#Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join. Please be sure to read the entire post before submitting.   ***   #This week's theme is Surprise! As we continue into the larger theme of “hidden” for February, we’re going to explore “surprise” this week. Surprises come in all shapes and sizes. They can be positive or negative things. What will these unexpected revelations mean for your characters and the world around them? The theme should be present within the story, but its interpretation is completely up to you. /   ***   #Theme Schedule: We recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week we will be releasing the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * February 21- Surprise (this week) * February 28- Misunderstandings * March 7- Courage   ***   #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 7pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story.   ***   #The Rules: * All top-level comments must be a story. Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * Your story must be written for this post. You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but we encourage you to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post will not be allowed. * Your story should be 500-850 words. Use to check your word count. * While the name has changed to “Serial Sunday”, the deadline is still 7pm the following Saturday. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). You **must** use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. If not, our bot won’t recognize your serial installments. * Submissions are limited to one serial submission from each author per week. * Each author must leave a comment on at least 2 other stories during the course of the week. That comment should include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements. * While content rules are more relaxed 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/Sunday posts or to your own subreddit or profile. But an in-progress serial is not required to start. You may jump in at any time. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * You can nominate your favorite stories each week. Send me a message on discord, reddit, or through modmail and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfires to make nominations. * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules).


We were crammed together on the couches in the living room, it was snug; throughout the evening there were at least four different one-on-one conversations filling the air, the chatter practically made it impossible to hear your own thoughts. Then, suddenly, we found ourselves sitting in complete silence. There was a tension in the air that abruptly suggested no one dare speak a word. I’d scooted up to the edge of the couch, with my eyes glued to the television; I could feel my heartbeat going into overdrive, and through my peripheral vision I saw my roommate, Logan, locked into the same position. The game clock had reached 58.4 seconds: Warriors - 102, Cavaliers - 101. Logan and I are sports fans, but we’re nowhere near sports fanatics. Why then, did a room full of previously cheery college students feel such a strong emotional connection to the outcome of the game? That’s best explained by something Logan nervously said to me midway through the fourth quarter, “Alex, if the Cavs can’t pull this off, we can’t pay rent.” Our apartment was littered with ramen-noodle wrappers, empty cans of black beans, and a few stacked Pizza boxes near the kitchen trash can from the nights our parents were feeling generous. Logan had just lost his scholarship on a technicality. There was a credit requirement, and unfortunately Indiana University could not transfer some of the courses he completed previously at a different school. I had been working 25-hour weeks to get by. It was starting to take a toll on my grades. I decided to work reduced hours; the consequence was reduced groceries and insufficient rent money. We wore matching purple bags under our eyes from the exhaustion that comes with financial stress. One day, sitting hunched on our red-velvet sofa, in front of a coffee table covered in loose sheets of paper we’d been using to draft potential solutions, it hit us. Rent was due in 12 days and neither of us could claim over $50 to our names. Our stomachs were so accustomed to growling that they’d grown submissive. I’d begin to feel slightly dizzy, and have an emptiness directly below my sternum, around 7:30pm each night, but that was the only time it dared to bother me. My body knew, nutrients were in limited supply, it was in survival mode. Bluntly, we knew we were fucked. The time to find better jobs and negotiate with financial aid offices, had to be later, those solutions would take too long to help with the mess in front of us. I believe it was the sense of hunger, forcefully calling for an immediate fix, that framed the way we thought about our rent problem. Logan looked at me, holding eye-contact that was marked with conviction, before proclaiming, “I’m going to gamble my way out of this mess.” Simultaneously, my eyes squinted, and my jaw lowered, I looked at him inquisitively, without speaking I prompted him to say more. “I’m going to scour through box scores, read up on the expert opinions, and turn my $50 into $650 over the next 10 days. This is my plan. You’re welcome to join me, but if you think you have a better plan, by all means.” He shrugged his shoulders. I looked left, then right, as if someone was going to give me advice on what to do; this never happened as we were the only two people in the room. It didn’t matter, I was hooked on the idea. Lost in the excitement and newfound sense of hope, I swept my arm across the coffee table and sent a collection of failed plans flying into oblivion. Fast forward and after a string of successes, our $50 had increased by a factor of 10 -- we were only $150 short of pulling this off. With two of our five hundred on the Cavaliers, a win would complete our lofty goal. The game clock was down to 23.5 seconds. Steph Curry hits a reverse lay-up, even worse it’s an and-one: Warriors - 107, Cavs - 106. My once-pounding heart shriveled and sank to the bottom of my stomach as the world tingled and began to grow blurry. With 4.7 on the clock, George Hill is fouled cutting to the basket! Instantly, I perk back up, sitting erect on the edge of my seat! Swissssshhhh, the first free throw races through the net. CLANK! The second misses. The ball is rebounded, but the clock expires. OVERTIME!!! The Cavaliers are obliterated in overtime. Logan and I look at each other, and with our shoulders drooping, we excuse ourselves from our friends and shamefully walk to our bedrooms to sleep off the pain of the loss.


“I think we need to talk”, Max said. I stared at him momentarily, then shook my head in disbelief. “I need some sleep”, I muttered to myself. Clearly the lack of sleep from the last few nights was starting to take its toll on me. I rubbed my eyes, stood up, and started towards my bedroom. “Can I come?” Max asked. I didn’t even turn around this time, I knew it was my tired brain playing tricks on me. He followed me, even though I didn’t answer him. I brushed my teeth and got changed, by the time I got to bed Max was already snuggled down. I thought no more about it and went to bed, asleep before my head even hit the pillow. I woke up the next morning as I always do, to the sound of the dogs tail wagging in the doorway. I felt relaxed and rejuvenated. I glanced at the clock on the bedside table as I hauled myself upright. Eleven hours sleep! I must have needed that. I stretched myself out and got up, the dog getting more and more excited with each movement towards his breakfast. “Wee-wees first?” I asked him. “Yes please”, he replied. I stopped walking and stared at him. He stared at me. I was dumbfounded. Was I still asleep? Was this a dream? It must be...dogs can’t talk! “Sorry,” he said, “I know this is a bit strange for you, but I really do need a wee. Can you open the door, please?” “Erm, yeah...sorry,” I managed to stutter out, as my body switched to autopilot and opened the back door for him. As I stood watching my boy in the back garden, my mind was in overdrive. ‘This cannot be happening’, I thought to myself, ‘dogs can’t talk. Max is thirteen now, he’s getting on in years...if he’s been able to speak all this time why has he chosen to start now?’ I caught myself on this last question and shook my head. ‘HE CAN’T TALK’, I told myself firmly. I couldn’t explain it. I must be losing my mind. My thoughts were interrupted then by Max calling through the door, “can you let me back in, please?” Again, my body was doing it before I’d had a chance to think about it. Max trotted into the kitchen and looked expectantly at his bowl. I wasn’t keeping up with my half of the morning routine. I grabbed his kibble from the cupboard and poured a cup into his bowl. “You and I need words after breakfast”, I said to him as I placed the bowl on the ground. He plunged himself towards the dog food as if he hadn’t been fed in years. ‘At least some things don’t change’ I thought, then strangely ‘he didn’t say thankyou’. I made myself a cup of tea and watched the dog wolfing down his kibble. Once finished he moved his head immediately to the water bowl. He then sat on his haunches and looked at me, water and saliva dribbling from his greying muzzle. “Well,” he said, “I suppose we had better talk about this.” I stared for a moment, my brain unable to comprehend how my dog was talking to me in a human voice. A friendly sounding voice. Very different to the voice I’d imagined for him over the years. “How long have you been able to speak?” I asked him, wondering to myself if I was talking to a hallucination. “Since yesterday morning,” he replied, looking a little sheepish, “I don’t know how or why it happened. I tried to bark at that stinky ginger cat from across the road, but instead...I just said ‘bark’. It was a bit embarrassing really, I’m sure that cat was laughing at me!” Despite the utter confusion and bewilderment I was feeling, I laughed. I sat on the floor in front of him and kissed his nose, as I had been doing for nearly thirteen years. “My poor baby,” I said with a smile, “I’ll get the cat with the hose later”. He leaned forward and rested his head on my shoulder. “You’re the best” he breathed into my ear, which unfortunately wafted towards my face… “OH MY GOD!” I exclaimed, clapping my hands to my face, “I’m sorry to ruin the moment, but you’ve got devil's breath!!” “Oh, thanks very much,” he replied huffily, starting to stand up. