Rain wasn’t odd for this time of year, or this particular time of day, but after a cloudless sky, it was disappointing to return damp to the party. The hazy glow of the lanterns strung about the gardens cast a demure orange beam up the fine gravel pathway, already lined with similarly hued festive gourds. From his office balcony overlooking the mossy grounds of their estate, Henry could see people mingling about in the fallen leaves. Although he couldn’t hear the crunch of them being crushed underfoot, the understanding of the inevitable permeated the misty air. He was still caught between socializing or bed, becoming more aware of the muted pressure of laughter slowly leaking into his head. He rubbed at his temple with a scowl, raising his hand to scratch at one of his straight horns only to discover it was still dripping wet. Their ridges had accommodatingly ringed themselves in small bands of water. He returned his hand to his forehead with a tired groan. Normally he would have little trouble with a gathering of this size, but Claudia had him out half the night fetching this codex from his most gratingly honorable lordship, Etwiff. He shook his head. He was done. He had no idea what its contents might be, but he fancied at least a brief look before he retired. “Well, now that I got you the codex, do you want me to give it a look?” His sister was leaning back in his chair with her feet on his office desk, manuscript in one hand, a scowl on her face, and a cigarette in the other. She glanced up from it to his expectant face as he turned away from their holiday gathering below. He had been awkwardly bent over the railing, ruminating. Being almost seven feet tall, the railing was as likely to save him as Claudia would be to catch him in a trust-fall. He noted her lip curling to the side as she took a drag. The silky, blue smoke slowly coiled out as she breathed, “No, I think I will hire a professional.” Henry narrowed his eyes, removing a pair of copper horn caps from his inner vest pocket. He carefully fitted them back on his long, straight, wickedly pointed horns, while walking slowly to his desk. He shook the dampness from his short blonde hair with one hand, flicking the residual droplets to the side. Claudia watched him fiddle about with his clothes. She closed the manuscript, placing it on his desk before slowly standing. The cigarette flared a neon blue as she drew in breath, stretching her arms above her head. She tapped at the point of one of her horns. They were much like his, but with the addition of a slight twist at their base. She had thought about capping her horns as well, but also enjoyed a good open threat. She re-tied her ponytail, and taking the cigarette between two thin fingers, tapped some ashes into a nearby white teacup rimmed with painted honeysuckles. She chuckled dark cerulean, “I don’t think we even need to know. The fact that it went missing should be enough.” Henry snorted, “This is why you failed out of university.” She barked a laugh at him, while grabbing up the codex. She tossed the rest of her cigarette in the cup and turned to leave. “Oh, wait, I wasn’t joking!” Henry stepped forward. “Do you want me to take a look?” “I wasn’t joking either.” She frowned down at the musty smelling pages. “I think I will hire a professional.” “I’m a professional.” She regarded Henry, pointing at himself with a polite, incredulous smile. It wasn’t that he couldn’t translate it… “I know, but I mean,” she rolled her tongue like she rolled the manuscript in her hand, “A *real* professional.” He stared at her in stunned silence. “I have a doctorate in historical linguistics!” His jaw was slack, but quickly tightened as he eyed her in suspicion. “What kind of professional are you going to hire?” “Not a linguist.” She grinned, wagging the manuscript at him. “That’s not funny.” He took a couple long steps toward her, but she darted back with astonishing speed. “When I stole th--” “Borrowed?” Henry cackled. “Oh, no. Not this time, sweet little sister.” She narrowed her eyes. “You mean, we can’t just return it tomorrow evening?” “You never told me I was bringing it back.” Amber eyes stared back at each other. A slow, insidious smile crept onto Henry’s face. He drawled out gleefully, “Have I heard correctly just now?” Claudia tossed the codex at him. Its wide pages slapped into him as he caught it. She reeled about, jerking open one of his desk drawers. He stepped to the side to relish in her panic. She bumped out the underside of a drawer, removing a small, sliding metal case and a short, spiraling glass quill. From another drawer, she pulled a single sheet of extremely thick, fabric-like paper. “Has my sister, the great *mastermind*, miscalculated something?” She leaned over the desk, hand on either side of the paper, brow knitted painfully. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and picked up the cigarette-size metal case with it. He leaned over the other side of the desk, sliding the case lid slightly open and wagging it before her. He gave a loud mocking gasp and held the codex to his mouth in surprise. “Young woman, are these,” he imitated their mother’s voice, “d-d-drugs?” “Yes.” She grabbed the tin from his hand as he started to roar with laughter. She dipped the tip of the stubby glass quill into the gelatinous fluid that quivered about inside, twirling a line of runny sparkling ooze up the spiraled nib’s length. Applying the ink-substitute to the pillowy paper, she painstakingly began scribing out her message. Henry did not often get to see Claudia like this, and especially not because of a fault of her own. He set the manuscript down and scratched at one horn. “You know, glitter ink at this age is--” “Shut the fuck up.” He grinned at her feverishly red face. She was writing quickly and accurately. After only a couple moments, the letter was done. She burned the residual ooze from the nib of the pen with her lighter. The air held onto the acrid metallic tang, but the smoke quickly dissipated. She collected the items hurriedly and stashed them away again. “How did you know where I kept that anyway?” “I know where you keep everything.” Henry winced, “I certainly hope not.” She blew on the faintly glimmering faux-ink, rolling the paper carefully once it was barely dry enough not to stick. Taking a small, fuzzy cloth bag from one of the many pockets of her long coat, she dug through multiple stamps before settling on one. “No, wait, hold on.” Henry rapidly pointed at the bag as it slipped into her coat again. “When did you get the Jesils crest? Did you nick that from his office?” She sneered at him. “Wouldn’t you love to know?” “I would, yah.” “Too bad.” She pulled some wax from the heated film on his desk, and pressed the paper closed with her chosen seal. She held it out to him. He stood straight, arms crossed, and grimaced darkly at her offering. “I’m going to miss my own party.” “I know.” He frowned at the letter. She shoved it up into his chest, glaring at him. Her panic had not subsided in the least. In fact, with how well he knew his sister, her panic might have started increasing after she penned the letter. “What did you have me steal?” “Something Nimet was going to pick up in a couple days.” His eyes widened, and arms slightly slacked. He laughed out a breathy wheeze. She took one of his hands and put the letter in it, giving him a prideful, but pleading stare. His smile twitched with a disbelieving chuckle, but he held onto the paper. “You had me steal something that belongs to the *queen?*” He looked down at the letter in his hand. “And now,” his laughter picked up, “you’re sending me back to drug the guy I took it from?” He shook his head. “I’m not following your logic this time.” “No!” She glared at him indignantly. “I’m sending you to Amelie.” “You’re sending me to drug your girlfriend?” She groaned in disgust, “Of course not! Just…” She grumbled to herself furiously. He scratched at a horn, grinning as she fumed. She looked down at his desk. Then, despairingly dropped back in his chair once again. “Just, tell Amelie what happened, and ask her to leave that on her mother’s vanity.” She looked longingly at the snuffed remains of her cigarette in the flower-rimmed teacup. “So,” he stared at her flatly, “You’re sending me to drug *the queen?*” “Of course not,” Claudia assessed the tattered remains, gauging how unseemly it might be. It was half a cig. She dug it out, straightened it, and relit it. She winced as she took a drag but exhaled watery wisps that dribbled from her mouth to the desk’s shiny, waxed surface. She waved the mangled cigarette at the paper in his hand. “Lord Etwiff is drugging the queen.


