Autumn was his favourite season. The discoloured leaves emanating warmth against the brisk chill coursing through his body. Munroe traipsed across the rustling ground heading toward his first port of call. Lennox, his black Labrador retriever, had already excitedly run ahead and was now barking for his master’s attention. He always found the quiet of the wood therapeutic in the morning, and now this infernal hound was breaking his calm. As he neared the tree by which Lennox was waiting, he was not prepared for the horrible scene he was about to witness. Foxes are often snared; it’s Munroe’s method of choice. He always carries his trusted CZ.222 rifle for the odd encounter with what he calls the “red devil”, but the snare is the more successful. However for this poor fox the snare was only the start of its demise. As Munroe looked down he could vaguely make out the various organs spread across a 50 centimetre radius. The death of the fox did not surprise him, however the method about which it had happened did, but what perplexed him more was the amount of meat remaining. Most predators would have picked it clean, as they would be unsure of where their next meal would come from, but this seemed like the animal was killed and then left. Normal procedure would be to bag the kill, tag it and record it, but Munroe decided to leave the mess for the birds to clear up. Despite the morbid nature, Munroe enjoyed his job. After a lifetime in the British Army and then the SAS, he was desperate to retire into a quiet job where he could be his own boss. He didn’t have any friends; those he would have happily socialised with were taken from him during tours in the Falklands and the Gulf. However, living alone in a small self built shack with his faithful partner Lennox, Munroe could honestly say he was happy. There was no stress, no worries and Mr McKendrick, the owner of the land, was an unobtrusive employer, trusting Munroe’s instincts. Unfortunately those instincts were to fail him. She was lying unconscious blanketed by leaves, a pale looking woman in a tattered dress. Munroe stroked his thick beard as he examined her from afar, unsure if she was still alive. As he kicked the layer of leaves away from her face he noticed her eyes twitch. He looked at Lennox who was sat by him panting, almost as if he was expecting advice from this four legged animal. Munroe removed his Westfield wax jacket and after brushing away the remaining leaves, draped it over her skinny frail body. Throwing the rifle strap over his shoulder, he bent down and slid his arms underneath her. She was so cold; the shock sent a shiver down his spine. Munroe lifted her with such ease he guessed she weighed no more than six or seven stone. A part of him wondered how this woman could still be alive. Munroe’s shack was not the ramshackle mess the word normally springs to mind. A skilled self taught carpenter, it was carefully planned and constructed with extensive knowledge of structure and form. Granted it was basic, but it was sturdy and had survived turbulent weather. Designed as one room, the bedroom, kitchenette/dining room and living room were separated by the furniture within. On the walls were many photos of Munroe with his battalion, the 40 Commando Royal Marines. During the Falklands he was one of the first to land at San Carlos on Operation Corporate. Whilst defending the beach head they were subject to air attacks the following days and shot down an Argentine Skyhawk with a machine gun. It was a moment Munroe would never let leave his memory. As they entered the shack Lennox headed straight for his basket and curled up, the cold was clearly too much for him. The shack was surprisingly warm, something Munroe insisted on during the design. An Edinburgh lad born and raised, he never liked the cold of Scotland, but he could never deny his homeland or the beauty it has to offer. Now that he was located further north in Fife at the Kirkwood Estate, he could swear the temperatures were always several degrees lower. Munroe lowered the girl down on his bed, brushing the hair away from her face. Blood had dried around her mouth, most likely from a nosebleed or cut lip. As he moved her arm down by her side he noticed black spots along the skin. They resembled cigarette burns. He approached the sink in the kitchen and ran a tap, soaking a flannel. The water came from a tank outside that collected rainwater. He was proud of his self sufficient home. A wood burning fire provided heat and a solar panel provided what little electricity he needed. He wiped away the dirt and blood from her face as she began to open her eyes. As he stared, she panicked cramming herself into the corner where the bed met the wall. “It’s okay.” he said softly in his thick accent. “I’m not going to hurt you.” Her eyes darted around the room trying to understand where she was, pulling the duvet cover over for protection. “What’s your name?” he asked. She looked at him hesitating for a moment. “Sabina.” She spoke with a thick eastern European accent. “Where are you from?” He enquired curiously. “Romania.” She replied still confused as to where she was. “You’re a long way from home. How did you end up here?” “Men, take me. I arrive in container. I am to work for them.” As she spoke the thought of what she was saying horrified Munroe. “But I escape.” She added. “Did they hurt you?” Munroe asked gesturing to the burns on her skin. She looked down at them and nodded. “Don’t worry. You’ll be safe here.” he said smiling sincerely. “Thank you.” Munroe wasn’t sure what he was going to do with her. A sucker for a damsel in distress he was determined to help her, however calling the police would surely result in her deportation and he wasn’t sure how Mr McKendrick would react to the situation. Munroe reasoned that they had time, at least until she gained her strength and then they would decide on the next step. Munroe was stirring a batch of homemade tomato soup, his favourite meal, especially on cold days like this. Sabina was still sat on the bed wrapped in the duvet watching him. As he raised the spoon to taste, the sound of voices could be heard outside. Munroe paused. Voices were unusual around here, this was private property and nobody should be trespassing. Sabina pulled the duvet tighter around her, frightened of who may be outside. Munroe put the spoon back in the saucepan and grabbed his rifle. He glanced out the window to see three men walking by the shack. “Stay quiet.” Munroe ordered. As he approached the door Lennox stood to attention, ready to follow and, if necessary, protect his master. Munroe opened the door and stepped outside, the rifle lowered by his side. Lennox stepped up beside him. As the three men spoke Munroe recognised the language immediately, it was one he was all too familiar with, Serbian. As a member of D Squadron of the 22 Special Air Service, he had taken part in Operation Picnic during the Kosovo War. Inserted into Kosovo in the early hours of 21st March 1999, their mission was to identify Serbian units, surface-to-air missile sites and supply lines and positions while remaining undetected. They also scouted possible invasion routes for NATO forces and collected photographic evidence of Serbian war crimes. On the 25th March his unit came across a mass grave in the small village of Bela Crkva, men, women and children all piled in together. The true capability of Serbians was etched into Munroe’s mind and ever since he has held a dislike for the country and its people. To find three of them metres from his home did not sit well with him. The three men stopped in their tracks and turned to the armed man standing on the porch of his shack staring at them. The first to speak was stood in between the other two wearing an old 90s tracksuit jacket, his hair was greasy and the five o’clock shadow on his face gave an aura of intimidation. “Hello, I’m sorry. I think we took wrong turning. We are lost” he said. Munroe mustered up a sound of authority in his voice. “Aye, that you are. This is private property and you’re trespassing. I suggest you turn around and head back the way you came.” He replied. “Thank you, we will do that.” The three men began to turn around, but tracksuit stopped again and turned to Munroe. “You haven’t seen a young girl come through here have you? She is our friend, we are looking for her.” He asked politely. “No, I haven’t.” Munroe answered trying to sound genuine. A moment of silence followed before a sound inside the shack alerted the three Serbians. They could see the discomfort on Munroe’s face. Tracksuit smiled with a devilish grin. “Give us the girl.” He demanded. Munroe shook his head. “There’s no girl here.” he replied trying to stay calm. Tracksuit was becoming impatient. “Please, do not play with me. If you hand her over, you will never see us again. I promise.” Munroe decided to give up the act and play it straight. “I can’t do that.” “Very well.” Tracksuit said as he drew a Glock 19 Pistol from the back of his jeans and raised it ready to aim at Munroe. The gamekeeper was too quick though, lifting the rifle and firing a quick shot to disarm the Serb, severing off his ring finger in the process. He fell to his knees screaming in pain holding his injured hand as the blood dripped onto the leaves beneath him. His friend to the right wearing a leather jacket, with a shaved head and goatee making him look like some sort of nightclub bouncer moved his arm around to the back of his trousers. Munroe fired a shot at the ground by his feet and leather jacket paused. “Don’t you even dare. Throw it away.” Munroe ordered and leather jacket complied, slinging a Glock 19 several metres from him. Munroe then focused his attention to the Serb on the other side. “You too.” He told the main dressed in a denim jacket looking less tough than the other too. “I have no gun.” He replied lifting up his jacket to show Munroe nothing was tucked anywhere. “You stupid asshole.” Tracksuit piped up still squeezing his hand tightly to stem the flow of blood. “You do not understand.” “Oh, I understand fully. Now leave this land.” Munroe ordered, this time with more force. Leather and denim helped tracksuit to his feet and they began to head off in the opposite direction, Munroe still with his rifle trained on them. “We’ll be back, and you’ll be sorry.” Tracksuit called out. Munroe waited for them to disappear within the trees then finally lowered his rifle. He re-entered the shack and looked over at