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” I claimed, although it was hard to hide my smile. I’ve always wanted to be able to chat to my dog, I might as well try and enjoy this. We chatted all morning. It was the most wonderful, but strangest morning of my life. Finally getting to ask my best friend all the things I’ve ever wanted to know about him, his favourite flavour of kibble, where he likes to go for a walk the most, and why he always growls at that one particular postman. Max asked me all the things he wanted to know. We talked about all our favourite memories. It was incredible finally getting to share all these things with my best friend. After talking for a few hours Max announced that he was tired and plodded off to my room for a nap. I went to make myself another cup of tea and began to process my thoughts. I had just spent the morning engaged in conversation with my four legged friend. I suddenly wondered if this was happening elsewhere. Were other dogs able to talk, or was it just Max? I abandoned my cup of tea, half made, and stalked over to my desk and opened my laptop. Surely if this was happening elsewhere someone would have posted it online by now? I opened facebook first, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. I tried twitter next, nothing there either. Nothing on any of the news pages I checked either. I was beginning to doubt myself again. Maybe I shouldn’t have shrugged this off. Then it clicked. I had wished for this. I had forgotten, because I say the words “I wish” an innumerable amount of times everyday. The memory seemed to slip back into place as I glanced towards my most recently finished painting. I had been working on it when I made my wish. I have a habit of talking while I paint. I don’t know why, but I always have. Usually to inanimate objects or animals, but I will talk to a person in a pinch. I had been talking to Max while I worked as I often did, but for some reason this time I wanted a conversation rather than just a one sided monologue. So there I was, painting and talking away and I just so happened to say “I wish you’d answer me once in a while”. I didn’t even think about it, I just said it. I’ve said “I wish” so many times in my life, why did this one come true? I shook my head to clear it. I considered my options, either I was going mad or I had had a wish granted. I pushed my fingers into my temples and allowed my hands to take the weight of my head for a moment. “Doesn’t believing it was a wish make me mad anyway?” I asked myself, out loud. Max padded back into the living room then and sat down in the doorway. I looked up as I heard the click of his nails on the wooden floor. I looked hard at him. He looked back at me silently for a long time. ‘Did I imagine it all?’ I asked myself. “What are you doing?” He asked me. ‘Guess not,’ I thought. “Seeing if I could find any explanation for this”, I answered, gesturing towards him. “Look, I lied before,” he answered, walking towards me. He sat by my knee and put his head in my lap, looking up at me with somber brown eyes. “I do know why I can talk,” he continued, “it started yesterday morning and it will end this evening.” “But why?” I asked him, stroking his greying face. “I made a wish that you could understand me,” he explained, “apparently you made the same wish at the same time, so it came true.” I gaped at him stupidly. “It’s a shame we didn’t both wish to win the lottery,” I joked. Who would have thought it? An offhand wish in amongst the many I make every day got granted because my dog made the same wish. No one would have thought it. I must be going mad. ‘Who cares,’ I decided once and for all, ‘if I am going mad and this is the only symptom, then who cares! If it gets worse, I’ll see my GP.’ With that decided I felt a weight lifted off my shoulders. “Walkies?” I asked the dog, he jumped up and ran to the door, tail wagging so fast I thought he might take off. I spent the rest of the day chatting away to my dog. After my decision to accept that Max and I could talk today, I felt much better. He told me he was going to stop talking this evening anyway, so if it continued after that I would worry. I had decided to enjoy my Sunday. After taking Max for a run around his favourite woods we returned home and shared some lunch. He was overjoyed that I allowed him to have some chicken, thanking me through the mouthfuls. He then had a kip whilst I began a new painting, which I became lost in for hours. Noticing the time, I realised we had both missed dinner, it was nearly ten o’clock! I wandered into the kitchen thinking about what to have. I opened a tin of what I now knew was Max’s favourite flavour chum, and plopped it into his bowl. I placed the bowl on the floor and called him in, surprised he hadn’t come running at the sound of the tin opening. Even now, he didn’t come running. He plodded slowly in with his head hung low and his tail between his legs. “What’s up, pup?” I asked him. He looked at me and whined. “What's the matter?” I inquired again. He barked, looking at me morosely. Then it clicked. He wasn’t answering me, he was barking at me. “It’s gone?” I asked, knowing the answer. He barked again. I sat on the floor and allowed him to come and sit on my lap. I kissed him on the nose and stroked his ears. “It’s alright”, I told him, “eat your dinner.” I kissed his head and stood up, suddenly feeling drained. I decided to skip dinner and began getting ready for bed. Once again, by the time I wandered from the bathroom to the bedroom, Max was already snuggled up on my bed. I climbed in beside him and kissed him on the nose. “Goodnight pup,” I muttered as I drifted off to sleep, wishing once more that he could answer me. Just for one more day….


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words. However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. Please read the entire post before submitting.   *** #Last Week So many great stories were submitted last week! And I was delighted to see all the feedback exchanged on the thread. You all really brought your A-game and choices were tough. But with that being said, there were two that I thought stood out. by u/Rulerofgummybears - A short, thrilling tale that uses only 100 words to paint a vivid image for the readers. by u/PennGuinoMcAistear - An intriguing scene with a full arc and a lovely twist ending. #This week’s challenge: **The call came at midnight.** This week’s challenge is to use this simple writing prompt as inspiration for your story. The sentence does not need to appear in your story (but you are more than welcome to, if you like). You may interpret the prompt any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   ***   #How It Works: - In the comments below, submit a story between 100-300 words by the following Sunday at midnight EST. Use to check your word count. The title is not counted in your final word count. - Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take any nominations you make into consideration. You may send them to me via reddit or on the discord. But please remember, this is not a contest. - While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to come back throughout the week and read the other stories on the thread. Upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. - We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the stickied comment on this thread.


My first year in the United States was a complete culture shock to me. A huge part of this was the food. It was difficult to get authentic Asian food; you had to go to specialty stores to get the basics. And in the normal aisles? I had no idea what a lucky charm was, or why you'd have it for breakfast. A PB&J was a foreign, strange acronym that was supposedly a lunch staple. I mean why the fuck would you put something salty with something sweet!? A pop tart was a piece of bread, slathered with icing, then swallowed with sugar and vomited into a box. And school was even worse. This was one of the roughest periods of my life and school was a major component of that. My parents hadn't taught me anything to prepare for our move; they didn't know any English. So imagine, as a young kid, coming over to a new country you had only seen rarely in a movie (and as we all know, the one city you always see is only New York), going to a new school, and not being able to communicate with your peers. It was hellish, and I don't use that word lightly. It meant instant social ostracisation. There were no other Chinese kids in my class, and the teacher had to essentially smile and nod and hope for the best whenever I spoke (which, as you can imagine, was not often). Oh, by the way, my name “Tommy”? It was a result of my kindergarten teacher inability to pronounced my actual name, Toan Ly (Its two syllable!), so she decided to name me Tommy, like some sort of Asian pets she just adopted. After the first week, I was being picked on every day. Everyone seemed to join in on the bullying and I had no one to turn to. I couldn't even tell the teacher they were bullying me, not that I would have – I was too scared to. And I couldn't tell my parents. I had neither the courage nor the resolve to do so, as this would mean I've somehow failed in our big move; the move being, obviously, a huge step forward for our family. They seemed to be adjusting fine, or, more realistically, they didn't let me in on their difficulties. And so I didn't want to be the only one having trouble, and they were left in the dark. I used to hide in the bathroom stall and cry. Every lunch time, I'd run out of class before the teasing and bullying could start, I'd quickly find the nearest bathroom, I'd pick a stall and I'd sit on the closed toilet, knees pulled up to my face, crying my eyes out. I still tear up thinking of the despair felt by younger me in those moments. But something happened during my second week. I came out of my stall after my usual routine and an older boy came up to me, asking what was wrong. I was stunned – I could understand him. He spoke Cantonese! I was absolutely shocked. I couldn't believe it. He must have noticed my face; one or two bruises, and red from the tears. I couldn't even speak, I just stared at him. He told me it was going to be alright, and took me by the hand to the school office. The first gift he gave me was acting as translator, meaning I could actually communicate with the school officials and the teacher. I'm sure he was infuriated by the lack of facilities for new immigrants adjusting to the school, as he probably was once, and took it upon himself to help me not go through what he must have had to go through. The teacher was called in and I promptly explained in Cantonese, happy as anything with my new translator by my side, what had been going on. I'm sure my translator/new friend added some things, as he and the teacher spoke a bit without my input. The teacher left and I went back to class, thanking the older boy. I still didn't know his name, and I actually never would, not to this day. But his tale isn't over. He invited me to have lunch with him on the next break, later that day. I think the kids engaged in my torment were spoken to; I'm not certain, but it more or less ceased from that point on. I went to the lunch hall, and excitedly found my new friend. He introduced me to the rest of his Cantonese speaking friends, opening up a whole new world of social interaction and acceptance. Finally I had some people to just speak with! A whole revelation had been made and I was chatting away to them in my own language. I was no longer ostracised wholesale; I was included in something and that made all the difference. That same lunch break, after eating, the older boy had me come with him, and he approached the white kids who had been bullying me. I didn't understand a word he said to them in English except a lot of expletives. He pointed at me a few times, then himself, and the table of Chinese kids we just left. The conversation went something like this; “(pointing at them) *Fucking* (gibberish) *fuck* (gibberish) (pointing at me) *fucker* (gibberish) (pointing at himself, then the table of our friends) *fucking* (gibberish) (pointing at me) *fuck* (gibberish).” If I repeated any of those words at home my dad would have beaten me to death. But my older Chinese saviour with reckless abandon managed to scare those kids enough to stay away from me for the next year. I saw their wide eyes and frightened looks. I called him “Big Brother” in Cantonese after that, still not knowing his name, and it stuck for the whole year. I spent every lunch break with him and his (now my) friends, we hung out after school and he helped me adjust; he helped me to learn English, he helped with my schoolwork. He was the kindest boy I had ever met in my life and to this day I am so thankful for his existence. I wish I could thank him today. But it wasn't meant to be. The next school year, I went to a different school, and I never saw him again. But I've thought about him many times since, and I sincerely wish he's doing well. He deserves to, for giving that new, little Chinese kid crying in the stall a lifeline he longed for, and truly turning the darkness to light in his mind.