You'd tell me to relax. But not the way most people say it. Nothing you say seems to be the way most people say it. They mean calm down, chill out, disregard whatever it is. You'd mean it the way someone who understands the panic would say it. You'd mean breathe deeper, let go of anxiety, it will be... okay. You'd make me laugh. But not the way most people do. I'd laugh out of politeness, realizing I wasn't even paying attention enough to know what type of laugh to fake. Masks, and all that. But you'd make me laugh almost before I'd have time to process why what you said or did was funny. Like my body could react faster to you than my brain. Maybe because like recognizes like, before logic gets in the way. You'd make me hopeful. But not the way I usually am. Usually, it's hoping that I can change, fix all the little parts that piss people off. Always that look of disappointment, that dramatic sigh, and I'd think, hopefully, I can work on that. But now, I feel more hopeful that maybe it isn't me. Fix things that are broken, sure, but realizing puzzle pieces are't called broken when they don't fit. And eventually, there is a spot where they can drop right in. You'd make me angry. But not in the way most people see it. Most peoples problems feel silly, being negative about being negative. And I can get upset, feel bad for their magnified issues, sure. But you made me want to yell at people I've never met, slap faculty I'll never know. Because seeing you give up things that matter, not know you're so amazing at being amazing, drives me up a fucking wall. These negative thoughts you carry, each one makes my teeth grind. You'd say you understood. But not in the way most people would. There is always a caveat that ends up turning grief into another opportunity to fix myself. Sorry your family pulls at you so much, but you let them. Sorry you feel unsatisfied, but you want too much. But you didn't caveat things. You didn't say you understood as a way to give advice. You just said it because it's true. You'd understand. You'd be interesting. But not in a comedic, tragic way. Not interesting to watch because I already know something is going to turn out wrong, or interesting to learn more about because it sounds absurd. You are interesting in the way a child is fascinated when they first see the ocean. The wildness, the peacefulness. The feeling that this terrifying, insane, glorious thing also seems so real, so natural, so authentically true. So many new things that pull on these strings tied to my chest, strings that I never knew were there. You'd be my waking dream. But not in the way I usually daydream, alone and full of grandiose. Being the Avatar or running away to live in a shack by the ocean. No, it was more simple than that. Making you coffee, dropping off snacks during lunch, trying to like Gatsby, curled into you on my hard days, reading to you on yours. I could fill too many lines with all those thoughts. But the most different part was that this pretend world wasn't just occupied by me. At least, I like to think not. You'd make it difficult to be quiet. Most people will tell you, that has always been me. But they don’t know it’s because I don't care what their response will be. It won't... impact... (I guess I am not a good student) ... me because it doesn't matter to me, they're not inside my space. But you seemed to slowly step into me, and somehow I didn't pull away. All the sudden I could share things, be loud, and not worry about the response, even grow to look forward to it. That sincere lack of frustration that is only possible when communication is so... native, when comfort is so obvious. You'd make me safe. But not the way I usually feel that. I have become my own foundation, somehow. Things built on top of things that make up those very things. It's a painful contortion. But you'd say such small things that would start this process of undoing. Encouragement without an ounce of selfishness. You untangled me. You'd make me sad. But not the way I normally can get sad. Not sad because something went wrong, or I'm disappointed, or general melancholy. You made me feel sad the way you'd feel sad if you found out dragons existed, but the last one died yesterday. An irremediable type of grief. Consistent, annoyingly blinding liquid reminders of losing something I never had. An ideal cup of coffee spilled before you took your first sip. And I've had to wear glasses all day. You'd make me ramble. But not the way I usually do, out of anxiety, to fill the void. You'd make me ramble to stretch the time. To trick myself into living in that daydream for a bit longer, shut out the real world. "Pretending to not feel alone." I guess the same as I'm doing now. To stretch time. To remain here. You... you made me feel. And there is no comparison.


The family, large in numbers, sat in the living room that was illuminated by the TV. “Where’s Dale? Get Dale,” mom said to the family. “He’s in his room,” Linda said. Linda rushed up from the sofa with orders from her mother, and ran up the stairs to Dale's room. “Dale! Dale! Momma wants to talk to you,” Linda said as she banged on Dale’s scratched up bedroom door.” “About what!” Dale said. “I dunno, sumthin’ important, it’s about Auntie out in Arizona. They been talking to us all about it and you the only one not down there. C’mon.” Dale quickly snapped open his door and made his way down the stairs - his shoulders slumped - to the living room where the rest of his family was waiting in silence. Dale stepped over his toddler siblings and took a seat on the sofa with his sisters. “Dale…you know aunt Libby passed away last week.” “Ya ma’.” “And she was out in Arizona.” “Uh huh.” “And how we’re doing the funeral out here.” “Why not out in Arizona?” “We can’t afford to go out there.” “Ok,” Dale motioned to his younger brother to pass the Doritos. “Well we need someone to bring her back,” mom said as she looked clearly at him with a focused face. “Like...*her*. As in, her body?” “Her body.” “What?. I have an interview next week I can’t-” “If you had a job we’d find someone else but you don’t.” “What about Ella? She’s ain’t in school yet” “She starts next week, we don’t want her missing any time if anything happens.” “If anything happens? We can’t just have her cremated? I don’t mean to be crude...but...y’know it would make it a lot easier” “We can’t have her cremated after what happened with Gran Luna.” “And no one out in Arizona has a say? No one out there wants her buried out there?” “She ain’t got no one out there. Listen. We’ll explain how everything’s going to work and you won’t have any problems. But we need a decision by tomorrow. We can’t let this linger or we’ll have to have her cremated, which we don’t want. She didn’t want.” “Ok I’ll bring if Janey can come along. She can help,” Dale said while Janey made a wide smile and sat up tall. “Janey’s still 15, we can’t let her go.” “I ain’t even got my full license. I only started driving this *year*.” “If anyone gives you any problems we can work it out. I know it’s a big decision but just think it over tonight. We’ll talk tomorrow,” mom said as she grabbed her cup of bourbon and leaned back in her chair. Dale took on the confused look of someone who’d just been told they needed to drive their dead aunt from Arizona to Indiana. He left the sofa and Doritos, slowly making his way up to his room, scanning his mind for answers. He laid in his bed, looking at his phone and at the message from his friends inviting them to their baby shower this coming weekend. He decided he would go to get his aunt. The next morning he woke up early, and sat on the wraparound porch of their white clad home which sat in front of the dry and dusty cornfields of Indiana. His dad came out with coffee and joined him. His dad showed him down to the family car he would be taking, pointing out all the things he had planned for emergencies: license and registration and a first aid kit in the glove box, a tent and spare tire in the trunk. “You’re going to do fine. We’ve got almost everything planned out for you, we’ve thought of everything.” “And where should I stay? I won’t be able to afford much food, can you guys spot me some cash.” “We’ll give you enough money for food. And we’ve mapped out some places to stay along the way.” “You know, It’s a trip I’d love to do, but this situation changes everything and it’s really the last thing I want to do.” “We’ll do another proper trip after this one. I promise” Dale set out that afternoon after having lunch with his family, who had all been herded on to the front lawn to see him off as he backed the fully loaded family car down the dirt driveway, his youngest brothers chasing him all the way to the main road.


The Night Mare comes with the fog. I’d heard the story all my life, we all did. “Best be sleeping when the Night Mare comes. Just one glimpse and she’ll steal your soul and carry you to the mists!” So the Elders used to say by the hearth’s fading fire to scare wee ones to bed. As a child, I’d sometimes hear a horse squeal in the night, but I couldn’t tell you if it was one of ours or The Night Mare. Not until morning broke and some poor soul from the village lay dead in their bed. Everyone feared her until we became the elders scolding wee ones by firelight. After all, she was no more than a story. I coughed hard, my chest aching something fierce. The deep rattle had been my companion since last winter, one that worsened in the damp. “…will be… the death of me,” I laughed to Ulfrik, my youngest son. “This blasted weather.” He smiled but a twinkle of fear lay in his eyes. My cough, a wretched sound, must keep him awake at night but he was never one to complain. Like his father, a stoic thing. Comfortable grief massaged my heart. “You should get to finding a wife,” my frequent reminder coaxed a sigh from my son. “I won’t be for this world forever.” Ulfric frowned. “I think you’ll be with us for a while yet.” “What of Ragna? She’s handsome enough if a bit dim.” He tried to suppress his smirk. “There’s Ingun. A set of hips on her!” “Mother!” Ulfrik scowled but his lip dared to tremble with a laugh. “Lost your chance with that girl from Holmslond. Pretty one… what was her name?” My son focused on the fire, prodding it to keep from answering. “Grelod? Greiland?” “Gyrid,” he said softly with what only a mother could recognize as regret. “That’s it, Gyrid. Lovely girl, but I am glad to be spared her *dreadful* laugh. Like twigs snapping - *Hack hack hack!*” He could hide his guilty grin no more while I wore mine wide and proud. “You’ve better things to worry on than who I might take for a wife,” he said. “Like myself? Bah.” The girls haunting rattle-laugh found friends in my chest. The company of them made my breaths ragged. “You’re a good son, Ulfrik, to care for a mother so sour.” He stood from his stool by the hearth and passed me a warm blanket. “Gladder still that you’ve noticed my plight.” We laughed, lightly, and I coughed again. For a time, he held my hand as it was, wrinkled weather thing in his strong grip. The chill air slipped in through cracks unseen and cooled the room. Ulfrik took to bed easily while I lingered by the fading fire. A fearsome neigh cracked the air like a whip. For all my years, I had heard the Mare’s cries in the night but always turned back to my sheets and slept restlessly. I did not this night. With the blanket about my shoulders, I opened the door. The fog rolled from the trees urged by a chilling wind. From its waves, she danced in and out of the shadows, her shape glistening in the moonlight. A beast too tall for a man to break, she seemed like the night itself; powerful, brisk, and inevitable. She trotted in place and I felt bidden forth, leaving blanket and hearth at my back. Strange, though, for I did not feel the cold. With her steps, she wheeled the fog forward, her head high and proud. She nodded and knelt before me and my eager fingers slid into her silken mane softer than any fur. “It is my time then,” I whispered without fear and, as though she understood, the Night Mare snorted. At my age, it was no small thing to climb atop her bareback, but I somehow found the strength. As the Mare righted, the thick mists coiled around us and I breathed my first easy breath in almost a year. “He is a good son, my Ulfrik. He deserves a good wife,” I told her as we trotted from the hearth and light. “I just hope he finds one that’s just a wee bit sour.” The Night Mare whinnied as a laugh and retreated for the trees. With us, so followed the fog.


