The wind was cold as snowflakes whipped through the air like frozen razors. A blizzard was blowing in, and could be seen on the horizon across the icy tundra. Great, white clouds flowed from the northern scene, soon to blanket the red-stained terrain and cold bodies in the storm’s path. The sea to the north was sloshing with icebergs, and the wind crashed great chunks of ice against each other which cracked and shattered as loud as thunder. A figure moved through the knee-high snow across the tundra, away from a blood-soaked battlefield. The only survivor of the brutal fighting. In his own wake, he left a trail of crimson snow, courtesy of the wound on his torso. He saw the blizzard in the distance, and knew that it would be his death. His only salvation would be the mountain to the west of the battle. If he couldn’t climb high enough to avoid the worst of the snowfall, perhaps he could find a cave to shelter in, he thought. Skjold was his name. A name that was given to him by his mother, in hopes that one day he would become a great warrior worthy of a name that meant “shield”. But the blood pouring from his waist made him feel undeserving of it. As many in the harsh northern lands were pressed into service by the numerous warlords, he was made to believe he would return a conquering hero. Instead, fate seemed fit to let him die in the cold tundra. Due to this, a question repeated itself in his mind. Why did he press on? He was hopeless, wounded, near death. He shook off the doubt. Succumbing to despair would kill him faster than the cold. If he was not to survive, he would make every effort to spite fate. As Skjold stepped onto the foot of the mountain, the winds picked up whilst he traversed the shallow incline. The softer snow was more difficult to walk on, and the battle had already exhausted him. Above the gray clouds that hanged low in the sky, the sun was already beginning to set. It was still light enough to keep the wolves confined to their lairs, but the light would not last long. As the walk took him further up the mountain, his sweat began to freeze to his face and under his jack as well as inside his socks. His feet were numb. What few chin-hairs he had were beginning to form glassy beads that melted as fast as they froze. Skjold pulled the hood of his thick woolen cloak further down over his head and lifted the collar of his shirt over his nose. His breath thawed his face, even if his posture had to remain awkward as he climbed. It was a grueling hour of walking as the incline slowly increased. The blizzard drew ever closer, but his salvation was within sight. With shivering hands, he crawled up a small outcropping and found himself at the mouth of a small icy cavern. At last! Desperately, Skjold ran into the shelter and collapsed, finally free of the chilling winds. He would have seen fit to curl into a ball and wait out the blizzard, warmth finally returning to his hands and feet. But he felt eyes on his back before he could strip off his boots. Deeper inside the cave, he heard a low, quiet growl. Startled, he turned to see a pair of golden eyes in the cave behind him. Beneath the eyes, in the dim shadow of the cave and the waning illumination provided by the darkening sky outside, he saw the white shapes of fangs glistening with saliva. Instinctively, Skjold reached for the axe in his belt and held it high above his head, threateningly. He shouted and growled at the wolf in a vain attempt to scare it away, he was in no shape to fight the predator. Undeterred, it stalked closer to him and pounced, jaws gnashing towards his face. It knocked him onto his back, and Skjold wrestled with the creature. In a moment of desperation, he recalled a technique his father told him of. Curling his hand into a fist, he thrusted a punch into the wolf’s mouth and forced his hand into the back of its throat. The animal thrashed and made gagging noises, but he kept his hand in its maw as he struggled to free his axe from the wolf’s weight pinning it to his chest. The wolf stamped its claws onto his wound more than once, and pain shot through Skjold’s body each time. The predator’s breath warmed his hand, and with the return of feeling came pain as he felt its teeth rip the skin from his flesh. Finally, he pulled his axe free and slammed the blunt against his foe’s head. It yelped, and he freed his bloody fist from the wolf’s throat. Taking the axe in both hands, he bludgeoned the creature in the eye, and it went limp atop him. Skjold pushed the unconscious animal off of his body, breathing heavily. He stood, sucking enough air into his tired lungs to release a weak cry of victory. The instant it left his lips, he heard more growls deeper within the tunnel. His stomach sank with dread as he saw more wolves appear from the darkness. In a moment of panic, he yelled at the creatures and threw his axe-- his only weapon-- at the pack. The wolves scurried aside the weapon, giving Skjold enough time to throw himself back out into the snowy mountainside. The cold washed over him, and in an adrenaline-fueled frenzy he clawed and tore his way up