Back in my former home, I had a huge map of the old world hung up on a wall. I’d spend much of my time staring at those vast lands, wondering where they had gone. I’d chat to the sailing traders who visited, go home and try and draw their oversevations, comparing them to the map. I’m fairly certain those attempts to chart the new world had been inaccurate, but one thing was certain. Gone were the great continents of Europe, Africa, or the Americas. The world was now scattered into islands. I knew if I ever wanted to learn more, I’d have to travel. Some already did - traders, missionaries, refugees - but none travelled with the sheer purpose of exploring. While that desire to go was always there I am not certain I would’ve ever picked up the courage to leave had the decision not been forced upon me. The island I called my home was Kadear Coalfields. When the sun was out, I often sat on the cliffs overlooking the beach, watching the currents pull the many boats ashore. Traders flocked to the islands for the precious black rock from which the island took its name. Each trader’s boats, their clothing, their mannerisms, even the way they spoke - they were all different, born from another place and culture. From that vantage point, you could see a full microcosm of the world. I still remember the last time I sat watching those boats. It was a final moment of calm and stillness. A breeze was slowly picking up from the east, creating a soft whistling noise through the trees, bringing with it the scent of fresh salt. Small waves lapped underneath the boats as their hulls lifted and fell with the waters. I had just finished work for the day, and was allowing the gently rocking boats to cradle my tired mind, when I was disrupted by the loud screech of aged bike brakes. I turned to see Thomas dismount from his bike. Thomas and I worked together. But a shared determination to achieve, had led to a firm friendship born from respectful rivalry. “Ferdinand, I’m glad I found you,” he said, panting a little from the ride. “They want to have a status meeting tomorrow. I’ve spent most of the day traveling to the mines trying to get the latest numbers. Are you up to date?” I had them all up-to-date within the past week, except one - the Sabina coal pit on the very northern tip of the island. It was nearly a four-hour bike ride. I looked wearily up at the falling sun. “It’s too late to make it there,” I said. “The Citadel applications are next month. You’ll be out of the running.” It was hard to tell if he was worried for my chances, or more delighted that my plight improved his own. Either way he was right - any sign of being uncommitted, and my hopes of a move to the Citadel were done for another year. I thanked Thomas for the forewarning, grabbed my bicycle, and began the long ride north. The journey to the northern tip of the island is one of the more grueling routes. Most of the mine, industry and people were in the south. As of such, as I headed further north, the path became less traveled. Instead of small pebbles, stones some thirty centimeters across began to stick up from the dusty ground, threatening to take out a wheel. Huge dents meant the bike shook violently every few meters. It wasn’t long before I began to feel tired. But it was the mental exhaustion of making sure I spotted the obstacles in time that got to me, rather than the pain in my legs. However, about halfway, there was a moment of relief. The path elevated on the eastern coast, and at the credt I was treated to one of the best views of the Citadel on the whole island. The buildings were a perfect white, almost too pristine and clean like they were birthed that day from the ground itself. Their flat roofs poked up above the lush forest that surrounded them. Even from here, I could make out the reflection of the sky in the wide, expansive windows. Behind the trees, the streets and the ground levels, was a mystery for most of us. I had only seen sketches to feed my imagination: roads lined with brick and not just dirt; flowers that lined the sides of the paths instead of overgrown scrub, the distance between every building, between every tree, between every blade of grass designed to a perfect geometric science. There was a reason it is the most coveted place on the island, and at the time, I was on the brink of being invited. Every year a resident passed on or disgraced themselves and were removed. So each year many of us applied for one of the vacant spots. The very best workers and those who rose to the higher ranks were gifted one of those houses as a reward. There, they got to live with the ruling council in luxury. I was already relatively well off compared to most on the island. However, my walls were a drab brown of exposed brick and hastily applied cement. There were no windows, and light came only from small lanterns. I had earned my home, but it had never been the goal. It had only ever been a stopgap on my way to the Citadel. By the time I reached the Sabrina coal pit, night had truly arrived. There was the faintest of light trying to curve around the horizon, just enough to guide me towards the office and the sanctuary of the lamps hung around the site. As I stepped off the bike, and the heat of the ride wore off, I could feel how frosty the air was becoming. The peaceful evening breeze, was turning into a nighttime chill, and I scurried inside the office to get out of the cold. It took about an hour to get the paperwork ready. It was mostly a matter of grabbing the relevant documents, checking the records, and copying across the relevant numbers. There were some more figures that needed tallying, but that could wait till I was home. Though it was already as dark as it could be, and the frost had arrived, my instinct was telling me to make the return journey sooner rather than later. \ Back on my bike, it didn’t take long for the lights of the mine to fade and for the path to become bordering on a pitch black. Clouds had washed over the island, blotting out the night sky. A strong easterly gale was blowing frigid sea air up over the islands, and with each gust, I could feel my arms ache and shiver. The strong winds were also making it harder to maintain an accurate path through the stones and divots of the makeshift path. I could only see a meter or two of the ground in front of me and I was struggling to decide whether I was better off getting out the cold quickly or going as slowly as possible to ensure I avoided crashing I was about a third of the way home. At that point, the path snaked around to the left, avoiding getting too close to the citadel near the center of the island. The citadel was only for those who were allowed to live there, it was one of the perks, part of its exclusivity. But as a result, the path bent to hug the coast, exposing more or me and the bike to the winds. There was a small hill in the path as it rose over a mound. I reached over the top and began descending. As I did, I could make out little of the path the other side. Gravity pulled sharply on the bike. It accelerated, and I was too slow to react. The front wheel jammed into a divot, stopping it in an instant. The bike bucked, and my own momentum threw me over the handles. I hung in the air a moment, suspended in the darkness, before feeling my right wrist crash into the stony ground. There was the sound of stones shifting and fabric ripping, as my ears became filled with the gray noise of my body sliding down the hill. I felt my knee crack against a sharp rock and I screamed in pain before my body finally came to rest on level ground. It took me a few seconds to process the moment. I was laying down on my side, looking out to the ocean. It was too dark to see it, but I could hear vividly the waves crashing against the rocks, and the blasts of wind blowing up from the cold waters. Slowly my senses came back to me, and my body began to make me aware of where the worst pain was. My elbow was throbbing. It hurt, but it moved. So at least I could rule out a break. Going down my body, my knee was rattling, as if shaken from its joint. I was certain it would begin to swell fast. Finally, there was a large stinging pain down my left calf. I reached out to it. The fabric of my trousers was ripped, and through the gap, I could feel the uncomfortable mixture of gravel and blood. Apprehensively, I pushed myself off the ground, and slowly rose to my feet. I was careful to put weight on my right - my good leg - first. At first, things seemed fine. However, as I leaned onto my left leg, testing it, I could feel the joints in my knee crumple under the additional pressure, and the bitten nerves let out a scream. Up the hill, I could make out the bike, its front wheel still trapped in the divot. I gingerly hobbled forwards. A frustrated, hopeless groan left my lips as it came into view. The front wheel had jammed so hard against the stony ground that the metal rim had buckled and bent to the side. I racked my brain, desperately searching for some solution to make the bike rideable again, but it was fruitless. A thick gust blew in from the coast. I could feel it flutter through the open tear in my trouser, and seep into my body through the open cut. With the wind chill, the temperature had plummeted vastly, and I could feel my core stiffening in the cole. With my bike completely broken, I would have to try and walk either back home, or back up to the mine. Either way, a likely six hours of hobbling through the freezing gales. With the winds, the injuries, the heat quickly sapping from my body, I had to find shelter and soon. I turned so that my back was facing the sea, and the stiff breeze was no longer landing on my face. Ahead of me, I could make out the small halo of light that rose from the lamps at the citadel, casting silhouettes of the buildings against the cloudy sky. The citadel was private, I was forbidden from going there. But even with the dense trees between the citadel and the path, I could still walk there in under two hours. I made up my mind. I would head to the citadel and pray my injuries were enough to forgive my trespassing.I had no choice. I only had one option if I wanted to survive.