Sebille looked up at me from the isometric squares of grass. “Where to next, snowtiger327?” she said, waving her magical circle dagger so that it glistened with computer-generated sunlight. I pressed PgUp on my keyboard to zoom in on her, smiling as her familiar elven face with its long, sharp bone structure shot clearer into view. “I was thinking we should change gear before we kill Bishop Alexander,” I said. I opened her equipment inventory and clicked on her cloak. Her shirt disappeared and she laughed and summoned up a lightning bolt which flew straight at me through the screen. I flew backwards, hitting the back of my chair and making it topple over. My knee stung as it rammed against the edge of my desk. Downstairs my mom called, “Is everything okay?’ “Yes mom,” I yelled. “Just a box I knocked over.” I scrambled back to the desk and righted my chair and sat down, out of breath, my knee smarting. “Try that again and I’ll use Needle on you,” she purred, referring to her sharp prized dagger with a mischievous smile on her face. I’d bought "Divinity II: Original Sin" on Steam in the summer and first played it while high. On 50 mg of edibles, I didn’t think it was weird when my name first appeared in the dialogue box and she said, “We start our adventure to become Godwoken, snowtiger327." I thought the game had taken my username from Steam. But the next day she commented when I laughed out loud when she assassinated a pesky soldier right in the middle of the city, and no one noticed. “Justice is wrought, eh snowtiger327?” she said with a cat-like purr in her silky smooth voice. Then she laughed and turned towards the screen of her own accord. I was silent for a few minutes. “Wait, you can hear me?” I said. “Yes, I have heard you, Bodiless Voice,” she said. “And I have seen that certain actions here--how do I say--repeat themselves.” She pointed to the dead NPC disdainfully. I told her about my room and my life outside of Divinity, and she grew quiet and thoughtful. I wondered if she was realizing she didn’t have any free will in the grand scheme of things. Her actions and plot line of life were premeditated by some game developers out beyond. Over the next months, I chose the spells she learned, the armor she used. But the things she said, the jokes she cracked, her threats and sorrows seemed very much her own. I would tell her about school and how I was lonely and bullied a lot. She’d tell me about her past. How she used to be the slave of a lizard master, who made her assassinate her own kin by singing a magical tune that forced her hand. She showed me the mark of her past servitude, a scar upon her otherwise smooth cheek. “You’re beautiful,” I said one day. We were almost done with the main storyline, but I spent many more hours hunting with her and doing side quests. She listened patiently, didn’t judge, and had the bravery of a true warrior. One day I told her about Devin and the comment my bully had made about my shorts being as tacky as my face. "What are...shorts?" she asked. I explained and she nodded. “You should vanquish her,” she advised me. “How?” I asked. “You should take a dagger, and pierce it into her heart,” she said, taking Needle and demonstrating on an unfortunate Black Ring member. I laughed. It was a week from Christmas when she said she wanted us to finish the game. I sat back in my rolling chair, looking thoughtfully back at her. Her olive skin and black straight hair, her long limbs, her sharp almond eyes and silver armor. She was prettier than I’d ever be, with my short stumpy legs, pimply face, and dull, dry frizz of a hairdo. She could be young and fierce forever. And yet she was unhappy. “There’s nothing more for me to do,” she said. All the quests had been done for a while, save for the last battle with Dallis which would finish the game. I knew this, but still I hesitated. “Finish with me,” she said. “I am Divinity and I am meant to be played.” “How do I know you’ll still be there after?” I said. Soon after I’d discovered I could talk to her, I had tried downloading the game on my brother’s PC to see if her self-awareness was replicable. Sebille had not talked to me there. “I may not be there,” she said. “But this will be.” She started singing, a strange elven song that sounded like the rustling of trees on a quiet day in the forest. When she was done, I slowly emerged from my trance. In front of me, glittering on the keyboard, was Needle, her prized dagger. I opened my mouth. We’d tested all sorts of ways for her to teleport out to me, using all the available skill books and scrolls, but they hadn’t worked. How had she done this? “Wait,” I said. “Maybe there’s a way--” “I need to finish my story,” she said. "I need to see what lies beyond the fight for Divinity...if there's more to who I am than just this game." In her voice I heard her need, and I said no more. “Be brave, snowtiger327,” she said. I nodded and cried, even though she could not see me. Together, we headed through the gates of the cave and confronted Dallis. We won, of course. The game finished and I watched the credits with pride as I heard of Sebille ascending to become the next Divine, in charge of the destiny of Source in her world. I knew she'd do great. The next day, I confronted Devin with Needle. Needless to say, she never bothered me about my shorts or face again. As for the game, I've played it many times since, but never again has a character spoken to me. And yet, I can say that I once truly had a great friend named Sebille. She was alive, she was witty, she was brave, and I hope she finally found meaning beyond the ending that was scripted for her.


Luna drew the blade from Sir Fariah’s shoulders and wiped it on the tawny grass. He slumped onto the ground, heaving ragged, shallow breaths. “That thing is evil,” he said. She said nothing, walking to the dragon lying still against the stone. “He has killed many,” Fariah said. “He has stolen what is not his.” “I am his,” Luna said, climbing up the dragon’s haunches, “And he is mine.” The creature arched its fire-red back, stretched its wings, eclipsing the setting sun. Then it rose up into the sky unevenly, blood splattering from one side, and the last Sir Fariah saw was the girl with the silver hair disappearing into the stars with the dragon he had sworn to slain. As they flew, Luna’s thoughts wandered. “You can still go back,” the dragon said after an eternal silence. “You are not unimportant, Princess.” “I can not,” she said, hugging his neck, her eyes stinging in the thick mist and fog. Suddenly everything was clear. Above them bright stars hung like lamps in the night sky. She could see Mount Tarkan and the Two Weeping Ladies in the north, their tears streaming in great waterfalls down to join the Martyrs’ River which swept all the way south to join the sea. Yes, the sea was somewhere far back where she could not see, and beyond that, a castle where she had had warm roasts and fig puddings brought to her, and magnificent rooms in which she had hid from Tutor Mary with the thin voice and flute lessons and hands so spidery she had always shuddered when they suddenly clapped from behind upon her shoulders. “Quiet,” a voice echoed, “She’ll find us.” For a moment Luna was lost in a great long corridor with velvet curtains, the hand of the tutor’s son pressed in hers as they hid in the cupboard stifling giggles. She could almost feel the warmth of the fire behind her mother’s chair-- A blast of wind from the east rushed against her face and snagged the scarf from her head. Her shoulders were cold but she was not aware of this. She watched the bright orange reminder of her childhood flutter into the cloud down below, and then meander out of sight like a sad lost bird. In front of her loomed the Great Mountains, and beyond that, darkness. The dragon dipped over the snow-capped peaks and into the shadowed valley. He landed unevenly at the mouth of a cave, and slowly limped in, blood streaming from his side. As he reached the far side of the wall, he suddenly shuddered and collapsed, and Luna tumbled off onto the ground, on which hay lay scattered as a makeshift bed. She ran to the dragon and held his head in her arms. “Hold on a moment,” she said, “Stay with me.” He nodded slowly, with effort, and she tore a large strip from her dress and used it to bind hay to the wound. Then she pressed her body against the dragon’s side with all her might, until slowly the wound stopped bleeding, and the dragon and girl fell slowly asleep. In the morning, when the sun rose and filled the cave with its golden glory, the dragon shimmered and turned into a sleeping boy, who awoke and blinked in surprise. Luna smiled and kissed him.


