the King would have followed him even all the way out here, in the rocky desert that served as the border between the two kingdoms of Asteria and Brisbain. Even knowing what was coming, Bastian could not—would not—regret his decision. He had no desire to use the dead for his own ends, much less for political gain. Denouncing his father had made him a prince without a kingdom, but he didn’t care. As of his sixteenth birthday, he could no longer turn a blind eye to the fact that his own father was hellbent on conquering everything, including lands that were not his. He’d barely escaped the kingdom with his life, and his father had vowed to follow him to the ends of the realms. But Bastian wasn’t alone; no, he had gathered powerful allies and he had stolen one of his father’s secrets. He had taken a shapeshifter and befriended her, and she’d agreed to help him fight. “They’re coming,” Bastian said, and his father’s former advisor smirked, her violet eyes aglow. “It seems that your father finally made good on his promise,” Dinah said at last, and he could hear the laughter in her voice. “It would appear so,” Bastian agreed, smirking grimly. Dinah had helped him amass a resistance, though he loathed asking the people for help they could not give. He knew how much of the peoples’ money was in the royal coffers. “Wake everyone up and prepare them, please. If you don’t, it will be a bloodbath.” \*\* By the time the sun was high in the sky, the monsters had reached their base, and Dinah was in front, her hands glowing with magic. Her face was pale and tense, and she roared, transforming into a lion and charging into the fray. She led the soldiers, and Bastian was in the front of the crowd, sawing off appendages. The air was tainted with the sick, metallic odor of blood, and Bastian ran ahead with his halberd. Killing off his father’s grotesque creations was certainly entertaining, but he wanted their leader. Mounted upon a giant beetle, a man with a glowing halberd bellowed, giving his soldiers orders. Bastian hated killing, even when it was necessary, but he had no choice. The sand was watered with the blood of his comrades and enemies, and he had to end this before he lost anyone else. “Hurry!” Dinah called, and in a flash, she was in front of him. She transformed into a horse and together they charged. Bastian leapt from Dinah’s back and landed on the hard, thick shell of the beast. He put his blade to the man’s throat and smirked. “Surrender peacefully, and we’ll let you live. In exchange for some information, of course.” Upon closer inspection, Bastian realized that this was his father’s closest advisor. “Foolish prince,” The man hissed, his teeth stained red with his own blood. “You of all people should know that your father would never allow any of his men to be captured alive.” Bastian punched the man, and though he cried out in pain, he spat in the prince’s face. “I’ll be sure to send your dear old father regards.


“This is stupid.” I said in a flat tone to my sister as I stood across from her with a fake sword in her hand. I had one too and she had somehow convinced me this was one of my favorite things to do. “I promise once you try it you’ll start to enjoy it” She said excitedly. I was in an accident a while ago. And the resulting car crash and coma that I’d been stuck in had left me with a serious case of amnesia. I’m still piecing together a lot of my life. I still didnt recognize my family when they came to see me. So the doc said they should try getting me involved with some of my old favorite activities. That’s where my sister came up with this brilliant gem of an idea to hopefully jog my memory. I looked up at her skeptically and grunted “Fine, let's just get this over with.” I told her and put my sword up like she taught me how to. Pointy end at my opponent, arm extended but bent and the sword at an angle to keep as much space between me and her as possible. She nodded while smiling widely. She smacked the end of my sword lightly with hers to signify the fight was on. Then she charged me. I only have a vague idea of how to sword fight. And by that I mean I only know what I’ve seen in movies. My sister had actual practice. She came at me with a ferocity they don't portray very well on TV. She started raining down blows on me. I did my best to block with my sword but I was mostly just flailing at the oncoming assault. I managed to block her first two strikes but the third one landed solidly on my side just under my ribcage. “Jesus!” I shouted as I reeled from the blow clutching my side. My sister can hit hard and I was liking this activity less and less. “This is for your own sick amusement isn’t it?” I asked her as she was giggling uncontrollably. “No-its-not-I-swear” she managed to gasp out between laughs. I huffed out an annoyed breath letting go of my side. I wasn’t annoyed by this sport anymore. Now I was getting a little angry. And distantly I felt the desire to win. I readied myself and got into my stance. My sister eventually fought off her giggles and readied herself as well. I dug my feet into the ground a little more than last time. I don't know why, it just felt natural. We smacked swords again and then she came at me. I knew it was coming this time so I took a small step back to be just outside of her range. She swung at me and missed me by millimeters. I saw the slight look of surprise on her face as I did. She took another step forward and I stepped back again and to the side not even trying to block with my sword. She missed again but only barely. I was getting excited now. It almost felt familiar. So I tried to step forward just after her swing and tried to swing at her myself. My movement felt lazy and a little awkward. She saw and took full advantage of my stumbling. My blow glanced off of her sword and harmlessly away as she took that momentum and struck me right in the middle of the stomach a lot harder than she hit me last time. I curled over from the pain. This definitely hurt more than i expected. But the pain brought back a flash of something. Hot summer days and cold fall evenings spent swinging swords around with people that seemed familiar but whose names I couldn't remember. I gasped partly at the pain and partly at the flash of memories. I remembered the excitement I felt when fighting and I felt it surge through me again. It blocked out the pain and I felt a small smile start on the corner of my mouth. I stood up straight and looked at my sister. “Are you okay?” she asked, not giggling this time. A slight look