(On mobile, sorry for formatting) Gnurl is an Orc who lived in a village that was raided and burned to nothing before he had memories. I, Gnurl, grew up adopted into a clergy, where all the minority races were treated fairly, and as equals. The Headmistress was an Elf, Yanda, and the Headmaster was a Dwarf, Hadrod. In my youth, before 9, there were a dozen orcs. So I grew with knowledge of my culture and of the orc deities. The clergy did not only encourage us to worship fervently, but also showed us how to connect to our favored deities in ways only the most devout shamans of our ancestors could. One of the orc, Jughog, was so attuned that by the age of 14(he was the oldest of us found after the raid) he could earn favor from "Beshaba" the Trickster Goddess. After being called on as one of her Blackfingers, Jughog grabbed a dagger and claimed to receive orders to assassinate the Head Dwarf. Jughog was killed in this attempt. Tossed into the courtyard after the alarms awoke the whole school, we all were present for Jughogs demise. As he hit the ground 3 stories below, I saw his ribs ripped through skin out the side of his body. A mangled cage of bones. Gathering all his remaining strength, Jughog reached and half pointed at the sky, opened his mouth and no sound came out. He didn't manage a single breath before collapsing in his own blood. Our orc family had its first of several rifts at that time. 5 of my brothers and sisters left, led by Sharog, our 13 year old Matriarch. When we learned of Sharog's death a few years later, we were told she was ambushed. She had her throat slit before she could let a warning cry. She died without last words. A few years later, when I was 16, one of the human students, Uther, killed Yan, an orc, in a training exercise. Crushed his chest with a well placed warhammer blow. The self crafted armor Yan made never stood a chance against this blacksmiths son. Yan didn't have a dignified death, no brave last words. I dont think he had a chance to have a last thought. It was sad for me, but it was unintentional. They were training and they were also brothers. We are all family at the Clergy. Yan was a skilled fighter, and the youngest of us orcs. I did not feel rage or anger like some of my kin, just sadness. Anger came later, but I was told that some anger was healthy. But my orc kin, they wanted blood. Two of them openly challenged Uther to a fight in the training courtyard the next day. They didn't wait for a response before charging him. Uther fought them both. He first raised his warhammer, deflected 2 blows from Durg, then backstepped to force Durg to overextended and step forward. While looking at his own feet, the first orc took one of Uther's overhead Blessed Smites. Decapitation on contact. Durg went limp and slammed hard into the ground. He was dead. Xugar dashed to Durg's dropped sword, grabbed it on the roll and raised both in defense high above his head to deflect the second mighty Uther blow. Those swords snapped in half towards Xugar's face and chest. Uther's warhammer kept the momentum and caved Xugar's head into his chest cavity. More orcs dead and no last words. I was silent and sad, but also proud of my brother, Uther. A great feat for a human to take on two orcs and win unscathed. Uther and his warhammer came out on top again and again over the years. He was the best of us. All but one of the orcs moved passed these unfortunate events. Another left the school. By time I was 26, and a few insignificant quibbles later, of the dozen orcs, only Yroh and myself remained at the clergy. Yroh had been studying with an elven woman called Ava for many years. They were both quite skilled Clerics, many years ahead of my own studies. Ava was a master of the classic mace and tower shield, and has been on the front lines many times when having to defend our home from raids and beasts. She is also a master blacksmith having learned from her husband, Uther. Uther was quickly a top the ranks of all the students of our class. A master of Divine Smites and Blessed Strikes only farther complimented by the weapons he's forged. His skill as a fighter has allowed him to speak with, "Marodin" the Dwarven god of the Forge, on many occasions and has been instructed and trained by "Marodin" himself. At the age of 30 he married Ava. Later that same year, Uther had to set off on a diplomatic meeting as our representative for our region of our local kingdom/hierarchy. A request for aid as we have been threatened by show of force. Our land is to be attacked by a medium sized goblin army, and they bring whelplings with them. They would overrun our school in hours. Our clergy has 40 teachers and students combined, including infants. Only two days notice we were given by messengers, little time to ask for an army. Ava and Yroh were a part of the defensive force. I was a merchant and expert wolf rider. Opris, my wolf, and I would travel for trade, carry messages to other towns in our region, keep an eye on the outer rims of our territory, or just run when I needed to get away. I was one of the best Orc merchants in our region. Always had the potential to conversate on common ground for a better barter, never intimidate. Opris, however... I had left the school 2 days before the goblins arrived and was unaware of the pending attack. These times out riding Opris in open fields has allowed me to attune with storms and winds. To feel the world breathe around me. I've learned to channel subtleties in air currents. Today, during a meditation session, I felt a sharp pain enter through my chest. This pain quickly dulled and was replaced by a great amount of pressure. Like gas. Beyond that of gas. It needed to escape immediately. I rushed to release this force from my chest, and as I did it was with intense sensations like if both scalding dragon's fire and a frozen Lich's chilling howl were in both lungs simultaneously. As I hit my knees in pain, in what I thought was surely my last breath, i went to cry out my final words, any words. Nothing from my lungs. Instead, a surge of white-purple lightning shot from my left hand into the sky. I was sure my hand was gone, just a stump, maybe not even any arm left. But it was there, visually throbbing, almost a third larger than it should be, but intact. It hurt, but was not a distracting pain. Nothing to focus on, just there. Wow, that expirence was brief, exhilarating, maybe only 5 seconds. After a brief minute on my knee, I was invigorated with elation and urge myself to get up and return home. Excited to tell my teachers and Yroh that I was a Stormcaller! Maybe half a day rides away was home. After gathering camp we get a late start, take a little longer to water Opris for the run ahead. We rode hard to beat the dusk. A long days travel, but Opris does this everyday. The sky normally orange from sunset was a dark maroon filled with black rolling smoke. Fires? At home? Opris picked up the pace. Once we were a mile away we saw the seige, and I heard the anguish of war. I cast everything off Opris that wasn't needed to kill those savages invading my home, and Opris heard my cries to make haste. By time we arrived it was late into the fight. We lost our main doors, dozens of goblins killed and even three trolls slain. With many of our clergy having been slain, I felt a lump of panic in my throat. We charged through the splintered doors and down the main garden of the school yard. I see four goblins and two friends. Ava and Yroh. As I close the gap I see Yroh is dead, pinned upright against a hedgerow of bushes. Spears left through him, his silver flanged mace gripped tight in bloodied hand. My eyes struggle to find focus though sweat and tears. I cry out in a guttural instinctual rage and call forth lightning from my left arm. I struck 2 goblins near Ava in a single blast as she bashed the skull of a third. Opris leaped to Ava's right side and slammed the forth goblin into the stone wall of the main building. I let out a stuttered cry as this pain overwhelmed my chest. This time it was unfamiliar, and I was ready for this new blessing of the gods to pass through my hands. Whimpering, I took aim at the nearest troll when my vision failed me. My legs had no strength to keep me standing. No burst of lightning, no force to shake the earth. My eyes focused on the blackness and thickness of the blood on the spear tip that is coming through my chest. I feel a small goblin foot on my back. I hear Ava call out, but her swears of vengeance on my behalf are just shrill shrieks that don't have any meaning. Why does she always have to panic in elvish? This piercing force, its back. I try to rise to my knee and focus on my aim, but I know its just another spear. In my final moments I accept death, and I shape my mouth to call out my final words. My tounge wet with blood wants to say goodbye to Ava, or to curse this goblin. To cry out for Yanda, the Headmistress, was what I knew I really wanted. Just a man wanting his mother. Yet with spears in my chest I have no words to say, and I laugh in my head as I recall that every orc I've watched die doesn't get last words. In my death I reach a courtyard. I am approached by "Avandra" the Goddess of Second chances, and she asks if I was satisfied with my time on earth? I quickly opened my mouth but quickly bit my tounge not wanting to offend a Goddess. I was not satisfied, I was young and wanted to keep my school safe, to travel with my wolf. And to kill goblins. I told "Avandra" that I was unhappy with my death but understood that I am dead. She laughs and remarks that she can undo my death, and give me a second chance. If I wanted to continue living, all I had to do was ask to continue my life, and say "thank you". After being granted another chance, Gnurl takes an inhale and thanks "Avandra". In what is just a blip, just another inhale after his words escape his tounge, 700 years after being killed, Gnurl awakens.