I’m going to ask you a question. I’ve asked it before. “Are you happy?” No, you scoff at me, with that look in your eye, that tone in your voice. The one calling me an idiot without saying those words. How could I ask such a stupid question? OF COURSE you’re not happy. Haven’t I been listening? Work stresses you out. You hate the way you look. You hate your body. No one likes you. You hate it when I ask questions with obvious answers. When you get hurt and I ask, “are you okay?” No, you snap at me, with that look in your eye, that tone in your voice. OF COURSE you’re not okay. I’d sigh. I know you aren’t okay. I’m NOT an idiot. I’m just trying to show concern, to show you that I care. So, I’ve tried to work on that. Instead of “are you happy,” I ask, “what do you need? What will cheer you up? What can I do?” I don’t know. Nothing. Nothing. So, another wrong choice of words on my part. That’s why, last night, when you were telling me everything that is wrong, everything stressing you out, I didn’t say anything. I don’t know what to say anymore. But that was wrong too. And that counted as a “fight” to you. To me it was just a blip. If something registers to you as a fight, and to me as just more of the same, where does that leave us? I’m getting off topic. Back to my question. Are you happy? No. Obviously not. What will make you happy? What do you need? What can I do? I don’t know. Nothing. Nothing. And so I sign. How to break this cycle? How about this: Does it bother you? That you don’t know. That there’s nothing you need. That there’s nothing I can do. Because it bothers me. Another question. Do you want to be happy? So I used to ask stupid, obvious questions. Working on that. Then I tried to offer helpful suggestions. Work is stressing you out. Have you tried cutting yourself some slack? Have you tried using different techniques? Have you thought about talking to someone? Maybe a therapist can help (because I can’t). No (idiot), that wouldn’t work. No (idiot), I don’t need to see a shrink. In fact, you’re offended that I even suggest that. What, do I think you’re crazy? Okay. You hate the way you look. You hate your body. Your back is in constant pain. I tell you that I like the way you look. I try to be more physical, giving you words and touch of affirmation. And I tell you that you don’t need to be resigned to living a life of chronic pain. It’s not normal. Maybe we should go see a doctor? Maybe we should go to a chiropractor. You tell me you don’t believe me. You tell me you don’t want to be touched. You start to cry hysterically as you tell me you don’t need to go to a doctor, that they won’t do anything. Okay. So then, really think about that question. “Are you happy?” No. Obviously not. Then a follow up: is that a problem? Is that something you want to fix? Do you want to be constantly stressed out, constantly on edge, constantly in pain? And here’s the real kicker. Here’s the big question. The one I really want to ask: Why don’t you ever ask me if I’m happy? Are you afraid of the answer? I think you know it already. And for how much you don’t know how to be happy, I know that this is true too: You don’t know how to be alone. And I know it would break you to have to be.


The school principal sat at his desk impatiently tapping his pen. He looked at his watch before furrowing his brow and shaking his head. “Sir, Mr. Warford is here to see you,” his secretary said through the speaker phone. “Thank you, Ealith, please send him in,” the principal replied. Mr. Warford walked into the principal’s office. “You wanted to see me sir?” “Warford, take a seat please,” the principal said, skipping all the usual pleasantries. Mr. Warford sat down and crossed his legs. The principal sighed. “Warford, you know why you’re here don’t you?” Mr. Warford shifted in his chair but didn’t reply to the obviously rhetorical question. “We’ve had several complaints now,” the principal continued, “Parents are upset. I’m receiving calls and letters, I got yelled at yesterday. Now, we’ve discussed this several times, but I don’t want you teaching these kids about the Lord of the Rings!” “But, sir,” Mr. Warford replied, “I’m an ethics teacher here. These kids are asking me about ethics and history and I am simply answering their questions.” “You have been accused of *indoctrinating* these kids,” the principal said as he reached over his desk to grab a letter. “Look at this one, it says here that one of the kids came home asking about Frodo Baggins.” “And here’s another one,” the principal continued as he grabbed another letter, “This is from a mother who says her daughter wanted to be like Galadriel the elf.” Mr. Warford smirked. “This isn’t funny Warford!” the principal said sternly, leaning onto his desk. “This has got to stop! You’re an ethics teacher, these kids are 10 years old. Teach them about right and wrong, don’t do bad things, that sort of thing. Stop talking about silly myths and legends!” “But, sir,” Mr. Warford replied sternly, seemingly affronted. “With all due respect, these are not silly myths and legends. Millions of people around the world believe this and base their ethical beliefs on the teachings of the book.” “Warford,” the principal said leaning back in his chair, an exasperated smile on his face, “I really don’t understand you. An educated man, a teacher for goodness’ sake, believing in children’s stories about hobbits and elves and Sauron. Yes I know we were all taught this at one point, but you have to know, this is all nonsense.” “I don’t think it’s nonsense, sir,” Mr. Warford said seriously. “I believe it to be true. And all I am doing is presenting the children with an alternative view on our world.” “Warford, that’s enough!” the principal snapped, “This is the last time I am going to tell you. Stop teaching students about the Lord of the Rings or you will be fired. No more warnings. I will *not* have another parent complain to me about what you are teaching their children.


The room is silent. Velma looks at Charlotte who is sitting on a chair occasionally standing to check their vitals. Tim is staring at the purple liquid counting the bubbles forming and dissipating. Stephen is engaged in a staring contest with the guard. "So when do you think it will be safe to go out?" Velma asks. "I don't know. There are enough emergency supplies stored here to last for several days," Charlotte replies. "And you expect us to lie here the whole time?" "Of course not, after a while, your muscles will atrophy. You will get time to stand and walk soon," Charlotte says. "Just great," Tim says, "I lost my count of the bubbles." Velma and Charlotte glare at him. Tim shrugs and goes back to counting the bubbles. "Do you have any idea what is going on outside?" Velma asks. "See that speaker," Charlotte points at a speaker above the door, "When it is safe to go outside, they will tells us through there. Until then, speculating is just going to cause stress." "You really just expect us to lie here?" Stephen asks not breaking eye contact with the guard. "Listen," Charlotte stands, "You all were not born when the Mierans attacked the first time. I was an adult fighting in that war. I learned quickly that you need to focus on what is right before you. Speculating about what is going outside the door only causes more trouble. Now, I understand that this can be rather boring so I do know a few word games that we can play." Stephen breaks eye contact and furrows his brow at her. "I'll pass." "Same," Velma nods. "I'll play," Tim shrugs. The other two look at him, "What I'm bored." Soldiers line in waves with their guns pointed at the hole created by the animals. The Mieran-humans will be armed, but their training accounts for armed combat. A bird flies through the hole startling a soldier into shooting it. It falls easily. The soldier avoids being reprimanded as his supervisors are too focused on the hole. The wall on the other side explodes. The ground shakes throwing the soldiers off balance. A few are able to turn to run to the other side. The others stand in confusion. A small number cars and trucks run through the crevice created by the explosion. The passengers fire their guns into the air and at random. Their movements further divide the soldiers into smaller units. A lieutenant fires a shot at a truck driver's head. The truck crashes into a barracks. The rest of the passengers fan out firing their guns. A bullet scratches his back. The lieutenant looks up. Mieran-humans are in the towers fighting the snipers. One Mieran-human wins and uses the rifle to kill the other snipers with ease. The Mieran-humans provide cover fire. Sergeants Gil and Nilsen are standing back to back fighting the Mieran-humans when General Ben Meltz rings into them. "I need you at the command center now," he says. "Sir, we are overwhelmed. I don't know if we can make it," Sergeant Gil says. "We need to move the subjects out of the base. We are going to lose. I need you to help me move right now," he yells. The sergeants sigh. "On our way sir," Sergeant Nilsen says, and they move. "Excellent," General Meltz says as he walks out of the command center. He closes the door on his victims.