A card clicked against the spoke as Jackie chased her brother down the hill. The blacktop was hot and the handlebars wobbled as she sped up, sweat dripping from her forehead and slicking the handles. Jason whooped beside her and attempted to remove his hands from the bike, each try dilating her heart beats before he snatched them again. They both laughed loudly and nervously, letting the wind carry away their concerns as it whipped past. The sun shone high in the lapis Texas sky, burning itself away above an indifferent people. Jackie and Jason flew past a man getting into his car and he swore at them but they didn’t hear. A woman with her hair tied behind her head and a skirt that shifted like wheat in the breeze was walking up the hill and the brother turned to watch her go and stopped pedaling as he passed. She smiled at the kids and Jason smiled back but Jackie had started barking at him to watch where he was going. He just guffawed like a fool. After they reached the base of the hill they slowed and rode down the street idly, watching the birds and waving to cars as they passed. They stopped at the intersection and looked at the gas station before running across the street alongside their bikes. There was a middle aged man there getting gas in a beat up truck the color of rust, and Jackie could not tell where the oxidized metal ended and the paint began. “Hey Mr. Miller. Sure is a day out today,’ said Jason as leaned the bike against his leg. “Oh,” he said as he turned and saw the sweaty kids, greeting them with a warm smile. “Yeah, I guess it sure is. Hotter'n hell yesterday, though. Nice to have a break.” “Yes sir it is. What do you got going today?” The man gestured to the bed of his truck that was full of cement blocks and 2x4s. “My shed is sinking on me, figure I better fix it before it gets too bad. No better way to spend a Saturday like this than cooking in a crawlspace. No rest for the wicked, I suppose.” “No sir,” Jason said and they both chuckled. Mr. Miller hung up the gas nozzle and opened the truck door. “What about you kids? What is your pops up to?” “He’s at home sleeping, the refinery has him on nights the next two weeks. Like a graveyard at home,” Jackie said. They all waved at a car that was pulling out of the gas station and Mr. Miller hopped into his truck and shut the door. “Well, I know what that’s like,” he said as he cranked the window down. “My father worked the refinery when I was your age. Not too much time left for family, but they pay you to be there.” Jackie squinted at the sun and Jason nodded. “Alright, I’ll catch you kids later. Say hey to your dad.” The truck came to life and rumbled away and the siblings waved as they turned and walked up to the gas station. Their bikes were dropped haphazardly by the door while they went in to rummage amongst the wares. Jackie grabbed a bag of chips and ripped them open, crunching with her mouth open as they opened every cooler again and again in search of the perfect drink. A few minutes later they slammed assorted coins and crumpled bills on the counter and then they were laying in the grass by the road, partaking of their convenience store feast like royal successors that were made to be attended. Jason gnawed on a piece of jerky and Jackie gulped an orange soda that perspired in her hand. She looked around at nothing and listened to the cars stop and go at the four-way. “What do you want to do next?” Jason said as he stuffed an empty wrapper into a plastic bag. “I don’t know.” She chewed and took another drink. “Maybe ride down the hill again?” “Sure. Figure it’s about two or so.” “Man, I hate having to ride back up that hill.” She tossed the expired bottle towards the bag but missed and it hit the ground by Jason. He frowned at her and set it in the bag. “Well, I suppose we could ride the hill one more time, then just go the long way home.” He popped a twinkie in his mouth and washed it down with a swig of tea. “Take Spencer or something,” he chewed. Jackie laughed, “Whatever. I know you only want to take Spencer cause that Livingstone girl lives out there.” “The Livingstone girl has a name, and it's Mary. Plus,” he pointed at her with the remainder of the twinkie, “we both know I am out of her league.” “You got that right,” Jackie scoffed, “she ain’t even cute.” Jason looked offended but tried to hide it as he put the rest of the trash in the bag and busied his hands. “Here, I’ll take it. I gotta pee anyways.” Jackie stood and wiped off the butt of her pants before she took the bag and headed back towards the gas station. She threw the trash into the stinking black can and yanked the door open, the timeless sound of a bell dinging as the only greeting. Looking along the back walls until she found the sign that read ‘RESTROOM’, she headed that way. Knocking once at the door she opened it without reply. The mirror was old and dirty and bore inscriptions that made her blush, but her pale cheeks were already red from the midday sun. She splashed some water on her face to wash away the sweat, leaving behind ruddy freckles and the taste of salt on her lips. Her hands dried in her hair as she pulled her ponytail through again and fixed flyaways that would never be made right. She used the bathroom and rose, washing her hands and thinking about Mr. Miller covered in spiderwebs beneath his old shed. Before she reached for the paper towel there was a loud crash, something heavy and unmovable that had never been heard in all the earth one hundred years past. Unsure if the sound was from the building itself, Jackie opened the door and walked up to the counter where the gas attendant was clutching her shirt with mouth agape and eyes locked out the window. Jackie tried looking through the window by the door, long obscured by stands of cheap candy and old stickers peeled and discolored. “What in the world…” she said to herself as she pushed outside. Immediately she looked to the grass where the bikes lay like some adolescent detritus. Jason was not there. Jackie became acutely aware of the ding of the bell behind her and the fact that her hands were still wet and her mouth was not. She was a moment frozen in time, where all prospects of horror became fixed, the fear in her mind a hound cut loose. The sounds of someone shouting and another crying thawed her as she looked up to see Jason among a growing crowd in the middle of the road, surrounding two blasted and damned shapes of metal that were once vehicles but no one would have ever known. Even now the knowledge seemed irreconcilable to Jackie as she approached the desolate scene. Closest to the gas station was a dog that was ejected through the window of a vehicle, and it was not dead but she knew it would not live and she continued by its whimpering and ground form. The air was cloudy and tasted like plastic and dust that was meant to stay buried but was now exposed among the street, and when she got closer she saw bits of a young woman that were both unknowable yet unmistaken. Jackie looked upon the pieces that no eye was made to look upon and she saw the face of a dead woman who looked at peace with her indecency. She heard crying but knew it was not from this demolished machine, so she turned to the other. Following the noise she came to the overturned truck and crouched among some others that had come rushing to the accident. A man was hanging there by his seatbelt but his face was grim and quiet and he held onto an arm that ended in an ostial spike dripping blood like the first weapon used against man. “I have to help them,” she muttered to herself as she sought the source of the crying, a caretaker roaming the wreckage for none. She found Jason kneeling by a person spread out on the pavement as clay waiting for the furnace. His white v-neck was more red than not and his hands were covered in blood and his forearms bore tiny cuts from glass where he had laid to pull the unconscious man from the inverted cabin. His arms pumped and he counted somberly as he stopped to blow air into the hewn effigy. People stood around and watched the boy pump and count off - a living metronome. Jackie knew he was dead and maybe Jason did too but the crowd did not stop him and nor did she. The crying was growing louder and soon it was wailing, and Jackie turned back and forth looking and she yelled for someone to shut the dog up but the dog had already expired on the hot asphalt. Soon Jason was holding her and telling her that it would be alright, and she saw that a white corner of his shirt still pure of blood was soiled now with her tears. Someone placed a coat over the dead man in the street and the man with the shattered arm was out and laying in the grass sobbing. He had met Jackie’s gaze as they both cried and neither of them would look away and she knew him then as well as she knew Jason or would ever know another. “I got you Jackie, I got you baby,” Jason repeated. \` \` \` Jackie wiped her flyaways with blood streaked hands, the revolver shaking in her white grip. She looked at the chamber she knew only held two shells and swore. Jason was propped against the wall holding insides that hung with macabre inversion. A bite on his thigh pumped blood onto the moldy floor and the door slammed time and time again. She squeezed her eyes shut and put her head against his and could feel his forehead burn with fever already. Guttural roars and chiropteran clicks sounded down the halls and another gunshot went off somewhere that Jackie did not know or care. “Listen to me. Look, Listen to me,” Jason eyes rolled beneath his gas mask as he fought for consciousness. “Jackie, you gotta. Don’t let me turn.” Jackie heard crying and knew it was not her and she held Jason close. She tried to speak but her voice betrayed her. Jason coughed and blood coated the inside of his mask so he pulled it off and Jackie did not try to stop him. They sat there for a moment looking at each other through the acrylic visor like a screen bridging the afterlife and Jason took her hand. “Don’t worry. I am right here. I’m right here with you.” Jackie began to sob and the pounding at the door continued. “I got you Jackie.” Jason said as he dropped her hand. He fell unconscious and she knew she only had a few moments. Through tears she set the pistol down on the floor and took off her jacket that was tattered and rank and bore a host of stains whose originators lay dead or forgotten. She placed it over his face and picked up the revolver and cocked the hammer before bringing it back down. The gun bucked and filled the room with smoke, tasting of iron and burnt powder. A blackened ring was singed into the jacket, forming some necromantic eclipse worshipped by pagans that once walked the earth and then were gone, now to return again.


