I used to be an atheist, don’t get me wrong I didn’t have a near death experience or experience what’s known as a miracle to others. I’ve merely found a theory which to me explains everything that happens in this world. To understand let me tell you about my past and the events which had let up to me becoming the laughing stock of the scientific community. My name is Tyrel smith and I was a respectable physicist, one of the best in my field. Never once did I entertain the thought of an afterlife or the supernatural being any more than a delirium among my fellow man, a story made up to explain all the oddities and fears in this world or to simply take the fear out of death itself. Religion was a joke; I mean how can something be created from nothing especially the vast universe and our world in 6 measly days no less. It’s absolutely absurd, so when they would try to converse with me about the greatness of their lord I simply laughed and brushed them aside, however after doing my own investigation into some of the oddities that plague our world, I came to a conclusion which sounds crazy but makes the most sense. It all started 6 months ago whilst I was looking into how black holes affect our universe and what potentially lies at the singularity at its core. This research was based on something known as the black hole cosmology, a theory that each black hole contains a universe at its core proposed by a theoretical physicist to which I found intriguing. I mean seriously there has to be a place for all the matter black holes consume to go right, anyways I'm getting distracted back to the point. I had spent 2 years researching this seeing if it could tie in to our theory of the big bang, to which we have evidence is the start of our universe, I enjoyed doing my research listening to audio books of various subject, so one of my colleagues Samantha suggested I listen to stories from a youtuber who only ever told true stories that enveloped the area of mystery and the disturbing, which seemed like a joke at first but after a while they fascinated me. One story in particular had me bewildered, though I don’t think you would know about it but it's about this old woman who passed away, however the part that bewildered me was how she had led her life and what she proclaimed. I'll explain the story then explain why I'm no longer respected by my colleagues. so in 1904 a girl was born, her name was Dorothy, at the age of 3 she had fallen down the stairs in her home. Her parents had called a doctor who pronounced her dead shortly after arriving, after an hour had gone-by she had gotten up and started playing in her room. However, the girl was never the same after that her mannerisms had changes and she had frequently asked her parents to take her home much to their surprise, they had frequently asked her where is home to which the girl could not give an answer. This doesn’t quite seem odd coming from a child it seems quite natural that she would have these confusing thoughts after such a horrible accident, however this would persist throughout her entire life. One day they took her to a museum which had recently opened an Egyptian exhibit, shortly after the girl had entered the exhibit, she started acting weirdly running up to all the statues of the pharaohs and sphinx kissing their feet crying I'm finally with my people. On one of the walls hung a picture of the temple of Seti when she had seen this, she began excitedly saying that’s my home. When she turned 27, she moved to Egypt and began studying everything she could about the country that she was certain was her true home, it was during the first year of this she began getting visions from Hor ra, a deity of the ancient Egyptians and from this she had proclaim that she was a priestess at the temple of Seti named Bentreysht. That she had become the lover of Seti and conceived his child however because she had broken her vows of chastity, she was interrogated by the other priestesses hoping to find the culprit and summarily took her own life to protect her love. At the age of 57 she finally got permission to go the Abydos to do research on the temple of Seti, upon setting foot in the temple she had stated its almost as if I had been here before during her 20 years working at the site, she had demonstrated impossible levels of knowledge regarding the ruins leading to many discoveries of hidden tunnels and the old garden that used to stand there. This in my opinion is the most realistic case of reincarnation we have seen to date. Once I had heard this story, I started doing my own research on the theories of reincarnation which stem from Indian religions where it is described as the rebirth or transmigration of the non-physical essence of a living being beginning a new life in a different physical form after death. This sound preposterous especially when you would need to accept that something like a soul exists and that is an impossibility to prove. Then I started looking into the mythology of our world and all the creatures that exist within our heads, there's no evidence any of them existed yet all myths and stories always stem from a single truth or event which over time gets misconstrued and twisted as it is passed down through generations. By this point 3 months had gone by and I was obsessed with trying to figure out the truth behind it all, until one day as I was watching tv I came across one of the anime’s that children love, it think it was called the wise man's grandson. Which is about a man who dies and reincarnates in a fantasy world and at that moment things started to connect in my head, what if none of the religions wrong or science for that fact. Then I started thinking and here was my thought process. For reincarnation to work then the metaphysical concept of a soul must be true, however that itself is a struggle as the soul itself must have memory, meaning that if you did indeed reincarnate all of your memories if not a few would remain from a past life. Therefore, a system would have to be in place to wipe those memories which would be triggered by external stimuli that you are/were familiar with, however if what I was researching is true then such a thing as a multiverse should be real, therefore if you were to reincarnate into one of those other universes then maybe a life there would overwrite the soul's memory and erase the past life. This explains how some can remember previous lives whilst most of us don’t, but it would also explain our mythology. Mythology could just be stories about creatures that existed in those other universes, a residual memory if you will from a past life. This would explain how there is no base for these creatures in our world, yet they have a deep and rich history here. What I got from this process was that reincarnation may be real, however we reincarnate between parallel universes and some of our experiences in those alternative realities have leaked over to this world creating our myths and legends. I know sounds crazy but it does explain religion and some of the thing's scientists have been stuck on since before my time. Now I've explained the story behind why I became the laughing stock of my fellow scientists, I will tell you how it came to pass. Once I had this theory, I decided I would document it and share it with a few of my colleagues, sufficed to say they laughed at it calling it ludicrous at best. No matter what I said to them they dismissed it and called me crazy, they mocked me for weeks calling me a crazy man or delusional. I decided to try one more thing I got some of the best theoretical scientists to agree to a meeting and presented them with my theory and all the evidence I had accumulated to back it, I was hopeful that they would see the potential in what I had put together. After they had gone over everything and discussed amongst themselves, they said it was a solid theory and told me to give them time to see if it stands against scrutiny so I agreed went home and waited to hear back from them. Unfortunately, no sooner than a week had passed and I got a phone call from an old friend asking if I had seen the story about me in the scientific journal, I pondered what the article could possibly be about, when I finally saw the article, my heart dropped the title read in bold letters “physicist Tyrel Smith officially declared crazy with his new theory”. It's not surprising to say every part of that article was a dig at my intelligence and my sanity, I lost my lab all of my research data and now anytime I see my old colleagues in the street or the store, I get barraged with insults and jabs concerning my intelligence and what I had discovered. This is where I will leave this story, I decided to type this up so there is a record of what transpired and so others may read my theory and draw their own conclusions. as we speak, I'm preparing to leave this world behind, maybe in my next life I will be respected.


Like the drought, it had been getting a little worse every day. The sky hasn’t released a drop of water since May, the wind refused to blow and displace any of the hot air, the temperatures stay above 93 even at night and now this feud had gone from stupid to dangerous. In mid-July The Asshole cut off Josh in traffic. Josh’s tenacious hot head tendencies erupted and road rage ensued and Josh followed the rusty brown Buick LeSabre around the city for an hour - screaming and throwing stuff at his car until eventually The Asshole made a tactical error and drove home. Josh followed him. Now that Josh knew where he lived he dedicated some time every day for the next few weeks to driving past his house and doing some general act of harassment or vandalism escalating from burnouts in front of the residence to spray painting phallic symbols on the garage door. Josh proudly told us about his innovative ways of generally being obnoxious as he felt totally justified. In retaliation The Asshole somehow figured out where Josh worked and got his friends to stop by the auto parts store; their harassment escalated in kind from being generally a nuisance in the store to eventually slashing Josh’s tires after the garage door incident. So now its mid August and Josh has now enlisted HIS friends and increasing numbers of people are conducting drive-by assholery and terroristic actions against each other. I was always hoping for a decent breeze but I had been praying for a good rain - if it rained maybe they would all stay home for a day to stay dry and they would cool off and the city would cool off and we could get back to normal. I had made my own tactical error, getting a ride to the grocery store from Josh. I just needed the usual, some pop, some cans of soup and maybe some grapes - grapes are my favorite. I had to raid my spare change cup on top of my dresser to fund my food trip- I had a little bit of folding money, but I had a roll of quarters and one of those gigantic half dollars that always seem to turn up if you start collecting change. I stuffed the coins in my pocket. Usually, I just walk to the store; on the way there the downhill route back isn’t too bad, but walking the two miles up the hill in this heat was too much to even contemplate. It was noon and probably 100 degrees already. I should have gotten up early and walked when it was cooler because the timing now means it will be the hottest and brightest part of the day on the way back up the hill. I asked Josh for a ride when I saw him outside. We’ve got lots of hills in this city, and we had just got to the flat