“Finally!” John K took a deep breath and raised his chin high, as he looked over the vast desert. A sense of satisfaction flooded his emotions. The desert floor looked desolate from the mountain overlook. “Nothing for miles. An ocean of dirt,” he thought. After a few moments, John's eyes began to dilate. He could not hide the thought of how alone he was up there. A dull chill crept up his spine. He proceeded to pull his phone out of his pocket and check if any of his friends had posted something new since the morning. He sipped water from his canteen and felt the cold liquid slide down his throat. It had been too long since he drank any water. John sat on a rock streaming through Instagram for ten minutes. After his break, he stood up and walked over to the ledge to take some pictures. “Why even hiking up the mountain if you can’t prove it,” he said to himself. After twenty photo’s of the same view but at different angles, and with different facial expressions, he looked at the time. 11 O’clock. “Good,” he thought, “the sun will be high enough to warm the air. I ‘ll be able to get some good cardio in on the walk back.” More important than the cardio, John checked the clock to make sure he wasn’t spending too much time up there. Seven-hundred feet back down the mountain. If he left now, he would still be able to get home in enough time to go out that night. The walk down was always harder. Whenever he was climbing up a trail, the rocks had a way of morphing into steps. But going down, the rocks stayed rocks. Nothing was shaped for him on the way down. Every step had to be a conscious maneuver on John’s part. Copperhead trail was 4.65 miles long. The first mile was flat through the dessert which lead to the base of the mountain. The next 3 miles was a steady zipper pattern up its side. The last 0.65 miles was by far the toughest. Four hundred feet of incline straight up. The trail essentially vanished and became a dance with boulders. A spot turn here, a chassé there as one finds their way through the pass. John was halfway way done with his descending waltz when he decided to take a quick break. It was taking him longer than he imagined it was going to take. Not that it was scary or tough, it was just not made for his skills as a hiker. “Nothing to be worried about,” he thought as he drank some water. John pulled out his phone and looked at the time. “12:30!” John grew panicked. He thought he would be back at the car by 2pm. “I only have another hour and a half to get down the whole mountain and I’m only half way down the steep upper part.” John closed his eyes and took deep breathes to regain his composure. He redid the math in his head. “I have to be at the car by two, so I can be home by six. Eat, shower and be out of the house by 7.” His math was sound. The idea of being late to the party scared John more than the boulders ever could. “I have to pick up the pace,” he thought to himself as he placed the canteen back in his backpack. The added time pressure made the boulder dance extra difficult. John would skip a rock here or there if he thought it would save some time. Getting to the car was all he could think about. The dance slowly become more chaotic as more steps were missed. While standing on a solid boulder, John looked below to assess where to jump next. Five feet below laid another flat rock. John leaped. His arm spread wide like bird wings to guide him through the air. Instantaneously, he knew something was wrong. The additional weight loosened the rock from its teetering position and sent it, along with John, over the edge of the mountain. As he fell, John felt the full force of the mountain. The first impact hit his shoulder. The rock flipped him in the air. When he collided with the mountain a second time, it was his right femur that took the brunt of the impact. The third hit was the most painful for it was a direct hit to his back. Pain went coursing through his body. It was only then that John began to believe that he was actually hurtling down the side of the mountain. There was no way to catch himself while falling. He couldn’t grasp what way was up. The rest of the way down was a daze. Six hundred feet, and thirty-two seconds later, John landed. Blood instantaneously began to pool around his lifeless body. The wounds were numerous (a few that illustrate the severity included a broken right femur, a lung contusion, multiple broken ribs, a lumbar spine injury that affected his L3, L4, and L5 vertebrae, as well as numerous skin tissue contusions to his head and extremities). Three minutes and twelve seconds of silence later, John’s lungs opened up as they gasped for salvation. He struggled for every breathe. He never had to do that before. When John regained consciousness, his first thought was to blow it off. “I’m still alive, act cool, don’t start getting crazy.” That was his go to response whenever he felt nervous, but unbeknownst to him, he had never been in a situation so severe as this. He attempted to straighten out his limbs. Pain enveloped his entire body. “Brush it off. It’s nothing. Just stay calm… just stay calm.” After a minute or two, John was able to wince off the pain. He had no idea what to do for he had never been in a situation like this. “I need to get my phone,” he thought. In complete agony, John reached for the phone in his pants pocket. Over and over, fighting through the pain John felt around for his phone but it was nowhere in sight. Seconds after he began to fall, the phone flew from his pocket never to be seen again. John grew dark with panic as the seriousness of the situation began to set in. What was he to do. He was severed from the outside word. Alone… Only one thing was left for John to do. He picked himself off the blood soaked sand and began to drag himself towards where he thought he had to go. He had know idea where he was going. For all he knew he could be walking further away from his car. A blood drops became trail markers that tracked back to where he landed. Looking back, he determined with great anger that he had only walked 100 yards. It was the most painful 100 yards he had ever walked. As John turned his head back around, a black object appeared near the base of the mountain. “What was that?” John looked back but nothing was there. He looked harder, and shouted, “help, please, I need help… please.” No one answered his pleas. His eyes filled with tears. Loneliness settled into his thoughts. He turned back around, wiped his eyes. There it was again. The same black object was now standing directly in front of him. “No, no, no.” John recoiled, covered his mouth and slowly backed away. When he gained the strength to look again, the black object had disappeared. John had to get help soon. The pain grew as he walked on, and felt despair after seeing the black object. He sensed he wasn’t alone anymore, but who was there was not help. Something was following him. He looked around but couldn’t catch who was there. The desert was laughing at him. Thirty feet later, Johns body gave out. It could not carry him any further. He was too drown in this ocean of dirt. Out of breathe, John laid in the sand. A cool tinge crept down his spine. He looked up and the black object was coming closer. Through the haze coming off the desert, a massive black wolf was walking up to John. John could do nothing but look on as it got closer. He starred into its white beady eyes. They were calm, transcending this brief moment in time. The wolf stopped only a few feet from John. After a short moment of silence, the wolf began to speak.“Well, did you think this is how it was all going to end. In the middle of an empty desert. It seems pretty fitting doesn’t it?” The wolf tried to hide his slight grin. John’s weak body collapse completely. His head slumped and would have landed in the sand if wasn’t still attached to his body. “Wha… what? Who are you?” “That doesn’t matter right now. Soon you will be dead.” The wolf took another step closer. “You should accept it. It makes this easier and you might actually learn something.” John wasn’t ready to accept anything. He knew the accident was dire and he would have to rely on people to help him day and night (which he dreaded most of all) but he was not ready to accept that everything was going to come to an end. Death was not on John’s mind. What was, was the wolf. “How can you talk?” The wolf smirked. He knew John was going to say something stupid. “I just told you you are going to loss your life and you’re worried about understanding how a wolf can talk.” The wolf became vexed. “Man… There was a time when I would talk to humans daily, and you’re… all of you are the same now a days. So worried about the wrong thing. So worried about everything making sense.” John looked away. He’s wasn’t ready to get a lecture from a talking wolf. He debated in his head about whether he was hallucinating. He had to have been. But how could he fully except that answer if he knew he was hallucinating. He thought if he knew he was hallucinating, then he would have to stop hallucinating, because his mind could no longer play games on him.“Maybe it’s real,” he thought to himself. The wolf collected himself and returned to a calm tone. “I’ve been following for a long time.” “I thought I might have seen you from the top of the mountain.” The wolf studied John silently for a moment before answering, “I’ve been following you much longer than that. I’ve been following you your whole life. I was born when you were born. At the same time. I’ve grown along with you, and have been watching you the entire time.” John was still stuck debating whether this was actually happening or not, but what the wolf said angered him. “What are you talking about? What game are you playing? I’m lying here dying, according to you, and you are playing these games.” This was the first time John mentioned the nearness of his own death. Tears swelled and defeat overtook the proud face John was desperately trying to hold onto. “I think I would have seen a wolf following me my whole life.” “Well you did mention how you saw me at the top of the mountain.” “Only today!” John quickly snapped back, releasing some of the anger he had over his near death. The wolf saw John getting emotional and began to changed his approach. He began to sympathize with John. The wolf calmly stated, “You’ve always looked right through me. You decided not to see me. It’s not your fault. I don’t blame you, but I was there the whole time.” The wolf had Johns full attention. John didn’t understand what the wolf was saying but something struck him as true. As though it was really important for him to listen. The wolf continued, “Remember when your dad left? The only way you could keep him and your mom out of your mind was to run long distances. You ran that entire summer. Remember that run right after the divorce. You ran through that park by your house. You clearly saw me standing there in the woods but you shook it off. Like there was no way there was an actual wolf in the woods. You thought that just couldn’t be real. Altercations with wolves happened to the weirdos you hear about on the news, not normal people. It couldn’t happen you. So you shook me off and I disappeared.” “What do you mean you disappeared? Why’d you leave?” “I had no choice, you didn’t want to see me.” “What do you mean?” John was putting all the energy he had left into what the wolf was saying but it was still undecipherable. John shrugged his shoulders and choked on his emotions as he spoke, “I really don’t know what you mean.” The wolf took a deep breathe. “Because I am you. And only now in the last few gasped of air are you willing to talk.” “What… what?" John was too confused and weak to form a coherent question. The wolf talked tranquilly to John. “You have been so afraid your entire life. Why is it you need to act so tough for people? Why are you so afraid of them that you have to pretend. You went your whole life avoiding me, but as far as your life is concerned, those people… your friends, families, coworkers, might as well have been wolves because you never had a serious conversation with any of them. You were too afraid to be yourself. To show emotion. Too caught up in your own thoughts to let them in. Every time you thought you were being ‘manly’, or 'tough’ by not confronting something that upset you, you were adding another layer to your defense. Building a wall and bordering yourself even farther from who you were. You were building a wall distancing yourself from me. From the world.” The wolf paused to see how John reacted, then continued, “So… how are we the same if we are different?” The wolf crouched down closer to John as he answered his own question. “I am everything you had to hide from in order to continue acting as if you were fine. I am the grief, the sorrow, the fears that you felt. You pretended they weren’t there so nothing in you had to change. Because that cardboard personality you erected to keep you safe from any real feelings would blow over and you were afraid of what would happen next. How people would react. When you fell down the side of that mountain, it wasn’t just your bones that broke. That border finally fell. I just wish it didn’t have to happen like this.” The desert winds picked up. The sand lifted into the air and danced around John. John’s lips trembled, as his face turned pail. He thought about his mom. All the things he said to her. All the thinks he didn’t say to her. All the things he wish he said. He thought about his brothers. “We were so close when we were younger, why do we not talk anymore.” “Why was I so afraid to tell them how afraid of life I was? How sad I was. How I wish we could have been closer.” John was sad for his incredulity, but was comforted by the conversation. A weight was lifted. “I’m sorry. I wanted to…” “I know. I’m sorry too. I waited in the shadows but you needed to initiate the conversation.” “I don’t want to die. Can you help me?” “I wish I could. But when you die I die too. What I can do is lie besides you, and be your friend in our last moments.“ The wolf fell from the pain onto his side facing John. In these last moments, while so close to dying, John never felt as alive. The desert wrapped both of them in warmth. Lying there, John imagined his family. He wish he could say goodbye and that he loved them. That everything was okay.