I'm here today to tell you how to get happy again when you are sad. It's by making chicken soup. First step is to do something you regret and get upset about it. Then go to the fridge and get out a few carrots, an onion, celery stalks, and your chicken. Find a nice big pot and put it on the stove and drizzle in some olive oil. Take a sharp knife and start cutting vegetables. The nice thing about making chicken soup when you are sad is that you don't have to be very precise or specific with the cutting. Just hunk them up into uneven shapes, moderately bite sized, maybe not, and throw them into the pot. Wanna keep the skin on the onion because you are too upset to spend the effort? Not a problem. Knife too much work and you just want to break the veggies into pieces with your bare hands? Great stress relief, not a bad idea actually. And now the kitchen smells like cooking onions which is the first sun break to reach your shaded heart. Next part is the part that kinda sucks, but honestly getting happy isn't always a wholly enjoyable process. Neither is working with raw chicken. So you pull the chicken out of the wrapper and despite your best efforts immediately get raw chicken juices on the counter. A little even splashes on the clean apron you just put on. Into the pot goes the chicken, into the trash goes the wrapper. Now you spend the next 10 minutes cleaning the counters which is actually pretty therapeutic. A good clean kitchen counter is an inherently satisfying thing. You forgot to put water in the pot while you were cleaning but that doesn't even matter, chicken soup is the least picky thing you could make. The perfect companion to a frustrated self-loathing chef. You add a bunch of water but don't measure or really think too hard, cause you can always add more later or boil some off. It's a lesson in flexibility you could probably stand to heed right now. Bring to a boil, pop on the lid, turn the heat to medium, and go take a shower cause you need it. In the bathroom you realize your favorite podcast updated two days ago and you didn't listen yet, so you crack a cheeky 4pm shower beer and turn on the speaker and do some grooming. 25 minutes later you are warm and clean and smell nice and are laughing about something stupid from a video game fifteen years old with a 45 year old comedian and her brother. You open the bathroom door and are greeted with the smell of hot chicken soup, preliminary yet still inviting. Getting dressed and entering the living room you see your partner on the couch, clearly also in a better mood than before your shower. It's funny what a half hour away from your neuroticisms can do. The smell of chicken soup is also helping that equation balance out. You walk over and kiss them on the forehead and laugh about whatever silly thing they tell you from the article they are reading and head back into the kitchen. The soup is boiling a little too hard and has spilled on the stove, but it's not a huge deal because it isn't a sugary creamy mess and is easy to clean. The chicken isn't upset either, nor the root vegetables. Turn down to a simmer, add salt, pepper, and any herbs and spices that inspire you and are within reach and recover the pot. Remember you left your beer in the bathroom and literally only took one sip, retrieve it, and return to uncover the pot and stare at your soup for about five minutes. During this time of deep meditation and wonderful aromas you realize that you definitely were a little wrong earlier and maybe apologizing wouldn't be the end of the world. Forget to recover the pot (doesn't matter) as you head into the other room to own up to your faults and realize that your partner forgave you long before you forgave yourself. Crying optional at this point. Return to the kitchen and stare at the soup with your partner this time, chatting about whether you actually need salad to go with the inevitable garlic bread and realize that you are now happy. Cook soup for 30 minutes-3 hours more, dish up, enjoy. Rinse and repeat as needed to maintain a happy life and a healthy relationship.


It was early morning when a cloaked man knocked on my front door. Half-groggy from sleep, roused by an urgent phone call by one of my clients, I wrapped a petal-pink robe around me, trying it closed. As I made my way down the hallway, I grabbed a discarded chopstick from last night’s Chinese food and used it to hold my hair back. The person knocked again and I sighed inwardly. I flipped on the lights and called in a cheery tone, “One moment, grumpy! Have patience.” I made my way across the cozy plant-littered living room and unlocked the multitude of locks on the door, one of them being a fingerprint reader. I tugged the door open to see a cloaked figure standing before me. The upper half of their face was obscured, but by the sharp lines of their jaw and the faint stubble along their chin, I could tell that he was a man. Through his tight shirt, I could see the faint traces of muscles and weapons that were strapped to him. Guns and vials and syringes and knives. All sorts of exciting things that I got to confiscate. The darkness of the night beyond him made it difficult for me to see if someone was lurking in the shadows, but I doubted anyone would try to kill me. It was too darned early to worry about blood. I braced my hand on my hip. “You know, mister, it’s four in the morning. I didn’t get back from dinner until midnight! Can you imagine that? I must’ve lost track of time. I never stay out later than eight.” I lowered my voice into a conspiratol whisper, “That’s when the spooks come out, you know?” I feigned a shiver. “Freaky, no?” He took a short shuffling step backward. “So how can I help you, sir?” “Uh.” He fumbled for words. “I, uh, think I got the wrong house.” I clicked my tongue and shook my head. “Silly, come get your poisons. It’s cold out there. I wouldn’t want you getting sick. I hear it’s very inconvenient when it comes to assassinating.” He stood still for a few moments, paused like a statue, then took a few steps toward me. I stepped aside, letting him in. However, I grabbed onto the tail of his cloak as I shoved the door closed. I gave it a firm pull and he snapped his head toward me, causing the hood to dislodge. “Oh my! You have the most wonderful green eyes,” I said, giving his cloak another tug. Getting the message, he shrugged it off and cast it aside on the antique chair sitting nearby. “My second husband had green eyes too, though they were far less charming than yours. If he had eyes like yours, maybe I wouldn’t have killed him.” I hummed for a moment as I puzzled over his appearance. Indeed, his eyes were like my second husband’s but with actual intelligence laying beyond. If idiot Oscar hadn’t thought my hemlock leaves were mint, he wouldn’t be ash on the wind. I gestured to the old, worn dresser on the other side of the hall. He looked at it, an eyebrow raised. I let out a strangled sigh. “Top left, knives. Top middle, syringes. Top right, poisons. Middle drawer, guns. Bottom drawer, any miscellaneous item that could be used as a weapon.” He gave me a confused glance as he shucked off all of his weapons, slotting them into the assigned drawers. When he finished he looked back to me and asked, “Why did you take away my poisons when we’re walking into a den of them?” I shrugged a shoulder as I stepped up into the house proper. He followed me, a small gasp falling out of his lips as he laid eyes on the dozens of plants that littered the living room/kitchen area. They hung from the ceiling, sat in planting pots on the floor, lay, dried, in bottles tucked away in many different areas. The air was full of an earthy scent so unlike anything else. “You’d have to identify them first, and even a genius botanist would have trouble finding something adequate and fast-acting in this mess.” I paused in the centre of the room and turned to the man, clapping my hands together. I grinned, dislodging the seriousness that had overtaken me. “So, mister, what type of poison would you like?” Hesitantly, he answered, “Invisible and slow. Painless, preferably.” “Ah,” I said with a wink, “political espionage. I see. I have just the thing.” He looked at me, flummoxed, as I made my way around my house, gathering items and mixing them together with a mortar and pestle. It wasn’t even five minutes later that I had a vial full of a murky green liquid. I handed it to him and said, “That’ll be two thousand.” Grumbling at the price, he took out the cash and dropped it in my hand. I watched him closely as he gathered his things and left, a grin spreading across my lips. Business was booming. \ For more of my stories, go to r/Celestialkeep.