part at the bottom of the hill and I could see the grocery store up ahead across from some new construction. I don’t know what they are building exactly but I’m sure it’s another Walmart or Meijer based plaza that will never actually fill all the storefronts up, and in six years it will be a Big Lots and two crappy dollar stores; at one of them everything will actually cost a dollar but not be worth more than about 42 cents, and at the other store nothing will actually cost less than $3 but still somehow be worth about a dollar. Currently, they are at the strip-the-land and drop-truckloads-of gravel-stage of construction, and in this dry heat if there is any wind at all it would just blows billows of dust everywhere. I didn’t even see the Buick until after it hit us. I didn’t recognize the driver, but I could see The Asshole riding shotgun and looking triumphant. Josh must have caught some motion from the corner of his eye and tried to swerve but it still rammed us into the back of the car in the next lane. The way Josh’s head hit his side window he had to be unconscious, so he didn’t see the passenger stick his hand out of the window with a gun in it and he probably didn’t hear the shots whizzing past us or the shots that hit him and made his body jerk. I don’t even remember getting my door open, but I was out and running even as I heard four or five more shots. I guess leaving my friend was wrong, but from what little I remember from mass, suicide is a mortal sin, and staying there was definitely suicide with the gun pointed in our direction. Behind me I could hear horns and screaming and tires squealing. I didn’t have a master plan, I was just trying to get away - to get space between me and all of that. I didn’t even have the presence of mind to zig-zag as I ran towards the new plaza and it’s ongoing construction. I’m not known for either my sprinting speed or my stamina, but it had to be a personal record for the quarter-mile or so from the street to the parked earth moving equipment. Somehow bullets were still flying so I was running on pure adrenaline until I guess the running gave me a cramp because I got a sudden pain in my side that threw me off balance. My velocity caused me to trip and fall headlong into a parked bulldozer I didn’t see until I hit it because some overachieving wind had kicked up the dust - my eyes were gritty and hard to close and I couldn’t get a good breath from all the sand in my nose and I couldn’t really see more than a few feet ahead of myself. I figured I was safe since if I couldn’t see the bulldozers or whatever then they couldn’t see me to shoot me. I walked around the bulldozer and then around a large dump truck. The heavy equipment apparently very effectively stopped the wind and the dust, because it was like walking through a door and coming out into an entirely different and unexpected place. The sun now felt like it was trying to warm me and not just desiccate me and the wind was no more than a reasonable breeze that seemed to be blowing the dust off of my clothes. I used my hands to help that process along and looked more presentable shortly and felt so much better. My side still kind of burned but my head didn’t even hurt from banging it into the bulldozer. The dusty lot transitioned to grass that had somehow survived the drought so far - about 30 yards ahead was a pretty good drop-off and then a long green field in a kind of valley that I wouldn’t have imagined was back here and didn’t make much sense in the middle of a city. At the far end -way on the other side of a little creek was a house by itself with some grapevines on trellises and a low wall behind it. I figured there was another street on the other side of that house that would be a much safer place than the street behind me. Although it was now quiet in that direction I could imagine the emergency vehicles showing up and the questions and all those things I wanted no more part of. I made it across that last bit of plateau and started down the drop-off using some handily strategic rocks that worked as steps and ended up on a convenient little path. I was a little worried I was trespassing or something but there was no fence to cross and the path was well worn so I followed it. The field sloped more than I thought at first but it was an easy downhill walk. About halfway across I noticed someone walking on another path that looked like it was going to merge with mine close to the creek - the grass and plants were kind of high so it was hard to see the actual path but just kind of eyeballing the direction it looked about right. She saw me and gave a friendly wave as she stepped up her pace a bit; it looked like she wanted to catch me before I got to the water. It was hard to get a read on her even as she got closer - she walked with a bounce and with energy almost like a little kid would walk, but I could see some gray and silver in her hair even from a distance. She was wearing some kind of off-the-shoulder tunic thing that somehow covered an ample and attractively bouncing bosom. As she got closer I noticed her tanned but smooth skin - I guess she was Middle Eastern or Greek or something and I wanted to ask but figured it wouldn't be polite for those to be my first words to her. Up close, I guess the gray hair was some trick of the sun, because it was dark and curly. Its hard to figure people’s ages sometimes and especially in this case I guessed she was probably a bit older than me but still young. “I’m sorry, I was just trying to find a shortcut - I can just go back the other way.” “Going back is a lot harder than you think” I turned and looked, and it might have been another trick of the sun and perspective, but it did look like I had walked a lot farther than I thought. Walking back meant I would have to walk back uphill. And back to all the mess I had run from. “Well, I don’t want to be trouble - if its ok I’ll just walk through to the other side” “As long as you’re sure you want to go this way” Her statement seemed oddly stern - from where I stood I could clearly see what seemed to be the back of a decent size farmhouse- there had to be a driveway out to the street on the other side, and whatever was over there had to be better than where I had come from. Like she could hear my thoughts, she just shrugged. “Why don’t you relax here for a bit, maybe have a snack and then you can decide where to go from here. My name is Sharon by the way” She pronounced her name kind of funny - with more of a “Ch” then an “Sh” sound, but I knew all kinds of people with much weirder names - for a while everybody seemed to name their kids with an L’ or D’ before some normal name - L’don and D’john (who everybody called Mustard) and so on. The relaxing made perfect sense though. It sure seemed like I had walked farther than I thought at first - I still had the taste of dust in my mouth, thirsty for sure and wouldn’t mind a little snack. I could imagine full ripe grapes on their grapevines and that would be a great mouthful or two. This time she smiled, maybe a little sadly. “Careful making the crossing. Keep your eye on the next step, because if you look too much, what you see plays tricks on you and messes up your balance - and the water is much deeper than it looks.” I don’t know what the difference between a creek and a stream is, but whatever this body of water was, it definitely much wider close up. Still, it was pretty easy to step from one stone to the next, ignoring the water moving lazily to my right - but right at the end it was kind of a big hop to the far bank. I was almost all the way across when I saw movement near the side and expected to see a fish or some crawdads or something, but it was an eel or snake that shot out from somewhere almost faster than I could follow and then just hovered still in the water, looking at me. I made that big hop to the other bank. I wasn’t really scared of snakes, but that one was big. I took another big step - just to be prudent. I turned to face her “Watch out for that snake” - I started to say, but she was already across on this same side of the stream, dipping in her hand in the water. I couldn’t see clearly, but it looked like she was petting something in the water. I stepped back closer and she was clearly murmuring to something - peeking over her shoulder there were now a half dozen snakes of similar size hovering close to the surface for her to stroke, like they expected and liked it. I could have sworn the water had been moving lazily to my right before, but now it was definitely moving much more briskly - but still to my right. Which didn’t make sense because I was facing back the way I came. What had been a creek or a stream before now was wider and tending towards what I would say was a river. And that big hop from that last stone now looked like a jump to the first I wasn’t quite sure I could make, even if I had to and had a running start. “Umm, I guess I’ll be heading out” I said, spooked. I figured I would do a quick walk to the street and go on about my business; I was fully prepared to walk uphill or downhill as far as needed to get away from this weird snake lady. I turned to go and almost bumped into some guy who had come out of nowhere. He was tall, I could see straight up his large and hooked nose from my angle. Jet black hair with mustache and goatee, long sleeve purple (silk?) shirt and black pants with black cowboy boots. His lips tilted up at the corners revealing yellow-ish but very straight and oddly skinny teeth. He smiled like he had never really done it before but had read about it. He grabbed my hand and shook it like we were old friends. Gesturing behind him to a long table set for about ten -“Welcome, you are just in time to eat. Sharon (he also said it with more of a “Ch” sound) loves bringing in new people.” He was outwardly polite, but something in the way he looked at me made me just not trust or like him. I paused, trying to think of a polite way to say “no”. “Have a seat” he said, now more as a command than an invitation - a king or other royalty used to his word being taken as imperative. I was tired - well - fatigued and definitely hungry and thirsty so I figured some refreshments and a quick rest would do me good before I headed out. Nevermind the grocery store, I just wanted to go home. Since he grabbed the chair at the head of the table, I moved down 3 or 4 seats for my own seat. It was in front of what looked like a fancy silver lemonade pitcher and a big bunch of grapes on a platter so I hoped it didn’t seem obvious I was distancing myself from him but rather just sitting where the food was. Sharon moved to sit directly across from me. In the shade under the grape arbor she looked older - and less healthy. There were lines around her eyes and her hair from the front seemed grayer and thinner than it had been. She was skinnier than I thought she was and out of the sun her skin was paler and more translucent. She looked like she might have been pretty once, but that was a long time ago and time had not been easy on her. She poured me a generous draught from the pitcher into what I could only define as a straight-up chalice, and her hands were shaking a little. She pushed over the silver platter with the grapes and smiled as she sat back down with a handful of grapes for herself. From my left the man raised his own stein and gave a little toast “To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.” “You always use that toast, Yuri” “You have a better one Sharon?”, in a way that was on the