Wrote this few years back. This is my first time posting. Feed backs are welcome. Prolouge Countless. That's how we describe the time that we have spent in this reality. Eons. Millennia. Centuries. We have been here for a while,looking for our purpose. We call our kind Nemos. which will be later known as Latin word for null or nothingness. Observer. Judge. Ruler. In search for a purpose, we decided to give ourselves something to do. Some became rulers of empires. Some adjudicators. I was the only one who resorted to becoming an observer. Nothing takes my interest. Except for this one soul. This is the story on how a young man made me interfere with human life. Chapter 1 His name is Q. He is the second host to notice my presence. We see what our host sees. We experience everything that happens to them. But make no mistake. We feel no pain nor emotion related to their stimulus. Its like.. I am another conciousness at the back of his mind. When a host die, we simply find another host in the Labyrinth. The Labyrinth is a place where all things are connected. Its like an infinite pathway for all things. Nemos are free to pick their host with only one restriction. We agreed not to pick a soul of a person who experienced death and then came back to life. The reason behind that is when the I picked a resuscitated patient, the poor soul saw what the I saw in all of my existence. Yes he came back alive but almost went insane. Q is seeing a familiar scene. He has seen this event may times. This is the same dream that keeps on showing from time to time. There are 2 images of Q. one lying on the floor and the other one sitting on the former's chest. The latter holding a broken shard of glass and continuously slitting the throat of the first one. The sheer amount of blood dripping doesnt bother him anymore. He has been trying to understand what could be the meaning of his recurring dream.. or nightmare. even I, an entity who lived countless lives cannot explain what is happening to his mind. We Nemos cannot forget. We remember everything perfectly as if things happened seconds ago. I am sure as hell that this is the first time that I saw a dream like that. Summer. Q is an interesting kid. He likes the idea of helping others but hates people. He tries his best to avoid direct human contact. There was this time that A kid was lost in his work place. I was waiting on what he will do when he suddenly uttered this words on his mind. "I know you're watching. After i settle matters with this kid show yourself in my dream." I have never been this excited before. Thrill sets in. A soul recognized me? It has been 67 years since a soul recognized my presence. Will this kid be able to handle the price? Knowing our presence is a death sentence for them. Nemos agree that Once the host knows about us, they will be given a "gift". That night I gave him the perfect gift for him. A curse of seeing other people's dream. He will be an observer in a way. But theres a catch. Everytime the host uses it, they lose their conciousness. This enables us to take over the body for a certain period of time. The first time Q used it was disastrous. He used it to a dying friend of his. He was overwhelmed on how vivid the scene was. As if he was the one experiencing the dream. He ended up all exhausted and then passed out. Of course I didn't waste any time. This was my chance to take over. Labyrinth. I found him. I had to search for the first soul to recognize Nemos. Hes a unique individual if i may say. He didn't flipped after he saw everything. Coming back to life was a bad thing for him. He got a lot of debt to pay, illness stricken children, and a lot more unfortunate circumstances. "I cannot imagine the agony of existing for so long. No friends. No family. No emotion. I am lucky in a way that i am not you." "You are me. And i am you." "I am an observer of things. I do not interfere. But as you have seen, being an observer is a curse. Just the mere fact of existing for all those time is a curse already. We normally give souls a piece of our gift. You didn't snapped after seeing all those things. But instead of giving you something, i will take away a piece of you." "I am taking away your ability to forget. You shall be given the curse of memory. Use it as you please." That was our first conversation. He was my first friend. I call him Z. Cafe. "You shall be given the curse of memory." Those were the words that came out of Q's mouth. The old chinese guy sitting across the table took a sharp look at him. "Old friend?". Z's voice is trembling. "Zhiqiang. Your name translates to Strong willed. It fits you perfectly." "It has been 40 years since our last meeting. I never thought that i will see you again." "40 years.. its nothing. I am here to ask for a small favor. " "Anything for you old friend.


Rhythmic, metallic thuds echoed throughout the chamber, resounding throughout my head over and over until it reached a loud, ceaseless buzz. A sting brought my hand to the back of my head. I brought back a palm covered in blood, leading my stomach to a churn. Before me stood the source of the unbearable noise, looking down at me as if a predator spying on its prey. His cold visage in the corner of my eye filled my chest with anxiety, unwilling to even look in his direction. He must have taken this as an insult, as he bent down, grabbing me by the chin and forcing me to look straight at him. An unsettling spectacle graced his face, as an impenetrable void breached his once-filled sockets. He spoke in an amalgamation of thousands of whispers, scratching at my eardrums, though the charismatic charm that everyone knew him for was still present, haunting me. “Son…” The bitter taste of sorrow left his tongue, as he paused to look down at my frail body, “I know this is a lot to ask, but you mustn’t be afraid. Don’t fear us. Don’t fear me.” He looked back into my eyes, “You know this is the path to salvation.” “Don’t call me that…” I felt disgusted hearing his voice, “How dare you use Gerius’ words against me. He is gone, you’re but an abomination.” I spat at him, pushing myself away from him. Hitting the wall behind me, I reeled back in pain. A distorted laugh followed by a monstrous sigh resonated across the chamber we stood in. The buzzing carried on in my head as my mind went numb. The possessed husk stood up and looked across the deck to the window that peered into the endless abyss of space. “It calls.” He spoke softly, but strange whispers resounded his words over and over until the message was clear. He looked down at me with a cold expression, causing chills to run down my spine. “Here. Let me help you.” He reached for my collar and lifted my limp body effortlessly. He held me far above him with monstrous strength. I had but one last attempt at escape with my teeth sinking into his wrist. Blood seeped down his arm, but he gave no reaction. Immediately after, I felt the cold and harsh surface hit my body. The incessant buzzing became louder. I wanted to scream, but my words were too feeble. I managed to open an eye and spied around at my surroundings. Bodies upon bodies littered the corners of the room. Anger grew in my heart as I saw the viciously murdered comrades of my past, but none of it could come out. My body was failing me, but in a last moment of despair, words were spoken. “You were our captain… Gerius.” I barely managed to whisper, “How could you.” My mind was wrought with pain as thoughts coursed through it. “Your captain was weak. We are stronger.” The many whispers nearly brought my mind to madness, only interrupted by more words, “It calls. Observe.” At that moment, I felt compelled to seek answers in the dark abyss. I stared deep into the endless void but all that I gained were more questions. Anxiety made my heart race as my eyes focused on the spectacle. The buzzing became louder and my chest became heavier. It finally dawned on me. We weren’t alone. We were being watched. I stared into the abyss and it stared back, thousands of times over. I wanted to scream my heart out at the terror the endless eyes brought me, but I choked on the little air that remained during my rapid breathing. A tear slowly rolled down my cheek. My limbs had lost all of their strength, leaving me powerless. Falling further to the floor, my mind had lost the last of its senses, crumbling to a catatonic state. I could still feel and think, but a reaction was beyond my strength. Once more I heard metallic thudding, only making the buzzing in my mind louder. I felt my body lifted once again. Whispers entered my ears and resonated over and over. “It’s time.” As the words finally registered in my mind, I felt my body flailing across empty space. Nothing but darkness speckled with spots of empty hope were to be seen for eternities on end. I tried calling for help but to no avail as my breath left me almost immediately. It was at that moment that I felt it. The warm and comforting touch of a mother. It caressed my skin softly and filled me with newfound hope. My once cold body had now been reinvigorated as my mind accepted this gift. I opened my arms to the abyss. My heart was then reclaimed by the cold. The void groped at my body and ripped it of all that was left. In my final moment before meeting my demise to the abyss, I did not feel grief. Solace filled my weak mind as I realized that this would not be the end, but a new beginning. The abyss was giving me a second chance. A chance to join them. Join them and become one with the universe. A chance to carry on, forever. A chance to carry on as something much greater than I.


