Starving is a painful ordeal. It had been days now since they had recieved some rations and Little Crow and his fellow countrymen, who surrendered to the Ulstermen to receive food and water were now finding neither. The war in the East was now in full swing and the Ulstermen had hardly the resources nor the interest in looking after their conquered subjects and as such the rations they were given were being rationed in turn. It was considered lucky for Little Crow to have been able to even find some hardtack in the camp, even if it was covered in weevils. He had found a nice spot by the wall of the barracks to protect himself from the wind and ate it in peace, bit by bit. It was then that the man he had been avoiding for days sulked over to him and sat down while Little Crow avoided making eye contact with him. It wasn’t that he hated Black Kettle. It was just that he knew what he was going to ask for, and while he couldn’t bring himself to say no to his old friend he didn’t want to say yes. “Please” Black Kettle pleaded with him as he scratched at his arms. He looked at his Black Kettle and his cut-up hands that held a piece of stale hardtack. “It’s been days since I’ve eaten, I don’t know how long I can keep going like this.” Black Kettle said with a withered voice. Little Crow sighed and turned away “I can’t keep giving you food. I barely have enough for myself and that’s something I need to keep.” Black Kettle however was not deterred and he looked at him with sunken eyes and pale skin. He was dying of hunger and Little Crow knew if he wouldn’t find anything soon, he would be as good as dead “you’re the only one I know who can help me. Just give me a small bit and I can make due for the next few days I swear it”. Little Crow sighed and looked around the prison camp. It was a warm sunny day and most of their countrymen were working in the fields where the Ulstermen in the guard towers had their focus turned. Little Crow then sighed and nodded “alright just a small piece then” Black Kettle nodded then as Little Crow took out a shiv and held it towards the hardtack on his hand before slitting his finger. Blood then began to flow freely and he held it over Black Kettle's throat as he began to drink from it. All the while the dark circles around his eyes began to reciprocate and his skin changed color before Little Crow jerked his hand away and the two men remained silent for a moment as Black Kettle wiped his mouth “thank you.. it means a lot to me.” Little Crow didn’t say anything as he sighed and pressed his bleeding finger to his coat while Black Kettle walked off avoiding the bright sun overhead in the process .


Private Collins was just coming out of his tent when he saw a group of his fellow soldiers sitting close together, sharing some great news. Curiously he stepped towards the group. As soon as the others saw him, they rushed to their comrade’s side. Collins was confused, as for what could be worth such a fuss. “Collins,” one of them spoke up, seemingly distressed. “You’ve got to come.” “What is it?” “It’s Fletcher, they say he’s a deserter.” “He what?” Collins exclaimed starting to feel the same distress creep up on him. “Fletcher wouldn’t be able to desert the colours if his bloody life depended on it.” The soldier tried to joke. But the smile froze on his face, when he realised, they were telling the truth. “Where is he now?” Collins asked whilst his stomach sank deeper and deeper.  Collins found his friend confined to his tent and guarded by two soldiers from another regiment. Like stone, their faces showed no emotion as their eyes stared ahead. When Collins approached, they reacted by crossing their bayonets. “I just want to speak to him,” the Englishman pleaded. The guards exchanged a glance before replying. “Make it quick,” opening one of the tent’s flaps. Swiftly Collins went inside, finding his friend sitting on the ground. With his knees drawn to the chin, Fletcher was staring at the dirt in front of him. “Fletcher,” Collins uttered relieved upon seeing his friend unharmed. “What trouble did you get yourself into now?” In one motion Fletcher sprung up and clung to his friend. “I haven’t done anything,” he whispered with dread. Collins could feel his friend’s body trembling, despite the other man’s efforts to hide it. “They are going to shot me, once the sun stands highest.” Fletcher’s revelation sent Collins’ own blood racing through his body. He looked his friend in the eye before using a demanding tone. “What happened,” but the stubborn fellow just shook his head and sat back down. With a sullen face he continued staring at nothing, waiting for his end. “What about general Green?” Collins tried to get some information from his friend. Fletcher only shook his head again. Fury rose inside Collins at his friend’s lack of will to survive. Without another word he went outside and towards general Green’s tent.  To his luck the general let him inside at once. The man in charge of their regiment was writing a letter when Collins entered. “In a moment,” he remarked without looking up. Laying down the feather he gestured Collins to speak. “Sir, it’s about Fletcher.” A shadow passed briefly over Collins’ superior’s face. “He is been accused of desertion by general Morgan and a sergeant who witnessed it.” Green said in a voice indicating his sincere condolences. “But sir,” Collins continued. “I know Fletcher. He would rather die than become a traitor.” “I believe you,” Green assured him. “But your word counts nothing against a general’s.” “Is there no way to at least lessen the sentence. A flogging.” Collins begged the man in front of him. “It is not in my power to change the sentence,” he replied sympathetically. Getting up from his desk he laid a hand on Collins’ shoulder. “Has anything happened that could have upset Morgan?” Collins remembered his friend’s silence at the topic of what had happened. “I don’t know, Fletcher won’t tell me. Would it make a difference?” “No,” seeing the despair in Collins eyes the general tried to comfort him. “I am sorry, those rules give rise to much suffering for good, honest men like you or Fletcher.” “I volunteer to execute him!” Collins said firmly, although he knew it wasn’t his place to decide that. “I am not going to sacrifice two good men in one day.” “I want to be there for him.” “Be there like the others,” Green dismissed the request and turned to go back to his desk. “I don’t want him to die, feeling like a traitor. I want him to know I am right there with him, until the end. Taking part in his suffering.” The general turned around and took a deep breath. With kindness and worry he looked at Collins. “You can not go back from this. You will kill your friend.” “It is my duty as his friend to share his pain. I will give him mercy, even if it’s not fair.” A hint of accusation had sneaked itself into Collins’ voice. But his superior ignored it. “Fairness is not a soldier’s concern, lad.” Green handed him a canteen, “take it. You both need it more than I do right now.”  Outside Collins looked up at the clear French sky. The sun was almost at its highest. Receiving entrance to his friend’s tent once again Collins sneaked inside. “You shouldn’t be here Collins. It’s almost time,” his friend uttered without moving his head. “Here,” Collins gave his friend the canteen which contained rum. Fletcher took a sip, and another when Collins urged him to go on. “I am not going to leave you, my friend.” Fletcher cast him a questioning look. Taking a deep breath Collins brazed himself for any reaction. “I am going to be part of the firing squad.” At once Fletcher got up, his eyes wide with an emotion Collins could not name. “What? You can’t be serious!” “You won’t change my mind in the last couple of minutes now. Might as well make peace with it.” Collins grinned at how his friend forgot to close his mouth at the reflection of his own stubbornness. None of them wanted to end their last conversation with a fight. Fletcher’s eyes beamed with guilt and gratitude, when he handed Collins the canteen. “You will need it when,” his words faltered. Collins hugged his friend one last time. “I will go with you to the end, mate.”  When it was time, Collins felt the pit in his stomach growing bigger with each step. Fletcher was about to be blindfolded when the two men said their silent goodbyes to each other. A thousand thoughts crossed Collins’ mind in the few seconds between blindfolding and firing. A hundred scenarios how he could try to escape with his friend. But he knew Fletcher was like him, a man of honour. Life might play dirty, but they would face it nonetheless. Collins had a duty to fulfil. And Fletcher would send him to hell if he would abandon it. The private made an effort to remember their best moments together. Remembered his friends smile when they had sat around the fire at night. Or their jokes, when they had marched together. When the order came, Collins pulled without hesitating. Solemnly he thought, how that half canteen of rum would be good company the coming night.