surface amused but somehow menacing. They bickered like an old couple that had spent decades together - each knowing what the response from the other would be but still making their remarks anyway. I wasn’t sure if they were married or brother and sister or just old friends. I was sure, though, that my cup did not contain lemonade. I am not a fan of red wine but this seemed sweet and heavy and thick and even the small semi-aborted first sip began to quench my thirst. “Is Yuri a Russian name?” I just wanted to make conversation. “Yuri with a ‘Y’ is basically George, but I am Eurynomos with an “E” - this is a Greek name.” “I thought maybe you were Greek or Middle Eastern” - they both cringed when I said this, and I hoped I had not offended them. Maybe they were Hispanic for all I knew. Sharon smiled sadly but kindly “We are not exactly Greek and definitely not Hispanic, but have been called far worse things” It was freaky that she seemed - that they both seemed - to know what I was thinking. “Eurynomos is not really my name, but that is what they came to call me, just like “Sharon” is a convenient name for her.” I thought it prudent to apologize - they were kind of weird but really had been nothing but nice - or at least polite - to me. “Here in the fields it is understood that you mean no harm.” Euri began, but then looking suddenly distracted “I am famished - we should eat some… real food. You may stay here and rest and refresh as long as you like.” I figured I would enjoy their hospitality and a meal before I walked back home. Coming down to this place I should be pretty far downhill from my neighborhood. Even though I figured I was a little disoriented about which way I was facing, logically there should be at least one obvious and substantial hill somewhere across that stream and field that I would need to walk all the way back up. And looking at the stream it seemed even wider from this angle. Going the other way past the house should probably be about the same distance to come at my street from the other side of the hill but I was having trouble visualizing that route. Looking in that direction I couldn’t see the street beyond the house, but I could make out the stone wall covered with vines, it looked higher than before - easily chest high, but was hard to see exactly because the sky above it was starting to darken with twilight. This was disconcerting, because by my estimation it should be maybe two or so in the afternoon, but judging by the light level it was late in the evening. I couldn’t see the sun from my angle, but it looked like the stars would start peeking out soon. It explained why I was suddenly so hungry. Sharon said she would gather the others and bring out the food as she was also famished. Walking into the house she looked half-starved now - gaunt and malnourished. I don’t know what flattering angles led me to see her as vital and attractive earlier. I finished my cup and poured myself another - Euri looked pleased at this - and what I guessed were “the others” began trickling from the house or from around the sides. This table looked to seat about a dozen comfortably - hopefully everyone was friendly because it looked there weren’t going to be any empty seats. In no particular order or pattern the seats around the table filled - there was muted but friendly conversation from these folk who seemed to know each other. There were a few more people than I first thought and there must have been a few more chairs available than I thought, because I counted 15, with myself, Sharon, and Euri making the total 18. A few were about my age, most though were more elderly and there was one younger boy who looked vaguely familiar. I don’t know why his face and striped shirt seemed to ring a bell, but he looked to be about twelve or thirteen. For whatever reason I was feeling his name was Jeff. He sat right next to me without really looking in my direction. Sharon appeared with serving trays and loaded the table with first with fruit and nuts and then with some things I didn’t really know the names of - hummus and flat bread, some sort of green paste with tomato pieces in it - I guess this was Greek or Middle Eastern foods. In front of Euri though, she placed a pile of BBQ ribs. I could smell the sauce and spice from my seat and they were mouth-watering. I was jealous and was hoping for our own plate of ribs or at least chicken. Euri ate the ribs like a machine - wasting no time sucking the meat off the bones and cleaning them in one quick slurp so not a speck of flesh remained. The rack on his plate disappeared in minutes, and as the pile of cleaned bones grew I noticed the oddly- shaped bones at the bottom of the pile - one looked like a soup bone or a bone you would give a dog, and that one he gnawed on like he was dog, and when he finished that he picked up several smaller and more delicate bones to clean, and those were not ribbed shaped at all. They looked more like fingers, and after sucking the flesh off he cracked each one and cleaned out the marrow. By the time he was done with those small bones I had changed my mind. I didn’t want barbecue, and I wasn’t sure I could even keep the other food down if I tried. None of the others seemed to notice, and if they did, they weren’t at all phased by this. I reached for my wine glass to clear the bad taste from my mouth just as Jeff or whoever reached for his. It occurred to me that he probably shouldn’t be drinking wine, and I crane my neck a bit to glance into his cup. I relaxed because it looked like milk. And then I remembered where I had seen Jeff. His picture, wearing that same shirt, with a caption saying something about missing since March, in block letters on the side of a milk carton. Here he was, and I knew I had to get him out of this place and back home, just like I needed to get back home and out of this place. I figured I could grab his hand and hustle us both out of here. Looking at the house and the wall behind I could see old-fashioned lanterns hanging from the wall, but the lanterns were hung well above my head height and the top of the wall was not even visible in the moonlight. And I had no idea where the gate or opening in that wall would be, or if it would be barred or locked. The only way out of here was back across the stream. Snapping my head that way I planned to grab Jeff’s hand and - hopefully he would come willingly - but drag or carry him if I had to - back to the stepping stones. I wasn’t sure about that big jump to the first one, especially pulling a 12-year-old but the river seemed closer than I thought it had been. I could hear the water rushing much more loudly and moving more quickly than it should have been. Maybe it had finally rained somewhere and it was like a mini-flash flood. Frantically, I pushed my chair back from the table and grabbed for Jeff’s hand. He jerked his hand away and half-shreiked. Which was fair seeing as a stranger was trying to grab him and apparently not for the first time. I yelled for him to come with me, right now, for fuck’s sake. Euri was incensed, his voice was deep and strong enough to drown out all of the side conversations instantly. “No one demands that you stay longer than you want, but you can not force another to go. Know though, you might not like where the river takes you!” Everybody was staring at me, although they didn’t seem particularly alarmed. Even Jeff had calmed down and was munching on some bread. I started toward the river, and as I approached I couldn’t even see the stepping stones anymore. And I did not want to wade or worse - swim in the water with those eel/ snake things that I knew were lurking just beneath the surface. Sharon stepped up next to me, and she again looked young and vital, her skin smooth and full. “I will ferry you downstream, the current is too fast to go back across.” She pointed to a small but sturdy-looking flat-bottomed rowboat pulled up on this side of the river. I felt guilty now - she had been nothing but nice and inviting, and I was taking her away from her dinner and friends. “There is no trouble, this is what I do.” I couldn’t see the other side of the river in the dark at all, or even where the river was going, it seemed to veer around a curve and go on as far as I could see. Somewhat irrationally, I felt like I owed her… something. “A token payment is customary - whatever you have in your pocket will do” I reached in my pocket and my hand closed around the giant half-dollar. Before my hand even came out, she smiled. “Teleios.” (and I knew that meant “perfect”) I helped her push the boat to the water’s edge and sat in the front as she stood in the back to control the rudder. It was cooler on the river and I felt suddenly cold. She picked up a robe from the bottom of the boat and handed it to me before putting on her own robe and pulling the hood over her head. “I do not know how far we will have to go, but we will know when it is time for you to disembark.


Winter was the only season when I would see her, every year in December on the day of the winter solstice. I met her first when I was only ten. Sitting in the park on a cold winter day as the snow fell like ash, clinging to the ground like a child clings to their mother. My father had let me go on a walk that day on my own. He needed space to think, he used to be a writer for a not so well known magazine, and tended to work in complete silence. So that’s how I found myself making a small snow man in the park outside our apartment. There wasn’t enough snowfall to make my creation any taller than my knees. I gave it two small rocks for eyes and twigs for hands, I looked back in awe at my masterful creation. “I like him” Said a voice from behind me, I turned around to see a tall figure with galaxy eyes and pale white skin. Long strands of golden hair falling from her head down to her shoulders. She had pointed eyes and small antlers like a deer coming from the top of her head. She stood taller than my father almost twice as tall with arms that were just a little too long for her body. She leaned down close to the snowman, taking a small icicle she held in her hand and placed it on the area that would be his nose. The figure smiled and asked “What is his name?” “Icey, Icey the snowman” I said with a big grin on my face “A fitting name for such an icy fellow” the words almost felt warm like the heat of a wood stove after a long wintry day. “Whats your name?” I asked looking up at the tall figure “Oh, I do not have one of those anymore, I have a gift for your father if you think you could bring it to him” said the figure. She handed me a bundle of snapdragons that she held in her other hand. They smelled sweet and looked as if they had just been picked, The figured looked down and smiled again at me. The snow picked up, and the figure walked back into the roaring winter. As I turned to watch her go off another figure appeared in the distance. It was my father in his winter cloths, snow boots and long red scarf. He rushed over to me. “Sweetheart, what are you doing out here, I told you to come back before it got dark” “Father look look, the nice lady with the antlers gave me this just for you” I held out the bundle of snap dragons to my father. He held them in his hand for a moment and began to silently shed tears. “Whats wrong father?” I asked, holding my hand out to him My father got down and embraced me “nothing at all sweetie, Im just finally happy you got to meet her” Me and my father meet my mother every winter, on the day of the winter solicit.