It was the last minute of the final day of the year 2020 when I stood out there alone. The very last moment of a life now gone. The world was dead when I stood in that yard facing the street with my head turned up to the moon. No cars sped alog the main street that was just 100 yards away from me, no lights showing through any windows and no nobody awake but instead they laid resting in their beds with high hopes for the coming day. As I stood surrounded by the silence and the darknesss the emptiness that consumed the world was broken with a soft and saddened hello. When I looked down to see who was standing in front of me my eyes were met with a woman clad in ebon cloak and hood. She stood with her face pointed down to the ground and her body loose like an ashamed child. Then she spoke and with her first word raised her head to look at me. She spoke in the most quiet tone you could without being silent aand said that she had come to kill me. She said that certain people had to die at specific times for creation to continue to function as planned. She explained to me that unfortanetely I was one of these poeple and she was the one who had to make sure that these poeple died. The whole while she spoke I looked her over.Her hair was a beautiful silver that shimmered in the moonlight as it spilled ou t from her hood and over her chest. Her eyes were such a lustrous blue that they seemed to glow. I tried to make out her face but was unable to see anything for that shadow cast on her visage from her hood so I looked down to her right hand where she loosely held a spear at her wasit with seemingly no conviction in her grasp. I looked over this spear with a rod made of a beutifully etched wood that was longer than her and at its tip rested the pointed silver head with ornate carvings along the dagger like blade. As my eyes ran across her weapon with her final whispered word of my death the head of her spear lit with a soft blue glow that dissipated just as she finished the word. I looked back up to meet her eyes which seemed to now be filled with tears I said that I would stand and not cause any difficulty for her. I was slightly saddened that my life was going to end but I wasn't scared of death and whatever would come after. I told her that I was ready and she raised her spear up with a hand still loose. She told me that I would feel no pain as I died and would stay calm due to an affect of her spear. As she raised her spear to its zenith she whispered I'm sorry and swung. As her spear came down it shined with an incredibly bright blue light. It cut diagonally through my left arm and torso; seperating my arm at the bicep and cleaving my body in two. Just as she had said I felt no pain and I didn't become startled or frightened for even an instant. As I fel to the ground I felt cold but only for a oment as I began to become quickly warmed by the blanket of blood that was pooling around me. With the only strength that I could muster I looked to her and asked her to stay with me as I was never afraid to die but had always been terrified of dying alone. She knelt down beside me and rested my head on her lap. As I looked up to her I asked if she would remove her hood so that I could see her face. She took down her hood and her hair spilled over her shoulders and framed her face with a kind simple elegance. As I looked over I was taken aback with her beauty. Her skin was soft and pale like freashly fallen snow that buried the earth beneath. Her eyes now bathed in tears were a more bright glowing blue than anything I'd ever seen and her hair now in full view was wavy and smooth in a perfect lack of forced style. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, the most pale untouched skin and the most lustrous blue eyes I'd ever borne witness to. As I looked up to her with her tears dripping off her chin and on to my face my vision blurred and I saw the moon lock itself into the very middle of the peak of the sky. She looked up and then back down to me and with the most pain and sadness in the world on her face and in her voice she said happy new year and placed a gentle kiss on my lips. Among the cold I was warm and I was calm. Then I closed my eyes and I was gone.


On the night I met him, I knew he would be something special to me. I didn’t know what, but I knew. I don’t believe in love at first sight. I didn’t love him then, but I knew, at some point, I would love him. That night, we were on the bus back to the hotel we were both staying at and he asked if I wanted to share his headphones. We sat quietly, hands in our laps, afraid to let our elbows touch while our souls became tied together by the wires on his old earbuds that were just a little too short for comfort between us. As one song came to an end and the next began, he looked at me. “Please don’t make fun of me for this song,” he looked so vulnerable. “I love this song!” I said it a little too loud, trying not to make him feel like I was judging him. It was true, I did love that song. I didn’t say it then, but I’d been listening to it practically on repeat for the past few weeks. As we sat, I could see his eyes moving, and I knew where they were looking. Such topics are taboo among strangers, though. Nevertheless, he asked. “What happened to your wrist?” I became defensive, but his eyes weren’t the only ones wandering. “What happened to yours?” he just looked at me. We sat the rest of the bus ride in silence, but we could both sense the other’s anxiety. Just before we pulled in, he got a call, but he quickly turned his phone over. “Was that your girlfriend?” I teased. “Yeah, actually, but we both know it’s pretty much over.” I was quiet after that. We said goodbye and went our separate ways. He texted me almost as soon as I got to my room. “Hey :) what’s up?” I could already feel the butterflies when I saw his name pop up on my screen. I told myself I wouldn’t fall. I was 2,516 miles from home, and I had no idea how far away from me he lived. I pushed my feelings from the bus as far down into the bottom of my stomach as I could as we talked, but I couldn’t hold back the little smiles. He wanted to show me something he’d learned, and he asked me to come meet him in the stairs at 11:45. I was so nervous. I walked to the fire escape, and I could feel my heart trying to choke me before I made it down. I can’t remember what we talked about standing there in the fire escape just before midnight, but I remember walking away so happy. He would tell me later that after he left, he’d come back to the stairs to see if I was still there. He wanted me to go out with him that night, but he’d been too afraid to ask and I’d already gone. I still tease him for it, for being too scared to ask me the first time. We always wonder what would’ve happened if he had. Two days later, we were on different planes headed to different states. He wouldn’t go to bed until I was home safe. I’d never felt more special. Until then, I’d had no romantic endeavors, and the fact that he seemed to be interested in me made my whole world glow. In the back of my mind, though, I remembered the phone call. I could feel a small knot in the bottom of my stomach, but I ignored it. Little did I know this was the first time I would feel something I’d come to know like the back of my hand. About two weeks later, things officially ended with his girlfriend. For the next few months, I was on top of the world. He gave me everything he could, despite the 1,818 miles between us. Oh, how in love I fell. I remember the first time he told me he loved me, the promises he made, the little things he’d say just to make me smile. It seemed that finally, after so long, things were beginning to look up for me. My depression was becoming manageable and I had someone who I could talk to who knew what I was going through. He only let me call him baby once. He told me the distance would make a relationship too hard for both of us, but it was okay for us to love each other. He told me he’d always love me, and when the time was right, we’d make it work. I believed him. Around the fourth month, though, came the beginning of the end of my world. He and his ex, the girl who’d called him on the bus, began getting together again. It started as a way for him to manage his mental issues, but soon they were together again. Everyone knew it wouldn’t last, but I’ll never forget the way my stomach dropped every time I would see pictures of them. I was in a position where I held no power. I couldn’t tell him I didn’t want her around, I wasn’t his girlfriend. I couldn’t say I was jealous; I didn’t hold such a position in his life. For those few brief months, I toughed it out. Every night I reminded him that I loved him, and I’d always wait for him. Every day he’d remind me that he still loved me too, and we still talked about all the things we used to. All our dreams, all our hopes, how we couldn’t wait to see each other. Finally, when it ended for the second time, I sat and listened to him on the phone while he cried. In the weeks following, his drinking picked up. I’d wake up to him calling, drunk again, telling me how he was going to hurt himself, and I’d talk until he was sober, and I knew he was safe. It didn’t help that his relationship with his dad fell apart around this time, too. Oh, so many phone calls. So many late nights. But I loved that boy. One day I got a call. Nothing unusual, he called pretty often. I picked up and I could hear that he was upset. “She’s telling me she’s pregnant.” “What?” “I don’t know what to do, she’s telling me she’s pregnant.” She wasn’t pregnant. I had my suspicions from the beginning, but of course I had to be there for him first. He told me over and over he couldn’t do this. When the truth came out and he was in a place to talk about it, I’d ask him what he would’ve done if it’d been true. “Honest to God I would’ve killed myself. Not because I don’t want to be a part of the kid’s life, but because I couldn’t be any good for the kid knowing that I can’t even be good for myself.” I will never forget those words. For the next few months he stayed single. It was perfect between us. Until one day something changed. I still don’t know if my anxiety was just heightened that day or I was picking up on subtleties from him, but something was off. We were having a pretty regular conversation for us, and at the end he told me, “You know I’ll always love you, even when I get gfs.” I knew then. There was another girl, and it wasn’t long until I, again, took second place in his life. I was right, and thus began, again, a pain unmatched. Slowly, I fell apart. The days left on read or open, the fear to say how I felt in case he got upset. As the months passed, I could almost always take it. Almost. As long as he still loved me, right? He did still love me. Slowly, though, it became harder and harder to put the fact that I was still the second choice out of my mind. I’d break down more and more. When I needed him, he was almost always there for me. Almost. I fell into some of the worst times I’ve ever been through, but I couldn’t validate them for myself. “This is just your depression. A boy shouldn’t make you feel this awful.” I told myself, but deep down I knew the truth. All those tears, all that anxiety, it was all because of him. There was a time when he told me about the first girl who broke his heart. “You were the first person who I’d listened to that song with since.” I nearly puked. I knew why he didn’t want to be made fun of now. “She was the root of my depression.” In my lowest, in one of my breakdowns, I told him how funny it was that she had done such a thing and yet he seemed to have ho issues doing the same to me. “Are you saying I’m the root of your depression?” “No, no, no… I didn’t mean it like that. Don’t you see you’re hurting me though? Please don’t get upset that isn’t what I meant.” So many of our fights ended like that. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m just having a hard time right now.” “It’s ok, kid.” This would be alright for a while; I’d feel bad and apologize again and again until we both forgot about it. But it became harder and harder to ignore the thoughts I knew I shouldn’t be ignoring. Then came the first time he wanted to end it with her. Another late night, up listening to him talk about what was going wrong. By now, I’d become ever so good at not allowing myself to be jealous. It’s something I pride myself on, actually. I’m not jealous of her and I do not hate her. I wish I could have what she has, though. I wish I could be the one making him happy. But right now I’m not and I know that. It became harder and harder to stop the panic attacks and the outbursts, to keep my stomach down when I saw the pictures. “Why do you keep me around? Do you still want me to tell you I love you?” “How many times have I answered that question?” “Too many, I’m sorry. I just get so worried.” But this brings us to now. What am I doing? I know how he treats me isn’t fair. But I can’t help it. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s the first person I’ve loved. Maybe it’s that I just love him too much to walk away. Maybe I’m scared that I’ll never have someone quite like him. Whatever it is, I know I’m not ready to walk away from him yet. I’ve given him my everything, and I intend to continue to. People tell me I love too strongly. I don’t think a person can do that. I still can’t listen to that song, though.