Kyle Hunter, a Starbucks barista in his thirties, decided to take a break and go hiking on his day off. He felt that his life had not gone as planned and that he needed to clear his head and gain some perspective. Kyle had never gone on a hike before, and thirty minutes in, he had become completely lost, had neglected to bring enough water or food, and had forgotten to apply sunscreen. Several hours later, exhausted from the heat, starving, and with skin the color of a tomato, Kyle was ambushed by a man wearing a Mike Myers mask and driving a black van. He was blindfolded, bound, and thrown into the back of the van. The van smelled like Fritos and feet, and Kyle knew he was in trouble. He was taken to a dingy and dark basement, where he was held captive with no end in sight. Kyle could barely see anything because of the terrible lighting. He was given a cot to sleep on and a bucket to use as a toilet. He was fed meager meals and given no information about why he had been kidnapped or who his kidnapper was. "I'm not sure what you want; I have no money, I'm bad at sex, and maybe if you set a ransom of twenty NFL bobblehead dolls and a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon, my dad might pay; but it's a longshot," Kyle cried into the darkness, receiving no response. Kyle began to break down and accept his fate as the days passed. He assumed he would never be found and would spend the rest of his life in that basement. The kidnapper, wearing the Mike Myers mask, entered the basement one night. "What the hell, man? Are you ever going to let me go?" "Within time." "What do you want?" "I think the most important question is, what do you want?" "I want to leave." "Think bigger, Kyle. What do you want out of life?" "Who are you, my therapist?" "If you need to think of me as your therapist, that's fine." "Man, f—- you; I'm not telling you anything." "I'll leave you with this; if you didn't have any worries, money wasn't an issue, you had health insurance, and you could do whatever you wanted, what would it be?" Kyle continued his day-to-day waiting after the kidnapper left the basement. He had never considered his life's problems in that light before. With nothing to do but exercise and think, there was no shortage of time to reflect on this question. "Do whatever I want? If I didn't have money problems, I'd do... nothing," Kyle thought to himself. "I guess that's what I'm doing now, and I don't like doing nothing." Kyle, in fact, had no idea. He considered traveling but remembered how much he disliked staying in hotels and unfamiliar places. He considered playing video games all day and night, but he had already done that, and after a marathon night, he felt deep down that he was wasting his life. Sure, it was fun to spend time with friends, but after a game was completed, nothing of value was added. He then reasoned that friends were the key, but as he examined further, he realized he was sometimes introverted. Socialization was enjoyable in tiny doses, but he would be unhappy if he had to do it all day, every day. That night, Mike Myers returned. "Have you thought about my question from yesterday?" "Yeah, I'd do things that make me happy." "What would that be?" "I'd do a lot of different things; I'd stay up late, I'd sleep whenever I wanted, I'd have complete freedom." "Freedom? Given your current situation, that's an odd word to use. Do you want freedom because you don't have it, or are you not allowing yourself to be free in your own life?" Kyle realized the truth when Mike Myers left the basement that night. He wasn't talking about his freedom from kidnapping; he was talking about his desired freedom in his life. "How could I not be free?" Kyle considered the concept of freedom. What did it look like? Who did he know was actually free? Who did he strive to be? Night after night, Mike Myers and Kyle had these conversations about life, purpose, and what Aristotle described as Sublime Beatitudo. Kyle finally had an answer to the original question after seven months of examination, reflection, and conversation; if money were no object, he would... It would be very easy to tell you what Kyle discovered, but I would be doing you a great disservice. Some answer this question with spirituality or charity, while others use philosophy, art, or scientific endeavors. Some seek to find answers to the larger questions about life, human existence, and the universe while others desire power and influence not only to benefit others but also to be remembered and leave a legacy long after their lives are over. There is no definitive or universal answer, so you have to find your own purpose by doing the work. As Mike Myers promised, the day had come for Kyle to leave. He left a more substantial person than when he was originally kidnapped; he better understood life's aspirations, what it meant to be healthy, and what potentially may be his path to happiness. Kyle was blindfolded, bound, and thrown into the back of the Frito/Feet van once again, where he was taken to an undisclosed location. Upon his release, Mike Myers handed him a credit card. "This is a gift. It has no limit, will never be declined, and no bill will ever be sent." Kyle was finally free, and not just from the dark basement where he had been held captive.


It’s been months of tracking and they finally caught up to him. Xanthan and Montauk advance ahead of the group in pursuit of the hooded man. “Montauk wait up!!! Don’t go in alone” Xanthan exclaimed. “We need to hurry, we can’t keep letting him get away!” Montauk responded with his focus straight ahead after the hooded man. Xanthan has never seen Montauk this determined, this tunneled vision. All that mattered to him at this moment was catching this man. They are chasing him through a dense forest. There is tight vegetation on the ground with a maze of tall trees surrounding them with thick branches that slapped them across the face as they ran. The moonlight is barely able to seep though. Xanthan can only see nothing the Montauks back as he strides ahead of him, and he soon loses him. Xanthan can feel something is off, but Montauk was using all his energy to chase this mysterious man down. Whatever the case Xanthan wanted to be sure to be by his side. Montauk ran enough to eventually exit the bunch of trees only to be meet with a steep rock formation. He snaps his head up to see the hooded man already on top, staring back down, as if he was waiting for Montauk to catch up. Their eyes meet, and then the hooded man continues his escape. Montauk now seems more determined than ever and starts to leap with great superhuman height up the mountain, all while Xanthan struggles to keep up. Montauk reaches the summit, but the chase was over. The man is there waiting, bathing in the moonlight with his hooded cloak dancing in the cool night breeze. “What is this? Why? Why are you here?” Montauk ask. The man answers with a question “Do you know where we are? We are where the stars touch the earth. Where reality fades and the only thing left is the eternal breath of the universe.” Montauk, with nothing but regret and anger filling his eyes, glares at the man. The man continues “You know where this is…” Montauks glare does not break, and he makes up his mind to advance forward to confront the man, but his first step leads him to a different dimension. He is transported to an all black void, with nothing around but the slight shimmer of a endless puddle beneath his feet. The puddle casts a perfect inverse image. He is stunned for a small moment, then the hooded man’s voice echoes behind him, “Please Gabriel, we can’t keep doing this to ourselves” “Don’t call me that!” Montauks snaps back “I didn’t do this to myself! You did, and it has haunted me ever since. And know that I have you here, I will end this.” Montauk runs up to the man, which disrupts the reflections beneath him, and grabs his collar, but he dissolved into smoke. This angers Montauk and he frantically looks around, eyes darting across the void. Then he hears a slight whimper, and focuses his attention and sees a young boy on the ground with his head in his knees crying. Montauk lowers his guard and walks up to the side of the boy. The boy continues his soft cry. He hesitates on how he wanted to talk to the young boy, but he doesn’t want the boy to keep crying so he ask him, “what’s wrong? Do you know where you are?” The boy looks up, with his big eyes watery and nose red, “I’m lost…” the boy responded “I was playing with my brothers and sisters, but I went too far out and got lost. I tried finding my way back but i couldn’t find my way back.” The boy rubs his eyes, and Montauk decides to join the young boy and sit beside him. With his big burly shoulders in contrast to the boys tiny frame, with both their reflections extending beneath them. “I gave up on trying to find my way back so I just stopped, and hoped that my family will find me. If I stay still and they look at all the usual hiding spots they’ll eventually find me right.” Montauk can do nothing but listen, and his eyes begin to fill with emotion, but not of sadness, but of despair and emptiness. What he has been blinded with for as long as he can remember. “It’s cold and I’m getting scared they may never find me.” The boy looks at Montauk and they both share eye contact, both their eyes being two sides of the same coin. “Did they stop looking?” The boy asking Montauk directly Montauk didn’t have an immediate answer, which lead the boy to fall back into his arms. Montauk reaches out to place his hand on the boys shoulder. He hesitates about half way through, but continued to establish a physical connection with the boy. The boy looks back at Montauk, and Montauk finally has an answer for the boy. “I don’t know where you siblings are, or where we are… but I found you. I can help you look for them if that’s what you would like? I will make sure I get us outta here” The boy wipes his tears from his cheek and sniffs his nose and simply nodes. Their reflections at another glance become inverse of eachother, with the Man casting the boys and the boy casting the mans. They both stand up and Montauk holds the boys hand as they walk towards the dark abyss. Neither one of them knowing what lies ahead, or behind, but knowing that they will do it together.