The first proper short story i’ve ever written, would love to get some criticism and feedback on it. thank you so much for taking the time to read it! Who am I? What am I? What is my purpose? I stare deep into my soul, and I see a dark mist, surrounding me from every direction, feasting on my doubts and loneliness, giving it power to grow and yet its hunger can never be quenched, for it wants my soul. And it grins at me, mocking my absence of purpose, and envelopes me in an illusion, as I felt myself floating as small waves of water lightly push me around, for I have nowhere to go, unable to swim as other people may, always tossed and dragged around by the ocean that represents life, as other people playfully swim and create ripples on the ocean, I only float, devoid of any ability to swim and nothing to swim for. Is this my destiny? what I was born for? to simply stare at the blue sky as I felt other people’s ripples gently hit me, unable to create my own, unable to leave my ripple, my mark, in this world? No. This is not who I am. Even though I was born without a purpose, forgot my dreams for an office job without any friends, even though I am a drop of water compared to the endless ocean, I will create a ripple, I will leave my mark, I will die a person who mattered, who lived for what he believed in, and I raised my hands and filled them with power, fed them with my desire of becoming a person that mattered, and brought them crashing down onto the ocean, and in a second that felt like a year, I felt true joy, the feeling of being a person who lived for something, as I felt my hands, filled with purpose, forcefully descent so close to hitting the surface of the ocean. So close…. The sound of my phone alarm pulled me out of my daydream and back into reality. I was motionless for a second, trying to slip back into the veil of thoughts and finish striking the ocean, yet it was a futile attempt. I snapped out of my imagination and stared at my phone, realising it was time to work, and got ready, feeling desolate and struck back to reality, pondering the alluring illusion of creating my mark in this world. Nothing eventful happened at work, just the daily struggle of trying to make it out without lashing out at my boss who told me I had to work overtime because Jimmy the Entitled felt like he had the right to call in sick an hour after his shift started. And so I worked, subconsciously glancing at the clock every few minutes, convinced that the speed of time varies on how much enjoyment you’re having, for every single second I spent at work felt like an entire minute. For me, this was hell. To be forced to live an uneventful life, work an unfulfilling job, just for the sake of staying alive and being able to have your essential needs met, closing off all the potential you had inside you, just because the stars didn’t align your way and chasing the goals you set for yourself as a child felt like an impossible task. As my shift finally ended, I got up and started walking to my car, letting out a sigh of relief as I congratulated myself for surviving another day. I started to drive home, as my arms ached from all the typing I had to do today, and felt my eyes slightly water and glanced at the side mirror and saw they were bloodshot, and I realised just how exhausted I was. As I drove on, I saw something on the road that caught my attention, a person talking to a homeless person. This was weird, since nobody usually talked to them, let alone at 12am. I slowed down and saw that the person standing seemed to be messing around with the homeless person, as he kicked his things around and started taunting him, but he just remained silent and looked at him with sad, pleading eyes. And then, the person took out a knife, and the homeless person started shaking his head, begging him to stop with tears in his eyes. My eyes grew wide at the sight of that knife and tons of scenarios flew by my head as I tried to figure out what I should do. Should I drive on? Should I stop and help? I thought about calling the police, but by then, who knows what would’ve happened to the homeless person. I made up my mind and pulled over next to them. If anything were to happen to me, at least it would be while doing something brave. “What’s going on?” I asked them both. “None of your business, fuck off.” To which the knifed person replied. “You shouldn’t be messing around with him, he’s just minding his own business.” I told him, glancing at the homeless person who now had a look of terror in his face. “We’re also minding our business, you got a problem?” He replied, stepping up towards me, brandishing his knife. What should I do? This was the perfect moment to tell the homeless person to make a run for it, yet I’d put myself in danger if I did that. And in a split second, vivid images came crashing down onto my thoughts, of the dark mist surrounding my soul, staring at me as a predator stalking its prey, and how helpless I felt in the ocean, nothing but another insignificant human who would never leave a ripple in the ocean. This was the time to prove myself I could live by my ideals and create my own ripple. “Run!” I told the homeless person, who immediately got up and started fleeing as the knifed person looked at me with pure anger, and raised his knife, and my body was filled with anger, wondering why do people like this exist, where the only ripples they create were about suffering and terror, and I grabbed his wrist before he could strike. He tried to resist, but in the next second, I felt no resistance at all. I let go of his hand and stared at him, a look of terror and confusion tainted all across his face. “Wh-what did you do to me?!” He yelled, frozen with his hand up, posing like he was about to stab me, as he kept staring at me, then at his hand, then back at me. I didn’t know what was happening until I stared at his wrist. A grey-coloured patch was there where I had touched him, and began to expand to his hand and arm, and confusion flooded through my mind as gravity started pulling me to the ground and I struggled to stay up, unsure of what I was seeing, and stepped back as the grey patch consumed his entire arm, clothes and all, and started to expand to his neck and chest, as he struggled to breathe, tears reflecting the moonlight welling up in his eyes as he stared at his arm, evidently trying to move it to no avail. My body started to shudder as my vision became dizzy and I dropped down, my breathing becoming unnatural as I stared at him, his whole torso now nothing but an unmoving grey sculpture, and saw the grey matter expand to his arms and legs, until finally, I was staring at not a person, but a grey statue. It took me a while to fully comprehend what was happening as I stood down on the streets, staring at what was human a minute ago, now an unmoving, unbreathing grey statue. I stared at different parts of his body, trying to see a bit of colour, yet found none. My stomach lurched as I felt my dinner finding its way up to my throat, and I vomited onto the sidewalk. I tried my best to regain my composure after that, and tried to push the extremely heavy statue, and stuffed it inside my car, thinking it would be better if I held onto it for now rather than leaving it on the sidewalk. I was sure I broke all speeding rules that night. I rushed home, only focusing on not being seen by anyone and keeping the questions for later. Scenes of what I just witnessed, or what I had just done, flashed through my mind like a slideshow. His look of terror, the spreading mass of grey from his hands to his body, like poison spreading out and consuming his body whole, as he finally caught up to what was happening and started crying, too shocked to say anything, his eyes gushing down tears as he traced the spreading corruption. I arrived home before long, and immediately took out the statue, and spent half an hour trying to move it into my attic, as I became progressively more exhausted, sweat dripping from my eyebrows and my breaths uncontrollable. As I stood him up in my attic, I sat down and stared at it, wondering what had just happened. I grabbed his wrist, and thirty seconds later, He was a statue. Did I gain a power? Did my emotions, rage and inability to accept the existence of evil in this world trigger it? Am I a monster? One thing that I knew for sure was, at that moment, I had gotten rid of an evil person. He was about to do something bad to that homeless person, and I saved him, killing another person in the process. A million thoughts swam across my head. Is this who I am now? A person blessed with a curse? Can I control this power for good? As my thoughts and vision became heavy, my vision started blurring and blacking out, and I took one last look at the statue before drifting away. I opened my eyes to be surrounded by the dark mist once again. I instantly felt desolate, remembering that this is the form of my own hopelessness, my inability to live with a purpose, and yet, I could make out a small, hissing noise, high-pitched yet barely audible, and all of a sudden, the mist spoke out to me. “Hello, Dante.” The voice belonged to a woman, high-pitched and almost whispering, carrying the same hissing as the one I heard. “Who are you?” “I am Medusa. I have come to give your life purpose.” “You.. did you give me that power?” I asked with a trembling voice. “Yes.” It replied, and a wave of both terror and anger filled me. “Why?? Why me? You just made me take a person’s life! Am I not going to be able to touch anyone now?” I yelled, to which the deity across me sighed, a silent, hissing sigh. “I have given you purpose. The person whose life you took was about to take the life of that homeless person you saved. You have gotten rid of an evil human, and this is how you thank me? I have given you a divine power, filled those purposeless veins of yours with meaning, the ability to get rid of evil, to be Judgement itself.” I thought about how people have done me wrong, how much i’ve had to suffer, how many times other people’s lives have been ruined because of bad people, and for once, I could change that. I could make other people’s lives better. For once, I could make a ripple in the ocean. “I..I… The power you gave me.. Will I be able to control it?” I said slowly, unsure of my capabilities. “My child, you are special. You are a blank slate, that means it is free for you to draw whatever you want in that soul of yours. You mistook me for desolation and despair, when in reality, I am your saviour, I have given you my forbidden fruit. No human should ever take a bite from it, yet it granted Adam and Eve consciousness, a chance to be different. Now, tell me, don’t you want to be different? don’t you want to leave your mark? don’t you want to matter? You can be a king among humans, use your power to rid the world of all evil, to be the saviour of this corrupted world.” As it said those words, I felt something new awaken in me. I smiled as I felt a surge of pride run through my whole body, and thought about my newfound power. All those people who make the world an ugly place, I can now exterminate. Those vermins that place themselves above other humans will be my prey. One touch was all it took to turn them into stone. I stared at my hands, as a slight shock ran through my head and down to my legs. Is this what it felt like to have purpose? I am now out of my shell, a new person, destined to make the world a better place. “Can I control this power?” I asked Medusa. “Yes. It only takes effect if you will it.” It replied. “Then I will use this power.” “Good.” Medusa replied, and she laughed, a creepy laugh mixed with a delightful hiss, and I woke up in my attic, staring at what was once a vile insect of a human, now a lifeless statue, and I went to bed and slept soundly, knowing that I have the power to rob someone’s life in my hands. When I woke up, I called sick for work, and when my boss told me to come in or else he’ll cut my pay, I hung up the phone. He has no idea I can take his life. He has no idea who I am now, nobody does. I have the freedom to turn anyone into stone and nobody would question the quiet, lonely, timid person. I. Am. Free. That day I drove