You're at a bar waiting for your head of security Sam and his newly recruited replacement Andy. It's been a crazy week so you prefer this "meet and greet" on the casual side. Checking your watch you notice that he's 10 minutes behind so you decide to give him a call. On the second ring you hear his weather worn voice on the other end and without missing a beat he immediately berates you for your choice of meeting place because of the traffic in the area. You laugh it off and tell him to relax, promising him drinks on his arrival to celebrate his retirement. You hear a cackle of his laughter on the line "now there's something to look forward to" he says "remember, I only drink bourbon.The expensive kind. Preferably with an attractive woman on my lap." You laugh at that and joke that Sam can't actually tell bourbon from whiskey or scotch. "Just get my damned drink ready. I'll be there in half an hour." you hear the click on the other line indicating he's ended the call. A few minutes later the bell above the bar door chimes. A lady walks in, scans the bar and spots the empty bar stool next to you. She makes her way over and asks if the seat is free. You smile and offer the seat thinking that you, Sam and the replacement can get a booth later when they arrive. "Thanks" She smiles in gratitude, takes a seat and looks over the bar and orders a drink. She's cute and Sam is taking some time to arrive so you strike up a conversation with her. She's smart and funny and new in town; but as the conversation carries on, you also notice her looking furtively over to 2 guys seated at a table behind you. You quietly ask if the men are bothering her. "They've been looking over here a lot since I sat down." She says quietly. Noticing the tinge of discomfort in her tone, you offer to go over and talk to the men but she quickly stops you. "It's alright, I don't want to make a scene." she says nervously. You assure her that it won't be an issue because you own the bar along with many other establishments on that street and she'll be safe with you. You note the surprise on her face followed by a doubtful look. "this isn't a line is it?" she asks. You laugh and call your bartender Issac over to vouch for you. "Oh yeah he's the big boss around here." He grunts in response "Good ol slave driver he is" She laughs at that and seems appeased. You give your assurances and get her another drink. You notice her glancing over the two men again. She looks a little worried now. To ease her mind you offer her to drink with you in your office located at the end of the bar away from the patrons. You also tell her it has an door leading to the back so she can leave without going through the front door later. She's abit dubious but finally agrees after a bit more convincing . You leave a quick word to the bartender to tell Sam where to find you. You lead the way to your office through a short corridor with her in tow. As you enter your office, the noise of the bar dies down. But as you close the door the two men from the bar suddenly barge in, throwing you off balance and almost tripping you. You demand an explanation but one of them lands a punch to your abdomen. You double over from the pain and try to get back at them, only to have a second punch land on your jaw. You glance over at your lady as you grapple with the first guy whose accomplice is now walking towards her. You frantically tell her to leave out the door next to her and yell at the second guy to leave her alone. Suddenly, you hear a loud crack and the guy you were fighting falls unconscious. You see Sam standing above him with a retractable baton in his hand. You comment on Sam's timing and quickly move off to the side to get to your lady but suddenly stop when you see her deliver a neat roundhouse to the second guy's jaw knocking him out cold. "Local thugs" Sam says recognizing the unconscious figures sprawled on thefloor. "Usually specializing in kidnap for ransom." You're half listening at this point cause you are focused on your lady. She's on her phone with the police and barely rattled. Sam inquires after you again to check if you're hurt. You wave him off and approach your lady to inquire after her and comment on how she was able to knock out a guy twice her size but also mention that she must be pretty important for those guys to get her. Before she can answer, Sam sees the exchange and laughs. You turn and ask him what's so funny? You're also a bit annoyed that Sam is taking a casual tone with her after the attempted kidnapping. Sam laughs again "I think all that money of yours scrambled your brains man. That kidnapping was intended for YOU. We got word from a few guys that there would be a hit on you. Little Missy here was handy in combat because it was her JOB." That's when it suddenly dawns: She was never actually trying to get away from the men, she was trying to get YOU away from them by getting you into the office. She was never in any real danger because she was actually trying to protect you. You watch as she gives you an almost cocky smile as she extends her hand "Pleasure to meet you again sir. I'm Andrea, your new head of security.


#Welcome to the first Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to the first Micro Monday on r/Shortstories! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words. However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. Please read the entire post before submitting.   *** #This week’s challenge: **“It was as if time itself stopped.”** This week’s challenge is to include the above sentence in your story, in some way. You may add on to it, but the original sentence should stay intact.   ***   #How It Works: - In the comments below, submit a story between 100-300 words by the following Sunday at midnight EST. Use to check your wordcount. - Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take any nominations you make into consideration. You may send them to me via reddit or on the discord. But please remember, this is not a contest. - While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to come back throughout the week and read the other stories on the thread. Upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. - We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the stickied comment on this thread.