A father and son were driving through a tundra hellscape. With a blizzard raging outside, they couldn't see a half mile ahead of them; the temperature on the dashboard indicated 4 degrees as they approached a security checkpoint. "Hello and welcome to Dome City. Are there any weapons in the vehicle?" A security guard asked. "No, sir." "Is there any contraband? All alcoholic beverages, medicines, and food must be purchased within Dome City." "We don't have any of that, not at all." "Finally, please, no drones, ATVs, dirt bikes, or straws, no straws at all." The father turns his gaze to his two-seater smart car. "No, sir." "Welcome to Dome City: where the weather is always perfect, and the sky is the limit." The father and son drove beneath a large structure into Dome City, a futuristic metropolis covered by a massive weather dome. The dome blocked out dangerous storms and kept the temperature at a steady 72 degrees, making it one of the most highly populated cities on the planet. The son couldn't help but observe a crowded beach umbrella to umbrella, with people surfing and fishing off the breakwater as they drove through the city. "Dad, where did the sky go? Where does the water come from if there is no sky?" the son wondered, peering up at the dome above them. The father laughed. "Son, it's still there; the dome just covers it. Storms and precipitation are kept out by the dome. But, every night around 2:00 a.m., it rains just enough to provide water to the city below." The son seems confused. "How can there be waves, sunbeams, and fishing when a dome blocks everything?" The father smiled. "It's all fake! The sun is just a giant light on the top of the dome, but people are used to sitting around on the beach all day, so they get spray tans and do it anyway. The water at the beach is the world's largest wave pool, and the city has stocked it with fish so that tourists can continue to fish." "Why would anyone want to live under a dome?" "Everything relies on tourism. More tourists will visit the city if the weather is nice throughout the year. Dangerous animals can be kept out, and hotels and businesses can profit all year. Plus, did you know you can pay to watch a sunset, pay to see a bird fly, or pay to feel the wind on your face!" "Wow, I want to feel the wind on my face!" "Sure, we can do that; first, let's park. Oh, there's a spot for only $750 dollars," the father said as he parked between two dumpsters. The father and son strolled along the beachfront. They walked past a massive shopping center, where people were lined up to purchase straws made of recycled materials. "Can I have a straw for my drink?" asked the son. "Sure." Once they got the straw, the son took two sips of his soda, and the straw disintegrated. "Oh, my straw has already run out!" The father and son kept walking until they came across a group of people dressed in winter gear, tossing snowballs at each other right next to the beach. "What's going on here?" the son asked, perplexed. "It's an indoor ski resort. People pay to experience the snow, even though it's hot outside." "Don't they know there's free snow right outside the dome?" "Yeah, but it's too cold out there. It's fun to play in the snow here." They walked 10 steps from the snowball fight to a restaurant, where they were met by a hostess in a bikini. "Welcome to the Budweiser-sponsored Beachfront Grill! Table for two?" A buzzer went off while the father and son were eating, and the son looked at the father, confused. From above, a mist was sprayed. "What's that?" "Well, since everything is technically inside, sometimes it can get stinky in here, so they installed these spray mists, sponsored by Febreze, to keep Dome City smelling good. "Oh, cinnamon apple!" They walked into some of the residential areas after they finished eating. They came across a pharmacy with a drive-thru window. As people passed through, they received a shot in their arms. "You see, once you become a permanent resident, you must have weekly vitamin D shots because there is no sunlight under the dome." The son gave a concerned look as he rubbed his arm. They passed the local high school, "McDonald's High School for STEM." Followed by "Arby's Middle School for the Arts." "How come every school here is named after a fast-food restaurant?" "Because all of the food must be brought into the dome, restaurants recognized that by acquiring the name rights to the school, they could get exclusive rights to serve lunch at that school." "So those kids get to eat chicken nuggets for lunch every day?" "I believe they can order the Fish fila as well, but they never do." The father then took his son to the city's outskirts, where there was a forest. Look, a forest where you and your friends can play manhunt or build a fort." The son approached one of the trees, knocked on the trunk, and turned with a puzzled expression. "It's made of plastic, and the entire forest is a fake." "Of course it is; without sunlight, there is no plant life." They continued their tour past the police station, sponsored by ADT, the fire station, sponsored by Weber, a dog park, sponsored by Purina; and a for-pay water fountain, sponsored by Coca-Cola. The father and son took a seat as they arrived at a series of park benches sponsored by LazyBoy. The light at the top of the dome, sponsored by Philips hue, was setting, and the fake stars, sponsored by Disney, were starting to shine. "What do you think of Dome City, son?" "I guess it's fine." "What if I told you I landed a job as the head of Waste Management here in Dome City?" "So, when someone flushes the toilet, you would take care of it?" "Sort of, but this would mean that we would be living in Dome City. What are your thoughts about that?" "I'm not sure; I don't think I'd like living here without sunlight; the people seem a little tense. It's something about their eyes; everyone looks like they're about to snap." "What about the weather, though? It's always nice here?" "I think that's the issue; if the weather is always nice, you never appreciate it for what it is; you need bad weather to appreciate good weather." The father realized that the trip to Dome City had not convinced his son it was a good place to live. He decided it was time to leave for the day and try again sometime in the future. They could see a fake moon rising in the sky, sponsored by Dreamworks, as they strolled by a park with fake grass, sponsored by Gatorade, and a fake shooting star flashed across the sky, sponsored by NBC, advertising their Thursday television lineup. The father thought that maybe his son had a point; it's not natural to live without the sun, and perhaps they were better off in the real world.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and 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 provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: - **Theme: ** - **Bonus Constraint:** Danger is averted. This week’s challenge is to use the theme of *‘lighthouse’* to inspire your story. You may interpret the theme any way you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and sub rules. The use of the image prompt and bonus constraint are not required. **Note: Don’t forget to after the submission deadline!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) next Monday before the deadline! You get points just for voting.   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm 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. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I hold a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who 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. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. You can complete the following things for points. - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points, unless otherwise stated (not required) - ***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) - **Submitting nominations:** 5 points (total) *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 5 detailed crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.*   *** #Rankings - **First:** - Submitted by u/katherine_c - **Second:** - Submitted by u/who_wood - **Third:** - Submitted by u/vMemory - **Crit Star - Thread:** u/katherine_c **And I’d like to also reward this week’s Campfire Crit Stars:** - u/vMemory - u/katpoker666 - u/katherine_c *Crit Stars receive 1 Crit Credit to use on r/WPCritique. In order to receive your credits, you must either link your reddit account on our Discord, or have made at least one post on r/WPCritique.* *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires and other fun events! - Join in our weekly writing chat on . We discuss a new topic every week! New here? Come introduce yourself! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep. My eyes pop open as I turn off the alarm on my phone. “Good morning Dahlia. It is August 30, 2086, 6:00AM. Events today include Reveal Day, and your 16th birthday. Top on the news this morning, a continuous increase in Dog burgl- “Janet, off,” I say as I roll out of bed. I quickly change and head to the restroom. As per the rules, I turn off all the lights before taking off my mask to brush my teeth. I wash my face but don’t do any makeup. I haven’t done makeup since my tenth birthday. Actually, I haven’t seen my face since I turned ten. On our tenth birthdays we get our marks. We cannot look at them until we are sixteen. Today. I get to see my face again today. Maybe do makeup again too? I gently touch my face, trying to feel what I look like. But I am given no clues. The marks are smooth, I have no way of knowing until the Reveal. I quickly pull my mask on and rush to the bus stop. I can’t be late today. “Oh my god did you run again?” Stacy asks when I get on. Stacy has been my best friend since we were eight. She has long blond hair and bangs she keeps in front of her mask. “Makes me look more human,” is her reason. She’s not wrong. The masks are dark and opaque from the outside, but on the inside it is surprisingly easy to see. They aren’t particularly comfortable, but we wear them so often we barely notice anymore. “Naturally,” I say sarcastically while I fake flip my hair. I would actually flip it, but I haven’t grown my hair longer than a few inches in years. I cut it off when I was eleven, after my hairbrush got caught on my mask and ripped it. Nobody saw anything, but I still got in trouble. “Whatever. In other news, happy birthday! What do you think you will have at the reveal?” Ah yes, the marks. When I am called to the Reveal room the Revelation Officer will pull off my mask and change the settings in my name. Free if I get straight lines, assigned a job if I get spots, and if I get swirls… “Spots I hope,” I say. A strong sense of curiosity suddenly overwhelms me. I want to know what I have before anyone else does. Most people have straight lines, but a few have spots. I’ve never actually seen someone with swirls. “Hey Stace, what happens if you have swirls?” She stops moving for a second and looks me dead in the face. Well, I think she looks me in the face. I can’t really tell. “Oh Dahlia you didn’t know? Swirls are just, well, bleh,” she says while swiping her hand under her neck to imitate being beheaded. She quickly changes the subject and starts talking about nail polish, but I don’t pay attention for the rest of the bus ride. Right when we arrive at the school I notice the compact mirror fall out of her bag. My first instinct is to give it to her, but something stops me. I could see ahead of time. I stick it in my pocket and the moment I enter the school I go to the restroom. I enter a stall and slowly slide my mask up while facing the wall. I hesitate, and nearly pull my mask back on without looking, but I look in the mirror anyway. They are so small I almost don’t notice, but I can see them. A tiny swirl coming from each corner of both eyes. I want to scream but I don’t. My whole body goes on autopilot and when I realize what's happening I hear sirens. I hide behind a trash can until they pass. That’s when I realize I’d been running. For miles. I am maybe two minutes away from my house now, but I still hear the sirens so I go the back way through the woods. I quickly arrive at my house and sneak in through the basement door. Seconds later I am in my bedroom. Before I can question it, my mom is in my bedroom forcing me into bed. “Fake being sick, I’ll deal with this,” she says before exiting my room. There is a loud knock at the front door before I hear my mother again. “Good morning officers, what can I help you with today.” “Step aside,” I hear a gruff voice say. Then there is a grunt from my mom that I can only assume is her being pushed and loud footsteps coming toward my room. “Dahlia Peterson,” a skinny man surrounded by guards reads off a paper. “You are hereby charged with the crimes as follows; felony mask revelation, truancy, avoidance of government workers, and attempted lying to a prosecutor.” By the time he is done saying that my mom has rushed into the room with a bat in hand. Before I know it she beats two guards to the floor and is about to hit a swing on the prosecutor when there is a gunshot. One of the guards has shot my mother in the back of the head. I scream and try to run over to her, but a guard catches me in his arms and I feel a cold sensation at the back of my head. “As I was saying before we were rudely interrupted,” the prosecutor says coldly, “the punishment for such crimes, in addition to the spiral marks, is death.” Another gunshot rings through the air, but this time far louder. In an instant the world turns red. Everything goes silent and dark. At first slowly, and then all at once, the world is calm.