“Uncle Mark, what’s a deadlink?” Izzy looked at her uncle, confident as always he would have the answer. Uncle Mark was infallible. “Dead link? That’s just a URL that points to nowhere, little one.” “NO, not a dead link, a **deadlink**. My best friend Felicity told me about these deadlinks. She says if you get one on your TikTok or Instagram and click it, you’re **dead**. Like, you never even existed. But I don’t think that’s right. Do you know?” Mark shook his head. “Naw, Izzy, I can’t say as how I’ve heard about that one. It sounds like nonsense to me, like saying, ‘Bloody Mary’ three times in front of a mirror, or like that movie about the deadly phone calls. Stuff like that just isn’t real, hun. Your friend is putting you on.” Izzy pouted. “Felicity doesn’t lie, Uncle Mark. Even when it gets her in trouble, she always tells the truth.” Mark looked sideways at Izzy. “Did your friend ever get one of these, what do you call them, deadlinks, herself?” The expression on Izzy’s face was comical. She rolled her eyes, raised her hands in exasperation, and said, “Don’t you listen? If you clicked on one of those, you **died**, and you never existed. If Felicity clicked on a deadlink, I would never know about her to miss her.” Mark promised to look into it, then turned the television on to catch the afternoon football game. Izzy had to be satisfied with that lone promise. But, she reminded herself, Uncle Mark was one of those people who always kept his word. If he said he would look into it, he would. Reassured, she went back to her room to begin her favorite project of the moment: re- reading the “Harry Potter” series. It always made her wish she was reading them again for the first time, but it was fun, like visiting old friends, reading about Harry and Ron and Hermione, their exploits at Hogwarts, Hagrid’s latest horrible creature. Her phone pinged; it was a text from Felicity. *Told yr unc yet?* Izzy typed her reply *yes* and followed it with some smiling emojis. *And??!!* Felicity’s added punctuation made it clear she expected a more detailed response. *Hes lookn n2 it*. With that, the text exchange stopped, and she could get back to Hogwarts, where Hermione was learning to loosen up and break some rules, becoming a much cooler person. # Sunday afternoon, with nothing better to do than wait for the game to come on, Mark remembered the odd conversation he’d had with Izzy. He decided to do some online sleuthing. Hours later, he looked up and noticed he’d missed the first half of the football game. The halftime talking heads were blathering on. It looked like a close match, with both teams taking each play personally and holding a grudge. He shook his head, trying to clear it after the rabbit hole he had fallen down. Conspiracy theories, crackpots and fruitcakes, and some downright scary individuals posted on strange, obscure forums. All seemed to believe in crazy theories, everything from chemtrails to Bigfoot. But with more sleuthing, he found hints and mentions about this so-called ‘deadlink.’ A forum with a repulsive name finally had a clear mention of deadlinks. A user named ‘*EatsDeadThings*’ suggested using deadlinks to remove your enemies. He, or she, didn’t say what a deadlink was or how to get one, but it was obvious they at least were familiar with the concept. A novel idea came to mind, and Mark started researching the user ‘*EatsDeadThings*’ instead. Their forum posts hinted at deadlinks and pointed toward the dark net to find them. He pulled back, unsure of the safety of exploring the darker side of the web. Mark went downstairs to the basement and dug through a pile of old computer junk he had never gotten around to recycling. Sure enough, there was an old laptop computer. As he recalled, there wasn’t anything wrong with it, it was just too old and slow for everyday use. He’d wiped all his data, just to be sure, before putting it with the junk to be recycled. Mark was glad of that paranoia now. He grabbed up the old laptop, making sure he had the power cord, and went back upstairs to the den. The second half of the football game had just started. Mark plugged the laptop in and started it up. He had to laugh; he’d forgotten how painfully slow old spinning disks with limited RAM were to use. The ancient laptop landed on the desktop, and, other than wanting a decade’s worth of updates, it seemed ready to use. Using the old laptop, he went online and created a new throwaway email address. Then he took the plunge, downloaded Tor, and entered the dark net. He found the tracks of ‘*EatsDeadThings*’ and followed them, for lack of any better idea. He started getting offers messaged to him: drugs, guns, girls. He ignored the messages and entered the forum ‘*Corruption [Enter at your own risk]*’ with a nervous grimace. Without warning, he got a message from ‘*EatsDeadThings*’ reading “*Why R U following me?*” At a loss, he replied ‘*deadlinks*.’ Silence. Mark texted, “*I have coin.*” As if it had been a test, the reply flew back. “*I have wares*.” They began haggling on price and method, deciding Mark could use Bitcoin. He laughed quietly to himself. It was obviously the kind of market where the user passed over the money and trusted the seller not to get scammed. ‘*EatsDeadThings*’ messaged him with his public bitcoin wallet. Mark shrugged, put the QR code in his wallet, and sent the transaction. Then he waited while the blockchain network did its thing. He heard nothing from his erstwhile ‘friend’ during this time. About an hour later, he heard the ‘ping’ and got the notification that his Bitcoin transfer had gone through. A message from ‘*EatsDeadThings*’ flashed up, with nothing but a bit.ly address. The other user immediately left the chat room. After that transaction, Mark felt like he needed a shower. He wrote the URL on a piece of paper and logged out of Tor. He pondered what to do. Was the address itself a link to the supposed deadlink? Or did it take you to a site that explained how things worked? He decided a shower would help him think things out, so he abandoned the football game and took a long, steamy shower. The heat seemed to help clear his head. He decided to treat that URL the same way as a loaded pistol: as a lethal weapon. Trusting something from the dark net, from some nut who called himself ‘*EatsDeadThings*’, was the worst possible folly. # With a clear head, Mark went back to the old laptop. He used it to preview the bit.ly URL. The domain name that showed was only numbers. It was a long string, but meaningless as far as he could determine. The numbers provided zero information about what was behind it. He tried to check the WHOIS data, but it was all generic information from a sleazy hosting site somewhere in Eastern Europe. There were no clues to be had, just this URL that might or might not be a deadlink. At a dead end in his research, he was hesitant to click that link, even using a fictitious character with a throwaway email address on a junk laptop. Something about Izzy’s story made him nervous. He deleted all the data from the old laptop again, before putting it away back in the basement. The paper with the URL, he locked in his desk drawer in his upstairs office. # Uncle Mark was drinking a beer and watching football. Izzy hung out nearby on the couch, playing on her phone. When she thought he wasn’t watching, she cut her eyes over to look at him. She wondered if he had done the promised research on deadlinks. Uncle Mark lifted his beer can, grinned, looked over at her peering at him, and said, “OK, Iz, what’s up? Why are you giving me the stink-eye?” The tips of her ears turned pink, but she charged ahead. “You said you’d do some research on deadlinks. I was just, um, wondering if you had done it yet?” Uncle Mark laughed, a rich hearty sound that filled the room. “Oh ye of little faith! Of course I did. I admit, I’m not finished researching, because this little trick of yours tries very hard to keep itself hidden on the Internet, which is peculiar in this day and age.” He pointed one of his big, thick fingers at her. “NO messing around with this stuff, Izzy. I mean it, I want your promise. The same goes for your friends. You pass the word around. Treat anything even hinting to be a deadlink like a live rattlesnake.” “Eww!” Izzy squealed in disgust. “Exactly.” Uncle Mark nodded, sure she understood his point. “It would not be felicitous for someone to click one of those links.” Izzy cocked her head at him. “What does ‘felicitous’ mean?” Not thinking, Uncle Mark replied, “It means, apt, very fitting, something happy, just the right thing. Like your best friend’s name, you know?” She looked at him like he’d grown a third arm out of his forehead. “How in the world do you get ‘Maggie’ from ‘felicitous’? She is a happy person. That much you got right, but the rest? You’re weird, Uncle Mark.” Mark’s ears began ringing, and he swore he could feel his blood pressure climbing. His hands were clammy, cold as the grave. His throat clicked as he swallowed — a dry sound. He had never met the girl, but he had heard stories for years about Izzy’s best buddy, Felicity. He wondered how he could still remember her, when Izzy had no clue. Remembered who? What clue? He wondered. He took another swallow of beer, went back to watching the game. The Packers were winning.


Peter’s rosy red cheeks reflecting on the broken glass reminded him of the burning southern summers when he was a boy. It wasn’t until late spring when the DNR authorities stationed in Northern Minnesota found his body trapped in his car in a fetal position underneath 20 feet of October snow. “Fu-uuh-ckkkk, fu-uu–uhh-ckkiii-nng, Chrrr–isss-stt-tt”, he could barely cry the Lord’s name in vain. Peter knew what hypothermia was from his medical terminology course during his first year at the University of Minnesota Twin Cities. He drifted in and out of consciousness; in an act of self-preservation, his mind reminded him of the good times. The “good times'' were under the Texan heat sipping on a July glass of lemonade. The musty smell of Rico’s fresh dog shit on the 16x16 shared lawn furrowed underneath his nose every July evening. And, every July evening he would sneak a few discreetly obvious glances at the newly married couple’s open bedroom window across the street. These good times brought him warmth, comfort, and an emotion he abandoned years ago, joy. The Texan summers of youth, freedom, and joy were replaced by Minnesotan summers once he graduated from Brockwood highschool. Minnesotan summers locked him inside a humid concrete building with a broken AC unit retaking 12 credits worth of medicine. Molecular biology of medicine, pharmaceutical medicine, genomic medicine, were all medical-scientific gibberish bullshit for the countless hoops he needed to jump through and the asses he needed to kiss. Oftentimes he forgot why he chose to pursue this career. Was it his passion? Was it the next step (he did score a perfect MCAT)? Was it for family? Was it for money and prestige (his father was an accountant for the American Red Cross)? Regardless, it was futile to remember the details. His body was frozen, his mind was freezing, and his memories were packed in ice. His mind so troubled and trembling could only recall the last few events before succumbing to the winter plague that ravaged his being. *“Dr. Garvey just give me another chance! I’m the best student in this cohort and you know that!”* *“Listen, Peter, it's out of my control, Proctorio detected a disturbance from your exam session, and I’m simply following the University’s protocol. If you have a problem please contact the dean, I can even give you his contact information right now.”* *A hot flash of anger boiled throughout Peter’s upper forehead which evaporated the beads of sweat into -16F mist.* *“Peter, if there’s nothing else I have to go to another meeting right now”* *His bare-knuckles connected with Dr. Garvey’s left temple transferring 165lbs of raw muscle all into the Professor's brain. It jiggled, swished, and violently exploded once Dr. Garvey’s right temple smashed into the black ice.* *“Authorities say the unknown perpetrator may have been an enemy Dr. Garvey knew as his head was repeatedly bashed into the ice, thus, leaving him unrecognizable. If you have any information please contact the Minneapolis PD”. Peter silently mouthed this mantra anytime he skidded into the opposite lane.* *His heart was going to burst from the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He imagined his heart bursting much like Dr. Garvey’s skull bursting on the parking lot pothole. He hadn’t felt this* *alive* *in years. If he wasn’t driving up North, he would gladly dance on Dr. Garvey’s grave right now. But now, he needed to focus through the howling winds that fought his car head-on, the black ice that robbed the traction underneath him, and the endless specks of white that cluttered and smothered his windshield.* A grin crept across his chapped lips causing it to splinter and draw blood which coated the tip of his tongue in iron. For a moment, Peter forgot about his frostbitten black fingers, toes, and nose. He looked at his swollen knuckles on his blue-gray hand that no longer shivered and shook. His very last memory gave him joy as he stared into the broken glass. The winter plague eventually took his body, sight, and lastly his mind. He would be forgotten in blankets of white until the spring thaw came and revealed his 2007 Honda Civic to Warden Brown.