“I’ve had enough!” Kyln dropped onto a fallen branch and crushed it under his weight. “We’ll be lost in this forest for the rest of our days, doomed to search for trinkets we’ll never find.” “Whose idea was it to venture into the Black Valley to begin with!? You promised we’d be swimming in gold by now!” Hob wobbled sideways over the crumbled leaves. The two gremlins came to a mushroom and collapsed under its stem. It was nice to finally get some shade, thought Kyln. He wiped his forehead with his long pointy ear and watched his dimwitted brother continue along a tree root. Hob had made their journey longer from his careless missteps. Kyln rolled his eyes as Hob fell over the root and disappeared over the other side. As his brother yodeled his displeasure as he took a tumble the vocalizations soon turned to excitement. “Kyln! Kyln! Come see! Our troubles are over!” Kyln rolled his eyes again and slowly made his way over the root and gazed at what his brother had found. The object was the size of a fairy’s house, long and square, and sat in the nook of the tree roots, spread open. Hob scratched his head and made inquisitive noises. “It’s a manuscript, you daft buffoon. A book.” said Kyln. The yellow pages had been exposed to the elements and were worn with the foliage and shrubbery that grew around it. Just as Hob was about to scratch his head again a robed gremlin stood up from the top of the book, rising from the moss above, using the pages as a balcony. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had visitors.” The gremlin spoke with an old, uncertain voice, as if he hadn’t used it in a while. “If you’ve come for the book, be warned –” He suddenly fell down the crevice of the book, tumbling head-over-heel down the crusty pages, and landing in a plume of dust. Hob shrugged his shoulders while looking to Kyln. “What are those scribblings there? Only someone with large hands could read this. How many nymphlings would it take to read that?” “I’m Aether, if you’ll care to hear it.” said the old gremlin, patting off the dust on his knees. “This is not a book for nymphlings, or any other sprite of the forest.” “Yes.” said Kyln. “The children of Abe. Sapiens, they’re called. The sapiens are a wise race but often wisdom comes with the vexation of overthinking. They keep and read many books like this one.” “Can we sell it to them?” Hob moved quickly to the book, running over to the edge and rubbing the massive binding. “Depending on the rarity we could make a good chunk of gold for this. Aether, is it? Are you willing to part with it?” said Kyln. “Oh no,” Aether shambled to his feet in a hurry. “I told you. This book is not for you. This book only brings woe.” Kyln chuckled. “All objects are valuable to someone. I’m sure someone wants this dusty old thing.” “Is it a cookbook?” asked Hob gleefully. “It is neither of those things.” Aether plopped onto the paper’s edge, head down. “Nobody knows where it came from or why it came. Long ago, before the sapiens were a nomad tribe, they lived in large castles and towns, collected together like a bunch of berries. After the last great war of man there was a time of temporary peace. During this peace the sapiens became complacent, bored with life. They needed guidance, they needed insight. They received this insight when a book appeared in all of their hands at once, suddenly and unexpectedly. A book like this one.” “At once? All of them? Even the children?” Kyln lowered his left eyebrow. “Only the adult sapiens and only those stricken on hard times.” said Aether. “Nobles did not receive the book and neither did mystic priests or shamans. The sapiens were curious at first. They did not know from whence the book came. Magic was to blame of course. It could only be magic that caused the appearance of a tome on such a massive scale. But no priest, wizard, witch, sorcerer or warlock claimed responsibility for the arcane phenomenon.” Kyln tried to remain calm but his voice grew louder. “What was contained within?” “Everything. And nothing.” Aether waved his hand in the air and then made a fist. “Nothing was written at first but as the days went by words started to fill the books, all of them, at once. The words that appeared were simple advice on how to live. The people, the sapiens, were muddled with worry and melancholy and the words they saw filled them with joy and relief. After all, wouldn’t it be wonderful if you were given a book that told you how to be happy, how to live a long and healthy life, and without vexation?” “Yes!” Hob was eating a mushroom spore. His brother shook his head. “But their lives soon took a dark turn.” continued Aether. “The books contained the same content. Some pages had recipes, some had advice on how to raise a child, how to raise a corn stock. Proverbs, inherent sapien rights, calendars, instructions on various trades. Somewhat of an almanac really. It seemed like sapien society would flourish through peace and order. But some of sapiens took sharper meaning to the prose contained within and schisms started to shape the land. They instilled their own beliefs in trying to understand the mystery of the book. Sapiens are a fickle sort. They seem to enjoy dying for their beliefs. And they did, by the wagonload.” “No wonder their trinkets are so abundant in these dark, abandoned places.” Kyln rubbed his chin. “And their bones. Saw a few back on the road.” said Hob. “‘The rain washes away the pain of scorched soil.’ This quote from the book led to much disagreement and violence.” Aether’s robe flapped in the wind when he turned to face the giant book. “The eastern sapiens rallied under Harbinger Harken, claiming this phrase was meant to signify that sapiens were meant to be subservient to a one true king. While the opposing side believed that it meant simply what was written…that sometimes it rains…” Hob covered his eyes. “Oh, such sadness. But the book itself cannot be blamed.” “If any of this is to be believed.” Kyln said examining the large leaves of paper closely. “Interpretation isn’t to blame either.” Aether continued. “As the War of the Book waged the people started to shut themselves off from the world. The words in the book changed more frequently, often around evening time, when the sapiens returned home from a long day and were more susceptible to suggestion. When I was a house gremlin, I was able to read a few pages before the masters of the house awoke. The text itself seemed to have become more edgy and rough, as if the writer was angry. One line stuck out to me and still haunts me: ‘Free speech is only free when people are willing to die for it.’ The book started to mirror their distrust and unease, further driving a wedge between them and their neighbors, by confirming their ill-conceived fears and hatred. I’ll save you the miserable and violent details. I barely made it out of the house before the entire town went up in smoke from rioting.” “Were they hungry? I get like that when I’m hungry.” said Hob. Aether bowed his head, concealing his face. “For revenge mostly, yes. The words became spiteful and the more they read of the book the more it catered to their hateful beliefs, the more it pleased them. When Harken invaded, the western sapiens were weakened and desperate. They gave their belongings to the overlord freely, their freedom and their wisdom they abandoned with ease. I don’t rightly know what happened after that, only that their culture perished and their cities were left in ruin.” “Fascinating story.” Thought Kyln. “But this tale doesn’t have a very good ending. Why wouldn’t they simply burn the books?” Aether looked up, “Such an act would be treason. They’d rather burn themselves.” “That’s right! If I had a book that could tell me the weather or where to find the best berries, I wouldn’t part with it either!” Said Hob. Kyln looked up at the book with a furled brow. He gently touched the worn edges and tried to lift up the pages but they were practically glued together from sediment and age. “Perhaps this is the true lesson. We’ve traveled far, in search of something valuable for trade. I thought, perhaps mistakenly, that there would be a pot of gold waiting for us, and that the journey would culminate into something more meaningful. But I can see that the search for possession can never really provide any kind of substance.” “Speak for yourself, brother! I’ll take anything I can get. Especially when it comes with such pretty words.” “You can’t even read.” replied Kyln. “What would you get out of it?” Hob’s eyes widened, “Yes but…it’s pretty. But perhaps it’s best to let sleeping things lie.” Kyln nodded, “Perhaps it is best we leave these things in the past and find other ways to seek fortune.” “It is a safe bet.” said Aether, smiling. The brothers thanked the old gremlin and left them to guard the book, to tell the tale of woe that the book wrought, and to prevent anyone from ever seizing the unholy relic for themselves.


Brian entered the dim lit room , and sat at the table. He wondered if there was any trouble. After all, he was a good spirit and never got anyone in trouble in the spirit realm. He took a look around the room to see if he could maybe find out who called him there, but the old office building room was too dirty and covered in dust to completely figure anything out. Only the window to his left allowed any light inside and that was starting to disappear as well. Brian finally opened his mouth and said"Hello, is anyone there?" To his surprise a slight chill filled the room and a door made of light opened on the other side of the table. From it Brian saw a tall figure walk out and take his seat on the other side. The figure was human and male , but Brian could not tell much of the features of his face. It looked as if it kept changing features, switching between the faces of people Brian knew in his last life. That scared Brian , it could only mean one thing. "Nice to have you here, Brian. I'm Death, nice to meet you. Resurrections department keeps you in high praise." Death reached out to shake Brian's hand, to which Brian responded. "How about we jump to the chase, shall we?" Death said. " I called you here because i know you haven't returned to live as a human ever since your last departure, correct"? The spirit nodded. "Haven't needed to, sir. I have friends in the Afterlife that would miss me." "And what of you, Brian? Have you no desire to return? Despite the new relationship you have in the Aftermath?" Death made a dossier appear on the table and then opened it. When he looked at the pages, his eyes glowed red. Then the writing turned red also, as if it was being enchanted. "Brian Crawford. Lived a short life, died at 37. Made more enemies than friends. " Death stopped for a moment and looked back at Brian. "Don't you want to change that? Get a new chance at a better life? Right some wrongs maybe?" "I thought all wrongs are forgiven if you reach the Light?" Brian asked. "Some. But not all" Death's eyes glowed red again as he stared into Brian's. He then snapped his fingers and his ever changing skin settled into the form of a pale , bald man, with sunken , hopeless eyes. The eyes of a dying man. His voice changed as well, becoming a shallow whisper as he spoke. "You made a hole in my body, and my soul. And watched as I withered away. This cannot be forgiven, because your guilt is too strong, my son. I see you can be forgiven. If only, you will help Death." Death's spell was dispersed and he returned to his ever shifting self. "I don't want to use this anymore than you do. But that is true. You are still feeling guilty for your past mistakes. By redeeming your next life , you might become free of it." Brian looked up again, stopped trying to push his sadness away as he knew his tears were only illusions. "Well, okay. But why do you need me? Aside from the fact that I studied purification of the spirit in the Afterlife?" Death hesitated for a moment. His faces looked at Brian with a slight look of worry. "Sometimes people that are not meant to leave the physical world decide to change their destiny. They die at the wrong time and place, and as a result the balance of the universe changes slightly. Sometimes it can be ignored or glossed over, but this time we really need a replacement " Death did another spell, changing the folder with a new one, then gave it to Brian to read. He did take a look over a few files. "This is a lot to take in, I need to do fix so much. I can't..." He was ready to decline. But Death stopped him. "If it's not you, I'll look for another replacement. You were my first choice though so I ask again. Will you help me restore the balance of the universe in the human plane? And get your soul truly into the Light? Or will you go back to living eternity as an echo?" The choice is yours.