Deep in the northern forests of a land that may or may not be mythical, there exists a tribe that has forgotten the art of dying. Occasionally, one of the more foolish or unfortunate of their number would fall out of a tree, drown, or even get themselves eaten by wolves or bears. But, apart from these rare instances, death eluded them. The climate was temperate, never too hot or cold. Rainfall kept the streams full and the trees plump and green, yet the sun still shone on most days. They were a happy people, a simple people with a simple God. Early each morning, before the day’s business began, they would gather and offer their one prayer- That today, of all days, would not be the day that they rediscovered death. Not even the elders could recall when they’d forgotten how to die, it just slowly grew out of fashion. They’d learned to be sensible though, the forest provided their every need, and they in return, were careful not to ask too much of it. To keep the forest happy, they kept their population stable, always careful not to outgrow their resources. To achieve this, each year they had the breeding festival. They had many other festivals as well. They had a Sunhigh and a Sunlow festival. They had two Midsun festivals. They had a festival to thank the creatures of the forest for providing them with meat, and they had another festival to thank other creatures for not using them as meat. They had a single festival in honour of their low-maintenance God - to thank him for his continuing gift of not dying. And they had an Old Moon festival, once each lunar cycle. These were the main ones. Naturally, because life was good, and food and drink were in abundance, spontaneous festivals could and would break out on any given evening. But the festival to end all festivals was the breeding festival. For it was here that each year the tribe would gather and in a sequence of rituals and challenges, the tribesmen and women would choose those who would breed that particular year. It was part ballet, part bordello and part rutting season. Preparations would begin months before the festival. Men and women of an age neither too young, nor too old would make their intentions known. The women would prove their fertility by creating huge shows of the flowers of the forest. Stunning blooms of orchids and heathers, bluebells and daffodils would adorn the village, each woman usually guided and chaperoned by a grandmother or a great-grandmother. The men would grow the fruits and roots of the forest. In the weeks running up to the festival, the villagers would feast on rich soups made from sumptuous smoothroot, and stews of venison and bitter-sweet anisroot. The children would grow fat from the abundance of bramble and redberry pies, all sweetened with heather honey straight from the villager’s beehives. During those weeks, the villagers partied nightly, enjoying gallon upon gallon of the sweet, seductive mead. For the contestants, the competition was already intense. Games of Machiavellian politics were played behind the scenes, alliances were formed and broken daily. Gifts were showered on anyone who could have even the slightest influence. For the hopefuls it was a deadly serious game, for the rest of the villagers, it was the annual soap opera. Each year the numbers to be chosen would vary. The figure was dependent on how many of the villagers had managed, in some unfortunate way, to defy what their God had granted them. It was also determined by how successful the previous winners had been at fulfilling their responsibilities. For a native, failure to breed was the biggest burden to live with, a humiliation that would lurk for decades, well past the age of fertility. This morning, the morning of the breeding festival, the God of eternal life had been kind to them. The rains that had been plentiful throughout the night, had ceased as the sun rose. In the bright morning light, the villagers gathered for the morning prayer. There was excitement in the air and the promise of the day to come filled everyone’s thoughts. Perhaps it was this excitement that took the potency from their prayers. Perhaps, God looked at them and thought, ‘you know what, that’s a half-hearted affair of a prayer. I need to remind them what’s what.’ Or perhaps he was just having a bad day and thought to himself, ‘fuck them!’ Or perhaps there was no God, they were merely flukes of nature. And nature, that blind goddess, can take as well as give. The villagers remained blissfully unaware of this, the prayer was hurriedly ended and almost seamlessly the procession began. A dozen naked women led the way. The chosen ones, to be whittled down to three, they gyrated and danced as they went. All bosom and buttock, swinging provocatively. The drummers followed behind, playing the march of the maidens. A seductive rhythm beat out on the stretched deerskin drums that were ceremoniously used on this day only. The men followed, fifteen of them. There were always more men, the mark was set higher. The demands of the day were harsh and unforgiving. They danced too, encased in their suits of thorns. They reached the centre of the village. Scaffolding, towering higher than the canopy of the forest, ringed the central area. It shone and glistened in the morning sun. The blooms the maidens had nurtured for months decorated the entire structure. The sun blazed through them, bathing the arena in glorious shades that flickered and danced in the gentle breeze. The maidens danced their way to a small dais of raised ground that stood in the centre. The elders of the village sat in a circle around the makeshift stage. They were unknown centuries old but still wiry and strong, they held aloft the torches of wisdom. The hopeful men formed a ring behind them and behind them were the women of the village. The women watched with great interest, approving, or disapproving of the dancers as personal loyalties dictated. Finally, the remaining men of the village lined up behind them, facing outwards, away from the stage. A tradition born of common sense ensured the still hot-blooded males were barred from watching this most enticing of displays. A steady supply of mead fed to them by the women unfortunate enough to have missed out as this year’s chosen helped temper their disappointment. The chosen women danced, the elders watched in silent appraisal, the chosen men stood in their suits of thorns, praying for arousal, and the women folk cheered and cajoled. And the men drank their mead and joked about frustration. The day was just beginning. Sir Barney Wormpole had never seen such a thing in his life, and he’d seen a lot of things. He was a native of a small group of islands that sat nestled along the coast of a northern continent. He was their foremost explorer and the clumsiest. Sir Barney’s homeland was small, yet despite its diminutive size, it was powerful. Its influence webbed out across the globe, it ruled whole continents, raping them of their natural resources. It was a nation that could, and often did, fight a dozen wars simultaneously and win them all, such was its power. Sir Barney was not a soldier. He thought of himself as an enlightened soul, he was born to explore. He had no interest in what natural resources could be pilfered from the lands he discovered. He had no interest in raping the native women and enslaving the men. He was merely curious; it was a trait that had always been there, within him. From his earliest memories, all he had ever wanted to do was to see what lay over the horizon. His parents were wealthy plantation owners. Although they’d never seen the thousands of acres they owned or cared about the slaves that laboured on the fields. They preferred to stay on the temperate island on which they’d been born and lead the carefree existence of the aristocracy. Even from an early age, the young Sir Barney had been different. Taking advantage of his parent’s massive estate, he’d taken to disappearing for days on end. He would wander off into the hills with their rolling acres of dense forestry and foliage. He learned to live off the land and be at one with the nature that surrounded it. And in a lot of instances, obliterate it. His clumsiness was as inherent in him as was his need to explore. He never set out with the intention of destroying large amounts of wherever he went. He certainly would never intentionally condemn a species to extinction, but that’s what normally happened. It was on one of his first forays into the forest that surrounded his parent’s mansion that this unfortunate tendency manifested itself. Barney was delighted to have discovered how to make fire from just some dried moss and a couple of sticks. For a week he stayed in the forest, each night lighting a new fire from the moss that he kept smouldering, wrapped in waxy leaves and tucked away safely in his knapsack. It had been a long hot summer and the ground was dry, Barney had taken every precaution, aware of the danger. When he decided that he’d better return home, he’d meticulously dampened the moss and the firepit. The moss was resilient stuff, a spark was left. A spark that defied the dampness and bided its time. It took a week, but after it was finished, ten thousand acres of forest were a smouldering wasteland. And the last breeding pair of a falcon hunted to the edge of extinction was accounted for. And, so it went. On a fruitless journey to a distant mountain range, he spent weeks searching for a herd of cattle-like creatures that rumours said existed in the vicinity. He never did find them, but he did wipe them out in an avalanche he caused by dislodging a boulder on a remote ridge. On an island in a distant ocean, he came across a colony of flightless seagulls. They were a friendly species, they had no natural predators and the forest flourished with bugs and grubs to feast on. Flight had become unnecessary, their wings were an evolutionary dead end, mere stumps. They almost rushed to greet Barney and his men as they disembarked to explore the island. They left the birds in peace and taking a breeding pair with them, they left the island paradise. A pregnant cat had jumped ship and a year later there was barely a feather left. The two birds he’d taken with him had died of seasickness and terror. A flower he’d picked on one side of an arid mountain range and carried with him to the other side had grown with such ferocity that within a year it had throttled the crops of the natives. All but starving a nation. The tool he’d left with a small, isolated population living on an island paradise of lush forests and azure seas in a southern ocean, had given them the ability to chop down trees. An ability they took to with relish. Less than ten years later the island was a barren rock and the islanders were nowhere to be seen. Wars, famines and extinctions followed in his path, facts that he mostly was blissfully unaware of. He was older now, his joints creaked and his back ached. The expeditions he undertook were now more modest. He stayed closer to home and never more than a few days away from civilisation. He’d thought his days of discovery were long gone, for despite its size, the forest of the northern land was too well known to harbour any great secrets, or so he’d always believed. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. “We’ve never seen the likes of this before, Smithers.” “No, sir,” agreed Smithers, long-suffering Smithers. Smithers who would really prefer to be sitting at home in his modest cottage drinking a cup of tea by the fire. Sitting at peace while his missus whistled to herself as she prepared the evening meal. He’d spent a lifetime as an unsung hero, trailing in his master’s footsteps. Always looking over his shoulder at the events that seemed to follow them and wondering to himself. “They look a friendly enough lot,” said Sir Barney. “I think it’s time to introduce ourselves.” Before Smithers could open his mouth to object Sir Barney had stood up and with his cane swinging by his side was striding off towards the village. The natives weren’t sure whether they, themselves, were friendly or not. In their remembered history they hadn’t really had an instance to find out, due to never having met anyone from outside of the tribe before. They had a word for friend but not for enemy, within the tribe everyone was a friend or ‘blesme.’ The men of the village noticed them first. Wooden pitchers of mead were forgotten about as the strange-looking pair in even stranger-looking clothes emerged from the forest. Some had their pitchers held as if glued to their mouths, some dropped them in astonishment. A woman stopped serving the men and turned to look at what had grabbed their attention. She squealed in astonishment, others followed, the men stood up, women stopped watching. The chosen men forgot all about thoughts of arousal. The drummers stopped beating. The maidens stopped dancing. The elders were the last to notice, they were angry at first, nothing like this had ever happened at the breeding festival before, it was sacrilege! But the anger subsided, morphing into confusion and bewilderment as the villagers parted to allow them to see the figures striding towards them. The tribe were about to discover whether they were a friendly people or not. There was no stopping Sir Barney. He was an explorer, discovering things was what he did. Recently, he’d come to accept that all his great discoveries were behind him, this was too good a chance to miss. Sir Barney strode straight up to the villagers, a silent avenue had opened allowing the elders and Sir Barney to consider each other. The whole village was in silence, you could hear a pine needle drop. Sir Barney broke the silence, he put his hand to his mouth. “Ahh… Ahh… Ahh… Choo!” The sneeze exploded out of him. As one, the villagers jumped back in astonishment. Never had they seen a human do such a thing. “Bless me,” said Sir Barney. The elders looked at each other uncertainly. Then Oldoak the eldest of them all smiled. “Blesme,” he said. The other elders joined in, they all smiled at Sir Barney. “Blesme,” they said in unison. “Ahh!… Ahh!… Choo!” Sir Barney sneezed again. “Bless me,” he exclaimed again. The villagers had just discovered that they were indeed, a friendly tribe. Spontaneously the whole village responded, “Ahh.. Ahh… Choo! Blesme,” they shouted as one. It was a cry that filled the forest for the rest of the day and throughout the night. Sir Barney and Smithers were welcomed with open arms. The celebrations went on long into the night, flaming pine torches lit the scaffolding, the colours reflecting upon the dancers and the thorn-suited men. Never had there been a breeding festival like it before. Gallons of mead were dispatched, great platters of venison and sweetroot and huge berry pies were devoured. And each time Sir Barney sneezed the whole village responded. The next morning the sun rose too early for the villagers. They had no word for illness, no means of communicating the fact that a lot of them were beginning to feel quite strange, their throats tickled, and their noses itched, they felt dizzy and somehow dissociated from everything. Some didn’t turn up for prayer. Sir Barney had come to a decision, this was one discovery he would keep to himself. It was much to Smithers relief when Sir Barney told him that they were going to leave that morning and say nothing to anyone about what they’d discovered. He did take an orchid of such beauty, the likes of which had never been seen in his homeland. It would give him something to present to his queen. The villagers watched in silence as they left, there was a different feel to the day, like nothing they’d experienced before, they watched the men leave, exchanging nervous glances with their neighbours and friends. Ten minutes after they left, Oldoak put his hand to his mouth. “Ahh… Ahh... Choo!” He looked surprised, “bless me,” he said quietly. It only took a week for the virus to obliterate the population. Sir Barney returned home, and on a bended knee, he presented the rare bloom to his queen. The elderly head of state smiled at Sir Barney, accepted the flower and took a sniff at the exotic scent. She suffered a massive allergic reaction and was dead within a minute. Sir Barney was beheaded the next day. Smithers went home and had a cup of tea.