5. Air Inhale, exhale, repeat for as long as your brain functions, but what is it you’re breathing in? Typical air is a mixture of 78% Nitrogen, 21% Oxygen, and less than 1% of a mixture of other gasses and environmental particulate. Air’s malicious nature is that it doesn’t want to end you, it wants to prolong your suffering for as long as possible. There are those rare cases that air isn’t plentiful enough to allow it to continue your suffering, which brings our story to Tyler Mcible. Alone on an Alaskan peak, Tyler berated himself for not taking into account elevation sickness on his current exploration. His career as an influencer had become stagnant and he was running out of exotic locations to post. His follower count was dipping and he needed new content quickly, which was why he didn’t wait the few days to acclimate to this altitude. It was late spring in Alaska so air was maintaining its temperature in the high forties to mid fifties to help prevent Tyler from freezing. Air was enjoying his suffering. It studied Tyler as a mad doctor would study a rat being subjected to unethical experiments. Air had seen so many other cocky explores subject to the same conditions that air could almost predict every next move Tyler would make. Laying prone, Tyler gasped exhausted, his extremities tingled from oxygen deprivation. Air chuckled to itself, why would living things choose to utilize a component that was only a fifth of air’s composition? Animated objects had since their development had thrown that offense at air. Tyler looked toward the bottom of the slope, a valley filled with Nagoonberry plants about sixteen hundred feet down was the only hope he had to escape his oppressive lack of air. Air was skeptical of Tyler making it. Tyler grasped the snow cover, pulling himself inch by excruciating inch. Even with gravity’s aid he could only manage a few yards a minute. He considered even putting us body perpendicular to the slope and rolling, but thought an uncontrolled descent would be too dangerous. He’d just have to crawl for the better part of a day. This feat, air would enjoy spectating. Air was even so benevolent as to supply more of itself as a reward for the progress Tyler made. Tyler took this kindness for granted and went so far as to continue to curse air for its lack of presence. The journey took seven hours, but finally Tyler had made it to the bottom of the valley. The snowpack had given way to cold mud as Tyler crawled the remaining few feet to the lowest point he could reach. A cool breeze swept through the Nagoonberries carrying with it the fragrance of their flowers. Tyler, though exhausted and knowing he would have to sleep there for the night, allowed himself a deep breath of celebration at having not succumbed to Air’s demented experimentation. The scent, which Tyler had yet to experience being as it was his first time to Alaska was one of the most calming smells he noted. Calming, right to the point the tingle of the first sneeze sprang from his chest. Please remember that air is not only composed of gasses, it carries all the particles small enough to go aloft. Anaphylactic shock set in quickly for Tyler. There was no way he could have known that the fragrant plants he was among would have produced such a sever reaction. Air smiled, as much a smile as an inanimate thing could, in deep satisfaction. The gasps were sweet music to it.


#Hello r/Shortstories! Today we’re going to give a to /u/chunksisthedog! He’s been around the subreddit for quite awhile and has been a participant in both features here. His serial, *The Stone Wielder*, written on has recently concluded with 21 chapters! And wouldn’t you know it, they’ve already begun a new one. So let’s take a few minutes to chat with them and read a bit about their experience.   ***   #The Stone Wielder - Written by u/chunksisthedog **A brief synopsis from Chunks:** A group of people called Wielders use Stones to channel energy. They call them techniques. Different techniques produce different elemental results. All Wielders are trained at The Academy in the capital city. Jeson is a just graduated Wielder that finds a fugitive Wielder. His ideas are challenged about what The Academy is and does. He journeys to a far away place and meets others that share his ideas and some violently disagree with them. | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |   ***   #A Chat with u/Chunksisthedog about Serial Writing ##**What have you learned throughout the serial writing process?** I learned that I need a sort of outline. This is the first time I have ever attempted a serial and really the first time I put anything out on reddit. The first couple of posts I did not read the story before I posted it. The ones that I read to my wife before posting allowed me to hear the mistakes. ##**What did you enjoy most about writing this?** What I enjoyed the most was the feedback. I do not fancy myself a writer, so hearing what I did well along with things that I needed to improve on was awesome. That really kept me writing. ##**What was the biggest challenge you faced and how did you overcome it?** The biggest challenge I faced was starting it. I have read stories on here and everyone seemed so much better than me. The wondering if I was going to get laughed out of the sub. My wife pushed me to post, so finally I did. ##**What advice would you give to writers who are thinking about writing a serial for the first time?** My advice would be to lay your serial out first. I decided to not outline and "just stay with my vision." I got sidetracked somewhere that I didn't want to go and felt like I wrote myself into a corner. I kept digging my way out of it but felt like I lost some control of my story towards the end.   ***   Thank you so much for your time. It’s been such a pleasure to read your words and watch your writing grow over the last several months. I’m already enjoying your new project and I wish you the best of luck on your writing journey. Be sure to leave Chunks a comment and some love below! Feel free to ask him questions about his serial and/or his experience.   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Bustling was the village under the moonlight. Children giggled as they chased each other past the *Shōji* walls of *Minka* houses towards the *Sakura* forest where velvet blossoms flow with the wind. Under the vibrant blue sky, unaware of the giant mechanical Sparrow flying above them, the farmers continue their meager task in their garden pavilion harvesting sweet-smelling glow-fruits that only bloom at night. Though several golden lamps illuminate the village, the villagers were too busy chatting with each other to notice the several shadows jumping from one *Kirizuma-Zukuri* roof to another, making their way to the *Harashi* Palace at the edge of the valley. The chirping of crickets fills the chilling air as the leader of the shadows sneak past several *Samurai* patrolling the courtyard before leaping several stories onto the palace roof. With a few hand gestures from the Shadow Leader, the mechanical Sparrow circled the sky while the other shadows retreated into the darkness, awaiting further instructions. Using a *Kunai* from his pocket, the Shadow Leader pokes a hole in the palace’s slanted roof and peeked inside. The light of several lamps pierced through the white *Shōji* paper walls. The shadow could see a family of three in the wide living room. There’s Yan, a young girl with a robotic dog, watching her sister, Lin, and her father, Harashi Saito, training in *Kenjutsu*. As the shadow continues his observation, he notices that their stances are different from the other *Sonjen* clans. Normally, only a single Bokken is used in sword-fighting. However, Lin and Saito are armed with two wooden swords in both hands. Even before the Nuclear War, dual-wielding was rarely practiced by the ancestors of the *Sonjenese* swordsmen. So seeing a clan practice such a technique is very rare. Nevertheless, the Shadow Leader needs the Harashi Clan dead. By eliminating Harashi Saito and his entire extended family, only **one** political super-power will remain. The shadow locked his eyes on Lin, a beautiful girl with pale skin and a petite frame. She’s the eldest daughter and has just begun her training in *Kenjutsu.* Lin starts with two side strikes only for her father to parry both her ‘blades’ and knock her down on the *tatami* flooring with a short flurry of strikes. Lin gets up, feeling a bit dazed but she returns to a combat stance. Yan’s robotic dog wagged its metal wire tail and barked playfully. This time, Lin charges in. She parries Harashi’s *Bokken* with a heavy slice then transitions to an overhead slash. Harashi blocks the attack, pushing Lin back with both weapons, knocking her down again. This time, Lin gets up, gripping her ‘swords’ even tighter. She proceeds to strike overhead, quickly transitioning to a combination of several slashes from every direction. With a swift movement of his weapon, Harashi delivers a heavy upward strike. Lin blocks the attack but her incorrect footing causes her to slip and fall down on the floor. Harashi goes back to a formal stance as Lin lifts herself back up. Knowing the training is over, she bows down as a sign of respect, prompting Harashi to do the same. After that, Lin hugs her dad and gives him a sweet smile. The three proceeded to eat dinner. Yan is munching on *tempura* while Lin is chewing on *sushi*. Lin turns to look at her younger sister. She sees that her plate is arranged in a smiley face with two *Maki Rolls* serving as the ‘eyes’ with single *tempura* serving as the ‘smiley mouth’. Yan laughs jokingly, only for Lin to stuff her mouth with a large sushi roll which Yan cutely chewed. Harashi continues sipping hot soup as his two daughters enjoy their meal. Meanwhile, the Shadow Leader gestures the mechanical Sparrow to create a loud robotic screech. In an instant, all the shadows stepped out of the darkness, revealing themselves to be demonic ninjas. One by one, they killed the villagers with their blades, alerting the *Samurai*. Only for the *Samurai* themselves to get dragged into the darkness and stabbed to death. Those who survived grouped up at the palace entrance and readied their *naginata* for battle. Harashi senses the commotion. He stops eating and tells his daughters to hide. He takes a katana from his armor rack and-- The Shadow Leader bursts from the roof and lands in front of Harashi. The giant mechanical Sparrow crashes into the room and blocks Lin and Yan’s only escape. The Shadow Leader unsheathes a katana with a glowing red blade. The blade’s light reveals the Shadow Leader’s face as the Red Swordsman. Harashi and The Red Swordsman quickly collided blades. Slashing and parrying each other. Meanwhile, Lin fights off the Sparrow with her *Bokken*. The machine bird quickly destroys the wooden sword. While the palace falls into utter chaos. The Gutrot Witch emerged from the darkness and burns the whole village with green fire. Some villagers tried to flee, only for ninjas to emerge from the forest and eviscerate them. As the witch approaches the palace, the surviving Samurai charge towards the witch, only for her to release death beams from her hands and slice the soldiers into pieces. The witch blasts her way into the living room. Harashi kicks The Red Swordsman down and turns to slash the Sparrow’s mechanical face off. The Witch charges her death beams, only for Harashi to slice her fingers off. The Witch shrieks in pain. Her scream echoes into the night. Left with no choice, Harashi and his daughters run away towards the riverbank away from the village. Yan and Lin jumped on a boat docked at a small pier. Harashi cuts the rope, sending the boat moving with the river’s current. Then he turns around to see The Red Swordsman standing behind him. Yan and Lin’s boat move further and further away as the current carries them. The more distance they gain, the thicker the fog gets. And when the fog fully blocks their view, the last thing they saw was The Red Swordsman’s blade about to slice Harashi.