Once upon a time, there was a woman named Lucy that liked to eat bread sandwiches. You are probably wondering why is it called a bread sandwich. Don’t all sandwiches have bread? This sandwich is different. It does have bread but it’s a sandwich with bread in it. No chicken, no cheese, no lettuce, pickles, mayo, and ketchup. Just bread. It is bread between bread. It is the breadiest of bread. It is the bread sandwich. How does one make this special meal? Easy. Lucy grabs three slices of bread and stacks them. That’s it. If you really want to get creative, you can sprinkle bread crumbs and croutons in the middle so you have a mixture of soft bread and crunchy bread. Next thing you have a mouthful of bread goodness. Lucy wasn’t the only person that liked bread sandwiches. Some of the other members of her family loved bread sandwiches too. They would also make other bread meals like the bread dog. The bread dog like a hot dog but instead of a sausage wiener, they would roll up a slice of thin bread and place it between the hot dog bun. When they wanted to eat pizza, they’ll eat just the dough with torn bread as toppings. When they wanted to bake pie, they would bake bread pie which is pie with raw dough filling. Every meal had only one ingredient and that is bread. The woman’s obsession with bread took its toll when she woke up covered in slices of bread attached to her body. Her body created so much yeast from the bread eating that bread started growing on her body. Even though she loved bread, she wouldn’t eat bread that grew from her body. The bread that grew from her body smelled weird and it had an odd curve to it. She would shave it off and toss it to the pigeons outside. The pigeons loved her body bread. Lucy was the only person in her family that had this problem. The doctor told her to lay off on the bread and maybe the bread will stop forming. She never did. She still ate her bread sandwiches, her bread pies, and her bread dogs. When the bread growth multiplied to the point that she turned into a giant loaf of bread, that was when she stopped. Her family felt sorry for her. Some people weren’t sorry for her. They wanted to throw her in the oven to make bread dogs out of her. To keep her from molding and from being eaten by hungry family members, her mother put her in a nice glass bread container. She would place her on a chair at the dining table during family gatherings so she could feel like she’s part of the gathering. It was better than sitting by the toaster oven. To this day, Lucy is still a loaf of bread. Occasionally she would eat a small bit of bread. The doctor told her to lay off the bread. She would return to her normal self if she just stopped eating bread. Unfortunately, after eating her own kind by swallowing a slice of bread topped with bread crumbs, she now has random pieces of bread growing off her bread loaf body. No one knows what she might turn into next. Poor Lucy, she just can’t lay off the bread.


The winds whisper softly past my ears as I wander along the derelict passage of road. I stop briefly to gaze at the final goodbyes of a retiring sun. The sky has a funny way of looking depressed, almost sorrowful at dusk. Like someone knows what it has done. I turn my vision away, suspicious of the feeling that has collected inside me. I notice a fuzzy shape in my peripheral vision, my distracted eyes making the decision for my neck. A handful of sheep, 6, or 7, or maybe 8, I count, all seem to be staring directly at me. As if I am somehow more important than the millions of blades of grass that gawk at them, frozen in terror, hoping their stillness and straightness would deliver salvation to a grassy afterlife when their hollow existence here on Earth finally comes to an end. Not that I am religious or anything like that. The 12, or 14, or maybe 16 eyes are fixed intently on me, and to my dismay it becomes painfully obvious I am the butt of their cruel jokes, my listening apparatus unfit for the job of deciphering the incoherent vibrations escaping from their gobs. “Hey! Hey stop it!” I shriek at the ruminants. “Stare at something fucking else, you ain’t got no reason to be staring at me”. The sound of my own voice startles me. It has been what feels like days since any sound has escaped from my sealed lips. I avoid speaking if at all possible, I find the hush of an empty place soothing. I always have. I turn back to the long road that stretches beyond me, and a wave of familiarity passes through me. The symmetry amongst the trees, the unremarkable shape of the mountains further on, the quietness of the world. What was it they called it? Deja-vu? Something French I know that much. I shake it off and carry on along the road. It seems like a lifetime before I see the house on the hill in the distance. Dusk has seized the day, so I think maybe the house could act as a place to find some peace for the night ahead. The house seemed larger from afar. It looks as if it had been neglected for quite some time, as if the residents had left in a hurry. I wander closer to the house, making my way slowly across the deck, the floorboards shrieking in pain as my boots trample upon them. I run my fingers along the walls, flakes of off-white paint dropping to the ground with every scrape. “Oak Noir”, I say aloud to myself. I search my mind to how I know this, but to no avail. The strange feeling of familiarity tickles me again. I give the door a slight tap, it creaks open, and I can now see the interior of the house. A long hallway, which may have been elegant in another life, stares back at me blankly. Cold, dying carpet caked with generations of dust and dirt, which has now turned into a greyish paste. My eyes drift upwards along the hallway. A door at the end of the hall is open, which I see leads to the living room. I drift along the hallway, stopping near the centre to look at a picture on the wall. It’s a family portrait, with what looks like this house in the background. The condition of the house is immaculate, the building looking vastly superior compared to its current state. I study family in the picture. Two parents and a single child, a baby. The father has short blonde hair, and a handsome smile. The mother, with the baby in her arms, stares back at me with magnificent, big blue eyes. I can’t quite make out if the expression in them is sadness or terror, but the feeling washes over me once again. The hairs on my neck stick up, and goosebumps run down my arms. I turn and walk slowly towards the living room. I can’t explain why, but everything in my body is telling me that I know this place, and that I should not go through the door. However my legs keep moving, one after the other, towards the great reveal. I put my hand on the icy-cold door. I close my eyes as I open it, not wanting to see what this feeling of angst in my body will show me. “3, 2, 1” I say to myself, mustering the courage to let my eyelids relax. “Open”. The room is bare. Nothing but a window leading out towards the road. I wonder how long I have been in this house, as the sun has returned to lighten the valley below. I stare out the window, and far in the distance I can make something out. A man, walking along the road towards the house. “Do not fear child, I’ll see you again soon”, says a voice behind me.. The winds whisper softly past my ears as I wander along the derelict passage of road.