edit - Narrated by: I can still hear my laundry rumbling. It’s louder than the frantic car horns and the people shouting incomprehensible words outside. The machine runs to complete its duty not knowing that the world now has an imminent expiration date. 2 hours left. And I’m just standing here. Not looking out the window Not looking at my phone screen Just leaving my eyes where it drifts to. Comfortable and not perceiving what it is that the eyes are directed at. It’s a habit of mine, to wonder and think while standing up still, having nothing in motion; including me. My parents live overseas We just finished our phone call. Our last one. I don’t know why, but the thought of nuclear fallout erasing all of us at the same time gives me some kind of paradoxical solace. It’s a bummer that the whole family can’t be together but what is inevitable should not be dwelled upon. It’s what I believe. At least, it’s the best thing for now. I grabbed my car keys from the kitchen counter where I left it last night after a night of blissful ignorance. Who would have known the world was on its course to ruin. Ignoring the bustling of the apartment and its desperate inhabitants who were once my neighbors, I riled up my car and drove in the opposite direction of the metal stampede. Where are they running to? As if safety was guaranteed? Were they risking the last moments of their lives being in a car for the sliver of hope to make it through the first few mushroom clouds? I shook my head. I didn’t want to think about it. I rolled down all my windows and blasted a song I knew. I always thought that blasting music with the windows down was my quiet rebellion. It was a way of timorously telling the world that I was alive and here. While at the same time, knowing it was the threshold of my defiance. I was never one to be loud and confident. I was a vibrant wallflower. Petals of brilliant colors bloomed in my head and my head was the flower pot. Although they barely burgeoned outside of this fence called imagination, I had become a florist and forester. Ten minutes left. I turned the music off. I figured this would be a good time to soak up the last time I’d hear life. Cars were lined up for the first few miles. Now I am totally alone. Just me and my car. They say your life flashes before you right before you die. All I see is the blue sky. No missile to be seen with the naked eye. What a beautiful day it is, it’s a good day to die. I stuck my hand out the window to feel what it is to feel. These hands felt the first oranges I’ve peeled for the first time in my life. The wet veiny yet pleasantly cold feeling accompanied by memory of tang and zest that flooded the mouth. These hands that held her hand for the last time while sitting on the back seat of a car on our way to the airport. These hands that wiped countless tears of others as well as mine. These hands that caressed her fur for the last time before sending her away to doggy heaven. Now these hands brush the wind as if to send it all away. I look up at the sky again. All I see is the blue sky. A missile to be seen with the naked eye.


And that was that. Dear Mother: I write to you now, after many decades of not speaking to you, at the request of my psychologist. She said a letter to you would help, that it would help me organize my thoughts, reflect on everything that had happened, put it in some sort of logical order and digest this entire ordeal. She said that it would still help me, even if you never read this. I hope she is right. You know, I never thought that you were a person who enjoyed conflict. When I was very young, maybe 3 or 4, I got into trouble at school for fighting with one of the other kids. The head teacher must’ve called you in the middle of work and asked you to come to the school. You looked at the other kid’s parents apologetically and excused my behavior, even though I was insisting that the other kid started it. The teacher made us leave the room. I remember the other kid’s face was red and sweaty, his bright blond hair mismatched heavily with how red and swollen his face was. I thought he looked like a clown. When we were allowed back into the room, that jet black hair of yours was covering your face as you were looking down. I remember the mixture of warmth over pain on my bottom after father was done with me. I remember you cried while he spanked me, as you echoed, over and over again my lie to my angered father: “The other kid started it. He was just defending himself.” I suppose when God made you and father, he put all of the anger in him, knowing that you’d end up together. He probably hoped that you would balance each other out, and balance out you did. Father’s harshness, his quick anger, and whatever called him to the bottle slowly flowed onto you. Similarly, your calmness, the way you waited before answering a question, and your loving nature towards Ella and I, flowed onto him. You started smoking too, and the house would always smell of your cigarettes and his pipe. One day, you were staying out late at your new job in the law firm. He would usually stay on his couch and read, or watch football, and wasn’t really present in our lives except when it came to discipline us. That day, I do not know why, we walked into the living room and shyly asked him if he would read to us, since you were gone. In all honesty, Ella and I were terrified of Father, but he looked at us standing on the doorway, turned off the TV, emptied his pipe and picked a book from a nearby shelf. That was the first day he read to us at night, Kafka of all things. I would never say this to your face, especially after you spent such a long time doing it, but he had something that made him so much better than you. I don’t know what it was, but ever since that day, Ella and I would secretly look forward to the nights where you’d work late. I never thought I would look forward to time alone with dad, but there we were. When I was at university and decided to choose Child Psychology as my major, in order to become a teacher later on, the father that came back from the ship when I was young would have called me a pussy. This father of mine, years after he stopped fishing and started making ice-cream, looked at me for a few seconds and slowly said: “The pay won’t be good, kids can be real bastards sometimes, but if this is what you want to do with your life, Godspeed.” He said without blinking. In the years that followed I left home and went to university. I do not know how you guys managed to ship me all the way from Appledore to London, but you did. In there I found people from all around the world…the 2000s were booming. Social networks became a thing, and with it, I thought ideas that would benefit all of us would spread around the country, leading to a better, more united United Kingdom. How silly, and how grandiose this sounds now, in retrospect, years later. It is a well known disease that the young are especially vulnerable to, the delusions that they can fix the world, that it’s only them that know and that everybody else is just getting in the way. I led a very busy life during those years. I shared bedrooms with countless youngsters like myself. I was both charming and unbothered by thoughts of settling down with any one of the many women that graced me with their presence on those days, until gonorrhea paid a visit that was. I bet that if I were to go visit my uncles they would still talk about it. “So I get a call from my brave son, Carl, one day, and he asks me about the weather, about his sister, and all of that. Five minutes haven’t passed since I picked up the phone, and he has the balls on him to say, he says” Cigarette drag. “Mom, I’m only asking for a friend, and please do keep this private, but is it normal for men to piss blood from time to time?” Fucking hell Mom. The explosion of laughter at that dinner party was unlike anything I’ve heard before. It still haunts me to this day. I will never hear the end of that. A quick dose of antibiotics and some very embarrassing conversations later, I figured out that maybe monogamy was an interesting topic to approach. It pains me greatly to think about this, because my path to commitment took me onto the path that has taken us so far away. How do you love and hate something at the same time? Lisa knows this. We’ve both grown more together than ever in these last years. I think we’re bound by a weird mixture of commitment, love and pain. She is aware of the responsibility and the part that she played in all of this. She was the one that started me onto the path of politics. It started slowly. The debate group that she and I started slowly walked us towards more politically active youngsters. Then we attended our first party meetings, to finally join Young Labour. I now understand that it isn’t even a problem with the Labour party at all, we could have been caught by a conservative wave for all that I care. I get it now… there is this, really dark idea out there. This idea destroyed our lives mom, and it has somehow taken root in us all, through social media, through the news, through forums and through government bulletins. The idea that if you do not agree with someone politically, that person is not worth keeping around in your life. And you know the funniest thing Mom? I don’t even remember what it was. It could have been abortion rights, it could have been Brexit, it could have been the monarchy, or the IRA, or the nuclear weapons, or the fucking fish, or gay marriage, or the NHS. I don’t remember what it was and yet it haunts me. I’ve had a bloody hypnotist paid to try and dig whatever the fuck we were arguing about out of my head, because I must remember. I must remember Mom, because it seemed so important back then… Right? It seemed more important than the dinner that you had spent hours cooking, or how much you had looked forward to seeing us, or the fact that we were expecting twins, or the fact that Ella was getting married. I remember how angry I was that you, especially you, would not walk that statement back. Lisa was right there with us, you couldn’t possibly sound so radical. I remember Ella’s face when dad punched the table and told me to apologize. I remember how she quietly cried when I looked into dad’s blue eyes, held his gaze and said no. I remember how proud I was to be on the right side and how disappointed I was in you that you were on the wrong side. I remember walking out of the house, my soup still warm and untouched, Lisa’s hand on mine, my babies growing in her womb. I remember the post that I wrote about it later on my blog, and I remember how many likes I got, 7,989. I remember all of it, but I cannot, so help me God, remember why we had that stupid, stupid argument. But we had it, and like Granny would’ve said: “…And that was that!” The years passed and our daughters grew up without grandparents. Ella had to struggle and fight between her love for us and her nieces with the constant need to repair something broken over such a small thing. I was so stubborn. Our daughters grew up asking why they only had two grandparents. I told them that you were bad people. Can you believe that Mom? I told your grandkids that you were bad people. You would call and I would not pick up, I would tell Ella that I wanted a written apology, but I would never open your letters, or your cards. Lisa wanted us to make amends too, at least I suspect this, we’ve never talked about it really. Maybe she was also caught by whatever had me in its claws, but I choose to think that women are wiser than us, and that she realized we should have reconciled. Lisa never threw any of your letters away. She says they must be in a box somewhere, and each weekend I clear a bit more of the storage space that we have rented to see if I can find them. I want to read those letters mom. I remember the call. Your calls I would ignore, but Dad had never called me once in all of these years. So I picked up. I remember Dad’s voice, I had never heard his voice waver before and it scared me. “Mom’s been hit by a drunk driver Son.” “Dad?” “Mom’s been hit by