of concern on her face. I responded by readying my sword again waiting for her to hit the end of it and get back into it. In return she readied herself as a fierce smile spread across her face “It almost seemed like you knew what you were doing that last time.” She told me. I just nodded at her. She tapped my sword and didnt immediately charge me this time. She sidestepped cautiously and I matched her. We made about a half circle doing this before we both charged in at the same time. It was like the opening steps to a dance I’ve been doing forever. I couldn’t tell you how, but it was like my body just knew how to move. I don’t remember any specific movements or anything but I matched every blow with my sister, sidestepped a few and returned a few blows of my own. After the few opening seconds of the fight she realized that this wasn’t gonna be the same. The smile vanished from her face which was now set in deep concentration. I started pushing her back with a reign of quick blows. I knew where to hit, when to pull back, and in the midst of all of this I felt that surge of excitement from earlier doubled. I was loving this. I remembered how to fight. I let out an excited little shout and stabbed at her stomach, it was feint and as soon as I had done it her sword came to swing a little wildly to push mine out of the way. I spun my sword out of the stab and used the momentum to bring it full circle and down on her shoulder. A kill shot. It landed solidly and she reeled back. She looked up at me bewildered and smiled. The fight had memories flooding back into me. For the first time since I woke up from my coma I didn't feel lost. The grip on the sword suddenly felt familiar and comforting rather than awkward and unusual. “It looks like you remembered something there.” She said “Does this mean I have my brother back finally?” In answer I flicked my sword nimbly in a quick series of movements. Something I used to do to show off. And then leveled the sword at her. “Yeah I am.” I said smiling. I realized something and frowned a bit before lowering the sword. “But first gimme back my sword” I said as I realized that she had been using my favorite sword this entire time while she had given me the shorter one with a more uncomfortable grip to practice with. She threw her head back and started laughing again and it felt good to not only hear it but to recognize it as my sister’s laugh which I had heard so many times before. It was good to be back.


Did you remember to lock the door? Before you answer that, I want you to really think about it. One, or maybe two of you, might have actually checked the locks as soon as you read the title. Maybe some of you habitually lock the door as soon as you get home. Twisting the deadbolt and hooking the chain just come as second nature. Did you notice anything out of place? Anything that could lead you to believe you aren’t alone? Would you even notice? What about the windows? There was a girl, and this was years ago, who did all the right things. She double checked the locks, walked through the parking lot with her keys between her fingers, always made sure her mace was in her purse, and always checked the back seat before driving home. Her friends on the night shift called her uptight, paranoid, and mistrustful. She called it being carful. She thought she was so carful. Here’s the thing though; None of us are as carful as we think we are. She always took the same route home, she always left the house and came back at the same time, you could set your watch to it. Her life was just so structured. It only took me a few days before I had her schedule memorized. That bat she kept near the front door? I moved it three different times, and she never even noticed. Not to mention the fact that she lived alone and didn’t have a dog. Does anyone watch the news anymore? The world is scary place. I knew that she kept a spare key underneath a rock near the gutter of the garage. It was a clever hiding spot, but it was easy to find. I could’ve easily just used the spare, but I didn’t want this to be easy, I wanted a challenge. I wanted the thrill of nearly getting caught. I’ve picked my fair number locks in my day (they’ll let anyone be locksmith nowadays) but where’s the fun in that? She had a sliding glass door that led to her back porch. More specifically she had a sliding glass door with a Legacy keyed handle set. If you pry at the seams just right the entire handle and lock will fall apart, and it’s only a matter of getting the right super glue to put back together. It only took me a matter of minutes to break in, and that was the hard part. After that I just unlocked all the windows. She never checked the windows. After that, after I actually had an *IN*, It was just a matter of time before I made my move. I would go into more detail, but I don’t want any of the more intuitive members of this subreddit catching onto my trail. You’ll just have to settle for this vague version, good luck even guessing the state. I didn’t come here to brag, in fact she was the best case scenario for a mark. No nosey neighbors, single, no dogs. No, I came here because I’m bored. You guys make it too easy. There’s no chase anymore, no slow build up and pay off. What ever happened to the nosey suburban housewife who’s always sticking their nose in places they don’t belong? The annoying neighborhood watchmen who couldn’t make the cut for the local police department? The little old ladies who have nothing better to do other than watch the street all day? God I’m Bored! Now, I’ll ask you again, And I’ll write it all in caps for the simple ones among you; DID YOU LOCK THE DOOR? How about the windows? Did you check to see if that door you rarely use hasn’t been tampered with? You’d be surprised at how many people will leave a side door in disrepair before actually getting fixed. Did you check? Do you feel safe now? Were you ever really worried? But here’s a little follow up question for the clever and the careful; When you unlocked the door when you got home, did you notice how loose the lock felt? Did it glide a bit smoother than usual? Was it actually locked? Did you notice that the big knife in the cutting block was missing? I know you’ve been eating out more often nowadays, work’s been hard lately, and all you want to do when you get home is order fast food, sit on the couch in your pajamas, and watch reruns of scrubs on Netflix. One last question, and don’t worry, it’s an easy one. Did you just lock me out? Or did you just lock me in? I’ll see you soon.