The Negation Pill was invented on September 7th, 1945. Hans Bethe, one of the Physicists working on the Manhattan Project began work on a pill on March 4, 1943, that would negate emotions and feelings but wouldn't negate basic motor function. After seeing what Hitler had been doing, he realized what humans were capable of and wanted to permanently get rid of the danger of people like him. He hired a chemist, Edwin McMillan, to work with him and although it took 2 years, they had finally made it. Although Hitler was dead, another unredeemable, vile man was still alive in Russia. 4 years later, a spy was sent to Russia and put the pill in Stalin's drink. A month later he was admitted to Psikhushka and a year later died of the common cold. Soon after that, the U.S Navy and Marines invaded Russia. 200,000 people were executed that day for following Stalin. 5 years later every Russian had taken the negation as a "precaution" along with half of Germany's population. By the end of the 50's, all of Europe had taken the pill. It was suggested by President Eisenhower and the suggestion was well received by Europe's leaders. Then, November 22, 1963, Kennedy was shot. Lyndon B. Johnson then decreed with the approval of the House, Senate, and Congress, that all Americans take the pill. That was the breaking point for most. People emigrated, they protested and rioted, some even took their own life, but those who were alive eventually took the pill. Today, it is December 31st, 2090. I live in the only pill free country in the world, Canada, and now the world is at war with itself. Everyone who hasn't taken a pill were politicians, scientists, and engineers, everyone else is a mindless drone who either works for the non-negated or was beaten to a pulp. It was bad in America, but some countries were worse. The negated are used as target practice in Afghanistan, in Iceland they are used as anchors for ships, and in India you can buy a chunk of meat for 5 rupees. However, things in the states were starting to heat up. Politicians were talking of invading canada but they know we can fight back, we're not braindead. The company that produces the pills, Bethe Corp, has basically taken over the world. You see their propaganda and slogan everywhere, "No thoughts, Head Empty". They allow certain people to not take the pill, Oskar Schindler, Nelson Mandela, Dr. Seuss, and Jim Henson are a few. A person has to take the pill when they're 30, unless they meet one of the previous criteria. The only place I found solace in this shit world was in a little book decades old. It was entitled "Robert Frost Collection". Somethings that had been banned by Bethe Corp were books, music, movies, and poetry, so this was risky as hell. A friend of mine had been executed for watching Casablanca, so I wasn't taking any chances. This book has stopped me from taking the damn pill and essentially ruining my life, but I don't think that will be an option. A politician from Germany came to help with the Canada problem. His name was Floda Reltih and he brought 400,000 negated with him. It's 4 pm now and I can hear the boots stomping through the mud towards my house. Gunshots and screaming were blending together until both sounded the same. They're in my house now and running up the stairs, they shoot for 6 seconds and the screams of my family are deafening. More running, and then they stop for a beat. Gas began coming through the ventilation and I started choking. I begin tearing up and my visions goes blurry as my door is smashed open and I see dark shapes run and shove a pill down my throat. Ok im 13 and this is my first short story. Thank you for reading and please give some feedback. Thanks.


Collection of short stories Chapter 1 Once upon a time, deep in the lush woods lied a tiny wooden cottage. A particular little girl named Annie was part of the little, poor household. Happily, did she live with her loving parents. The mother, her curly hair dark as coal and the eyes of ocean blue, held a great value to Annie. Never were they apart from each other. Until one day, the mother passed away from an unknown reason. The father and Annie, little with money, could not arrange a proper funeral, so they buried Annie’s mother at the closest meadow with many beautiful flowers. What was left from the mother was only a gift for Annie, a teddy bear, called Tibbers, with black button eyes. And the bear would never leave her side. Little did Annie know that everything would change. One cloudy day, the father had brought two other people into their house, a girl Annie’s age, and the girl’s mother, both with golden hair, and especially the mother had a charming appearance to the father. It was evident to Annie that these strangers were now part of her family, the father in love with the woman. But this stranger held no value to Annie, since she had an oddly piercing and malicious gaze, and she would give the attention only to her own daughter. Annie got along fairly well with the other girl, now her stepsister. They would play from dusk till dawn in their mutual room with dolls and other toys. However, Annie was not particularly happy with seeing the stepsister trying to play with Tibbers, the teddy bear. One time, the stepsister mocked Tibbers, telling Annie he was stupid. Annie was raged and pushed the girl away from Tibbers, making her fall on her back on the floor. The stepsister started whining, and quickly came her mother into the room, rushing to see what happened. The stranger’s cold gaze turned to Annie and blamed her for the doing. Annie, disappointed and upset, withdrew herself into the corner of the room. Annie’s anger made her wish that the stranger would be gone one day. Despite Annie and the stepsister’s fight, one sunny day they went into the woods to play. Close to a ravaging stream, the stepsister wanted to cross the waters with Annie. Annie, hesitant, warned the girl but with a failed attempt. Worried was Annie, and she went after the stepsister who had already placed her feet on the slippery rocks that made a narrow path across the stream. Before Annie could reach the other girl, the girl slipped and fell in the water, trying to grasp from a sharp edge of a rock. Annie, rushing, offered her tiny hand in the hope of saving her companion. But after a moment of trying, the raging, flowing stream took the stepsister with it, leaving Annie on the rocks with tears in her eyes. Back she went home, fear in her mind of what to come next. Reaching home and telling the others what happened, the strange woman fell into turmoil, once again blaming Annie. The woman even wished Annie to be abandoned but the gentle father opposed. Annie, in her room, listening to the adults quarrelling about her, was in sorrow and anger. She was angry at herself and hearing the lover of her father calling Annie evil and selfish made Annie let bright crystal-clear tears fall down her cheeks to the floor. Tightly squeezing Tibbers, Annie wished she had never met the strangers. Instead, she wished her mother was still alive. Annie’s sorrow and anger lit a grain of fire in Tibbers, the gift that reminded of Annie’s loving mother. The fire was fierce and quickly spread to every corner of Annie’s room. The father, noticing smoke coming out of Annie’s room, opened the door and saw his little girl crying in the middle of flames. The father ran to Annie and saved her from the fire, but the crumbling ceiling could not save the father. So he threw Annie aside, and was then crushed by the flaming logs of wood. The whole house was collapsing, forcing Annie to hurry outside with the strange woman. There they were standing in front of the cottage, seeing it fall apart. Annie had saved Tibbers in one piece, and in relief hugged it. The woman was on her knees on the dirty grass covered in ash. She was sobbing and in shock. Annie slowly approached her in the hope of apologising and offering help. But in fury the woman stood on her trembling feet and cursed at Annie. Annie in fear stayed still and watched the malicious stranger mocking her. And then the stranger noticed Tibbers, making her feel disgusted. She grabbed from Tibbers and attempted to rip it off from Annie, wishing to tear it apart. Annie reluctant to give it away pulled back but in no hope. The woman was now successfully holding Tibbers in her hands. Before she was able to rip it apart, Annie started screaming and shouting in tears, her eyes flaming. And something miraculous happened. Annie turned Tibbers alive, making him grow into a giant teddy bear with deadly claws and teeth. And at that moment, Tibbers attacked the strange woman, ripping her apart like she had intended to rip Tibbers apart. That was the power of a little girl who had seen enough turmoil and death, and who was abused by the stranger. Now Annie was relieved, and a part of her felt even happiness. Happy was she to finally get rid of the only person she had always hated. Annie thanked Tibbers, the spirit of her mother, and started hopping joyfully into the murky woods.