a drunk driver, and they don’t think she’s going to make it. You should come home son, as soon as you can.” I remember thinking that I was angry at you. I was angry because I thought you were some conservative troglodyte Mom. I have never speeded like I did then. I got a thousand pound fine, and I had to apply for a new license, and it was all for nothing because when I got to the hospital you were dead. The kindest, calmest, most hard-working person I’ve known was dead. When they showed me your body I felt relief, because that couldn’t be you. That wasn’t your face, your hair couldn’t be so white, it hadn’t been that long… Right? But it had been that long, and I wasted all of those years behaving like a self-righteous prick, and I can never fix that. When I apologize at your grave, nothing answers back. It’s like when I asked you something back when I was a kid, and you would take just that extra time to think about it, but this time it just goes on forever. I can’t remember why we argued, mom, and it’s fucking killing me. I just think that you would have been a terrific grandmother. Dad is a husk of a man since you’ve been gone, but he really enjoys his grandkids and it’s the only thing that makes him smile nowadays. He never talks about our fight and we have gotten much closer over these years. When he gets older he’ll move into the house with us and we’ll take care of him mom, I promise. I still can’t find your letters but I will. I am sometimes overwhelmed by all of it and I end up with the darkest thoughts.. Nobody that put these ideas onto my head gives a single fuck that you’re dead and I will never be able to make amends with you, or take any of this back. I don’t even know what to do with this bloody letter. I just hope that you can read this, and if you do, know that I was a proper idiot, and that I know I was and every day I try to walk further away from that person that I used to be. I will make sure that your granddaughters grow up to be kinder to us than I was to you.


She dropped the shells into the water and prayed it would be the last time. They cupped the surface, tilted, then sank. Mina watched them with dry eyes. Her heart still cried, but the tears had run dry long ago. The villagers of Fe’aulm gathered around her were not hardened in that same fashion. They wept as Mina danced. Swaying, she began the Valiance. The movements were barely her own. Trancelike, she span and dipped across the sand, compelled by the unseen hands of the lostings she was charged with conferring to the Stillplains. They called out to her in mournful whispers only she could hear. Some were familiar. She had no answers for them. She danced on. The voices drifted off, somewhere across the blue line of horizon to the Next World, the Stillplains, and whatever lay there waiting for them. Her feet came to rest, rough and irritated by the coarse sand. Solemn faces watched her, the faces of those still here, those who had been spared. She felt their guilt. It was heavy, laid upon the beach like a damp cloth. She wished she could send that away, too, but this was a power she did not possess. All she could offer was whatever solace the Valiance provided, the promise that the lostings had been cleansed and granted safe passage. She sat with them after, as she always did, taking hand after cool hand into her own as she absorbed the tears of those who remained. They asked nothing more of her, but she could feel their strain, their desperate longing for a surety none could grant them. Her expression remained flat, but she was not callous enough yet to be numb to that yearning. She would leave them tomorrow, when the sun rose again, and her work would continue, by birthright and obligation. It frightened her, at first, when she woke to the disembodied whispers of the lostings. She was only a child, but they didn’t care for age. They couldn’t find the path on their own. Even then, she could feel their desperation. She wanted to help them. She tried to reassure them, but she had not been trained. She learned early what became of lostings that were not conferred. Their worry turned to fear, fear to resentment, resentment to something darker still. They screamed at her, blamed her. She wept, when she still had tears to cry, both for their pain and for her own inabilities. They took shape and returned to the sea, where they coalesced and their bitterness festered, as all lostings who are not conferred do. This was the cause of all suffering in Benua. The sea grew bloated and swollen with this bitterness until it churned and rose to crash down on the shores and carry back whatever it could clutch in its hateful, foamy fingers.Vales, those of special birth who could see the path to the Stillplains, were both the salve for the wounds left behind by the sea and the gate against its future violence to come. Mina hid her vision, unprepared for the life it meant for her. She knew of Vales, of their calling, their importance. She was not made for that. She could not carry that weight. She was only a child. It wasn’t fair to ask that of her. The calamity came on gray waves soon after. She was one of the few spared. The sea recognized her, hated her, and had left her alive as punishment for her cowardice. She knew that then as she knew that now. The shame was a permanent mark, a wound that still twinged, years later. A Vale had come days later, as those who remained struggled to dig themselves out from the wreckage of the sea. She had never seen a Vale before. Her village, blessedly, had been spared the calamity. Until Mina had brought it down on them. The Vale entered their shattered town as a zephyrous breath from the north. The villagers welcomed her with wide, grateful eyes. She was kind and calm, reassuring them with steady clemency. As the Vale danced across the beach, on sands which Mina had once skipped along with her mother and father but were now choked with fallen palms, she heard the whispers of the lostings. Familiar voices were among them, some more painful than others, two too painful to think of even now. They moved her with touchless hands. She swayed and twirled in a dance of her own until the voices were borne away on warm winds. The Vale was watching her. She approached, touched Mina’s shoulders with her painted hands, and knelt. In that lineless face, Mina saw the future she could not run from. The Vale left her village the next day, as they always did, and Mina along with her. She spent her next years learning the Valiance — the incantations, the offerings to the sea, the dance — and spent each year since performing the ritual down the shorelined edge of Benua, which cut like a narrow knife through endless waters. From the gentle slopes of the northern hills to the black sand banks of southern Melfona, she danced for tearful villagers and those they mourned, took their hands in her own and prayed, and then left them behind. There were always more who awaited her. The sun had gone. Mina watched it disappear as she sat in the white sand of Fe’aulm. She was tired, not just from the day but from all those that had come before. She looked out over the sea, restful now and smooth as onyx, and wondered when it would rise up again. Was there no end, she asked the waves for what could have been the thousandth time. Was this a punishment that all the peoples of Benua must endure unendingly? She would dance until the sun itself dimmed in the sky if she must, but was there truly nothing else? Her life was but one in a long line and there were other Vales beside her as well. Yet, the Valiance continued. The dancing never ended. The lostings never ceased their cries. The villagers had brought her what meager meal they could. She thanked them for it, but it lay uneaten beside her. There was a hollowness in her gut, but it could not be filled with fish and fruit. “Aren’t you hungry?” The voice startled her. Mina turned to find a young girl standing, feet buried in the sand, a few yards from her. Mina softened her face and offered a smile. “I’m always hungry,” she said, “but I can’t always eat.” She held up the broad leaf the villagers had brought her, upon which was a white filet of some local catch and a collection of citrusy fruits. “Help me?” The girl looked at her, unsure, but a nod from Mina put a smile on her lips and she hurried across the sand to join the Vale. “My name is Lusa,” she said politely as she pinched a soft handful of meat off the leaf and shoved it into her mouth. She spoke around it, spitting little chunks of fish into the air. “What’s your name?” “Mina.” The girl swallowed and began to reach for another bit of fish before stopping herself. She withdrew her hand quickly and eyed the sand, blushing. “It’s alright,” said Mina, chuckling a little. “Here.” Lusa brightened and took more, eagerly, chewing away with an open mouth as the surf licked at the beach. Mina watched her, wondering how many of this small girl’s family she had conferred earlier that day. “Do Vales not eat?” Lusa asked. She never paused her chewing to speak. “Of course. We’re no different than you.” Lusa shifted her attention now to the fruit, picking up a mooncrest shape and biting into it. Bright juice ran down the corners of her mouth. “Except you can talk to the lostings,” she said as she took another piece of fruit. “No,” said Mina. She turned her eyes back out over the sea. It lay calm, a polished mirror reflecting the emerging stars. “Not quite. They call to me. Sometimes. We do not speak. Not like you and I are now, anyway.” “Oh,” said Lusa. She had finished eating and was now studying the sand, shifting it with her feet to make little mounds. “I wish I could speak to them.” They were the words of a child, spoken in innocent earnest. “I do, too,” Mina said and for a time there was no other sound but the gentle surge of the waves. “Can you teach me?” the girl asked suddenly. She had abandoned her little sand structures and now pulled her knees beneath her to face Mina. “I cannot. Vales are born, not made.” “But,” Lusa said, inching closer, “the dance. You can teach me to dance, can’t you?” Mina shifted. She offered the girl one of her painted hands, who placed a palm stained with juice onto it. “The movements alone are not the Valiance,” said Mina. “You will not hear or feel them, even if you follow my steps. They are gone, little one. I am sorry.” For a moment, the girl looked stricken. Mina expected her to pull back her hand to wipe away the moistness in her eye, but instead, she wrapped her fingers over Mina’s painted palm and squeezed. “You’ll leave us tomorrow.” It was not a question. Mina nodded, anyway. “And then you’ll go somewhere else, wherever it happens again, and you’ll dance and the sad people will cry and then you’ll leave them, too. And they’ll pray that they never need to see you again, just like we will, until someday we have to and then it will just start all over.” “Yes,” said Mina. The word left a bitter taste in her mouth. She wished she had another to wash it away, but none came. The girl squeezed harder now. “Then teach me to dance.” “It will not bring —” “Please,” Lusa stressed. Her cheeks were wet, flushed. “At least then I won’t just be waiting.” The tears came now, but she did not bow her head. Mina placed her spare hand gently across the girl’s cheek. Lusa reached out and did the same. Her touch was warm, welcome. Mina rose and helped the girl find her feet beneath her in the shifting sand. She extended her arms, upturning her palms toward the sea and stars. The girl watched and did the same. For hours, they twirled and glided across a starlit beach, two shapes framed against the featureless horizon. Mina heard nothing, there were no lostings left behind. She had completed the Valiance already, but the halcyon quiet of the night was unique, something new to her. Something pure. When they finished, the girl flung her arms around Mina’s waist and embraced her. She hugged back as the long-forgotten sting of salt filled her eyes. The next day, the sun rose on calm waters and Mina made her way into what remained of Fe’aulm, not away from it.