Sabina who was still huddled in the corner, the blanket held up to her eyes. “We need to leave.” He suggested, placing the rifle up against the wall. “I cannot.” Sabina replied with fear in her voice. “You have to.” Munroe grabbed a large blanket and slung it over to Sabina. “This will keep you warm.” Sabina lowered the duvet and grabbed the blanket throwing it around her shoulders. She pulled it over her head, and as she stood up the end of the sheet reached down to the floor. She was completely covered. She looked up to Munroe. “Okay, but where we go?” she asked. “Somewhere safe.” He answered as he grabbed a set of car keys off a hook by the door. To say Munroe’s Land Rover was old was an understatement. The 95 Defender model had seen a lot throughout its years and although a little rickety here and there, it churned up road like there was no tomorrow. Sabina was sat beside him still hidden within the blanket watching the trees whiz by. Lennox was in the back enjoying a trip in the car as he always did. Silence remained between them, nothing but the ground crunching beneath. The main house of the estate was a couple of miles away from Munroe’s shack. He wanted it to be located far enough that he wouldn’t have to run into Mr McKendrick too often, or his guests, yet close enough that either man could easily visit the other. As the Land Rover pulled up outside the main doors of the house, Munroe jumped out onto the gravel driveway and ran to ring the bell, he then returned to the passenger side door and opened it helping Sabina out, the sharp gravel cutting into her bare feet. Lennox began barking as though asking when he would be let out. “Stay boy, I’ll be back soon.” Munroe called to him. The door was opened by the main butler of the house, Wilson. Munroe knew him well, but did not like him and knew a petty argument would ensue between them about who the girl was, before he would allow entry. Munroe pushed Wilson aside and stepped in, much to the butler’s protests. In a great ornate living room Munroe and Sabina waited, Wilson standing by the door staring daggers at them. The fire was roaring and Sabina was sitting by it absorbing the heat. Munroe was pacing up and down near her as Mr McKendrick entered the room tying his dressing gown. “Munroe, what is it?” McKendrick asked. “Mr McKendrick, I’m sorry to barge in on you, but I need you to take care of this young woman.” He told him. Mr McKendrick looked over at Sabina who seemed completely oblivious she was the subject of the conversation. “Who is she?” “I found her in the wood, several men are after her. She needs somewhere safe to stay, for the night at least.” “I don’t know, Munroe. How can I trust her?” “You don’t need to leave her alone. Have Wilson watch her.” Wilson was not happy to hear this suggestion. “And where will you be.” He cried. “Protecting my home.” “What do you mean?” McKendrick asked concerned. “I’m sorry, Sir, but I have to go.” Munroe rushed for the door. “But Munroe.” McKendrick turned to watch Munroe leave, confused by his haste. He then turned to Sabina who was still by the fire. “Wilson, ensure she behaves herself.” “Very well, Sir” Wilson replied begrudgingly. As Munroe drove back to the shack bouncing along the dirt road, he felt as if he was back in the Gulf War driving along the desert dunes to battle. He knew the Serbs would return and this time with more men and heavier fire power. Munroe would have to use every trick he had learnt from years under Her Majesty’s service to protect himself and his home. Munroe searched the shack for anything he could find that would help hold off the inevitable siege. Along with snare wire, he gathered up every last round for his rifle and came across an old bear trap at the bottom of a wooden crate filled with farm relics. For a moment as he stared at the rusty teeth, he felt it may be too much, but after his mind flashed back to that haunting mass grave, those doubts washed away. It didn’t take long to plant everything. He knew they would attack from the same direction they originally came and so it was a simple case of creating a defensive line several metres from the shack. This would give enough time, for those that do get through, to pick them off with the rifle. Darkness was falling; this would work to Munroe’s advantage hiding every trap from view. As much as he would want to fight alongside him, Munroe knew this was not Lennox’ war and so shut him inside hoping the walls would stem the penetration of bullets and protect him from any harm. He was never one to put his fellow soldiers in danger, if it could be helped. Munroe perched himself on the roof of the shack in a prone position, rifle lined up. He used the scope to scan along the tree line looking for any movement. With no night vision to hand, he would have to rely mainly on sounds, something he was more than used to. An hour went by and the temperature dropped several degrees. The lack of movement was making Munroe more and more cold. His hands were shaking and he was struggling to hold the rifle steady. He was starting to wonder if they would actually show up, would he have to stay here all night just in case? Suddenly he heard the sound of a branch snap, and the rustling of leaves. Peeking through the sight he scanned the defensive line looking for any hint of motion. It was then he heard the sound of the bear trap snap shut and the blood curdling scream that followed. Denim jacket’s leg was in a helpless grip cutting into the flesh. He was crying in agony trying to pull his leg free, but each time he did the teeth would drag more skin from the bone. He collapsed to the floor on the cusp of passing out. One of the Serbs dressed in a black hoody covering his head ran to the aid of Denim, but tripped on a cord made from the snare wire tied between too trees. He fell forward onto a set of carved wooded spikes protruding from the ground at a 45 degree angle. They penetrated his chest causing him to cough up blood. Munroe could not see what was happening, but the sounds of rustling neared every second. He was almost panicking trying to spot any sign of a human figure, but the darkness was concealing everything. Leather jacket, Tracksuit and a third man wearing a long winter coat were only a few metres from the shack. They each had AK47s and cocked them ready to fire. They created a line of fire as they cut up the shack’s walls. Inside Lennox was going berserk barking and bouncing up and down. The flashes from the muzzles lit up the faces of the three men alerting Munroe to their position. He lined up the sight and fired a shot taking out Long Coat, a perfect shot through the head. As he reloaded, Lennox had managed to get out the door and ran toward the two remaining men, barking loudly. He pounced at Leather Jacket sinking his teeth into his arm. As he roared in pain he pulled a Glock 19 from his trousers and fired a shot. Lennox yelped collapsing to the ground. Just as Leather Jacket pulled himself to his feet a shot echoed and he felt a piercing sting in his chest. He dropped to his knees falling forward taking a mouthful of dirt. With only Tracksuit left, he yanked back the trigger churning out round after round splitting the wood of the shack, splinters flying off in all directions. Munroe reloaded the rifle and trained his sight. He fired, catching Tracksuit in the chest. He fell backwards casting the AK47 across the ground. Munroe waited several minutes scanning the tree line again, prepared for any more movements. He suspected they were all down and slowly crawled to the edge of the roof where he slipped off down to the ground. He reloaded the rifle and made his way over to Tracksuit who was panting. As Munroe looked down at him, he looked up. “You fool. You do not understand. She must die. She is not human.” He spoke under heavy breath. Munroe frowned at him confused by these words. “What do you mean?” he asked. Tracksuit gave his last breath and shut his eyes. Munroe looked over toward the main house. Munroe didn’t hesitate to gather up Lennox and put him in the back of the Land Rover. He’d been shot, but Munroe suspected it wasn’t anything too serious. The bullet was through and through missing any vital organs. It was a simple case of stemming the blood flow until he could get him to a vet. But first he would need to stop by the house. As Lennox lay in the back of the car breathing slowly, but conscious, Munroe was still waiting by the door after having rung the doorbell several times. Past experiences told Munroe it didn’t matter how late it was someone would always answer the door. He decided he couldn’t wait any longer and used all his strength to kick the door. It slammed against the wall as it swung open. With rifle in hand, Munroe stepped into the quiet expecting someone to run in questioning the noise, but nothing. He made his way into the living room where the fire was still roaring, unattended. “Hello?” he called out, expecting some sort of reply. Climbing the stairs was something he had never done. The upstairs of the household was strictly off limits, but Munroe was becoming more and more concerned by the lack of presence in the home. He made his way across the large corridor of rooms, all with their doors open. Only one at the end was shut. He guessed this was Mr McKendrick’s bedroom, and made his way toward it. He repeated the words of the Track suited Serb in his head “She’s not human.” What did he mean by that? He reached out his hand and turned the door handle gently pushing it open. The hinges creaked, the light rushing into the dark room. As Munroe entered he was greeted by a familiar scene. Lying on the bed was Mr McKendrick, not looking too dissimilar to the fox that he had discovered that morning. Blood was sprayed up the walls, the bed sheets were soaked. Limbs and organs spread all over. Mr McKendrick’s severed head frozen with a face of pure shock that sent a chill down Munroe’s spine. Down on the floor beside his feet was a crumpled up dress, the same one worn by Sabina. Behind him he could hear the sound of breathing. He carefully turned around and stared into the blackness in the corner of the room. Floating like two laser dots was a pair of red eyes staring at him. His heart began pounding faster than had ever before. She began to make a growling noise. Munroe slowly attempted to cock the rifle. The clicking noise startled her and she lunged out from the corner launching toward him. Munroe raised the rifle and fired a shot.