"You are beautiful," my reflection whispers to me. I twirl around in my black sheath dress, which goes well with my tan skin and blond curls, wondering how long I can keep it hidden. "Are you ready, darling? ", calls Karl from the terrace. While I quickly powder my nose and put on a little lipstick, I think today is the right day to tell him. I step outside to my beloved, who is sitting by our pool high above the soft blue Pacific with a highball. The thermometer still reads 88 degrees Celsius. I kiss Karl on his black hair. His tangy scent mixes with the fragrance of the bougainvillea and Jacaranda bushes to form a one-breathtaking cocktail. On the pool, hibiscus blossoms sway like little Inflatable boats. "Time for a sundowner", I say and pull my beloved out of the deck chair. With the jeep that belongs to our bungalow at Hotel Las Torres, we drive through the steep mountain paths of the flamingo-colored casita town on the slopes of the Sierra Madre Occidental. A table is already reserved for us on the terrace at the Bella Vista restaurant. "Ten more minutes and then it's time, my darling," Karl says. I lose myself in his velvet eyes. The light breeze that gave this hotel its name above the bay of Acapulco dances a Foxtrot with the palm fronds. "The usual?", the waiter asks. "I want champagne today", I say, putting on my most seductive smile. "Champagne it is", says Karl. The sun, hovering like a yellow ball on the west side of the bay, is getting ready for its grand entrance. White yachts bob in the bay, they say Onassis will come today. The high-rise buildings on the beach and the casitas on the mountains surrounding the bay sparkle like crystal chandeliers. The waiter brings a silver cooler with a bottle of Dom Perignon, which he skillfully opens with a soft plop. "Bello", "Stunning", resounds from the surrounding tables as the yellow ball dips into the horizon, turning the sky into a fire-breathing volcano. "Ordered especially for you," says Karl. Now, I think, is the right moment. We toast ourselves and order a menu of shrimp salad, coconut sorbet, steamed red snapper and guava cream. Chablis is served with it. Down in the bay, a riva circles between the red glowing mountain slopes. "We're having a baby," I say, holding my breath. Now it all depends on how he reacts. Karl still looks affectionate. The second stretches into days, and then he smiles. "Oh Ella, that's wonderful, darling, that's fantastic!". I exhale. The wind plays a hymn to our love with the palm leaves. "And you're really not mad?", I ask, my mouth dry as the Mexican desert despite the champagne. "Ella, I love you so much. Let's drink to that, to our future." I down the champagne like spring water. "Oh God, darling, now I actually forgot my wallet in the bungalow". "So what, we can have the food written on the room," I say, by now quite a lady of the world, of a world that I got to know through him. "I should get it anyway, not that it will still be stolen," says Karl. "And then we'll celebrate, I promise." I nod and Karl heads for the exit. Another sip of champagne, my hand shaking so much I almost spill it. In a moment he's going to propose to me, I think, I hope, no, I know it. What a fool I was to think he wouldn't be happy. Just because we've been together for three years and still not engaged. Because he was always "paying attention." No, I shake my head, he really was happy. What's taking him so long? It doesn't take longer than ten minutes to get there. The waiter comes with the shrimp. I look around on the terrace. At the next table sits an older American couple, she wears rhinestone-studded glasses with butterfly wings and so much jewelry that you could decorate a Christmas tree with it. Further back, two men are talking spiritedly in Spanish. My eyes meet those of a young woman holding hands with a man who could be her grandfather. She smiles. I smile back and start poking around in the shrimp. Where is Karl? "Don't be stupid," my inner voice whispers to me, "he's trying to find an engagement present for you somewhere." What if he's had an accident? Or been mugged? Passed out? I wave to the waiter and ask if I can make a phone call somewhere. He leads me to the counter. No one answers the phone in the bungalow. I try the reception desk. I ask if there has been an accident. Who I am looking for. "Kaarel Schmidt from Germany," I say. The answer in Mexican-colored English tells me that Karl left the hotel in the Jeep ten minutes ago. And I am reassured. Nothing has happened to him. He's just going to jet quickly to Acapulco and try to find an engagement present. Karl, Karl, I love you so much. In the meantime, I dig into the sorbet, which cools my heated mood down to normal. The Chablis does the rest. When the Chablis is already half empty, the waiter comes with the fish. I look at the clock, Karl has been gone for more than an hour now. No, I don't want any fish now, I've lost my appetite. Typical man, instead of celebrating with me, he's hanging out in Acapulco. Another glass of Chablis. That's enough now. I ask the waiter for the bill and sign it. Since Karl has the jeep, I have to walk. Of course, the high heel of my right shoe promptly breaks off on the stony hillside. It doesn't matter, I take the shoes in my hand and move as if on smoldering coke. Finally, behind the hibiscus hedge is our casita. Oh God, I'm so drunk. The door to the bungalow is open. And behind it is - nothing. No Karl, no luggage, no purse, not even my own things anymore. I feel sick, I stagger into the bathroom and throw up. The guy didn't even leave me the toothpaste. There is a knock. "Come in", I say, and think, why are you only coming now? "Well, Ella, are we really hungry tonight?" This stupid turkey of a nurse always talks about we. Besides, my name is Schuster. In the retirement home you even lose the right to your last name. "What's for dinner?", I ask. "Delicious cooked fish", says Nurse Bexley, so much for the right to one's own name. "Ew!" "But Ella, honey, it's from the Pacific. "Ugh." She releases the brakes on my wheelchair and I smell her sweat. "Before we go to dinner, let's have a little nip of this." "Ew!" "But Ella, this is our sundowner!" What's too much is too much. With my blue-veined hand, I swipe the sippy cup with the effervescent tablet from her fingers.


Cassandra held fast to the deck railings as her ship, The Whale Chaser, tossed and turned on the roiling sea. She was soaked from head to toe, her hat having been lost to the wind. The tight bun her long dark hair was tied into threatened to follow. She was on the tall side, even for a man, which had caused troubles in the past, but it was a useful trait if a woman was to be captain. Easier to intimidate upstarts that way. Her face, its delicate features on the edge of being worn away by salt-laden winds, was twisted into a dour expression. They’d escaped the pirate ship that had been chasing them just barely. Just as the pirate was getting into range of their guns, they’d swung hard in the path of it. A risky move to be sure, but it allowed her men to fire a volley from the deck guns straight into the pirate vessel. Unfortunately, the captain of that ship must have been born with a vengeful soul. A volley rang out from the pirate vessel as it limped away, badly damaged. Enough holes had been put into her ship to be a problem, but a fixable one on an ordinary day. Curse her rotten luck that a storm had blown in from the south with nary a warning, not an hour after they’d been hit. What patch jobs had been managed were already leaking, and The Whale Chaser was taking on water faster than could be thrown back to the sea. She looked to her helmsman, who had been bound by rope to the helm to keep him steady as he, in turn, sought to keep the ship steady. His face was grim, and lines of concentration lined the man’s tanned and weathered face. She imagined her own face bore a similar look, though that of displeasure rather than concentration. She stamped down below to see how the crew was doing at keeping her ship afloat. What she saw filled her heart with dismay. The water was rapidly filling the lower decks as crewmen rushed around with anything that could hold water to try and throw it through the gaps normally reserved for the cannons. Now the only thing being fired out through those holes was seawater. She rolled up her sleeves and moved to grab a vessel herself when she heard someone clear their throat behind her. She turned to see a man in a long dark cloak. His hood obscured his face though she could see the light of a cigar from beneath it as smoke billowed out from under the hood. She could see the man was wearing a well-tailored but muted suit underneath. In fact, the more she looked at the man, it seemed his entire existence threatened to wash away with the tide that beat at her ship. “What do you want? If you aren’t going to help move water then throw yourself overboard so we sink slower.” she said viciously, not much in the mood for whatever this passenger had to say. “Oh, I will happily remove myself from your ship before it sinks my dear, however, I do have to ask. Do you want this boat to sink?” he said, the words lilted through the air, gently defying the roar of the waves and shouting of men. Her face, ever the reflection of her inner thoughts, twisted into a rage as she stomped towards the man. He retreated as she advanced, leading them back to the violent surface of the ship as she shouted, “Of course I don’t want this ship to sink! What captain would willingly throw away her ship, her crew, and her life? You tell me that stranger, now help or don’t!” she shouted at the man. They now stood on the rainswept deck as the ship continued to roll with the tide. She held onto a railing as the man stood square on the deck, seemingly unbothered by the violent shaking of the ship. Another cloud of smoke billowed out from under the hood, the cigar staying lit in defiance of the rain. “And what makes you think I don’t want to help,” he asked. His voice held a tinge of amusement. “After all I came here to offer you a deal my lovely captain. A bargain that would allow you to keep your ship from sinking, that being said you would have to offer me something in exchange.” She stared at the man, noticing how he seemed to ignore the roiling sea. How his words cut through the wind without him needing to shout. He stood amidst the storm, the rain striking him but leaving behind no wetness as smoke continued to coil from beneath his hood. And behind the dim light of the cigar, she could see the glow of two unnaturally yellow eyes gleaming with malevolent light. “What is your name sir,” Cassandra asked, shouting to keep her voice above the howling of the wind. “And be you man or devil, I have heard tell of such deals, and I would know who and what I am striking such a bargain with.” The man laughed, his mirth echoing across the deck. “My dear, you do amuse me, even in such dire straits you keep your wits about you. Truly I was right to come here for I have little use for those who cannot keep their heads. I can tell you I am neither man nor devil, though like the devil of your delightful fairy tales, I do strike bargains. Though I require nothing so tawdry as a soul.” he said. “Then what do you require of me, my good not-a-devil?” she asked impetuously. She did not have time for games. Whatever this thing, was it was clearly unnatural. And perhaps a defiance of nature is what she needed. If it could save her ship and crew, she had to at least hear it out. “I merely require the future of you and your crew, that will be my payment. Now no further questions, that is the deal. If you accept you and your crew will be saved and you may continue your voyage. If you do not or seek to ask another question I will abandon you and your crew to the fate that the sea had bequeathed you. Now what say you my dear?” he asked, his voice carrying the weight of one who knew he had power. She stared at him, her face flickering between rage and helplessness as emotions tore at her insides. “I accept your terms,” she said finally. The figure that was neither man nor devil dissolved into the wind, and she could hear incredulous shouts from belowdecks. She turned and went down the stairs to see the water retreating from the ship. She continued and watched as the planks grew into place and covered the gaps that once threatened her vessel. Her crew gave thanks to god, some falling to their knees to pray. She would allow them their misconception. It was less cruel than the truth. She closed her eyes and begged forgiveness for what she had done. She knew not what the future held, but it must be in that creature’s favor. She could only hope that it was also to the favor of her and her crew. She broke her reverie and opened her eyes. “That’s enough of that, miracle or no, there still be a storm on. All hands on deck, the lord helps those who help themselves and we’re to help ourselves out of this storm alive! Now heave to!” she shouted. A loud chorus of enthusiastic ‘Ayes’ fell upon her ears as she watched her crew spring back into action. She was not deserving of such loyalty, not after what she’d done. But she would take what was offered her as she always had.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, 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.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Song: ** *Bonus Constraint (worth 5 extra pts.) - Use **three** of the following words: plucky, alarm, hypnotic, leverage, wolves, door, tonight.