The Vidal Sassoon killer is not a story of a simple killer. On the contrary, this is the story of an artist, a visionary, and a person who understands beauty more than all of the Renaissance artists put together. Oh, the person is a complete psychopath, but the brief moment when you don't realize someone is dead is like a gift for your eyeballs. The Vidal Sassoon killer struck first when roadkill was discovered on the side of the road, with a messy two-tone bob and superb use of hair dye and sculpting mousse. Drivers would stop and stare in awe as they passed by the roadkill. "I never had unnatural feelings for roadkill before, until today," one passerby was reported in the local newspaper as saying. When a ferret was discovered dead with a new, intriguing take on the bob in the early 1990s, the Vidal Sassoon killer upped his notoriety. A young Jennifer Aniston passed by the dead ferret and couldn't take her gaze away from the ferret's gorgeous locks. The next month, Jennifer Aniston got a role on the hit television show "Friends," and this haircut became known as "the Rachel." It wasn't until the year 2000 that the Vidal Sassoon killer finally escalated to human corpses. The police never confirmed whether the Vidal Sassoon killer was ever present at the site when Betty Connors, 84, died of natural causes. Nevertheless, the style was exquisite, using chunky highlights with colored extensions layered in what would become the hairstyle of the early 2000s. Only the Vidal Sassoon killer could make the dead look this gorgeous. According to Betty's obituary, "Betty had no style nor grace her entire life, but in the end, she was a work of art. When she died, it was the best she ever looked." A few years later, Sandra Tattersall died in a car accident after hitting a tree in the middle of the night. Who would come along just 10 minutes later? The Vidal Sassoon killer, that's right. This time, they would take some risks and use dreadlocks to accentuate her face. Even though her face had been crushed by the steering wheel, you couldn't deny that her hair was stunning. The "period of the dreadlock" began in the following years. Celebrities, teenagers, pot-smoking uncles, and Labrador Retrievers all began wearing their hair in dreadlocks. Over the next 10 years, the Vidal Sassoon killer would be killing it... at the salon. The dip dye ombre', the beachy waves look, and even the more casual half-up bun we're all stumbled upon at funerals. When Greg Mitchell fell off a roof while trying to fix a leak in 2013, the Vidal Sassoon killer went to work on what became known as "the return of the ponytail." While Greg Mitchell was on display, a young pop singer named Ariana Grande drove by his house. It wasn't revolutionary by any means, but it was just absolutely beautiful. For the rest of the decade, her ponytail would be her signature style. Many in the industry would bow to the Vidal Sassoon killer by 2015. A stylist in Los Angeles went on the record to say that if the Vidal Sassoon killer came into her salon tomorrow, not only would she not turn them in, but she would let them style her hair. It was late in 2018, and the Vidal Sassoon killer had not struck for quite some time. Late one night, there was a call that came in that a homicide had taken place. The police arrived on the scene and spotted a person in the shadows creating what they would be called a masterpiece. It was called the shag cut. Not only did it inspire celebrities such as Miley Cyrus, Taylor Swift, Billie Eilish, and Lizzo, but the police refused to relocate the body, leaving it on display for two weeks until removing it due to the smell. Everything, however, would come crashing down in 2022. Ethel Lancer had died of a heart attack in the cardiac ward of New York-Presbyterian Hospital. The nurses had closed the door to her room for mere minutes, but it only took the Vidal Sassoon killer a few seconds to complete their next piece. It was an attempt to resurrect the beehive, but it failed. One nurse threw up in her mouth a little bit at the thought of wearing a beehive. The industry pounced on the Vidal Sassoon killer. "The Vidal Sassoon killer is a monster!" was a popular headline. "You've lost your mind, the beehive!" "Vidal Sassoon? More Fantastic Sams; when will the police arrest this person?" According to sources close to the case, the Vidal Sassoon killer may have hung up the scissors, dipped that comb in the blue water for the final time, and turned off the light in that mirror for good. The story of the Vidal Sassoon killer was one of beauty and horror, of art and spectacle. It was a story of a person who had been driven to the brink by their obsession with creating something beautiful, no matter the cost. However, I don't think The Vidal Sassoon Killer ever killed anyone. The works of art were performed on people who had already died. Is it a crime, then, to style the hair of a dead person against the will of their loved ones? Oh yeah, it's totally a crime; if caught, the Vidal Sassoon killer would serve major time.


She picked at the paint with her fingernails. Years of sun and weather had beat down onto the benches, straining the last nerves of the white paint until it buckled and broke. Flecks lifted from the wood each time she touched it and refused to come off her hands. Her mother reached over and adjusted her hat. “You are going to get burnt, sweetie, you need to keep this on.” her mother said. She hardly noticed how the sun eyed the back of her neck, the same way it had eyed the bench they were sitting on. “Horsie?” she asked, reaching her hands into her mother’s direction. Moments later a little toy horse was pulled from the bag and presented to her. She clip-clopped her pony up and down the bench, dodging the people, bags, bottles and clutter that occupied them. There was so little space to play on the benches. Everyone kept standing and cheering. So much noise from both the benches and the field. Frustrated, she slips between the gap before her, ducking under seats and landing on the grass beneath. Her horse liked the grass. Despite still hearing the noise, she could finally play in peace. There was no one to shove her around and no one to smear sunscreen on her face. She sat blissfully in the soft, damp grass under the shade of the bench. Her little pony frolicked through grass taller than it was. The pony would eat its fill and nap in the shade before it was finally time to brush its hair with a little pink brush. “What are you doing down there?” a voice bellowed from above. She looked up to see the red face of her mother, peering down from the gap under her seat. “Get back up here.” Her mother pulled her back up, into the sun. The thunder of a roaring crowd flooded her ears. “Come sit on my lap.” said her mother “Look over there. That’s your brother playing.” She climbed onto her mother’s lap and gazed into the direction to which her mother pointed. A large green field was sprawled before her, scattered with young sportsmen. They all looked her brother's age. She struggled to tell them apart as many of them were wearing the same white clothes. Only two adults stood out with their large hats and clipboards. “Over there” her mother repeated “with the bat.” “With the bat?” she asked. She was confused. The boy with the bat had large white pads on his legs and a helmet covering his face. She couldn’t recognize her brother.“Yes, with the bat.” “That’s Biny?” she pointed. “Yes, that’s Brian.” Another boy ran across the field and threw a ball at her brother. He promptly hit the ball with a smooth swing and the crowd cheered once again as they watched the ball hop and roll over the field. Everyone on the field began running around in a state of panic. She was absorbed. Ball after ball they threw at her brother. Some he hit, but some he didn’t. Sometimes the crowd cheered and sometimes they did not even notice what was happening on the field, but she watched her big brother with pride. Finally, the adults with the big hats gestured to rounded up the teams. “That’s it,” said her mother. “Biny!” she exclaimed and pounced off of the benches as quickly as her little legs and the crowd would allow. Her brother turned to beckon her over. “Come” he said, “the coach is handing out icies.” She followed her brother as they walked up to a mountainous man, distributing icies to the team. “Coach?” “Yes, Brian” the man growled and glared at him from underneath his oversized hat. His face was red and glistening from the heat. She reached up her hand, hoping to also receive the icy treat. “Can my sister also have an icy?” “Only if your sister says ‘pretty please’.” the coach said. “Pretty please.” With a smile, he handed them each an iced lolly. It was the perfect treat after a long day of cricket.