I always wondered what they meant when someone said they were a kid at heart. I never knew that kind of spirit. Even as a child, I only knew responsibility. No fun, no games, nothing. Then my neighbor asked me to get in touch with my inner child for a few hours to watch her son. I had spent a lot of time around them and quite enjoyed their company, but being solely responsible for a six year old was a lot of work and I wasn't sure I was up for the challenge. In order to gain confidence, I thought about my childhood, but I couldn't remember anything. What kind of things did I enjoy? I couldn't even remember watching cartoons or playing with toys. She insisted that I would only have to pick him up from school, make him a quick snack, and put on some cartoons. And while the task didn't seem very challenging in words, I was definitely unsure of my ability to entertain a child. Nevertheless, our friendship was more important to me than unexplained fears and I accepted. After all, she really needed the help. She was up for a promotion and the extra time at work would almost guarantee her the job. The day came too soon and my anxiety kept creeping in. Would Josh have a good time in my apartment until his mom got home? I wasn't sure that simply following my friend's instructions would be enough. I decided to take a nap before the afternoon crept up on me in hopes that it would ease my mind, but as quickly as I fell asleep, my alarm went off. I then impulsively decided to walk to pick him up as I figured the exercise would help wind him down and keep him calm once we got home. After signing him out, everything was going as planned until he suggested that we take a shortcut that he and his mom discovered. I didn't like the idea, but he insisted that his favorite park was on that route, so I gave in. When we set foot on the park path, I started to shiver. I felt funny and off, and as dark clouds formed around us, I wanted to turn around and go with my original route. But something wouldn't let me; something pushed me to act like a child and feel excitement in anticipation of the park. I was worried about Josh getting wet, and possibly catching a cold, but even more terrified of encountering lightning. Thankfully, the clouds didn't make much of an impression and gave way to a sunny afternoon quickly. Just as the last cloud vanished, I heard Josh exclaim in happiness. “Yes! We're finally here,” he said as he ran through a gate. From the outside it didn't look like a park, but who was I to argue with an eager six year old. As we passed a path lined by trees, a simple playground was revealed and I was relieved. Josh immediately knew what he wanted to do and wasted no time. He tried everything out. First, he sat on the swings. He tried three different ones out and each time he looked around. Then he looked in a tunnel. But that must have not been his thing because he quickly decided he wanted to try out a rocking horse. He was an odd little fellow for sure, but he looked to be having fun in his own way. “My mommy says I should try everything out, but I know it's the slide. It's always the slide.” His voice was so fresh and cute that his gibberish made the perfect sense. “You mean the slide is your favorite, right?” I asked him knowing the answer already. Then my phone interrupted our fun. His mom was checking in and I assured her that we were having a good time. “Your mom is gonna be a little later than expected because she's working really hard, but we can hang out here for a while. Does that sound good bud?” I was worried he'd be upset, but he just kept smiling and laughing. Behind a rather peculiar snicker, he said, “I'm working harder! I brought you to the dream slide.” “What's the dream slide?” The name intrigued me and I wanted to know more. “Get on here and I'll tell you.” He told me with a warm smile and grabbed my hand leading me to the slide. “I don't know if I'll fit.” I tried to reason with him, but he was unusually strong and pushed me to the steps of the slide. I gave in and climbed on. “Try it. I'll catch you at the bottom,” he said as he opened his arms and positioned himself perfectly to catch me. “I'll be okay,” I chuckled. “Scoot back and watch, okay?.” He nodded and I slid down. “Go again. But this time think of your dreams. Kid dreams. Like what you want to be when you grow up.” I smiled as I listened to his silly request. “Okay. I’ll try it.” I said with a big smile. As I slid down, something changed inside me. I remembered everything about being a kid. I remembered going to the park as a little boy. And I remembered eating popsicles and coloring with crayons. It felt so good that I wanted to go again and again, but as good as it felt, I wasn't the child and I needed to give Josh a turn. “Let's take turns, yeah? This is really fun!” I could hear a youthful joy in my voice that filled me with happiness. Deep down I longed to continue the connection with my childhood that I had previously forgotten. This was where I wanted to be. I savoured every moment even while sharing the slide with Josh. As we played I couldn't help but wonder if the slide had been my favorite park adventure as a child. I decided to try to remember a memory of being at the park as a child on my next turn. As I slid down, I was completely consumed by childhood. “It's a lot of fun, isn't it Derek?” There was something off about Josh’s voice, but I dismissed it. Surely all the excitement and yelling had made him hoarse. Besides, my turn was up next. All I could focus on was the childish rush. But it was abruptly interrupted by an eerie honk. Josh and I tried to look toward the street to see who was honking. He then darted off and began to snicker as he hid behind the jungle gym. “Oh, look Josh, it's your mom! She must have finished up early.” I turned to him to let him know our fun was over, but I didn't see him anywhere. The rush of the dream slide was still running in my veins and I tried to compose myself as Linda walked toward us. “Come on Josh. Your mom’s here,” I said as I looked around. I started to get a little nervous because I couldn't see him, but surely he was just hiding in the jungle gym. “Hey, how'd it go?” Linda said with a friendly smile. “It's been g-” I began to answer, but she cut me off rather rudely. “Not you, I'm talking to him.” That quickly made my youthful high disappear and I felt a string of emotions that I couldn't contain. I was upset and my tears showed it. “Everything went smoothly.” A strange voice spoke from behind the slide. It certainly wasn't Josh. Then I saw Josh climb the steps and approach the slide. He looked at me and smiled. Then he spoke, but his voice was no longer silly or innocent. It was that of a man and had a tone that I couldn't comprehend. “It's always the slide. And good thinking with the childhood amnesia elixir. The slide was able to collect more energy and the switch was easier. I think it will last a lot longer this time, and it feels better too.” He said all of this with a terrifying smirk on his face. He sounded mean and he made my heart sink. Then he slid down the slide, only when he reached the bottom, he was a grown up. Linda smiled and turned her attention towards me. She was loving and motherly as she gave me a hug and wiped my tears away. “You hear that? I got my promotion!'' She said excitedly. She pulled a small mirror out of her pocket and with a soft voice said,”look, you're a doll.” Confusion filled my soul and she could no longer keep up with wiping my tears. When I looked in the mirror, I saw myself as a child and I couldn't help but cry. Her soft voice tried to soothe me. “It's only temporary Derek. You'll grow up again one day.


It was a pleasant night went I met her. There I was leaving another building the scent of blood heavy on my clothes. I wiped my knife off on my jacket, no need to hide stains when your already the most wanted criminal in the city. I turned the corner into an old alleyway a dunk old man was rummaging in a trash can. The sound of my footsteps startled him but it was my face that terrified him. I almost laughed at his haunted expression, the way he fell over into the garbage hopeing I wouldn’t see him. Part of me wanted to finish him off, but I was tired and already coated in blood. I turned the next corner ignoring the man. Reaching into my pocket I felt the list in my hand I pulled in out of my pocket used some of the wet blood and crossed out the top name. Then I said the next name aloud. “Kristopher Gray.” Immediately a red line appeared in my vision. It twisted around the corners and out of my sight. A new hunt was on, this was my power. By saying a mans name aloud I can track them any where I simply let the red line pull me closer. As time goes on the red line darkens and the pull becomes unbearable until I finally kill the mark. It was this skill that earned me my name blood hound, and my spot as Petersburg’s most feared supervillain. I was rounding a corner following the line when suddenly I felt a sharp sting in back. I stopped in my tracks, a smile grazed my lips; it had been a while sense anyone tried to take me out. I had been getting bored lately all my marks simply fell at my feet and begged for mercy no one had any spunk anymore. “Not a very wise move,” I said calmly the pressure of the blade increased, I could feel a small stream of blood going down my back. This excited me, finally someone brave. The pull of the red line tugged at me to countinue the hunt, but I ignored it. It had been to long sense I got to fight someone, It was time to have some fun. I quickly pivoted on my toe and in a fluid motion grabbed the gun from my holster and knocked the knife out of my assailants hand. In the next motion I fired my pistol directly in their chest, or at least where there chest should have been. But no one was there. I heard a scrapping noise and began to laugh. There was no attacker it was just a child, wrapped tightly in winter clothes, who was now chasing down their small knife that I had knocked against the wall. My laughter only grew as I watched them fumble to pick up the dagger their gloved hands struggling to get a grip. “Stop laughing at me” the child roared. “I am going to attack you and then when I win you will owe me a favor.” They finally got a grip on their knife and charged at me. I dodged easily stepping to the right and extending my foot. They failed to change directions in time and went sprawling. “Thanks for the laugh kid.” I said between chuckles. “It’s been a while sense anyone has managed to sneak up on me I’ll give you that.” Honestly the child’s ability to go unnoticed had impressed me maybe they were a super? If so in a few years they could become a threat, I wondered if I should kill them. I decided I would leave them alone see what the world made them. With one last glance I walked away, allowing the pull of the hunt to take over my senses. I thought that would be the end of it. A few days later I was walking the same alley way when I felt it again the pressure of a knife on my back. Using the same motion as before,minus the gun this time, I disarmed the tiny assailant. I was in a poor mood that day, my mark had jumped out a 15 story window befor I could kill them. I hated cowards. I waited for the child to get up and fetch their knife. It was so strange they couldn’t have been more than 70 pounds yet they held more courage in them then many of the men I had killed. But alas I couldn’t keep allowing this behavior to continue. The kid faced me again with the same knife in their hand. I could see the way they were eyeing me ready to pounce. With my right arm extended I lunged at them catching them off guard. I twisted them arm behind them and grabbed the knife out of their hand. “Stop this kid, it was funny the first time but now your starting to get on my nerves.” My voice grated with frustration as they pitifully fought against my hold. “ I’m going to beat you and then you will have to do me a favor.” The kid said, I could hear the desperation in their voice. “ What makes you think you can beat me and even if you did what makes you think I’d help you for it.” My curiosity was peaked what did a child need my skills for? I was the most wanted criminal in all of Petersburg. “ Cause you will owe me a life debt and that means you have to help. My friend jimmy says you have to!” The child still struggled in my grip. I tightened my hold until they Yelp in pain. “ What is would you use this life debt for? Taking out a bully? That’s beneath my work kid.” “I need you to kill someone.” The kids voice grew quite as they said it. “Iv tried but I can’t do it, I’m not big enough.” Their voice cracked in shame. What kid wanted to kill people I wondered? How demented must they be? “ Who might you want dead? Did someone steal your lunch money kid?” I asked as I turned them around to face me. It was then I noticed the kid was a girl, maybe 8 years old. Her face was covered in dirt and bruises but her clothes were surprisingly nice. “I’m not a kid, and I want you to kill my Dad!” The kid yelled indignantly. I never was the type of criminal with morals but something about the thought of this kid cowering in a corner made me enraged. Maybe I could pick up an extra mark tonight. “Why do you want him dead?” “Mom tries to hide me when he comes home, but he always finds me. I tried to kill him, I swear I did but I failed and now My mom can barely stand. Please just kill him.” The girl was finally starting to shake now. Her adrenaline was wearing out and fear was catching up. Yet she never broke eye contact with me. It was in that moment that I knew I was going to kill him. “ What’s your Dady’s name.” That was all I needed, just the name and in a matter of days the man would be dead. “Walter Mcgonald.” The girl whispered as though the name would bring him out of the shadows. “ Are you sure you want this? Once I say his name I can’t stop until he’s dead. Do you understand?” I looked at the child’s eyes, they needed to know that once I said his name he would be dead in a matter of days, that was the price of the hunt. After I spoke a name out loud the urge to follow the red line slowly consumed me. I tried to fight it once when I was younger. I ended up blacking out, when I came to I was covered in not just the marks blood but the blood of dozens of people. “I’m sure.” The child’s voice didn’t waiver. She was serious. “Walter Mcgonald” I said the name out loud. I watched the red line form and snake off out of view. The deed had been done Walter’s fate was sealed. “ So kid does your Dad have any powers so should know about?” Most folks had a small power, some could make any flower grow at will, others could summon small objects like keys to their hands. I once killed a man that could change the temperature of any room by 5 degrees. Most powers were small enough to be inconsequential but a few powers made killing someone a little trickier. The kid tensed up and looked away. For the first time I saw real fear in their eyes. She didn’t say a word. I began to get frustrated . “ Well I already agreed to kill them, so out with it.” I had a hunch that there power was not something as trivial as temperate changes. “ mind control, he has mind control.” The girl said. I couldn’t help but curse as my blood ran cold. What had I done I looked at the red line in front of me and for the first time in years wondered who’s blood would be shed when I reached the end of it. There was only one person in all the City with that power. The Whisper, Petersburg’s greatest superhero. I was now bound to kill him.