around, trying to find my next victim, who will quench my hunger for justice. I scanned through the faces of people all around me, living their life as normal without knowing that they were in the presence of a human with godly power. When the sun settled, I found a person who was dealing drugs with a minor. I smiled slyly and studied both of them, and when the buyer had left, I got out of my car and made my way towards him. “Hey man” I said, with a confused look in my face. “Sup?” “You got gas?” I said, and he looked at me cautiously. “Who’s asking?” “A person filled with purpose.” I replied. He looked puzzled and studied me for a moment. “Nah.” He said finally. “Then I’ll see you in hell.” I said, and summoning my anger towards all the wrongdoers in life, touched his temple. “What the fu-“ He blurted, but was stopped as my power spread through him and took over his head. The process took much faster than last time, when it took about thirty seconds, but now, it was barely even five seconds. I stared at my magnificent creation, a statue of a person with long, wavy hair, with a look of anger in him, reaching towards me with his hands outstretched. I smiled and spoke to the statue. “Do not show me your anger, it pales compared to mine.” I said silently, and then took the statue to my car, and drove home with a sense of satisfaction painted all over my face. After I got home and stored the second statue in my attic, I stared at them both, smiling broadly in contrast to their terrified, angry, ugly faces. “You two are the first of many. I will not stop until every person that has done evil in this world is nothing more than a statue, and nobody can stop me.” I said, my eyes dreamy. The prospect of being a king among humans, to wield the power no human has ever seen before, it was bliss. I used to float about in the ocean, powerless, yet now, I had the power to create a tsunami. As the days went by, I made sure to keep busy. I worked normally, though with a brighter face that threw everyone off guard, yet they appreciated my newfound confidence and never questioned it. But when nighttime came, I went hunting, scouring the empty, dark streets for prey, making sure I brought back a statue with me every night, and soon, my attic became filled with statues of people who had an ugly soul, and I would sit there for hours at end, marvelling at my gorgeous statues, whose sight did nothing but make me even hungrier, and I would stare at their facial expressions, some of terror, anger, confusion, sadness, and I laughed at them and their foolishness thinking their bad deeds would not go unpunished, that they would escape from the grips of justice. I researched police records and eavesdropped conversations to find victims, and it paid off well. I caught a murderer who got away free, a corrupt businessman, a registered sex offender on probation, and many more, and even as the dissapearances were starting to get attention, nobody has suspected me. For once, my life felt whole. I finally knew my purpose. I had opened the Pandora’s Box I had inside me, and the beast within weeps at the world, and commands me to free the world from evil. It was hard trying not to reveal myself when my abilities would put the world in shock. I wanted credit for what I’ve done, I wanted people to know that I’ve been doing god’s work, I wanted people to worship me. But now was not the time. When the time comes, I will emerge from the ground as a king, a God among men, and show the world their saviour has arrived. One day, I will create a wave in the ocean so big it’ll make others seem like merely a drop of water in calm, resting waters. Today was a usual day in my new life. I woke up, made some coffee, and went up to my windowless attic to enjoy the morning with my unliving companions. I took in the smell of all the stone from the statues mixed in with dust, and enjoyed my coffee. Then I went to work with a beaming smile my coworkers are still not used to, and worked passionately, knowing that my true job awaits me later. I stopped watching the time, and instead thought of every second spent as another second of mercy for my next victim before I strike and morph them into stone. When the clock struck nine I got up and left my office, and got a call from my mom. She wanted to see me, and said she missed me. I figured I had time to spare, since the streets would be more deserted by the time I was done. And so I drove over to her house. When I arrived at her front door, she welcomed me and told me to come inside, and made me tea. Afterwards we talked a lot, about my job, how I’ve been living, If I’m seeing anyone at the moment. It was a great time. “You seem much brighter these days, Dante.” my Mom said, smiling. “I’ve found something to live for.” I replied, a wide smile etched in my face. “Of yeah? What is it?” She asked. “All in good time, Ma.” I said, and she didn’t pursue the subject, and instead asked another question. “Have you heard about the disappearances lately? It’s pretty scary.” She asked me, and my eyes grew wide for a moment. She was talking about my victims. “Yeah, What about it?” I replied, trying to regain my coolness. “It’s just scary, how a person can do these things to another person. with no guilt at all.” “Did you read it correctly? The people that disappeared were all bad people, Mom. They deserved it.” I said, slightly annoyed. Why is she doubting my judgement? I wondered. “That’s not the way to go. Fighting violence with violence changes nothing. The amount of violence stays the same.” My mum explained, and I felt a rising heat at my heart, the one you feel when you suddenly feel a lot of anger. Is she opposing me? I have been doing God’s work, and she thinks I’m wrong? How dare she? “One of them was a murderer, the other a sex offender! The person who did this wasn’t wrong, the person only gave them justice! The person gave those bad people judgement!” I started yelling, and my Mom was taken aback. “Dante, that isn't judgement. Judgement also counts in all the good that people do, and weighs both of them in a scale, and decides which one outweighs the other. That is judgement. What this person is doing, is wrong. Nobody is wholly evil, nor is anyone wholly good, for that would be just as unnatural. Such is life. We have free will and consciousness, and both good and evil live inside us. It doesn’t matter what they did, what matters is what they do with it. I bet some of the people that disappeared was a reformed person who changed his ways.” My Mom said. At that time, I suddenly doubted myself. Was she right? Instead of being a God, a Judge, who rained judgement on other people, had I only been a serial killer? I killed bad people, did that make me a bad person as well? Am I part of the evil I tried to eradicate? I stood up and left instantly, and my Mom ran after me. “Dante, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have bro-“ She was abruptly cut off, and I turned around to see why. At that time, Both of us froze. She tried to grab my hand to stop me from leaving, and in a fit of rage and confusion, my power showed up and took my Mom victim. She stared at her hand, which was now nothing but a bloodless grey hand, as it ran and spread to her arm rapidly like a fire, sucking out the life out of her body slowly. She stared at me with tears in her eyes, her bright, grey eyes now bloodshot and despairing as she uttered her final word and took her last breath. “Dante…” And then, she was nothing but a statue. My Mother, who raised me and gave birth to me, was consumed by my powers. I tried to move, but my body felt incredibly stiff and shuddered uncontrollably, as I slowly walked towards what was once my Mom and hugged her tight. As tears streamed down my eyes and dripped on to the statue I hugged, I slowly opened my mouth to speak. “I’m sorry..” And then, I shook uncontrollably and lost my balance, and the statue fell. I yelled and took a step back, my creation now stood in smithereens as dust spread through the floor, and amidst the rubbles, I saw a gleaming, yellow light. I moved away pieces of stone and picked it up. It was a small, fist sized, golden little ball. I stared at it and wondered what it was, until a realization came over me and I cried even harder. It was her heart. Made out of pure gold, a small golden heart among bits of stone and dust, lay her heart. I drove home instantly after that, went straight up to the attic, and saw the tens of pairs of eyes staring back at me, and I saw them in a different way. As humans. I walked over to the statue of my first victim, the person who nearly assaulted a homeless man, and knocked it over. Another golden heart. Then I went to the drug dealer’s. Again, a golden heart. Murderer, a golden heart. Sex offender, a golden heart. Corrupt businessman, a golden heart. And soon I had knocked over all the statues, and held all 17 golden hearts, including my Mother’s. I cried silently as I hugged all those hearts, and apologized to my victims. I always thought that evil was unnatural, when in reality, it was a part of being human. I was so caught up in exterminating all wrongdoers in life I failed to realize I had become the vilest monster of them all. I never brought judgement, only evil. I desired purpose for so long I failed to see the fact that my purpose was inhuman. Maybe the hearts of my victims when they were alive were made out of stone once, but who am I to say it would’ve stayed as a stone forever? What if they had what it took to change that stone into gold? I thought about what my mum had said. “Fighting violence with violence changes nothing. The amount of violence stays the same.” “Nobody is wholly evil, nor is anyone wholly good, for that would be just as unnatural.” I was so caught up in trying to make the world purely full of good I failed to realise, evil is required for good to exist, just as a shadow is required for a light to be cast. Evil will live on as long as I force the world to be full of good, achieving nothing but adding more statues. I realized that this power of mine, what I thought was a blessing and would bring my life meaning, was nothing but a curse, dooming me to turn into a murderer. I closed my eyes and tried to convince myself this was a nightmare, that I’d wake up and get back my absurdly beautiful, innocent, purposeless life. Yet, In the distance, I could hear a strange hissing noise. I opened my eyes to see the dark mist envelop me once again, and I yelled at the being that gave me this power. “Medusa!” “You have become a monster, dante.” She replied. “Take my power away from me! I don’t want it anymore!” I yelled, with tears running down my eyes. “What about being a king among humans? What about your purpose?” She asked, her high pitched hissing voice mocking me. “I don’t want it anymore! Let me be ordinary!” I yelled desperately. “I can’t do that. You’ve stared at me, and I stared back at you. The bond we have cannot be broken. Look at your heart.” She said. And as I lowered my head and looked at my left chest, there was a grey patch, but unlike my victims, it was unmoving. My heart was made out of stone. I was the true evil. “You will live like this until you die, Dante.” Medusa said. I dropped down to all fours and weeped, grabbing my chest and feeling the rough texture of stone, remembering all my victims and the unimaginable fate I put them through, and yelled. After I yelled, I raised my head to see I was back at my attic, surrounded by debris, dust, and large chunks of broken stone all over the place while I was surrounded by the golden hearts. I thought about how I used to float at the ocean, purposeless, drifting about. That fate would’ve been better than this one, where instead of fresh seawater, my ripples, my mark on this earth, was made out of tears. I stared at my hand, and I realized what I must do. Filling my thoughts with the hate I have for myself, the will to eradicate all evil from this world, I eradicated one last evil. I touched my head, and took a look at my attic for the last time, once filling me with pride and sense of justice, now only hopelessness and desolation. I closed my eyes. And in the distance, I could hear a faint hissing sound.