the sheer rock outcropping the cave led into. When he finally summitted the crag, he fell onto his back as his muscles screamed in pain. His left hand was slicked with blood. More of his precious life flowed from it and froze to his skin. The corners of his vision blurred as the snow continued to fall onto his slowly dying body. With great effort, he pushed himself to his feet. Immediately, the wind whipped into a howl and snow began to batter him. He was too late; the blizzard had arrived. He couldn’t return to the cavern, not unarmed. The sky grew yet darker. It was night, and what light could be salvaged from the moon was snuffed by the massive clouds overhead. Following the incline of the mountain, Skjold continued further up. He clung to no distant childhood memory to keep himself motivated. He had no young sweetheart in his village to keep his aching legs moving. Even the spark of fury in his soul had died out, he felt no motive to spite the gods, or fate. In truth, he did not know why he marched on. An hour later, his vision was blinded by the haze of snowfall. His ears were deafened by the howling of the wind. Darkness of the night shrouded what little he could see. But with the darkness, he was able to see something through the snow. A golden glow, hidden amongst the trees and much further up the mountain than he could walk. A camp? A cabin? He did not know, but the spark of hope burned brightest in his heart. He couldn’t die here, not so close to safety! With his muscles burning yet numb at the same time, he shot towards the light as fast as the thick snow could permit him to move. He pulled himself up the incline using tree branches and exposed stones for handholds, but his vision blurred more as he came closer. He saw that the light was a lantern, sitting on the porch of a cabin. With a strained cry of effort, Skjold sprinted uphill and tripped on a stone. He fell face-first into a snow bank, and felt a rush of warmth in his body. Rather than relief, this sensation brought him fear. It meant he was succumbing to the cold. He found no strength in his arms to bring himself to his feet. With his last ounce of will, he crawled through the snow and barely reached the stairs to the porch of the cabin. His will gone, Skjold rested his head onto the stairs of the porch and passed out from the exhaustion of his climb.


You forgot John Goodman. You don't know who the fuck John Goodman is. John-fucking-Goodman. When I say *you*, I don't mean you in the singular. I mean *you* as a society, a civilization, a goddamn species. "John Goodman? Should I know him?" Yes, you fucking should. But you don't, and that there’s the existential problem. I present *The Big Lebowski*. "The Dude abides." Jeff Bridges. Pretty good, right? Wrong. What did you think of Walter Sobchak? "Walter *who*?" That right there is what I call the point. "Hey, how come Sulley in *Monsters, Inc.* doesn't talk?" Voiced by John Goodman. Guess what? Roseanne has a husband. The Flintstones movie has a Fred Flintstone. There's a scary big-ass man in the car with Llewyn Davis, etc., etc. *Poof*. The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was... John Goodman. So here's what's going to happen: One day you'll remember John Goodman. Except it won’t be in the *Oh, right, Ankara’s the capital of Turkey*-kind of way. It’ll be *I’m fucking my wife and* **oh-my-fucking-gawd I’m fucking John Goodman**. You’ll glance in the mirror: “Morning, John Goodman.” Your dog will look up at you *and it’ll be John Goodman with fucking fur on his face*. Come on, be a mensch and toss little John Goodman a treat, perhaps a little scrap— of your life, your identity, your very existence, you gullible mothefucker! Give John Goodman a bone, he’ll use it to rip your soul out through your throat and wear it to your son’s first communion. “You proud of me, dad?” asks John Goodman. Because when John Goodman disappears from our collective memory, it’s for one reason only: to come back with a fucking vengeance. Just wait until you’re surrounded by a room full of John Goodmans, speed dating John Goodman after John Goodman, dining on John Goodman’s braised thigh with a side of halloumi cheese made from milk freshly squeezed from John Goodman. You think you know this, right? You’ve seen *Being John Malkovich*. Wrong. You’ve only seen the version without John Goodman, the version John Goodman wanted you to see. The *wouldn’t this be funny?* version. “Would you look at that, a world full of John Malkoviches.” The version in which you can go in and out of John Malkovich. Did you laugh? Are you laughing now? Well, it ain’t gonna be fucking funny! There isn’t going to be a way out. You won’t be going in and out of John Goodman world. John Goodman will penetrate, dominate and annihilate the only world there is: This one. This reality we have right now— John Goodman will press its fucking face against the curb and stomp on the back of its head so fucking hard you ain’t never heard thunder so loud! Big John Goodman Bang. And when He rolls the world onto its back, it’ll stare up, as John-fucking-Goodman.