My old leather belt I wake up another day to hear my rattling alarm, it's an absolutely dreadful ringing. Everytime i hear the abominable sound I cover both of my ears with my pillow. When I finally get the energy to wake up and move to the bathroom, I brush my teeth and stare into the mirror. Wondering why I’m why I’m still here, why I even try anymore. Nothing seems worth it anymore. I take a completely cold shower because I can't afford hot water at the moment. I’ve been laid off from my Nine to five job, working down at a supermarket making Eight fifty an hour. I could barely survive off of that cash, But now it's gone. I have no money, Every cent I had went towards the cheapest liquor i could find. Just so I could feed my crippling addiction. I go to the cabinet around eight thirty in the morning, I then proceed to take anywhere from two to three shots. The only way I can make it through the day is those shots. I’m done living like that. I want away from that life, I want to be better. But I simply can't. I have one shot left. I take my final drink and head for my bedroom. I went into my closet to find my belt, it was an old belt that my father wore when he was still alive. I held that belt in my hands and cried, more tears than ever before. I took that belt into my living room, and set it down on my old, worn out couch. I reached over my small dining table to grab a chair. The same dining table given to me from my sister, She had no use for it when she moved out of her studio apartment in California. She made it big with some guy she mooches off of. She’s always had it easy in life. I take that chair into the living room, and place it directly underneath a ceiling fan that was lousily installed by the maintenance crew. I then decided what I would do. I looped my fathers leather, worn out belt around my neck. I put the belt into a loop on the fan, while standing on top of my barstool. I stared into space and cried. I closed my eyes and said. “Dad, i’m finally coming to see you..” The chair wobbled out from underneath me. I feel as the belt tightens and clogs my airway. I realized what was happening. I didn't want this. I could be better. As that thought crossed my mind. I hear the chair hit the floor with a loud thump. Breaking my glass that I used for liquor. I began to panic, I didn't want to die yet, I was screaming but nothing would come out, I choked on my words and began to fall black. This is it, that would be my end; Hanging from my ceiling fan. Just as I accepted my fate, I heard a shout from my apartment door. I choked and gurgled trying to scream for them. The woman slowly opened the door, and with a loud scream. She ran over to me and threw the chair underneath me. She forced my lifeless, completely wasted body up to the chair. She then stood on it and released the belt from my red, bruising throat. I blacked out for a good thirty seconds or so, She had 911 on the way and was trying everything she could to save me. As I started to cut in and out of reality, She sat next to me and cried. She hugged my lifeless body, As I floated away. I felt as my soul, my spirit. My life, Leave my body. I was dead.


I first heard of *The Deep* when I was eavesdropping on a hipster couple at a pub near uni. I was having a low-carb pint, alone, as always, when they began to chatter. “So there’s this place” said the man in a hushed voice. “apparently it’s, like, some sort of bar, not like any of the others around here, some secret handshake shit.” “Sounds cool.” said the woman, looking down, picking at her fingernails. “It’s got a hidden entrance and all that jazz.” “Sounds fun.” she responded, still picking at her fingernails, not reciprocating the man’s hushed tone. I’d ordered an Uber from uni, and by the time i’d been dropped off it was dark. Street poles lit the ground with a urine yellow. I realised that the Uber was the only car in sight, and it was quickly disappearing up the cobblestone road. There was a Telstra payphone nearby, the receiver was dangling awkwardly. I could smell weed and hear faint chatter. I had a feeling this was the right place. I knocked on a metal door three times, and was about to knock again before it swung backwards and a girl with a septum piercing appeared. “Have you tried the schnitty at The Royal?” snarled the punky woman in front of me. “I - uh.” She slammed the door and I heard a deadbolt lock. She was, I guessed, one of the staff at *The Deep*, and I had failed some sort of test. Defeated and a bit pissed off I took another look around the street I had found myself in. The lonely cobblestone roads and sandstone buildings of covid-era Sydney had long lost their charm on me. I brought up Google Maps on my phone and reluctantly searched for a nearby pub. I figured i’d remedy my disappointment with a low-carb pint, alone, as always, again. But Then I spotted a tall and admittedly suave-looking guy. He was sauntering down the street, toward me, or toward the door. And I was convinced that my luck had turned. His name was Alex, and he was a Juris Doctorate student at Sydney University. He smoked JPS Blues, like me. I took a drag of his cigarette and passed it back to him. “You know the password?” I asked. He looked at me, cocking his head, his waves of brown hair flopped to one side. “You need to say the steak is better at The Royal.” “Ah” I said “Yes, better than the schnitzel...” “I’ve tried them both and the schnitty is definitely better.” I said. He laughed, and I started to feel like I was winning him over. “I’ll see you inside, brother” said Alex abruptly, tossing his cigarette aside. He was one of those *brother* people, who say it to everyone they meet. I knew the trick, but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a little disarmed. “Don’t tell Cassidy I told you the password.” shouted Alex with a smile as he walked towards the metal door, where the faint music was coming from. I assumed that Cassidy was the punky girl with the septum piercing. “It’s going to be a good night!” Alex shouted, this time fainter. I didn’t know it at the time, but he was right, it was going to be a good night - a night he would remember for the rest of his life. I waited a few minutes to avoid suspicion, then walked up to the metal door once again.


No one appreciates the little things. Everyday cars drive by the lifeless bodies of racoons, cats, dogs, possums, and anything else unfortunate enough to experience the harsh reality of rubber and asphalt. The driver just assumes that these things work themselves out, and some manner of scavenger, road worker, or something else not worth the thought takes care of it. They'll never understand her labor. The collector has lived in the woods beyond this stretch of highway since before the pavement came. At night she creeps out from her humble workshop and looks for the forgotten critters. Sometimes it can be difficult. Heavy vehicles create a "pop" effect that leave next to nothing salvageable aside from a tail or skull. The best outcome is a simple side strike which normally leaves the pelt in pristine condition. She gathers every carcass, regardless of condition, and brings it back to her abode. Whatever can't be used traditionally is tossed into a composter and used for her garden, her single tribute to the living world. Whatever could be used, however, was used with honor. Bones formed miniature chandeliers, muscles and tendons were dried into fibrous strings and tethers which were used to stitch skin into itself, forming bags, hats, and anything else that leather could substitute. Her larger projects ranged from skeletal mosaics to reddish-brown self portraits. During these projects she would get excited and double the ground covered on nightly scavenger hunts. However, when traffic was a little too light for her demand, she would improvise. The collector loved these animals. Life was cruel and meaningless for a forest ecosystem damned by transportation, why not save a few from such a useless death? In the tree-line, she baited snares with whatever compost smelled the most foul. Using an improvised stone and rope system employed for automated fishing, as an animal tripped the line it would be grabbed, hoisted, and slung into a nearby tree. The strike was fast enough to elicit the same fatality as that of a vehicular side swipe and only rarely did death require further motivation. She always made sure to place the traps within a few hundred feet of the road, therefore the odds of death were high regardless. After all, what seems more fitting, a distracted driver mindlessly killing an animal or a caring soul saving them for something greater? Besides, it wasn't like anyone would notice. The drivers paid no mind to the seemingly homeless woman walking the road at night and their radio combined with her bicycle reflectors kept them from thinking too hard about what was in her bag. She keeps supreme confidence that while others may feel disgusted by her work, the contributing creatures would certainly be proud of it. Even if they will never know it, those that live nearby and use the road shouldn't concern themselves with lost pets or dug-up graves. After all, if they buried their companion in the woods or let it get that close to the road, do they really care? The streets stay clean and she stays busy. Whatever beast is forgotten or misplaced should be left as such, all payment for the collector.