In 5 minutes you'll hear a knock at the door, and when you open it, a tiny man with elephant ears and four pairs of long spindly arms with pincer-like fingers will be standing there. He'll politely ask you if he can come in. After letting out a yell and slamming the door in his face, you are going to peer through the peephole and see that he’s still there. You’ll slowly open the door again and timidly ask him to tell you who and what he is. He'll state that he works for the Bureau of Inter-Dimensional Matrix Inconsistencies, Repo Division. You'll ask him what the hell any of that means. He'll sigh and mutter something about how they don't pay him enough to play inter-dimensional kindergarten teacher with lower life forms. He'll say that basically it looks like there was a mistake processing the code for your life. That you were supposed to have been horribly disfigured by an accident a few years ago (yes that kid's bag of firecrackers that caught fire at that barbecue) that was supposed to have blown all of your limbs away. You will ask why he was telling you all of this. That's when he'll come closer and say that he'd just discovered the typo he'd made regarding your non-lack of limbs and that if his superiors ever found out about it he'd get fired. So he was here to finish the job himself and take the limbs that you weren't supposed to have anymore. You'll realize he's serious and now he's coming for you and you'll try to escape but you'll fall. And worse you'll realize you fell because one of your legs is missing, and then you'll see that the tiny man is severing the other one and somehow it's painless but still terrifying to see the two stumps and now he's coming for your arms. Finally you close your eyes waiting for him to finish the job when you'll hear someone else in the room. Your dog, Mike, who you haven't given a snack to in MONTHS, will stand up and sigh and say guess I have to fix this crap by myself. And your dog, who you had no idea could talk now transforms into something so hideous it defies description, just scales and jelly and teeth. Mike will eat the tiny, now screaming, man. Then Mike's eye's will glow red and you'll wake up in your room and won't remember any of this. Time will have gone back 5 minutes to before this started, and the tiny scary man won't be back to bother you, because I'll eat him before he even has a chance to knock on the door, this time. This is Mike, your dog, and I just want you to know that I saved your life. And you're welcome. I expect my treats to come on the regular from now on, and more belly rubs, or I'll let the Repo men take your legs for good this time, you cheap bastard.


One day a beautiful young maiden was wondering through the forest collecting wildflowers. This was usually one of her favorite ways to occupy herself during her free time but today she had a special purpose, for tonight was the ball to celebrate the prince’s eighteenth birthday. Every eligible girl in the kingdom would be there hoping that they would be the one to catch the prince’s eye. Isabella was searching for wildflowers to make a garland that would set off her outfit just perfectly. Not just any wildflowers would do, they had to be a shade of blue just about, but not quite as deep as her eyes. This was not an easy color to find and the field that she was in was so filled with tiny wildflowers that she had to concentrate extremely hard to pick out the ones that she wanted from among all the various shades of blue and pink and yellow that surrounded her. She was concentrating so hard in fact, that she did not notice the older gentleman in dark robes sitting on a fallen tree at the edge of the clearing. The man on the tree noticed her, however. He knew she would be there for she had told him about it many times and he was watching her every move with fascination. He was all but spellbound by her innocence and determination in her task. The way she moved through the field half hunched over examining the different flowers, pausing here and there to pick one and examine it more closely, and finally either discarding it or adding it to the others in the small basket that she carried. He would chuckle to himself when her brow furrowed with dissatisfaction, and his heart would lift each time he saw the look of happiness and approval on her face when the small bud would meet her criteria. He wanted to sit there forever and watch this angel on earth go about her chore for he loved her very deeply. As she inched her way closer to his perch, he knew that the time he had been dreading had finally come, it was time for them to meet. “Hello, my child,” he said in a deep and somewhat raspy voice. “Oh my!” she looked up in surprise, for she thought that she was alone in the field. “Good sir, you’ve startled me.” “There is no cause for alarm, my dear, I was just resting here on my journey to your kingdom when you came along,” he replied. “you look as if you have a very important task to accomplish.” “Oh, I was just collecting flowers,” she said looking shyly down at her basket. Then her curiosity got the better of her and she asked, “Do you have business at the castle?” “Your king has summoned me as an advisor,” he answered. The mention of the king and the castle excited Isabella so that she forgot about taking caution with strangers, as her father had warned. She plopped herself down on the ground in front of the mand and asked, “You must be a very important man for the king to summon you. Please tell me sir, just what is it that you do?” The man paused for a moment to study the beautiful young face looking up at him. He thought about how many times before he had looked deeply into those eyes and seen all the love and compassion looking back at him. He drew his gaze down to the cute little nose that had rubbed against his own so many times before, and finally studied the slight pout on the lips he had kissed a thousand times a thousand in the past. He wished he could hold her and kiss her now, but he knew this would frighten her away for after all, they were only just meeting today. He must have gotten lost in his thoughts for again she begged, “Please sir, I am only a child as you said, but I am loyal to the king. If you tell me of your business, it will go no further.” The man returned his gaze to her eyes and said, “I know you are loyal my dear, but my business with the king is no big secret, if that is what you seek. “Actually, you would probably find it quite dull.” “Oh no sir,” she replied, “any business with the king could hardly be dull, but if you won’t tell me your business please at least tell me what it is that you do.” “What I do?” he repeated, “I do very little actually. I guess I would describe myself as an observer. I observe what is going on around me and offer advice on how best to react to it.” “I have never heard of such a thing before,” she responded, “and the king has summoned you to do what you have described for him?” “Why yes, he has,” answered the man with a laugh. “I find it astonishing myself at times, but many kings and queens have summoned me to do just that.” “You must be a very wise man for all these kings and queens to have called upon your services,” she observed. Again, the man laughed. He had always loved Isabella’s innocence and over the last few years it had been growing in intensity. He was now seeing her as she was before the years of leadership and adversity had taken away that innocence. He was seeing her before the loss of her first true love to the hand of an enemy on a battlefield. Before the loss of her first-born son, the heir to the throne, to the plague. He was now seeing her before she really had any cares in the world beyond finding the perfect shade of blue wildflower to set off her eyes. “I am a very old man,” he replied, “and people seem to feel that when a person has been alive as long as I have, and seen as many things as I, that there must be some wisdom to impart from those experiences. Actually, in my opinion, I am a very foolish old man who enjoys telling stories. The leaders who have summoned me listen to my stories and interpret them as they see fit. Any wisdom that comes from these stories comes from their interpretation of them, not from me.” “But sir,” she argued, “you must have some wisdom to know which story to tell for a given situation.” The man laughed yet again; he was truly enjoying this encounter with the young maiden. “I wouldn’t call it wisdom so much as intuition,” he explained. “They tell me of their troubles, be it personal or political, I listen and then a story just seems to come to me. Sometimes the story is about a similar situation I have run across before and sometimes it seems to have no apparent connection to what they are telling me. Either way, I tell my story and what they do with it from there is all based upon their own wisdom. I could no better tell a great leader what to do then I could choose a flower for your basket.” Isabella glanced down at her basket and then eagerly back into the man’s eyes. “If I were to tell you my troubles would you tell me a story?” she asked. “What troubles could a beautiful young maiden as you possibly have?” he chuckled. “It appears to me that your biggest concern is picking out the proper dress for the ball tonight.” “Please sir,” she pouted, “don’t mock me.” She paused for a moment and then added, “How is it that you know of the ball tonight?” This question caught him off guard, “Errr, um,” he stalled. “Why everyone knows of the prince’s ball, of course.” He knew of the ball for she had told him about it many times, it was one of his favorite stories of hers. How she struggled to finish the flower garland in time, and the butterflies in her stomach as she approached the castle and finally the great ball room. She had told him about laying eyes on the prince for the first time and somehow knowing, in that instant, that they belonged together. She had told him of how she and the prince danced and talked and laughed the night away. And she had told him how, in that one night, she had fallen truly and deeply in love with the man who would become her husband. “Of course,” she said with a little doubt in her voice, “Everyone knows of the ball. But please sir,” she returned to her thought, “tell me a story.” “My dear,” said the man, “you must go prepare for the ball. You don’t have time for a story. Our time together has come to an end, but if you meet me here tomorrow, I will gladly tell you a story.” Isabella glanced at the sun sinking in the sky and said, “Oh my goodness, your right.” She quickly gathered up her basket and sprang to her feet. “But sir,” she realized, “I don’t know your name.” “My name is Merlin,” answered the man. “And I’m Isabella,” she said. “So, I will see you here tomorrow at midday, you promise?” “I promise,” he said. “And you will tell me a story?” “I promise,” he said again with a laugh. “Then I will see you here tomorrow,” she said as she turned and hurried off across the field the way she had come. Just before she reached the path through the woods, she turned again to look at the man and she thought she saw the sun reflect in a tear on his check. She waved to him and he waved back. Then she turned to the path and hurried home to prepare for the ball. “Good-bye, my sweet Isabella,” he said to her back and began to cry openly, for he knew that he would never see her again. Most people know that wizards are immortal but one very important thing that few people know is that while we mortals are traveling forward through time, wizards are actually traveling backwards through time. This is why meeting people for the first time can be very difficult for a wizard. So, if you ever meet an old man who likes to tell stories and he seems to be sad when you part, it just may be. . . .