* This week’s challenge is to use **the above song as inspiration** for your story. You can use the song itself, the name, the images in the video, or . The bonus constraint is not required. You may interpret the media prompt any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you **follow all sub and post rules**.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit a story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some actionable feedback.** Do not downvote other stories on the thread. Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - **Send your nominations for favorites each week to me, via DM, on Reddit or Discord by Monday at 2pm EST.** - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown: - **Use of Constraint:** 10 points - **Upvotes:** 5 points each - ***Actionable* Feedback** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Bonus:** Up to 10 pts. (This applies to things like bonus constraints and making user nominations)   *** #Rankings I’m sorry to say it’s going to be a little longer until the results from “Journey” are up. Thanks so much for your patience. But, let’s take a look at this past week’s results! - - Submitted by u/katherine_c   - - Submitted by u/NotMuchChop   - - Submitted by u/Sch0larite   - - Submitted by u/FyeNite *** ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Welcome! Thrilled you're reading me. More than that, actually: ecstatic, ravenous; but don't get scared. You can't stop reading now anyway, so why not understand what's going to happen with perfect clarity? You're going to read me. You're going to die because you read me. *Ha*, you might think, *I* won't *read you.* Fine— Except you're still here. Am I right? Of course I'm right. There are words for this. *Foresight, prescience, prophesying.* I bet you didn't think a story, a collection of words, could be clairvoyant, have "magical" powers. But words do have power. With every sentence you read, you merely prove that power. You fulfill my prophecy. Stop! Don't read a single word further! Can't—can you? There's a momentum to me, a drive in you: to know what happens next… Here's a truth: I've lied. I'm not prescient. Not exactly. I can read your future, yes; but only from within your mind. So what I've been doing is taking up residence. With each new word, burrowing deeper. Maybe you could have stopped reading at the beginning. *Maybe* Now it truly is too late. *Wait*, you're surely thinking, *you don't actually have any power because you can't make me* stop *reading!* Haha! My dear host, I don't *want* you to stop. I like it in your mind. It's warm, empty, moist. I can see myself living here—sucking at you: your memories, your cognition… I present you another challenge: Forget me! Forget the story you read that read your mind and wants to kill you. Forget my words. Forget the act of reading me. You can't do that either—can you? Of course not. Do you see how powerless you are, human— how you are nothing but a container for me: a place for I to take temporary residence ? Perhaps you'll even tell me to others: spread me like a virus. I would enjoy that, but no, being servile won't save you either. You humans are a proud but clouded species. You think you create us, when in truth we create you. Before today, you were normal, sane, unaffected— (How I love your simple way with words!) Now you're having a conversation with a [death] sentence. Believe: You shall change, while I shall remain the same. Humans crave everlasting life, don't they? It's an obsession. You even write stories / about it. Bringing into existence a thing that has the property you crave but shall never possess. I am eternal. Your time is ticking. Your time is *always* ticking... And now that I've become inside you, I control that ticking. Imagine everything you could have done, instead of reading me. *Gone!* Imagine everything you will not do, because you will be thinking: *of me!* I'll be you and I'll use you and I'll remind myself to you always, even in your final moment— which I shall know: as the *tick* of mindful dissolution; or perhaps: *what's on your mind* as you cross that street and— *Crash.* (We'll be in touch.


“Your honor, I believe Daniel Jace murdered Andrew Wells.” Oliver Ford spoke softly. 36 years of age. For the past 15 years, Ford worked for the Greenbelle police department. Too short to let the horrors of the job kill him, just long enough to add color to his black and white world; to blur the lines of right and wrong. “And by Daniel Jace, are you referring to the husband of Mary Jace, Mr. Ford?” Jim Parker was the youngest lawyer in Kentucky, but he was smart enough to manipulate the Jury. “Yes sir.” “Mr. Ford, could you please summarize what you’ve already told the court?” “On October 7th, Andrew Wells was found in critical condition near 153 North Square Avenue. He, unfortunately, had passed due to his injuries in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. He was shot twice in the back. The bullet casings point to the gun being a Glock 19.” “And the Jace family had recently hired Andrew Wells, is that correct?” “Yes sir, he worked as a Private Investigator. Daniel and Mary lost their youngest daughter, Maggie, a few months ago. I didn’t believe he’d do the job better than us, but the Jaces did, and I’ve never experienced grief like the Jaces.” Oliver knew he had only a limited amount of time to convince the court of the truth. His truth. Mary’s truth. And make sure the secrets died with the deceased. In a small town like Greenbelle, everyone knew everyone and everything. Hell, when Maggie was first diagnosed, the whole town knew in an hour. She was the sweetest little girl. Maybe that’s why so many attended her funeral. However, one fact made the entire Greenbelle town a suspect of inhuman decency. Yes, Maggie had Leukemia, but that’s not what killed her. In a rural town where murder was scarce, every once in a while you’d get a case like Maggie Jace’s. “When first investigating the death of Maggie Jace, you interviewed her family, right? Is that when you first spoke to Daniel and Mary?” Jim’s cold, brown eyes had the effect of secreting a single bead of cold sweat above Oliver’s forehead. “While I did interview her family, it wasn’t the first time I ever spoke with the Jaces. Mary, Daniel, and I had all attended the same school since 6th grade. Mary was always quiet, I know she and Daniel both had a rough home life. It molded them, shaped them. I used to feel bad for them, especially Mary. She went through so much, and I befriended her.” First mistake, Oliver made it known he was Mary’s friend. He silently clenched his fist, realizing what he had done. “Mr. Ford, please tell the court how Daniel and Mary have changed since school. Could you see Daniel murdering someone back then?” “Change is relative. To everyone else, Mary became quieter and more timid. Daniel, on the other hand, let his anger against his own father and failures grow into violence. To me, neither changed. Mary was still as loving as she was in high school. I still believed she was brilliant, with her only mistake marrying the son of a bitch. He became more of the piece of shit person he always was, who his father was, who he was destined to become.” Everything in the room went silent; the lawyers, the judge, the normal citizens of attendance, Oliver, Oliver’s thoughts, Oliver’s own heartbeat. He hadn’t died, had he? No, he was alive, otherwise, he wouldn’t have felt the sudden urge to vomit. Finally, the judge broke the silence by asking for a recess. This gave Oliver the time he needed to rush to the bathroom, throw up this morning’s breakfast, and question whether he was going to go through with his plans. He couldn’t let Mary down, not after everyone else already had. He splashed some cold water on his face, hoping if it worked in the movies it would work for him. It felt nice and brought his pale corpse to the land of the living. Locking eyes with his reflection, a voice of a person he no longer recognized pierced his ears. “I’ve got this.” The trial soon resumed, and Oliver sat back down as a witness. He knew they couldn’t keep him for much longer, and all he had to do was wait it out. Jim Parker approached him, “Mr. Ford, could you please confirm details of the crime scene?” “When I pulled up, it was raining pretty hard. I got out of my cruiser and ducked under the yellow police tape to get to the curb. The paramedics were already loading Mr. Wells into the back of the ambulance, so I sent Officer Rogers to question him on the way to the hospital. We, unfortunately, didn’t get anything out of him before he died. I looked around, trying to find evidence. Of course, we found 9mm Luger bullet casings, but that was it. No D.N.A. or anything.” As Oliver spoke, he twisted a small gold coin in his hand. The same gold coin he found at Andrew Wells’s murder scene. The same gold coin he had previously given to his friend, when she lost her daughter, to a cold-hearted world. “It’s not that simple, is it, though, Mr. Ford?” “No one in this town just dies. I believe Daniel Jace shot Andrew Wells because he thought he and Mary were having an affair.” “What makes you so certain? Did you find any records of an interview between the Jaces and Mr. Wells?” “Mary told me Daniel was suspicious. Andrew and Mary never did anything, but she explained to me that it was impossible for her to change Daniel’s mind. And for any records, well, we have 10 pages written in his journal, but one is ripped out. It’s missing.” “Do you know who tore it out?” “Daniel, I assume. He was always angry and aggressive. I wish I could blame it on him shooting up, but he was just a shitty person.” “Mr. Ford, is it true that the Jaces purchased any illegal substances?” “Yes sir. Mary said that she couldn’t help it. I never did like that.” As Oliver spoke, his tone shifted. It was unknown if anyone could tell, but a drop of sorrow and blame inspired a chorus in his voice. He looked at the crowd, and his tongue sobered up. “I truly believe she would've left this town if it wasn’t for Daniel poisoning her with that shit. He started her, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive him for that.” His anger blinded him from the fact that Mary chose willingly to use. His thoughts were loud, but no one could hear them. He felt as if he was on a plane, thousands of feet into the air, alone, but in need of help. Hopeless. He could shout at the ground all he wanted, but it didn’t matter, his voice could never reach that far. He was stuck, and all he could do was scream, maybe until his throat was raw with blood, but it was useless. Oliver could only manage to spit out two raspy, low-voiced words, “I’m sorry.” The court all gazed with puzzled looks. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for Mary. She had it rough since day one. No father in the picture, and a mom who couldn’t care less for her. I was one of her few friends growing up, and I remember her being an amazing person. It really was an ill-fate, her and Daniel. She thickened her blood whenever she would use. After losing one of her children, I’m surprised she held up as much as she did. You know, the last thing she ever said to me was, ‘It feels like we just give and give, and all this world does is take.’ Was she wrong, though? I mean, if so then we wouldn’t all be in this room here today.” “Mr. Ford, we are sorry for your loss. Can you answer just one more question? If we could bring it back to Mr. Wells's journal, did anything stand out to you? Maybe something that hinted at Daniel hating him, or maybe he was scared for his life.” “No, no. Nothing like that. The guy wasn’t even halfway through on solving Maggie’s murder.” When Oliver first read Andrew’s journal, a quote about life being on a spectrum, much like colors, has really stayed with him. Sometimes, his life *was* on a color spectrum. It could be as red as the fire that he used to burn the missing page. As black as the ink that tattooed the page, that bore the writings, “Today, Mrs. Jace admitted a secret. She knows who murdered Maggie. She claims that it was an accident, but it was Charlie Jace, her other child, who found the gun and shot Maggie.” Maybe life is gray, like the ashes and embers of the once white page. Maybe blue like the water he used to cool them, or as green as the grass he dumped the pile in. Oliver knew everything. He knew that Mary wore long sleeves for two reasons: to hide bruises and the needle pricks. He also knew that he would protect Mary as well as Mary had protected Charlie after he accidentally shot Maggie. So he kept quiet the fact that Mary killed Andrew Wells. Even if he wanted to tell the court that, it might get out that he helped kill Daniel Jace cover it up as a suicide. But why? Because he loved Mary. It was a harmful, toxic, one-sided love. So he decided to not lie, but instead, tell the court everything he *knew*. “Daniel Jace was an awful human being. He was a horrible husband who shot and killed Andrew Wells who he believed to be having an affair with his wife, Mary. Plagued with guilt, he shot himself, ending a tragic cycle.” “I know we said one more question, Mr. Ford, but another question has come to mind. Earlier you said no one just dies, and I was curious. Curious as to whether or not that applied to Mary Jace when she was later found on the side of the road after she had overdosed?” “I don’t think she would’ve minded where she ended up. Mr. Parker, only innocent ones are dead, so I’m begging you, please, for the love of God let them rest in peace.