I used to get the sexy Hollywood types like Keanu Reeves, Brad Pitt and Kid Rock—you know, the long hair skinny types—but as I’ve gotten older and fatter (still got a head full of hair at least) my doppelgangers have gotten worse. They’ve downgraded, if you will. These days I’m lucky to get Gary Busey, Ozzy, or if the moon is in its correct orbital path—Christopher Walken. Or sometimes, Dave. I was the chef at a cozy little joint called Birdsong Bistro—best chili in Frisco if you ask me—and I played drums in a band called Rickie and the Renegades, making pretty good green. One night, me and some bandmates met up at a dive bar called The Arena, a real shithole. I don’t know why I like those kinda places, I just do. Maybe it’s the privacy—nobody gives a rat’s asshole about you at The Arena, plus they’ve got the best jukebox in town. Things got weird fast. I arrived first. The bar was lined with barstools, each one filled; a Coors Light sign was flashing on and off next to the 49ers mural behind the bar; other sports paraphernalia (mostly 49ers) hung haphazardly throughout the dimly lit bar. I spotted a vacant booth at the back. “Brett! Good to see ya.” Kimmy the Bartender said. Kimmy was a fine bartender. One of the best. She was like a hummingbird. Always moving, talking fast, never stopping. A real piece of work. “Whatcha having tonight, Brett?” “Beer and whiskey, Kimmy. Make it a double.” I was about to strike up a conversation but she’d run off to another booth, so I removed my jacket (the one your mother bought for me) and looked around the bar; a group of factory workers, still in their work clothes, were sitting at the booth adjacent to mine, yelling obscenities and throwing peanuts and at the TV, something about the Warriors—one bounced and landed on my head, so I ate it. George Thorogood came on. "Wanna tell you a story, ‘bout the house rent blues.” Yeah, I was diggin’ it. I was feeling better than I had in years. I was thinking about finally opening up my own restaurant. Be my own boss. Make your mother proud. Kimmy shot over with drinks, took my money, smiled, then flew off. I was sipping on my Jack, drumming to the music, loosening up, feeling the room, watching paychecks being spent; Kimmy catches it all and is back before you can say Long Island Iced Tea. I looked at my phone. *Where the hell* are *they?* These joints won’t smoke themselves. *Or will they?* I gave Kimmy the signal—you know, going out for a smoke. I stepped out of the booth, grabbed my jacket and headed for the door. An attractive Spanish woman was sitting at the booth by the door talking on her phone, staring straight at me. She looked terrified. So did the woman next to her. They watched in utter anguish as I passed them and left the bar, forgetting them instantly. The parking lot was littered with stragglers lounging about; it was still early, the freaks come out at night. I reached for my phone—*They’re late*. I decided against texting them. No one likes a whiny texter. I sauntered behind the plaza and sparked up a joint, took a good long toke and got lost inside memories. I remembered the night you were born. I was on my way to a gig that night when your mother called me. I remembered the last time I saw you; how beautiful you looked, so small and fragile and safe—life was good then. I walked the long way around the building and finished a cigarette and then bought a fresh pack at the Circle K. When I stepped back into the Arena, Folsom Prison Blues was playing on the juke box—*I hear the train a-comin*—I spotted Erika talking up a storm with Kimmy by the bar and headed to the booth where Tyrone and Dave were having an argument. “Damn, brother. Where you been?” Tyrone says to me. He’s pimped out in his brown Stetson hat, checkered suite jacket, white collared shirt with the top four buttons down, gold cross dangling around his muscled neck. “Eat my ass, T.” “Woah bro, that’s some fightin’ words you sayin’. You lucky you a drummer. And why’d you drag me to this old folk’s bar anyway? Ain’t no dancin’ or girlies here. Just a bunch of ugly-assed old folks. Um, no offence.” His slippery smile boasted a perfect set of pearly white’s. Dave got up and left for a smoke without saying a word. Dave was tall and lanky with full beard and short brown hair. As Dave got up to leave Erika returned with drinks. “That’s my girl,” Tyrone says. Erika had blue hair, nice thighs and visible tattoos. She was just opening her mouth to speak when the door swung open and seven cops raced into the bar, guns drawn, heading straight toward me. The lead officer smashed my head against the table—BAM—and pointed his gun at my head. “Keep your hands where I can see them!” Immediately, I was handcuffed. I heard the cops screaming orders at me but everything sounded under water. I don’t know how many times my head was slammed against the table, but it was plenty. I remember saying something clever. Bad idea. The next thing I know I’m being hauled outside, thrown against a cop car, searched *very* thoroughly, thrown into a cop car, and asked the same questions over and over until we reached the police station, where they took my mugshot and fingerprints before throwing my sorry ass in a holding cell. Fortunately, not for long. Unbeknownst to me, Tyrone, Dave and Erika were answering their own questions and they smoothed things out in a hurry (apparently, the pretty Spanish Lady thought I was the asshole who mugged her the previous night) and I was back on the street two hours later with a heck of a story. Check that one off the bucket list. \* \* \* Turns out, that incident was just the soundcheck, the pre-show, the opening act if you will; the Birdsong Bistro was forced to shut down in March and I was out of work. Just like that. Work disappeared. Gigs were cancelled. Bills unpaid. Let’s face it, the summer of 2020 was a nightmare, especially in Cali. My car was sold, my drums were pawned, my savings depleted, I considered putting my Glock into my mouth and pulling the trigger, that’s how bad things were. But then I received that wonderful call from Rickie; he found work in Palmetto, Florida. And just like that, I’m off to the Sunshine State. Me, Tyrone, Dave and Erika hopped into Rickie’s Econoline van and hauled ass out of Frisco and drove straight to Palmetto, hardly ever stopping. Needless to say, I took to Florida like shit on shiny carpet. I made dinner right away. Rickie claims the real reason he hired an old fart like me was for my cooking. We unpacked what little we had and headed to a club called Master Gator’s, our first gig. The place was sparsely packed, the radio was playing rockabilly and everybody was lit. At some point, I glanced up at one of the TVs above the bar and did a double take, spitting my beer all over Tyrone’s black button-up shirt. “Hey, you asshole!” I pointed. There I was on the TV. I read the subtitles: **Armed Robbery Suspect Wanted Across State of Florida**. The man on the screen could have easily passed for my twin brother. Except, I was better looking. “That dude looks just like you,” Tyson said, matter-of-factly. And just like that my face was gone, replaced by a vacuum commercial which apparently sucked. By the end of the first month the honeymoon was over; the promoter stiffed us (surprise, surprise) and your mother’s lawyer was threatening me again. Things were bad. I checked my bank account; I couldn’t buy my way into church. I thought about that guy on TV, my doppelganger, maybe *h*e was my ticket. I bet I could walk into any bank in Florida wearing a mask and robbed them sonsofbitches and he would take the fall. I looked at my Glock—*whatcha think Baby? You up for it?* I searched the internet until I found the guy; his name was Axel Roberts. I found a pic of him standing beside a blue Ford pickup truck, wearing a greasy tank top with white suspenders and shit-stained overalls—a real dirtbag. I could totally pass as this dude. I went downtown to case a couple joints. *Just in case*. When I returned to the house later that afternoon Tyrone was shirtless, waiving pink panties over his head, beer bottles were scattered all over the floor and the fridge was left open and all my beer was gone. Something inside me snapped. That’s when I decided to rob the bank. Right away. Before I lost my nerve. \* \* \* That night I dreamed of the old west. I was a cowboy—Billy the Kid—and I was being chased by angry men on furious horses. I kept riding. I rode and rode toward the flickering sun; my horse kicking up clouds of warm desert sand as I squinted to see ahead. The day was as hot a pig in a frying pan. Don’t tell your friends that one. They were gaining on me. A bullet struck my shoulder and I tell you, Kat, it hurt. Even in my dream, it hurt. Next thing I know, I’m eating dirt and bleeding everywhere. Standing over me, casting a tall shadow, was the Sheriff. The Sheriff's pointed badge glistened under the hot sun; the long-rounded barrel of his Winchester rifle fit nicely under my chin. He gazed at me with hard-blue eyes—cold as blue steel—and finally spoke, “Got any last words, Pardner?” I tried to speak but my mouth was dry. “Thanks alright, Son. Now yer gonna die.” I watched as his long anxious finger twitched over the trigger. His smile was long and sharp—CLICK. \* \* \* I snapped open my eyes and screamed. A dream, I thought, relieved. I felt a warm patch on my crotch—*Jeez, did I piss myself?* I was coming unglued. I cleaned myself up, scarfed down a bowl of cereal, drank three cups of coffee and checked for any news on Axel Roberts and found nothing. My doppelganger had been quiet lately—too quiet. But that was about to change. I wore a plain black tee-shirt, black cargo pants, black cloth mask and black shoes. Hell, I was the Man in fucking Black. I took the van and parked it two blocks south of Wells Fargo bank. I felt for my gun in my knapsack, making sure it was loaded. *Just in case*. I left the van doors unlocked. No worries. Who would be dumb enough to steal a van in broad daylight? I found myself standing outside the bank, frozen with fear, trying to remind myself why I was here in the first place. *This* *is it; last chance to turn back*. My heart was beating like a bass drum at a hip-hop concert. I slowly opened the door and stepped inside. The bank was long and straight and cluttered with bright blue signs announcing great deals on mortgages, interest rates and all that jazz. Hand sanitizer everywhere. I found the end of the line and waited, keeping social distance. The people ahead of me were either staring awkwardly at their phones or staring at their shoes, or both. Every one of them was wearing a mask. To me, they all looked like bank robbers. Nobody noticed me. I held tightly to my duffle bag, feeling the Glock pressed against my stomach, took a deep breath, waited. My left leg started vibrating profusely and my hands were shaking; I couldn’t stop them. I was starting to panic. I decided to abort. *What the hell was I doing here? There’s no way I can stick up a bank. Not in Florida. Every. Person. In. This. Bank. Is. Packing. Heat.