This happened last year. About five days each week, I walk to my favorite coffee shop and order an iced latte, regardless of the weather. I take the same path - wait for the slowest traffic light in the world, cross the street, cross another street, walk about a mile, walk through a park, then take the shortcut behind the Hampton Inn to get to the shop. The coffee is heavenly, and I sit in the same seat by the window every time I go, then I take the same path home. One Saturday morning, however, something had changed. There was a fountain in the middle of the park. Normally this wouldn’t be strange, but up until that day the park had only been a grassy rectangle like a sports field for people to play frisbee and football. Curious, I walked directly to the fountain instead of following the sidewalk around the park’s edge like I usually did. Without thinking, I fished a penny out of my pocket and threw it to the fountain’s center - an old habit from childhood - before an odd feeling crept over me. Though I’m not from here, I had lived in the city about three years before this happened, and I’d walked by this exact spot often enough to know something was wrong. It was a nice day, and a weekend, but there were no people out walking their dogs and no children playing. Given that half a million people live within a few miles of here, this park was usually crowded. And the fountain itself was wrong, too - cities install fountains all the time, but this one was old, but not old enough to be nice. I guessed it was from the 80s. Rust leaked through its concrete, leaving brown stains, and many pennies within it were caked with blue. Dried leaves sat on the fountain’s surface, despite the fact it was late spring and all the trees were green. I stuck a finger in the water. It was cold. I shouldn’t have touched it. I didn’t know how it wasn’t frozen, being that cold, but then I noticed the first signs of ice creeping around the dried leaves, delicate crystals that shouldn’t have been there. I pulled away from the fountain, deciding the city had simply moved one of its older fountains to this location, and made my way to the coffee shop. I only saw two people during my journey the rest of the way, which was about a half mile. Again, this was weird, because this is a densely populated area. I arrived at the coffee shop, which usually had three or four baristas working, but there was only one. She was one of their only full-time employees, so I knew her by name. “Hi Sarah,” I said. She smiled. She always made an effort to be nice to regulars. “The usual?” she asked. I nodded. “The usual.” The coffee shop had a small bar by the cash register, and I sat there so she could just hand me the latte directly when she was done making it. I opened my phone and checked my social media, surprised I had no notifications on Twitter or Reddit. Sarah stood across the bar from me and held out the iced latte. “I don’t know how you aren’t freezing without a coat.” “What do you mean?” I took the latte in one hand and looked outside. It was still a bright spring day. “With the storm coming,” Sarah said. “The temperature’s dropping.” “Really?” I asked. I hadn’t heard about a storm coming. I tried to look up the weather forecast, but it wouldn’t load. I didn’t have signal - that made sense. I turned off wifi and tried again on data, without luck. “Do you have any reception?” I asked Sarah. She patted at her pockets for a moment and shrugged. “Must have left my phone in the back, sorry.” “Thanks anyway,” I said. I took a sip of my iced latte, then pulled my head back in shock. It wasn’t my usual at all - it was an iced chai tea latte. “Ah,” I said. “I think you made me the wrong thing. I’ll drink it, so no worries, but usually I just get the, uh, coffee kind of latte.” Sarah cocked her head to the side. “You’ve come here almost every day for the past ten years and ordered an iced chai latte. I even ordered you that fancy chai from India six months ago.” Ten years? Ordered fancy chai from India? I shook my head, confused. I’d only lived here for under three years, and could count on one hand the number of times I’d drank an iced chai latte. Sarah must have mixed me up with someone else. “What’s my name?” I asked after a moment. She said my name, then added, “only one S.” That was wrong. I spelled my name with two. Fearing I’d lost my mind, I pulled my drivers license out of my phone case, where I kept it. What do you know - only one S. My mind raced back to that weird fountain. “Did you see that new fountain in Victory Park?” I asked. Sarah, who was drying glasses with a rag, paused. “Oh yeah. Threw a penny in it yesterday on my way here. It’s kind of ugly, don’t you think?” “Very.” I thanked her, got up, pushed my chair in, and left. She was right about the storm. The air outside was freezing now. It might have been bearable without the wind, but all I had was a t-shirt and jeans and the wind blew right through them. It was an aching cold, the kind you feel in your bones. I thought about going back into the coffee shop, or getting an uber, but getting home would only take me a few minutes if I ran. Plus, I still didn’t have signal, so getting an uber was not an option. There was not a single car on the road. By the time I reached the fountain again, my muscles cramped from the cold and I had to slow down. Snow began to fall around me. My fingers were numb, my toes were numb, and even thinking had grown difficult. None of this made any sense. By the time I reached the fountain, I could barely walk. I dropped to my knees, arms wrapped around the fountain’s lip to support myself. This was bad. I was dying. I was freezing to death in the middle of May. Only, it wasn’t May anymore, it couldn’t be. The fountain had frozen over completely, even the parts that were supposed to have moving water, so I knew it had to be brutally cold. I tried to trace my steps back to how this all started as my thoughts grew increasingly fragmented and panicked. I couldn’t make it to any of the storefronts, though I had a feeling that if I did, the doors would be locked. A darkness spread across the sky, and not a single light was on in any of them. This all started when I threw that penny into the fountain. Sarah said she had thrown in a penny, too. When we did that, we must have triggered something, or maybe been thrown into another dimension. What a stupid thing to think - and yet, this gave me an idea. I plunged one stiff, dumb hand through the ice and frantically searched for the penny I threw in, as if I could tell it apart from the others. I took sloppy fistfuls of pennies, quarters, and dimes, some new and some old, and flung them onto the gathering snow. I remembered - I threw my penny near the fountain’s center, the deepest and hardest part to reach. They said people panic and do wild, illogical things as hypothermia sets in, and it must be true because I thrust my whole upper body into that water, grabbed a handful of coins from the center, threw them onto the snow, and and– “Hey.” It was a child’s voice. My eyes were shut, and I was lying on my back. Someone poked my face with what must have been a stick. An adult’s voice answered. “Ravi! Get away from her!” “But–” “No butts, get back here,” the adult said, then cursed about drunks and the city going to shit. I opened my eyes, and couldn’t help but smile. The sun kissed my skin, and I was laying in the middle of the park, again an open field. A dog came up to me and sniffed my face. “Are you alright?” a man, likely the dog’s owner, asked. I pushed myself to my feet and took a few seconds to balance as the feeling returned to my legs. “Yeah,” I said, brushing the dirt off my jeans and searching for a logical explanation of what had just happened. “I think I had a seizure, or a stroke…” The man came over to me. He said he was a doctor (there were three hospitals within two miles of here, so lots of people living in this area are doctors). He shined his phone flashlight in my eyes, then helped me to the nearest emergency room. They checked me out, even squeezed me into their MRI schedule, but they couldn’t find anything wrong. The doctors told me to follow up with a neurologist, and I agreed. But I knew that whatever had happened was not of this world. That distorted world I was transported into had no medical or natural origin, and its source was probably something beyond what I was capable of understanding. The next day, Sunday, I stayed home. I didn’t even make coffee and instead just accepted the inevitable withdrawal headache, then spent the day binge-watching my favorite anime from high school. It was calming, since it reminded me of a better time and kept my mind off the horrors of the previous day. But still, every time I shut my eyes, I relived the sensation of half-diving into the freezing fountain, numbness spreading up my arms as my dumb hands searched the depths. Monday, I was feeling a little better. Though I hated the thought of walking by that park again, for fear of seeing the fountain, I was curious and also wanted my usual iced latte. Slowlyl, I traced my regular path to the park. The fountain was gone. I continued, taking the shortcut behind the Hampton, until I reached the coffee shop. There was something plastered in the window. It was a typical “missing person” sign you see stapled to telephone poles or pinned to poster boards in the front of Walmarts all over the US, but what shocked me was the person on it. It said: Missing Sarah \[censored\] Last seen: May 27, 2022, 5:45 am It was Sarah. But I’d seen her the morning of the 28th. A darkness settled over me, and I knew that something had happened to her. She was still in that strange world I had escaped from. I wondered if every penny in that fountain represented a person trapped and thought that if only I could find that fountain again, I could get her out. I got on the internet and went down the rabbit hole, so to speak. I searched every forum and paranormal sight until I found someone mentioning the fountain. However, it was a thread from ten years ago, and the profile had been deleted and the comments frozen. I posted around until someone else said they had seen the fountain. They had even taken pictures, but the pictures looked… wrong. Realistic in some ways, but also fake, distorted and with the perspective slightly off. Another person had sent him pictures, which he shared with me, but these were both blurry and in black and white. Almost a year later, I’m still trying to find the fountain and figure out what it is, where it came from, and if there are others like it. But whatever the case, if you see a fountain where it doesn’t belong, think before throwing in a coin.