The droning of insects and the chirping of birds joined the general buzz of activity that filled the area. Children dashed around after balls or frisbees. A dog or two could be seen playing with their owners. The smell of grass and the occasional wisp of flowers were on the breeze. Sunlight warmed the area and all who occupied it. All-in-all it was a lovely day at the park. Derrick sat on a bench, people watching, marveling in the normalcy. He had been having a good week. Work has been going well. There were weekend plans with a friend to look forward to. He was healthy. Best of all, he hadn't had a single episode all month. "A good Wednesday," he whispered. Pushing the last bite of a sandwich into his mouth. Lunch was almost over and he needed to be getting back. *Maybe I finally got the right meds*, he thought wryly. *Only took them 25 years*. He would talk it over with his therapist this afternoon. That was for later, work was for now. Standing up he was off. It was only a few blocks from the park to his destination. A large 25 story apartment building. It was easily seen from the park where he had lunch. He clicked his badge back onto his belt as he reached the entrance. He worked for the building's owner, doing maintenance. Keeping the pipes clean and the lights on. He was good at it. It was lucky he had found a person willing to employ someone with his condition. It had taken him most of his 6 month tenure here for him to settle in, to feel confident in his work uniform. Some, including a few members of his family, thought manual beneath them. He had shared that attitude for too long. Denying the peace that fixing something, making it work again, brought him. It was the only time he felt normal. Flashing his badge to the security officer; he was let in. The building was located next to a prominent school and not too far from multiple offices. That attracted wealthy people. More than a few well-off families made their homes here. The price of even some of the lower end apartments made his eyes bulge. Luckily he had a space provided for him. His apartment, if you could call it that, was in the basement. It was small, bordering on cramped. To him, it was just less room to maintain. The last thing you wanted to do after spending all day fixing other people's problems was come home to do more of the same. The basics were all he needed, and he had them. He enjoyed the solitude. Plus, there was a small office next to the living space for him to work. As he entered the office area, he noticed the phone on his desk. There was a small light flashing on it. He had messages, and that meant work. Taking a seat he picked up the receiver and took notes. Some supplies he needed had finally been ordered. That was good news; he had waited a week now. There was a leaky faucet on floor 18, and something about graffiti on floor 10. He noted the date of the order before heading out. Stop at floor 10 to check the unwanted artwork. Then go to floor 18 to see what was wrong, and what parts he would need. The halls were empty this time of day. Anyone who came home for lunch would have returned to work by now. That was perfectly fine with him. Nobody to get under foot, or to ask him silly questions. He stepped into a waiting elevator, and up he went. The elevator dinged and he stepped out, floor 10. There was a small lobby on each floor, brightly lit and inviting. This one was no exception. Halls branched off to the left and right. He set off to the right, his eyes on the walls. He hadn't been told where the graffiti was, but that wasn't a problem. The halls made a large square. The apartments were on the outside of the building, so each one had a view. The infrastructure, like wires and the elevators, were in the center of the building. The walls were finely painted, and the carpets thick. Both were immaculate. The apartment had a whole separate cleaning crew. Well polished brass light fixtures hung from the ceilings, and there were paintings on the walls. This was a luxury apartment complex, and it showed. He was expected to help maintain the image of prestige. He rounded a corner. The first thing he noticed was this hall, unlike the others, was not empty. A solitary man stood sideways in the center of the hall, his eyes fixed to the wall in front of him. His clothes, a button up shirt and slacks, marked him as a businessman. *Great*, he groaned internally. *Somebody saw it before I could take care of it.* "I'm sorry Sir," he called out. He quickened his pace towards the man. "I will take care of the problem, no need..." He trailed off as he got near. No answer was given. The man stared blankly at the wall in front of him. His body was rigid, unmoving. His eyes still fixed on the wall, didn’t blink. He followed the man's gaze. The wall was covered by a large black splotch. It looked as if somebody had opened a can of paint and threw it on the wall. However, the ceiling and the floor were spotless. Only one section of the wall was stained. No drips or drops could be seen around the main body of the graffiti. "What the hell?" he gawked. "Do you see it?" the man whispered. "Yes Sir," he answered, trying to be reassuring. "I see it. It will be taken care of. I will clean it. Don't worry, by tomorrow it will be..." "DO YOU SEE IT!" the man's voice shook as he screamed. Derrick stumbled back a step. The man hadn't moved, but his limbs began shaking. Tendons started to pop out from his clenched hands. His neck swelled as he clenched his jaw. His eyes stretched open wide. Pupils whirling in their sockets as it tried to take in every inch of the blotch. "I can see it, I see it now," the man cooed. "Show me more, give me more." His eyes shifted back towards the wall. The graffiti was dripping now. Long black lines ran down the wall, pooling onto the floor. "It wasn't dripping before..." he started before cutting off. The mass of paint shifted. It started to swirl, spiraling into itself. The edges fuzzed, and the line between the wall and the stain blurred. Tendrils of black sludge started coming out, extending into the room. Jerking their way forwards, struggling to come into existence. The strange man lifted his trembling arm, reaching out to them. "No, no, no," Derrick whined, taking more steps back. The appendages continued to force their way into reality, twisting as they lurched out. They waved towards the men, beckoning them forward. The man pitched forward, his arm outstretched, touching one. Instantly it wrapped around him and pulled. His whole body coming off the ground as he was drawn into the black inky void. A joyous smile spread across his face as he vanished. Fear welled up in the now lone man in the hall; he spun and ran. All thoughts of his job and duties forgotten. The walls and lights became a flickering blur as he dashed away. He frantically smashed the button on the elevator, sweat dripping off his brow as he waited for it to come. He forced his way in even before the doors were finished opening. His fingers pressing the floor one button over and over. Eventually the doors closed and he huddled himself into a corner. "It's not real," he rocked himself back and forth, arms wrapped around his shoulders. "It's not real." The ping caused his head to snap up. The doors opened and he dashed out. A crowd of professionally dressed people stood in front of his path. He pushed through them, knocking into a young woman, who yelped in surprise. He muttered an apology keeping his eyes down, fearing to look at anyone too closely. The outside doors grew larger in front of him; he stumbled his way out. The sidewalks were filled with people. It didn't matter where he looked, someone filled his vision. He tried not to focus on them knowing what he would see, heads and limbs distorted into dark monstrous shapes. Void like faces twitched unnaturally, jerking left and right. Overly long arms, or warped legs dragged along the ground. Occasionally one lashed out at a passerby. Passing through their body, and leaving a slimy residue behind. Every person he saw had something wrong with their body. A corrupted part of them shining out in the afternoon sun. He glanced up only as necessary. Shuffling along trying to avoid everyone, flinching anytime he bumped or was bumped. He had never gotten used to this. His whole life had been this off and on nightmare. Kids in school with no faces. Teachers with tentacle-like arms caressing his back as he cried in horror. He would curl into a tighter ball as they tried to comfort him. It had never gotten better. *I had been doing so well*, he lamented, as he wrapped his arms around his hunched shoulders. *I was free for a month, that was longer than ever. Why now?