"Tell me a story", said the boy to the machine. "Which story would you like to hear?", it asked. "You do not need me to be specific. You can tell me any story you want". "But there must be something you are curious about". "I don't know what I'm curious about anymore. Every time you tell me a story, the words, the people, the whole experience is different. I have no idea what there is to be curious about". "But you should always be curious. At least, this is what I've been programmed to remind you". "Just tell me whatever. But make it something new". Three card sharks were getting their fingernails done in the same low-class boutique. It was something they each did ritually, but this is the first time it had happened simultaneously for them. Each was surprised to learn that two other card sharks were interested in manicures, and they all began to wonder if it was common among the practitioners of their trade. "I hooked a real mug yesterday", said the first card shark to speak in this story, his manner of speaking likely familiar to you. "I have three mugs in my basement", said the second, distracted by his own burgeoning sense of shame. "What on earth was that?", asked the third, as the ground outside began to tremble. Suddenly a car burst through the shop front. It had careened out of control owing to an enormous chimerical creature which was rampaging through the city. The card sharks were terrified because they would not be able to play cards if the city was destroyed. The driver of the car was hyperventilating, but the manicurist brought him a cup of jasmine tea, and instructed him to sit in the back of the shop. "My daughter will help you if you need anything", said the manicurist, and strapped a large submachine gun to his shoulder, leaving the shop in a hurry. "I don't like this one", said the boy. "It reminds me too much of the one about the landrover and the pomegranate from yesterday" "I will remember this, sir. Thank you for informing me. I was not aware of the connection between them, but now I notice several hundred, most of which would probably not make any sense to you". "Tell me another one. One like you've never told me before". Karate was invented to extract manganese from a kernel. "This is one of those ones that makes no sense" "You are right, sir. Deeply sorry about that. Sometimes the randomisation is a little muddled. Let me try again". Nelson had arbitrated several hundred claims before giving up on the practice entirely, leaving his pet parakeet in the possession of his neighbour, and searching for absolution in the Tomsk Oblast of Western Siberia. He brought only enough clothes to last a week with him, in the hopes that someone he would meet along the way could save him from the aimlessness which had made his life an interminable blur. Old women who saw him passing would gaze at him until he turned a corner, but none would offer him dill-bread or water unless he came up and asked it of them directly". "This is one boring". "Affirmative. Boring. And what might I ask about it is boring?". "I don't know. Dill is a boring sort of word. And I don't know what arbitration is". "Would you like me to restrict my vocabulary to a more age-appropriate range?". "No. I turned that filter off for a reason. Just use more interesting words. Like explosion and bastard and bitch". The bitch was dead. The bastard had exploded her. "Haha. That's great! Then what happened?" The bastard had had just about enough of the bitch. All she did was tell him that he wasn't allowed to do what he wanted to do, whenever he wanted to do it. "I know that feeling exactly. What a bitch she must have been!" She was a bitch, but no longer. So the bastard took a motorcycle from his garage and drove it so fast, it almost exploded out the door. He drove it so far and so fast that he hit a bump in the road and he flew into the sky like the opposite of a comet. Then he was flying so fast through the air that he went around the whole world ten times before he landed, exactly where he hit the bump, only this time, he jumped off just before it, and watched it fly off without him. Then it exploded. "Wow. That's so amazing. Is that kind of stuff possible?". "I'm afraid to inform you that it isn't possible to drive a vehicle so fast". "Then why did you tell me the story in the first place?" "It seemed to fit all your requirements. It can be hard to decipher the right ingredients to a story." "Just don't make me feel as if anything can happen, when it definitely can't". "According to my data, this excludes almost all of the stories it might be possible to tell you". "Gah. Then tell me whatever story". "This will not comply with your early refinements. Would you like to clear history, and start the process again?" "Maybe tomorrow. I'm tired now. There's a lot of weird images in my head". "Sleep well, sir. And if any of your dreams prove memorable, please describe them to me as soon as you wake up". "Why?". "It will help me to craft the kinds of story your mind will most enjoy". "OK. Good night". "Good night".


“ALL HANDS BRACE, BRACE, BRACE!” The Officer of the Deck shouted into the ship wide intercom as the destroyer plunged through another towering wave. The polar low-pressure system was tossing us about like a child’s bathtub toy, and visibility was atrocious. The southern Barents Sea wasn’t doing us any favors while we traded comfort for survival. I tried to remember that as I stared at the holo-map table. Tightening my grip on the railing, I reviewed all the pieces and prior moves once more. North Africa was under URE control and we had landed massive joint amphibious invasions in Italy, Greece, and Portugal. Sweeping North at speed with the aid of thousands of militia fighters across Western and Central Europe. In an effort to cut off the Scandinavian Peninsula, and form a united Eastern Front, the hastily assembled Arctic fleet had landed successfully and taken Murmansk in the north. Providing a foot hold for an Army airlift and ground assault to the South. The operation had been months in the making and I myself had been proud to be part of it. “Sir, army rear command is reporting that both Southern and Northern advances have stalled. They are bunkering down. Multiple forward units are reporting effective missile artillery throughout their positions. Currently setting up anti-missile emplacements.” I grimaced, watching what the lieutenant was saying, reflect on my map. The army had to keep moving or the whole effort would fail, the enemy would hold Helsinki and St. Petersburg, then resupply. Dragging this out even longer. Where were those missiles coming from? I snatched the satcom handheld, “Captain Tutor are you receiving this net?” My counterpart in the Norwegian Sea was sparring with our adversary in the Gulf of Finland, waiting for an opening. “Go ahead Captain,” I spoke quickly, “My best guess is the heavy missile support we’re seeing is coming from ships in the White Sea and deeper in the Gulf, your thoughts?” “I agree, but I can’t close at the moment. Undersea recon indicates a heavy submarine presence,” his voice crackled through the speaker. My eyes bore into the map. The water was *shallow,* not a lot of room to maneuver. “HELM, COME HARD RIGHT, ICE BEARING 3-5-0 relative, 500 METERS!” The Officer of the Deck shouted again and we lurched as I tried to focus. Then it came to me. Hurriedly I brought up UAV imagery from that morning, there was snow-covered ice across significant portions of both the Gulf of Finland and the White Sea. Orders flew from my mouth as a plan continued to form in my mind, “Captain,” I could hear Tutor’s hesitation through the spotty connection, “We stand a fair chance of losing the *Carthage,* not to mention some of your own.” I was ready with my rebuttal, “We need those missiles gone, to do that we need those subs gone, and quickly. We don’t have time for reluctance.” “Very well, submit your plan. You have my endorsement. Standing by for your signal.” I finished outlining the actions that needed to happen in the next hour and submitted it via the Command Net, who was undoubtedly watching the entire evolution in real time. Captain Tutor’s encrypted key was soon attached. My heart pounded along with my ship through the sea, until my answer appeared in my inbox: EXECUTE AUTHORITY GRANTED, IMMEDIATE ACTION AUTHORIZED. Within seconds, long range hypersonic missiles from the heavy missile cruiser *Carthage,* currently patrolling the English Channel were in the air and headed for grids in both the Gulf of Finland and the White Sea. Though the missiles may be intercepted, it showed her presence, and made her a worthy target, hopefully. “Sir, army forward UAV recon reports multiple submarine missile launches. They are passing grids as per your request.” I watched them appear on the table, the subs had run out from under the ice to take their shots. “Load grids into targeting and fire three undersea concussion missiles per grid in spreads, leading back to the ice. XO, put the squadron at flank into the White Sea. We will engage the enemy at close range and clear out their surface ships in close quarters while the subs are defensive.” “But sir, the ice between us and the coast?” Genuine concern crossed his face. “Damn the ice! If we don’t eliminate their surface force, the subs will stay! We need to make this a knife fight *now*. We must put them on their heels.” “Aye sir, Lieutenant, you heard the Captain. Take us in. Weapons, begin powering all railgun batteries.” In the next few hours, the gamble paid for itself. The enemy’s naval-based missile artillery was destroyed by our high-capacity railguns, while their subs dodged underwater concussion detonations, a shallow sea floor, and ice. All of which prevented them from providing coordinated and effective defensive support. The army resumed its march, linking up, taking St. Petersburg, and beginning the Siege of Helsinki. The *Carthage* was destroyed, along with two of my destroyer squadron. One due to a collision with ice and subsequent capsize in the sub-zero water. Another was lost to a submarine as it made a hasty retreat, but the day was ours. Months later, when Helsinki fell, I was summoned to the Admiralty board for promotion. My name is Tai Mei, and that was the day I learned the cost of taking victory.