* Everyone was staring at me—*They Knew*. “Sir—” I tried to gain control of myself. “Sir—” I looked up. “Ready to take the next customer.” At that moment I wished I’d put more thought into this. I was petrified. I gathered my nerve—*I can do this*—and walked to the counter. The teller—a string bean looking man with sandy brown hair pulled back into a manbun and glasses that kept fogging up—was looking at me with little interest. His face twitched as he adjusted his face mask for the third time. Another teller walked past him counting cash then disappeared behind a blue door. When I tried to speak, nothing came out except gibberish. “I beg your pardon?” I took out my gun and pointed it at him. His eyes popped out of his head. “Keep your mouth shut and do as I say.” The teller stood there like a fool. “Make one funny move and I’ll blow your brains through the roof. I want as much money as you can give me in sixty seconds. And it better be a lot.” The teller looked as brave as the Cowardly Lion. I almost felt sorry for him. “You got fifty seconds left. Go Now.” He grabbed some envelopes and went for cash. I was certain he sounded the alarm. I was terrified. I thought of you, Kat. How wonderful it would be to have some money to spend on you. My hands steadied. The teller reappeared with four envelopes of cash. I grabbed them greedily. I tried to think of something clever to say but couldn’t, probably a good thing, right? I stuffed my Glock and the envelopes into my knapsack and headed for the exit. I was almost home free. Everyone in the bank was avoiding eye contact, social distancing, making this much easier than it ought to be. When I reached the exit, I felt a hand grab my shoulder—*This* *is it—*I turned around slowly, reaching for my gun, and saw an elderly man wearing a MEGA mask holding out an envelope. “You dropped this, young feller.” I reached for the envelope. It was wonderfully heavy. His old eyes squinted, looked me up and down and he said “You know Son, you look a lot like my nephew David. He’s—” I left. The sirens were getting louder so I picked up the pace, finally reaching the spot where the van should have been. I called an Uber. **\*** **\*** **\*** That night I was as nervous as a Spinal Tap drummer, but I still rocked three forty-five-minute sets and did a helluva job. Erika was blowing that ‘bone, Rickie dancing on tables, Tyrone locked in tight on bass and Dave tickling his black Strat. The trouble started during set break. The Men’s restroom smelled like a dozen dirty dicks. I did a couple lines in the stall—*I* *deserve this*; halfway through my second bump I heard a couple men enter. They sounded tough. “You sure he’s down here?” One guy says. The other guy says, “Yup. Saw him come down here a minute ago.” Tap. Tap. Tap. “Hey! You in there, Pal?” Tap. Tap. Tap. “C’mon Pal. We ain’t got all day.” Tap. Tap. Tap. I swung the stall open, chest out, making myself seem bigger than I really was. “Yup. That’s the motherfucker.” I had a second to register the two bikers standing in front of me: the short one was wearing a greasy blue bandana, crazy long beard and neck tattoos; the taller man, shaved head and lines chiselled into his hideously weathered face, was holding a long switchblade knife. “I’m gonna carve you up good, you dirty motherfucker.” He lunged at me, knife first—I fell backwards and cracked my head on the toilet seat. I saw stars. I started swinging my fists and feet like an idiot, toilet water splashing everywhere, when I heard the shorter man say, “Woah! Woah! Woah! That ain’t him!” He looked almost as stupid and confused as I did. “Jeez, Pal—I almost carved you up good.” The taller guy reached out his hand and eventually I took it. He put away his knife—I heard the SWOOSH as the blade disappeared back into its handle. He grinned and patted me on the shoulder. “You’re lucky, Pal. Thought you was someone else.” He studied me for a moment and added, “Hey, anyone tell you, you look like what’s his name—You know—That guy from that movie?” “Fuck off.” Shorty laughed. “Wise guy. I like him. Here.” He pulled out his wallet, “Buy yourself a drink.” He dropped a fiver on the floor and the pair of goons fled. After cleaning myself up, I headed up the long dark stairwell and bought myself that drink. It tasted better than sex. Tyrone spotted me at the bar and his demeanor changed at once. “Don’t ask.” “You’re one strange cat. You know that?” He drank. “But you one helluva drummer. You also lucky Brett, you know that? *Lucky*.” He winked then pointed to the TV. Axel Roberts was being arrested. **\*** **\*** **\*** That night I sat alone in my room counting the cash in the envelopes. There was almost $20,000. Problems solved. I was expecting some green powder to spring out all over me, or the money to be counterfeit or traceable somehow, but the money was legit. Benjamin Franklin never looked so fine. I stashed the money in my gym bag and spent the rest of the night wondering how the hell I pulled it off. I took an awkward flight back to Frisco and paid your mother a pile of cash. Suddenly everything was cool again. Things couldn’t have worked out any better. Or so I thought. A week later I woke up to banging on the door—Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. *Who the hell could that be?* I put on some pants and made my way to the front door, wiping the sleep from my eyes—BANG. BANG. BANG. “Hold on, hold on.” I spied out the little hole in the door and froze. It was the cops; five of them, at least. “Open up.” I remembered the cash under my mattress. BANG. BANG. BANG. “Open up—This is the police. We see you through the spy hole—Open up now.” I opened the door and was immediately subdued—*good thing I’ve had practice at this.* They forced me to my knees and cuffed me. They weren’t gentle. They were pointing guns at my face. *Did I actually think I would get away with it?* *There were cameras everywhere*. *You can’t get away with farting in the breeze anymore, let alone robbing a bank in broad-fucking daylight.* “Are you Brett Turner?” “Yes, officer.” “Is this your residence?” “Yes, officer.” “Where were you last Tuesday night?” “Huh?” “Last Tuesday night. Where were you?” *Last Tuesday? Last Tuesday night I was watching Netflix in my boxers while eating leftover birthday cake on top a pile of stolen cash. What the hell did last Tuesday have to do with anything?* I was more confused than scared at this point. “We have video footage of you at the protest Tuesday evening, firing shots into a crowd and killing at least two civilians and an officer. We’re placing you under arrest on two counts of second-degree murder and one count of first-degree murder.


It all started when I rose before the sun on Saturday the 14th, something was off. All I know is that I was being called outside to see the sunrise. I woke Laika up and we went for a walk to catch the rare view of the valley sunrise. There was none.  Like I said, we were walking through the clouds. We walked down the runway at old airport down by the river. No one was there, it was just us. This wasn't anything I thought twice about...why would I? It was at sunrise on a cold November morning. I don't even know why I was there.  I quite liked the feeling of being the only ones there, it was peaceful and relaxing. I took a photo of a tree that I like, it had a certain look this morning that I had to try and capture.  This photo is my only evidence that what happened next actually happened. As you can tell visibility was low, I could only see about 50 yds out. After I took this photo I continued walking and that's when the fresh valley breeze stopped and the temperature dropped noticeably.  Laika started acting weird, the kind of weird when you can tell there is something wrong. She was looking in all directions, sniffing frantically. All of a sudden there was someone about 10 ft behind us. I had no idea where they came from, and neither did Laika.  As the man got closer Laika got more and more uneasy, which made me uneasy. She was the most friendly dog, to the point she doesn't even bark when someone knocks on the door. She loves people, all of them. Not this one.  The person, who appeared to be an elderly man, zoomed past us without acknowledging my courtesy good morning and half smile. This town is small enough for everyone to make small talk while walking past each other. The man just kept his head forward like a Marine in formation with that thousand yard stare.  Just as quickly as he appeared, he was gone. What a relief... Laika felt the same way I did, she came up to me and jumped up to give me some kisses. Everything seemed to go back to normal and we continued walking.  We didn't walk 50 yds when we came across the same man. He was talking to himself beside a lamppost. This time I didn't attempt to make eye contact with him. I walked on the other side of the what I will generously call a road. Through my peripheral vision I could tell the man was staring at me, still talking, but now staring.  After we passed him, Laika started getting uneasy again, I look back to see what she was seeing. What I saw, gave me the chills. The man was no longer alone. No he had a friend. Same height, same build, same face. I started to walk faster to get the hell away from these guys.  After about 2 minutes of nervous power walking I looked back to see if anything or anyone was behind me. There was. The two "men" couldn't be more than 15 ft behind me. I must have jumped pretty hard because the two men reacted simultaneously by reaching for what I initially thought was a gun.  This is where things start to get fuzzy. I have memories of what happened next, but the kind of memories that you have when you wake up from a dream. The kind where you can only explain how you felt where the emotion is the only thing you can explain. The weird part is, the memories and emotions don't feel like they're mine.  I was weightless, but not floating. There was panic all around me, but it wasn't my panic. I remember feeling liquid dropping all over my body, like I was lying out in the rain.  Then I woke up. I was in my house, but not my room. I was in my guest bedroom, and I was fully dressed, shoes and all. Laika was next to me and she looked terrified and was shaking. It was almost like we had the same dream.  I got out of bed and tried making sense of it all. I checked the time, 11:23 AM. This put my mind at ease, for some reason prime numbers always made me feel safe. I began to relax a bit and I checked my camera roll on my phone and that's when I saw the photo of the tree, time stamped at 6:41 AM. What happened couldn't have been a dream, but it couldn't have been real either.