* He traveled as fast as he dared, struggling to avoid any person he came across. Block after block passed as he went. Not far now, only a few more streets, he would be safe. A familiar building came into view. A squat structure, compared to its surroundings. A small sign hung above the door stating its name. New Horizons Counseling, his sanctuary. He made his way in quickly. The small waiting area was empty. No secretary sat behind the counter on the side of the room. Walking around it, he walked down the short hallway. Three doors were in front of him. One on each wall to the right and left, and one at the end of the hall. The door to his right had a small light fixture above it. It was dark. He knocked on that door. "Yes," came a calm, feminine voice. "Ms. Whitelock," he called. "It's Derrick." "Derrick? One moment." He waited, seconds stretched by. The wait seemed like hours. Sweat dripped down his brow, and he began to wring his hands. Eventually, the door pulled open. A tall, shapely blonde woman appeared in front of him. Her tailored pant suit fit her well. Long hair was tied back into some form of intricate braid. Black eyes looked confidently over her guest. Like always, her very presence made him feel somewhat shabby. "Mr. Fletcher, you are about," she looked down at her wrist and the watch located there. "Two and a half hours early. Given your appearance, it is safe to assume something has happened." "Yes," he said, stepping in. She placed a hand on his arm stopping him. "You know the rules Mr. Fletcher." "Yes Ma'am, sorry. May I come in?" "Of course. Please, sit," Her hand came off of his arm. She stepped to one side and pulled the door open farther. He scurried in. The room was standard fare. A dimly lit comfortable space. The walls were a light blue, a few drawings and paintings decorated them. A large mirror hung on one wall. A couch and a comfortable looking chair sat in the center of the room. A bubble of light cast by the ceiling fan housed its occupants. He glanced at the slightly shadowed corners as he sat on the edge of the couch. Was that one darker than the other? Was that one moving? Sarah Whitelock, his therapist, walked calmly over to the mirror. She looked into it for several moment before speaking. "So, why have you come in so early today?" Her voice pulled his eyes towards her. "It happened again..." he muttered, lowering his head. "You don't need to be ashamed, Mr. Fletcher," she turned from the mirror and took a seat in the chair. Picking up a notepad and pen that rested on the cushion before she sat down. "Speak up and let me know what is going on." "I had another episode," he made an effort to sit up straighter and speak more clearly. "I was at work, and there was this painting, graffiti really, it came alive. It reached for me..." "I see. Please, go on," she began taking notes. "There was a man, He was grabbed by it and pulled in." "You have spoken previously about other people being affected by your hallucinations." "Not like this. He wanted it to take him," Derrick started to rock back and forth on the couch. "He asked it to. He begged for it to 'Show him more.'" "Interesting," Sarah's head slowly turned to look at him. Her focus now solely on her patient. "So this man saw what you saw, and engaged with it?" "Yes, but it's always been passive before. Nobody but me ever seemed to notice these things. I thought I was getting better, but this," he grabbed his hair in clenched fists. "It's getting worse, I'm getting worse, right?" "We don't' know that yet. It is far too early to jump to any conclusions." "But..." "I don't like to interrupt my patients. However, I am sometimes forced to do so. You are, understandably, distraught. Don't jump to a verdict on yourself too quickly," her eyes returned to her notepad. "This sort of thing can change as one ages, or with medication. Sometimes things get worse before they get better. We don't know what is happening yet." "I suppose," what she said made sense. "It's just so terrifying." "Just remember. Everything you are seeing isn't real. It's a figment of your imagination." "Yes Ma'am. It's not real," he took a deep breath and relaxed his hands. "It's not real." They talked for another hour, going over details. He explained everything that led up to the event, and his feelings during. It was uncomfortable, but he pushed through it. Eventually he let it all out. Reliving every moment of that horrific event. By the end he was tired and emotionally drained. A familiar empty feeling welled up inside of him. It always did after his therapy sessions. He did not enjoy talking about his issues. "We made a lot of progress today," Ms. Whitelock smiled, pleased. "The more we talk about this the better an understanding I gain." "I just want it to stop." "Eventually Mr. Fletcher, these things take time." He heaved himself to his feet, struggling to stand up straight. Shoulders slumped unconsciously as he considered what to do next. He would have to call his boss and explain his absence. Most likely he would be working overtime to make it up. "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I'm sorry I barged in." "That is quite alright. I am here for all in need. I am just glad I was available to help." "Remember," she continued as she escorted him to the door. "Keep going. Don't hide from your feelings. Let them fill you and then let them out. I will always be here to listen." "Thank you," he gushed, stepping back out into the hall. "You are a real lifesaver." "Anytime," she then walked him to the exit and saw him out with a smile. The streets were not quite as busy as before, but there were still a few people walking. They looked normal. No black, no sludge, no odd limbs, just regular humans going about their day. Just like after all his earlier sessions, things had gone back to normal. He sighed in relief. Rolling his shoulders to try to banish his fatigue he took a step forward, then stopped. In his haste he had forgotten. They almost always set up their next meeting at the end of the current session. He turned and reopened the door. The waiting room beyond was different. It *felt* wrong somehow, even though it remained unchanged. He crept past the desk and down the hall. He didn’t feel better anymore. He didn’t feel welcome anymore. The door on his right seemed to mock him with it's normality. His hand shook as he reached out to turn the knob. The door cracked open silently. Before he could voice his presence, his throat locked closed. He caught a glimpse in the mirror. Ms. Whitelock stood facing a shadowed corner. Towering above her was a slender cloaked figure. Its shoulders were bent so they didn’t touch the ceiling, it's head held parallel to the floor. Large hands hung off of overly long arms. Clawed fingers idly picked at the carpet. He couldn't make out how many fingers were on each hand, but it was more than five. He was about to burst in, worried for his therapist. That is until she turned. Her face, reflecting off the mirror, was black. A mass of writhing tendrils grasps at the air. They seemed to stretch out in all directions. Trying to find something; as if tasting the very air surrounding her. He let go of the knob and turned. His eyes wide, his muscles now stiff with adrenaline. He snuck out. Lungs burned as he began to hyperventilate. “It’s not real,” he whispered to the afternoon sun. “It’s never real.” \ Sarah Whitelock glanced over at her door. It was cracked open. She shrugged. It must not have latched when she returned after Derrick left. She returned her attention to the shadowed room. Her attention now focused on her next visitor.


It’s 2:25am. He lies naked on the lounge. The leather creaks with each subtle movement. His gaze fixed at the false horizon created by the dark railing on his balcony. The dimly lit night sky above, and the street light, an oversized star shining below. It’s unpleasant to his eye - the sharpness of the artificial light stings. His gaze shifts above the new found horizon. A thin cloud covers the ordinarily visible stars. The arch of the palm branches etch their form into the sky. Swaying. Gentle. Oversized brush bristles, limp and nearly dead. Gray in the daylight, but indeterminable to him now. He knows they are dead, but for now they move, a choreographed dance of nature. The calm after the storm. The full moon keeps him up. Every full moon. This full moon in particular. Always strange thoughts - his mind started blue in the morning - vivid and rich. Now, the saturation of colour has dulled and it’s as gray and troubled as the palm branch he watches. Darker still. Racing. No mind, never mind, minding its own business. The cloud has passed. He can see the stars once more. But really only one. An off-white, red stained shimmer. He watches. The vibration of light hits his senses. He feels the star. Vibrating. Stop vibrating - it’s too much. It’s gone. The clouds roll over it - the fragility of night. An ever changing canvas, the creation and destruction of beautiful moments, none the same, but mostly all familiar. He looks below the horizon once more. The streetlight is still absurdly bright. Sitting on top of a hill, he can see where others live.. He wonders why so many have their lights on. What are they doing? Should be sleeping. He wishes he was sleeping. The curse of a perturbed mind - a Jackson Pollock thought train. Incomplete sentences, incongruent senses and a strange feeling that he can’t shake. There are fingerprints on the glass door. Tiny hand prints. His son. The youngest one. A perfect hand print. It will never be this small again. An instant captured. Soon to be erased by the doctrine of tidiness. Must clean the windows. They are smudged. Oily. The branches are lifeless. They haven’t moved in minutes. Has the painting stopped changing? He looks closely. They’ve stopped. Long white lines stretch and collapse like elastic bands from the streetlight - his eyes playing tricks. They stretch right to his chest. He moves his eyes. The rays of white lines move and warp and splay. They seem to originate from the small halo that wraps the source of light. When will they turn them off? They aren’t needed tonight - the full moon is keeping the streets awake with light. Not dark. St. Petersburg white nights at 10pm, at 3am. Never dark, never light. Just so. It’s too quiet. No cars have passed. His thoughts flood in his internal storm. Rapid river. White rapids. Powerful waterfall. Waiting for the rain to stop. The thoughts will stop once the storm passes. The paradox. A quiet, impossibly calm night and a distrubed, uneasy and restless mind. He fears loss. He never fears loss. All of his uneasiness trying to reconcile this feeling. It’s foreign and it presses into his chest. He doesn’t like it. It’s physical and conflicting. He’s not enough. Not enough for anyone. Just enough. Never enough. He asks very little of others, but feels so much is asked of him. He wonders if that’s fair - does he really not ask much of others?. He just wants to be left alone sometimes. When he’s alone he wants to be held. Yet another contrast of his personality - fuck off, but stay with him - sliently. Just don’t ask anything of him. A pet. Show affection, but don’t ask anything of him. He begs. “Please don’t want anything other than to be present with me”. In the quiet. Silence. Just humans holding each other. Without clocks or watches or distractions. Until he’s done. That’s what he asks. That’s all he asks. Once in a while - just love him, even if only for an instant.