Amidst the austere landscape he sat, watching and waiting as the sun slipped past the shore. In the deepening darkness, his mind sought refuge from the demons. Thrice they had traveled to his home. Thrice they have trespassed against his people. Screams shattered the peace of Ulrich’s meditations with their savage fury. He rose to his feet and ran towards The raucous din of battle. Light flashed. Along the ground, green flame burned and snaked its way towards the walls. With a barbarous bellow, Ulrich lunged at the closest demon to him, a meaty paw shoved into the mage’s maw, choking off the prayer of power it attempted to cast. Ulrich tore the jaw from the invader, blood bathing his chest in a crimson coat. The throes of death where loud, but they failed to mask the mob surrounding him. “Thane!” a voice from the crowd called. “Surrender and save your life. We demand only five bushels of grain plus ten silver for the mage you slew.” “I am Ulrich! Son of Ulfinn! I am the champion of Tyr! Thrice I have slain your kind. Thrice I have killed Pictusing pirates. Who are you to make demands of me?” “I am Galan, who raided the city of Celcamoth, who razed the fortress of Alba. Your village is nothing to me but supplies. Do not barter your breath for bread.” Ulrich sneered at the crowd before him. “Bold words for one who hides like a sheep in the flock when facing the wolf. Wrestle me like a man!” Galan stepped forth and dropped his hammer to the ground. The earth shook from its weight. “As you wish Ulrich, son of Ulfinn. Die as you see fit.” The two men circled and stalked, each sizing the other, studying how the other moved. When they embraced, the clap of hand on flesh was thunder. The two men stayed locked, frozen in effort. The moon rose with silvery light while neither man was able to oppress their opponent’s strength, each holding the other still. Ulrich smiled suddenly, slipping an arm low. Galan was caught by surprise as he was lifted into the air. With a mighty heave, Ulrich threw the Pictusing into the village wall ten feet away. Dust and debris drifted down. Ulrich ran forward and straddled Galan. His formidable forearm fell onto Galan’s chest. The crack of bone Broke through the falling stones. Galan wheezed with weak effort to seize Ulrich, but the harder he struggled, the deeper forearm and bone shards drove. With a spasm of pain and a racking cough, the speck of blood on pursed lips heralded the end. Ulrich rose and turned to face the remaining Pictusings. “Go now, and tell of the fall of Galan. A mighty mountain thrown to the earth. Mourn his passing at my hand. Warn your brethren to leave this village alone.” The Pictusings fled Tyr’s favored fighter. Ulrich turned to the village gates and entered as the scriba came out to inventory the fallen foe for Lord Caesarium’s tax. The Romulean would see to the administration while the Thane would see to a bath.


The picture frame laid on the ground as its brothers and sisters are still hanging on the wall. The nail reserved for the fallen frame stuck there in abandonment with nothing clinging on it. In the corner of the room, a large pot was sat months ago but only to be complemented by a dead fern that had not tasted water in weeks. A small table with a residence of a mug with coffee stains inside that would make a good trap for cockroaches and ants. A half-eaten apple civilised by cities of molds under the small table. Underneath all of that was an experienced rug who has tasted a lot of things from breads to wines to gravies to m&ms. The whole room is illuminated only by the lights produced by the television. Man in solitary was sitting on his couch wearing nothing but a wife-beater and a pair of boxers drinking a can of coke, watching “Love and Prejudice”. Sliding doors on his left was opened to let the wind circulating in the living room relieving the stench from all the things in the living room with night’s fresh air. \- The picture frame was once again reunited with its brothers and sisters, hanging proudly on the dim lit wall. The nail no longer felt lonely as it has reconvened with its life long partner. The pot in the corner of the room filled with Hearts of Jesus that have never versed with dehydration. Magazines about lifestyles and fashion neatly stacked on top of the small table. Two pairs of drunk wine glasses laid on their sides on the experienced rug next to the wine bottle filled with air. Not far from the glasses are a pair of white stiletto heels that has its strap snapped fiercely and now dangling there, lifeless. The whole room was well lit but still considered as dim. Blasting from the speakers was a song from Bruno Mars titled “Just The Way You Are”. Man, no longer solitary, wearing a charcoal black suit on top of a snow white winged tip collar, with his bow tie undone and hanging around his neck, passionately in a kissing spree with Woman who was in a beautifully woven pearl white ballgown dress, her bridal veil went over her head and to her back. Sliding doors on their left was opened to let the wind circulating in the living room to replace the scent of fumes and cologne and sweats the night’s fresh air. \- The picture frame now holds a graceful photo of Man and Woman side by side in their wedding dress. Smiling at each other from ear to ear as the day the picture was taken was their day marked in the history of their lives. The Caladiums in the corner of the room are starting to wilt, putting dehydration as an experience in its resumé. The small table now stands next to the couch with nothing on top of it, radiating an endless sense of longing. The experienced rug now tire from being stepped on by multiple people coming in and out of the living room. The room is bright with no help from the lamps but from the sunlight flooding in through the sliding door, but everything is black and white. The television and the speakers are dead silent, nothing playing on them. Echoes of damp chatter fills the room but not in a noisy way. Man in melancholy, dressed in black, from blazers to slack, crying with his friends and family around him, comforting him, mourning with him.


It’s 7:15 A.M. I awake in a stupor, unaware of anything and everything for far too brief of a moment. An obnoxious alarm is beeping, purposely placed out of reach on the desk opposite my bed to prevent myself from hitting the snooze. Light beams in horizontal stripes across my face from the window near the desk. It burns. Rolling over onto my side, I brace myself for the incoming light and slowly bring the alarm clock into focus. “It’s 7:15 A.M.,” I mutter to myself. I pause and stare at the clock for what seemed like an hour, yet the time was unchanged. It was as if time came to a halt but the devil himself neglected to turn off the alarm. Counting down from five, I gradually manage to push off the weighted blanket and sit up in bed. As I adjust and rub the sleep out of my eyes, I get a better view of my desk. On it, the alarm is still ringing, pounding at my head incessantly. Further over is a picture frame featuring two people and a glass vase, full of flowers. Suddenly, the smell of roses fills the air. My heart races and my face goes cold. It is 7:16 A.M. The Fourteenth of February. I walk to the closet and pick out the fanciest clothes I own. The white undershirt for my hand-me-down suit is tighter than I remember it being, so I give up on that outfit and go for the next best option. The black pants are stiff and creased, as is the gray dress shirt I paired it with, but at least they fit. I stumble a bit while going down the stairs. The living room has been an organized mess for a few days now, with piles of half-filled shipping boxes in the corner by the door. I was dreading going through the rest of our belongings, so when both of our parents came over late last night for dinner, I had a convenient excuse to put it off for a little while longer. In the bathroom, I struggle to find the shaving cream among all her various beauty products, though I could not help but read the names of the products I don’t recognize. I find the shaving cream in a different drawer and apply it sparingly to avoid getting it on my shirt, only nicking my neck once this time. Washing off my face, I look into the mirror. Deep brown eyes with deeper circles beneath them, always looking just a little lopsided no matter how I adjust my head. A nose too wide for my face and teeth you’d never find advertised. How did she pick someone with a face like that? As I finish my preparations, I find my way through the maze of boxes in the living room, keeping my eyes on the door the whole time. I put on a warm, furry jacket and squint as I open the door. As luck would have it, the world outside is bright as ever. A pathway to the car through the dirt-crusted snow has caved in, but I am able to tiptoe through it without getting any snow in my shoes. A lone deer catches sight of me during my odd dance and sprints across the road from the neighbor’s yard. Two vehicles stop on a dime for the deer as I walk to my car, giving me a gentle wave as they go. I attempt to reciprocate but all I can muster is a nod. The ride feels like a cycle through the washing machine; it sounds like it too. Clouds are few and far between in the ocean of blue sky around. Leaves on the trees have been replaced with an even coat of snow, uninfluenced by those who walk beneath them. In the passenger seat is the vase of roses from my desk. Five minutes to go. My heart is nearly escaping my chest. She has been waiting for me to arrive for a while now. I didn’t forget. I could not forget. I pull into the parking lot of a meager building on the far side of town. It is a busy business with snow-white siding and a formidable double front door painted black. People are all over, wearing dress clothes under their coats and talking amongst themselves. I avoid making eye contact and plod toward the entrance, my legs faltering below me with every step closer. Hesitation creeps in with my hand on the doorknob and I cannot help but stand there at the front entrance, my heart knocking on my ribcage, pleading to escape. Before I can reconsider, the door opens for me, and a fellow gives me a simple nod and motions me in. I take the first step, then the second. I take a third. There are flowers crowding the south wall in an elegant array, every last one staring me down as I hobble toward them. I slowly pass by ten lines of cushioned seats, grasping the top of each one from the center walkway. The vase is tightly clenched in my other hand. At last, I reach the wall of flowers and leave the vase and all but one rose by the display. It is painful to look down, but I could see her now. I leave the rose by her hands and put my hand to her cheek. She is still cold.