The loud blast startled us all. On its heels the plane nose-dived. "Jump out now!" The squadron leader opened the hatch. It looked like a gaping gateway to hell. One by one the soldiers jumped into the dark abyss. Karthik was the last to go and he somehow reached the ground and was reunited with his teammates. The enemies started shooting at them, the terrorists knew that a squad was coming. They were the ones who bombed the military aircraft while it was mid-air. Two weeks earlier, three soldiers of the Border Security Force were killed by terrorists in a shootout. The government decided to form a squad consisting of thirty members from both BSF and Army for a Surgical strike. The Intelligence Department had collected an information regarding the location of the terrorist group and submitted it to the government. They also found that the terrorist group consisted of 15 members. At present, the terrorist group almost had gained the upper hand. But, the squad bounced back and killed all of them. All of squad members except the squadron leader and Karthik were killed in the ambush. Karthik counted the dead bodies of the terrorist group to be ten. He knew something was fishy. He understood that this was just a small part in a bigger scheme. Karthik realised that the someone has betrayed them as the terrorists knew that they were coming which was a top secret information. He found a phone in one of the terrorist's pocket and messaged all the contacts "I escaped; meet you at Plaza Hotel,Sunday 5:00 pm. He also convinced his squadron leader to lie in the report to the officials that one of the terrorist had escaped. Sunday evening, Karthik went to the Plaza hotel and was waiting for the betrayer to come. But, no one appeared. Instead, he got a call from his wife. She told him to come back home. Her voice was trembling with fear. He realised that she has been held at gunpoint. He ran back to his home. He saw a luxury car parked outside his house. Two assasins held his wife and his children captive. They shot him in the chest and went away. Luckily, he survived because he was wearing Bullet-proof vest. Earlier, Karthik had placed a GPS tracker in their car. He followed them to a house. They were brothers living in the same house. Somehow, he managed to subdue them. But, before he could ask them anything, they ingested cyanide and died by poisoning. He searched the whole house. They had recieved an email of a money transaction and a message "Finish him". He understood it was from the betrayer and he knew about him and his plans. For a moment, Karthik thought and realised that only his squadron leader knew about his plans. His suspicion was confirmed when his department techie informed him that the account from which the assasins received money was the squadron leader's deceased mother's account. Karthik went to his house to confront him. The argument soon turned into a fight during which the betrayer got injured. The betrayer then revealed Karthik about his plans. Earlier, he was the one who bombed their aircraft mid-air, tipped the terrorists of the attack, killed few of the surviving squad members during the ambush. The reason why Karthik survived the attack was because the betrayer lost his knife and ran out of bullets and knew that he couldn't beat Karthik in a hand to hand combat. He was paid a huge amount to help the terrorist mission. Their mission was to send five of their men into the city and bomb five different cities during festival time. Karthik immediately informed this to his superiors who informed the local police and the bomb squad. Using this as a distraction, the betrayer gave Karthik a slip and escaped. After hours of search, the bombs were located and diffused. The Intelligence Department found that the betrayer had moved to a different country and had changed both his face and identity. The manhunt for the betrayer still continues in different countries.


I paced the halls of my two bedroom ranch home, nervous energy wearing a distinct path in the carpet with my shuffling feet. The day before I received an ominous letter in the mail. *I know what you are. I’ll arrive tomorrow to meet you*, it said in scrawling, beautiful cursive. The swooping ends of the letters convinced me that it was written old school style, with a quill and ink. My thoughts buzzed as to what that letter could mean. Was it something about my heritage? From what I knew, my family was your common hodge-podge of different backgrounds that was common to find in the United States. Was it about my occupation? I wasn’t sure that being an engineer was anything to write home about. The time inched by throughout the day as I awaited the promised visit from the mysterious stranger. As the clock ticked past noon, then the late evening hours, my apprehension grew. *Maybe this was all just some prank,* I thought throughout dinner, which was a simple array of frozen foods, as my mind was too distracted by anxiety festering with each passing hour. I glanced at the clock clicking quietly in the hallway. It was nearly midnight at this point. I sighed, cursing myself for getting so worked up about a mysterious letter. Weariness settled into my bones as I turned towards my bedroom door. The weight of the day finally slammed into me as the clock wound closer to midnight. As I shuffled past my office door, I halted. A knock resounded from my front door, a singular, swift rapt that echoed down the hall behind me. My eyes widened as I slowly turned back down the hall. I stared incredulously at my front door as I approached. Its solid wooden form blocked the sight of my front porch from view, save for the small peephole drilled at eye height. I leaned against the door, pressing one of my eyes to the hole to inspect my visitor before allowing them entrance. A small statured man with gray hair and an impressive beard rocked on his heels, whistling a tune to himself with his hands jammed in the pockets of his jeans. He wore a thick, gray wool coat and a fluffy argyle scarf to fend off the evening chill. My curiosity overtook me as I slipped the bolt out of the lock and slowly inched open the front door. “Hello?” I said apprehensively as the light from my home spilled onto the porch, illuminating the warm smile spread across the old man’s face. “Triston!” the old man exclaimed, his voice deep and oddly soothing. “I’m so glad I finally got a hold of you. You got my letter, I presume?” “The ominous note left in my mailbox?” I asked, surprise splashed across my face as I realized the old man knew my name. “Yes, I apologize for that,” he said sheepishly. “I was in a bit of a rush and was running very low on ink, so I scrawled the quickest message I could.” He slipped his hands out of his pockets and held them close to his mouth, blowing hot breath that billowed above him in icy twirls to warm them against the chill. I realized the man wasn’t an immediate danger and stepped aside to offer him entrance to the warm embrace of a heated home. He accepted gratefully, taking a step onto my welcome mat and kicking his shoes off to the side beside my own. “Did you want something to drink?” I offered as I headed to the kitchen. The exhaustion I felt just minutes ago had fled completely with the bewildering development. I knew I’d need at least one cup of coffee to get me through the night if I wasn’t going to sleep. “Tea would be wonderful if you have it,” he said as he shucked his coat and scarf, then gently hung them on the coat rack around the corner from the entryway. “I do, but it’s herbal, is that alright?” I said from the open concept kitchen as I slid the coffee grounds before my coffee maker and generously heaped a couple of scoops into a fresh basket liner. “Perfect,” he said cheerily as he plopped down on my worn cloth sofa. I nodded as I switched on the coffee pot, then moved to fill up the electric kettle. After starting the heating cycle, I joined the old man in the living room by sinking into the singular arm chair in the room. It was a plush monster that was easily my favorite seat in the house. “I need to know, what did you mean by ‘I know what you are’ in your note?” I asked, my hands clasped in my lap as I anxiously posed the question. “Well, you’re a magic wielder of course,” he said, the odd combination of words flowing so easily from his lips as if they meant nothing. “What, like a wizard?” I asked in disbelief. “I guess you could say that,” he explained. “Wizards in fairy tales aren’t really the same as what we are though. Didn’t your mother ever explain this to you?” “No, never,” I said, my apprehension growing. “How do you know my mother?” “You don’t recognize your own grandfather?” he cried, his tone a mixture of pained disbelief and grief. “Wait...grandfather,” I breathed, the room reeling around me as I registered who the man before me was. “But I...Mom said you died a long time ago, when I was just a kid.” “That might have been my fault,” said the old man before me as his eyes dropped to the floor in shame. “When you were about to enter mortal school...er...public school, I pleaded with your mother to send you to a school for magical beings instead. To be with your own kind, you know? It ended up becoming a wedge between us we couldn’t overcome.” Shock left my jaw unhinged as the story clicked in my mind. I vaguely remembered my grandfather from my preschool years, but after kindergarten, my mother told me he’d passed away. I realized now how strange it was that we didn’t have a funeral, and that she stripped our home of any trace of him. I couldn’t find the words to respond to my grandfather’s confession. The world as I’d known it was abruptly ripped out from under my feet. “So then...what are you doing here?” I asked breathlessly, my mind still not fully recovered from the slew of revelations. “I’m here to offer you some training, and a job,” he said as he raised his eyes and fixed his gaze on mine with determination.


I read all the horror stories about being lost underground, and have seen all the movies. I always said that they were dumb as heck, it was their own fault for going down there. They should have known better, and I vowed to never put myself in that silly situation, yearning to breathe free above the surface. It didn't help that we lived near a huge cave system, literally at the bottom of a local mountain and an ancient river had cut holes all through the ground. People came from all over to explore, and we even had a minor celebrity or two lose their lives in our soil. Most of the town worked year round in the businesses of serving tourists. Highly prepared, generally, and with an air of self confidence and athletic builds (those all seemed so unafraid of the business in which they were engaged- diving into the pitch dark, squeezing through narrow corridors hundreds of feet beneath our toes). I would have moved to get away from the whole scene, but my house was cheap, and the neighbors were nice, I'd lived in the town my whole life. Nobody ever fell into a sink hole and ended up in a cave there at least. My friends, I'd likewise known for most of my life, and we enjoyed frequent drinking, and it led to a couple nights where I woke up without any memory of the evening before. I always ended up safely in bed, or sometimes passed out on my floor (with the sunlight streaming in directly strong and causing a full brain pounding headache), or in strangers porch (twice), or in a the town jails drunk cell (on one fateful Friday) when we stayed past last call at the neighborhood bar and upset the staff. My friends were likewise heavy drinkers and they also had nights where they blacked out drunk, we just took it as normal Fridays, and laughed about our debauchery as we regaled each other with stories of past weekends. I felt that the ground was calling out to me for a couple of weeks before the incident. I would hear whispers when I was driving by the parking lot to one of the most visited caves (which opened into a complex system), and I dreamed that I was walking near the mouth of a great cave, with stalagmites bearing out like giant teeth. I thought nothing of it, not believing in prophecies like any logical 21st century man, but one dream was so bad I couldn't fall asleep the rest of the night. I had a flashlight in that dream, and I walked into the cave, and it was full of monsters. I awoke in a cold fright, and felt them in the room with me, I had to turn on the lights, and when I closed my eyes I felt their hot breath and heard their ragged breathing. The next Friday, I planned to get extremely drunk, to get a good nights sleep (the monsters had been in my room, in my mind, again the night after, and the night after that). I certainly met that goal, and we were all three sheets to the wind by ten thirty, a rare evenings indeed. I wandered out of the bar for a smoke, and felt the chill of the November air. I heard the whispering again. It was plaintive and real, it was calling my name. I couldn't have resisted, as much as the rest of this might have been my fault, could you resist someone calling your name? I didn't realize it was the voice of the cave. The monsters. They knew I would be here, close enough. Just close and unaware enough tonight. They called my name, and I followed.  Edit: Bad idea. just survived..