I got to know her through her writing. From second trimester to five months old, I read the months of her texts that were sent between them while the baby grew and plans were made for him to give his rights to the man she found to settle for. Her never without a reason to reach out in enthusiastic bursts behind the fiancés back for mundane, loosely related reasons with an underlying energy usually only reserved for high school girls driving by a crushes house too many times. Him always responding right away behind my back in a measured, upbeat cadence with one too many uncharacteristic exclamation points that only someone who knew him could tell had all the fear and emotional exhaustion of strained facial muscles held for too long in a clenched teeth-fake smile. After the resulting confrontation that quietly started with me waking him to shakingly whisper “you have a son?” and ended with the last time I ever saw him, I read the print screens of texts between them a mutual friend was sent by him to show me to help them both make sure I stayed away for good. The point was for me to read him telling her I was a good person, but absolutely someone he was no longer interested in. I knew that by this point. However, I got to know her through her need for reassurance of both points when she knew me by name the entire pregnancy and often took joy in the power of having a secret with another man from his partner. When I moved on to other things and people, the adoption was final, and he was no longer the father of his son or partner to me, she grew bored sitting in her home alone with the child whose conception she had carefully contrived. The drama it entailed, layers of deceptions she got to navigate, careful handling by all around her, and the resulting year of attention it generated was more than she had ever anticipated that fateful night before he was my boyfriend. That night she knew she was ovulating and planned the lie for when she invited him, just another guy she couldn’t get to date her but she could get to sleep with her once or twice, home. After 38 years of never being asked to the dance, being passed over for the good jobs, sitting alone on Valentine’s Day, and missing out on the Friday night invites: it was all about her. She thought it might feel like this, but she had no idea. She loved telling friends and family, but swearing each to secrecy with the assurance they were the only one who knew. She found that the more people she made feel special with the secret the more people she had to treat her special. She carefully watched his social media and imagined the day he would be posting photos of her holding her belly, but she had to wait for the fourth month before she knew it was safe to tell him and not have any other conversations than their future together. She had not anticipated him meeting me in the interim and it was a hard week or two when she had to change plans, but the fiancé she found to replace him was low hanging fruit. For the blissful months after she got double the attention and intrigue she desired. It was never really about wanting my boyfriend or the fiancé anyway. It was about them wanting her and this made it so both of them had to stay around. Friends let her be the object of celebration. Family clamored to assist her situation. The pregnancy was amazing. But, now the baby was growing older by the month and it was slipping away. There were less and less likes on the parade of new grainy, selfies she posted of herself with the baby. She only had one angle she could use that obstructed the view of her body and double chin while still holding the infant. So, aside from outfit changes on the baby’s part, it difficult for her to generate content that stayed about her under the guise of being about him. No one stopped by with meals anymore. The parties were over. Presents open. Cards used to come in the mail. Some even had checks. Now it was just bills and reminders. The fiancé picked up a construction job. When he was home, he held the baby and watched tv. At night, he slept in the living room. He said it was for staying rested during their night feedings, but it reminded her of how lonely she felt not being able to attract the kind of man she felt she warranted all her life. The kind of man like my boyfriend. Sometimes, when she needed it, she would pick a fight to refocus the home on her. They fought. They made up by distracting themselves with the baby and even less with each other. He wouldn’t set a date. She didn’t push it. A wedding is just for a day. The pregnancy gave her so many months more than that. She wanted the last year back. So, with my now ex boyfriend gone from both of our lives, she would send me run on texts behind everyone’s back that were peppered with smiley faces and offers to talk about my feelings regarding her having a baby with my then boyfriend. They held the obvious desperation of someone looking for emotional entertainment. I won’t oblige, but I got to know her more through her writing. What do I know about her? There are the details of her last year as the mother of the son she made then took back for the man she settled for and the same gold glitter cat eye glasses she wears in her selfies. But, those are just facts. The kind of stats that can go on the back of a baseball card. I know parts of her she reveals when she thinks no one is looking. When she is getting what she wants. When she needs more of what she wants. I know it by who she writes and when for what she needs. Her personality is banal, annoying, and obtuse. Like the persona embodiment of a cut out Cathy cartoon taped to a refrigerator mixed with a chubby receptionist that forces an insecure laugh after every sentence and brings in the day old blueberry bagels no one enjoys to foster unenthusiastic, fake office friendships. The emotional equivalent of person who writes three star Amazon reviews for kitchen floor mats, uses words like “hubs” or “preggers”, and thinks they are quippy and original because they are obsessed with fall themed candles and Christmas pajamas. I know she is someone that has manipulated and managed other peoples lives to get what she has wanted in her own when her character could not command those things based on its merit alone. I know she thinks she is a good person. She might actually be. It doesn’t change how she uses control and manipulation cheats in instead of challenging herself to develop what she desires. It hasn’t always worked, but adding the baby put the reins in her hands. Why hadn’t she done this sooner? She would have had more years to chase this high again. Keeping people separated to protect different lies needed to prop up herself is the most tired, known trope of a controlling person, but she cannot see that every time she deploys it with efficiency. To my boyfriend, he was told the fiancé doesn’t want him involved or around the child being raised as his. To the fiancé, he was told my boyfriend is uninterested, hard to reach, and difficult to even find most of the time. A bad person too for safe measure. Both must only coordinate the child’s well-being through her and never met each other to compare stories. Is it because new father will find out the lie that was told to trick the birth father into thinking there is some kind of infertility diagnosis that was miraculously overpowered and suspended during one ovulation cycle of a near 40 year old woman? It might make him see the sides of her she hides from him. From everyone. Including her. Is it because the birth father will find out that the father has been told some unpleasant false truths about being forced, alcohol, and consent surrounding this conception to nurture pity and buy in? It might make him think less of her. She needs everyone to think her selfless and wonderful. Most of all, in all of this, none can see how she has enjoyed exploiting the role of “mother just trying to do the right thing in a surprise situation” that she secretly, originally, and intentionally contrived and managed. This has to be protected. What would happen if the father and birth father know her like I do? What if the former reads what she wrote to the latter like I did and sees how she enjoyed having both men on the hook while forcing relationships neither would have elected to choose with her had she not created the baby? In the malaise of the quiet house next to the growing, sleeping child, there is a moment of mild discomfort when considering the rippling human collateral damage in her wake. Maybe for me, but it really only tickles her mind because her vanity is uncomfortable not knowing how much I know about her. Things she hardly understands, but also doesn’t stop. She would never afford even an ounce of that consideration and regret to the birth father when it comes to the psychological impact during the pregnancy and after the rights are transferred to the man she settled for. He is quietly ruined from the best year of her life. The birth father won’t have his own children someday. He won’t have healthy relationships ever again. He won’t have his own family. This will feel okay to him for a while, but he will realize the loss too late when his mother passes in 12 years and there are no more warm homes with real love to be invited to. When friends move on and evolve in life, he will be suspended in this broken, compartmentalized state. He is trapped. The next 20 years will be him alone as the old guy at the bar growing more and more bitter because the girls he likes don’t like him back like they used to. The quality ones don’t look at him anymore. But, hey, at least he will always be in the same place when she is bored. Under the false flag of the child he can’t have, she can make up reasons to come to his store or text for a rush of forced, fearful, inauthentic attention he feels obligated to give. She could have googled a sperm bank that summer when she came up with the plan. But, even if so, she was too cheap to spend $900 on a vile and if lives don’t have a price for taking when making one, she doesn’t feel a debt. What started this all, the baby, grows up with some of his birth fathers nature. Just a small sliver fights through and she resents it. When she sees parts of the nurture from the man she settled for in him, she resents that too. She actually resents him more and more the further away from the pregnancy life takes her. He might have a real chance at what his birth father refused to give himself after knowing her: a meaningful and good life with the best opportunity to thrive.