# Happy Weekend, serialists! Welcome to Serial Saturday… ish! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ ***New here?*** If you’re brand new to and thinking about participating in Serial Saturday, welcome! Feel free to dip your toes in by writing for this challenge or any others we have listed on the handy dandy! We appreciate all contributions made to this thread, and all submissions are of course welcomed, whether it addresses a previous challenge or the current one. We hope you enjoy your time in the community! Take a look at our inaugural Serial Saturday post for some helpful tips. You don’t need to catch up by writing for each of the previous assignments, feel free to jump right in wherever fits for you, with whatever assignment or theme fits for you, and post it on the current thread with a link to whichever previously posted challenge you chose to start with. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # This week it’s all about: The Spoils I’ll keep it short this week because by now most are pretty hip to where we’re going with these themes. =) What a wild ride we’ve been on these past couple weeks! But it ain’t over yet. After all, there’s titles to hand out, promotions to brag over, and . There’s ghostwriters to hire and hotels to book for that . If you still have loose ends to tie up from the fallout of all that has happened, treat this installment like an extension of loose ends. We’ve seen dark moments, hard won victories, , conflicts of interests that stopped us in our tracks, and unresolved issues that won’t be ignored. Now it’s time to straighten ties, pour one out for the homies, and begin the first of many press interviews. Get the sharpies out, they're about to get a lot of use. What if all your characters wanted was to go home and have a hot cup of tea? I bet that cuppa will be , so tell us about it. Tell us about the moment when they finally get to sit down for the first time in months and just… *.* **Things to think about this time around:** What do your heroes enjoy more, the spoils of war, or being in the thick of conflict? Would they prefer to be back in the command center, deep in case files, or do they find themselves more suited to the limelight? Are they miserable as they step foot on Oprah’s stage, or are they secretly loving it? Did your protagonist earn what they set out to win? Do they feel better or worse off for the outcome? Did this story bring your characters together, or drive them apart? Will they live out the rest of their days wondering ‘what if’? **\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*** **For the final installments of Serial Saturday the word count has been upped to 800 words.** **You have until \*next\* Saturday, 11/21, to submit and comment on everyone else's stories here. Make sure to check back on this thread periodically to lay some sweet, sweet crit down on those who don't have any yet!** \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* # Top picks from last week’s assignment, Loose Ends: **Fan favorite with the most votes:** /u/Kammerice, as Obcas fits the final puzzle pieces together. This week the **Smoking Hot Challenge Sash** goes to an author that nailed the spirit of the assignment: /u/ChineseArtist, for weaving in his loose ends with a smoking hot reveal we did not see coming. And two honorable mentions: /u/mobaisle_writing, bringing some levity to a story that has had us on the edge of our seats. And /u/LitCityBlues, with a story that wraps up with some unexpected developments. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **The Rules:** * In the comments below submit a story that is between **500 - 800** words in your own original universe. * Submissions are limited to ***one*** serial submission from each author per week. * **Each author should comment on at least 2 other stories** during the course of the week. * That comment must include ***at least one*** **detail** about what the author has done well. * Authors who successfully finish a serial lasting longer than 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the sub. * Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule. *Yes, we will check*. * While content rules are more lax here at /r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely ***family friendly***" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Reminders: * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday post or to your own subreddit/profile. * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serials Campfire on the main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start on Saturdays at 9AM CST. **Don’t worry about being late, just join!** There’s a *Super Serial* role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! **Join the** **to chat with prompters, authors, and readers!** Previous constraint: **Loose Ends** Have you seen the ? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule.


This all happened last November, and I've finally had time to process it, and want to get it down on paper while the details are fresh in my head. It was two in the morning. I was casing out an alleyway in the city nearest my home, I'll admit it. I was looking for open doors, unlocked doors, and access onto the roofs and into windows. I didn't tell the police about that part. This particular alleyway was awash in doorways, leading to the kitchens of many restaurants (some of) which weren't very diligent about making their drops after closing. I know I would have snuck into a grease pit and snuck out with the daily take (minus tip-outs, as the staff generally had left by this hour), had luck been with me that night. But I was not lucky. I found an open doorway, a barrel lodged between the doorframe and the door, the wind whipping through the dish pit. It was an eerily easy looking target. Had I then discovered the restaurant to not yet be closed, I could have just hid and to outwait the wait staffs leaving for the night. But something about this scene rang hollow, as I gingerly eased the door open and stepped through the threshold. I heard nothing, no talking, no walking, no anyone, as I made my way through the silent (and now noticing) darkened kitchen. I walked past the line, and quickly ducked down, as I beheld 5 diners casually chatting in the empty and darkened dining room. The only light had come from a candle on their table, and were talking with great animation, gesticulating wildly. It was obvious that they had not spotted me. I needed to get across the room to the cash register, but it was across the room from these people. Why were they here, and where was the restaurant staff? I hunkered down in a quiet corner, to wait them out, and to hopefully, still find my payday. It seemed like I would be able to sneak out again if they decided to stay the night. They must have deactivated the alarm system themselves to even be in here at this hour. It seemed that they were authors. The first man produced a notebook from his pocket and declared that he had written a short story. The third man laughed. The second man declared that he had recently began writing poems, his rhyming dictionary popping comically from his front pocket. The third man laughed again, I couldn't quite hear what he was saying, but he mocked the first two men. Then the third man was knocked down by the fourth man, who went on somewhat of a speech about the nature of writing, all of which seemed incredibly confusing to me. The fifth man produced a novel, and smacked it on the table with a flourish, silencing the other men. They stared at him spell bound. "I have been published", he declared, and the other gaped at him incredulously. They began to comment on his work, denigrating his choice of font, or his cover art. The fifth man took it in stride, and began to extol the plot of his book. "It is about a stranger, a man who strangles, and that I am he!", he declared. The other men seemed rather impressed, and went on to read the jacket of the book, and congratulate the fifth man on his choice reviews and excellent typesetting. It was only then, when I noticed the sixth man. The one who now snuck behind the third man and began to choke the life out of him. The other four men around the table looked on with some disinterest. "I thought him rather annoying," said the fourth man, after the sixth man made his exit. "And his choice in novelists is, WAS! somewhat poor", commented the second. They extinguished their candle, and made their way out of the back of the restaurant. I couldn't have stopped them, if I wanted to. In truth I found the third man to have been a bit much myself. I took the take (they had left two days worth of money in the register), and made my police report, saying I was walking by and saw light in the window. From a pay phone, of course. I still don't know what to think about that night, other than that I'm glad I don't have many friends.


I was laying on the ground in a place unknown to me. I slowly opened my eyes as I regained consciousness. I stood up, dusting off my clothes. I looked down the horizon to see a herd of cows. I looked around for a bit. I seemed to be on the edge of a forest and a field. I saw what looked to be birch trees all around me. I saw flowers that seemed to slither on the ground as they grew and picked a few. I pocketed the white clovers, thinking that they could be useful. I continued to find different species of flowers and fruit and picked them. I hoped that the fruit wasn’t poisonous. Soon enough, I had gathered enough to fill up the pockets in my jeans. I went back to my starting place and saw a chest right beside my ‘bed’ and opened it. Inside were different wood logs, bread, some more fruit, a pickaxe, and some sticks. I probably looked a bit stupid with how much stuff I was carrying. I carried the logs in the crook of my elbows and carried the pickaxe in my hand. The flowers and fruit I had gathered were sticking out of my pockets. There was a torch placed close to the chest. I picked it up with my other hand and went on my way. I headed south, or at least the direction I thought was south. I saw a bamboo-like plant and harvested it. I shoved it into one of my belt loops and hoped that it would stay there. After wandering for a bit, I saw a herd of cows and came up with an idea. I would tie one of the smaller logs to a stick I had found. I did this and it resulted in a make-shift sword. I also knew that I needed wood. I created an axe using the same method and did what I had to do. So, I put down my stuff, and using the dull sword that I had crafted, I killed 8 of the cows. I skinned them and stored their meat within the satchel I had made from their dried skin. I found some more sticks and placed them on top of the logs I had been carrying. I gathered some more bamboo-like stalks, some stones, rocks, and metals until I saw it. I saw a monster unlike no other. It looked like me but had green skin and blue clothes. It attacked me. I used my sword to defend myself. I’m thankful that my sword attacks were effective. I killed the foul beast. I ran out of the cave I had been mining in, scared of more run-ins with monsters. While I was randomly wandering about, still traumatized from the day’s earlier events, I found a village of some sort. I wandered about the village wondering if I was being rude in any way. I saw that the village had farms, houses, and a cool-looking monument. I didn't know what it was for but it looked quite mystical. I was in deep thought about this monument until I saw a person who resembled me but was slightly different. This… person had a long nose that covered their mouth and arms that were connected by the hands. The person seemed to be mute. They only made ‘huh’ sounds, almost as if they were always asking a question. *‘Were these the people who had placed that chest?’* I thought to myself. It was kind of scary to be in the presence of this thing. I tried to communicate with it but I don’t think it understood. I continued to wander and well, loot the village. I had found armor, some kind of dark crystal, some more bread, a chest to store my findings, and a furnace. I melted the metal I had found into ingots. While I turned the place into my own, it slowly turned to night. I didn’t mind it and continued to loot the village and its farms. While I was doing this, I found wool and made a bed with it. I took the materials and laid them down in the house that I currently call home to make a bed. I then went to sleep.