“It appears you’ve been exposed to excessive X-ray radiation. I’ve seen this before in radiologists who maybe put in too many hours.” The next words out of my brother’s mouth just sounded like an ancient dialect of gibberish reciting haikus using only the word “blah”. This was common during moments I needed to protect myself from harsh truths. Usually in the form of “I told ya so” or “Hindsight is 20/20”. It always happens when it concerns my powers. My x-ray vision, which saved so many people over the last few decades, decided to give me cancer. Why couldn’t my x-ray vision see that coming? Maybe I had “blah blah” mode on too long. It’s only a matter of time before I find out my telepathy caused a tiny hike in my phone bill. I used to be able to mold my body at will like putty, slip through a crack in a brick wall and return to form almost effortlessly. Saved a lot of people, including myself, especially in a fight. Then, one day, shortly before a “blah blah” soliloquy by my physician and powerless sidekick brother, I woke up as a deflated blob of putty, unable to return to my regular form. It took me 10 days to de-putty and I could never will myself into any shape other than myself again. That power went almost as quickly as it came. And all I had to remember it were a few local tabloid clippings and a 12-pill/day regimen of arthritis meds that do more harm than good. I know I haven’t woken up as a blob since I started taking them, but they haven’t done shit for my cracking bones. Not to mention I’ve now pissed every color of the rainbow. I’ve heard my brother say once that the cracking sound bones make is gas being released. Could this be true?? I rarely think of the day I got my powers. I was just a boy on a ninth grade field trip to a military research facility who got too close to a room that a lot of people should have never let me near. I remember walking and then a BOOM and then a ringing that was so loud I could almost taste it. All to sneak a cigarette, too. Next thing I knew, I had eye twitches which the doc called involuntary nystagmus. What he didn’t know was that each time my eyes twitched, I could see through walls or skin.. or both.. or neither. Took me a while to control it but, once I did, I instantly knew purpose. Never questioned it. Now I’m wishing I had. No one gives a fuck about me saving them. If they did, someone would’ve come around to save me from these awful side effects. “Blah blah blah blah so take 1 of these, twice a day, morning and night to prevent further metastasis,” my brother said. I popped two, half caring, half pretending. “But until you get treatment, you need a break from work. Maybe it’s time you retired. Blah blah blah sometimes cause auditory and visual hallucinations blah blah blah.” I clicked my eyes a few times to make sure they still worked the way I needed them to. With my brother thinking I’m on a hiatus, I could enjoy myself at work, the way it did when I had purpose. Brotherlessly. Sidekicklessly. I decided to take the stairs down from his 5th floor office. I needed the exercise and maybe I’d release enough gas from my bones on the way down that I’d be magically cured of arthritis. By the third and a halfth floor, I regretted my decision to take the stairs but also saw behind a few layers of concrete and sheetrock that my purpose was about to be reinstated. Two goons trying to rough up a doctor and a nurse in a third floor office. It was time for me to act. Nothing gave me more pure joy than smashing in the faces of those who deserve it most. I quickly put on my mask and casually opened the office door. It took me less than ten seconds to find those goons and snap their necks like twigs. I could see the nurse was almost as aroused by my saving her as I was but I, for the sake of mystery and ego preservation, resisted the urge to exchange even a simple “Can I call you sometime?” Besides, a few twitches of my eyes discovered her name, number and address, conveniently found on the inside of her purse beneath the words “If Found, Please Contact:” I left and quickly finished the remaining 3 floors by taking the one working elevator. God, it was slow as shit. The door opened at Lobby and I discovered four police officers had already arrived. “Third floor,” I said, still wearing my mask, and to no particular officer. Before I could make it to the entrance, I felt something I’d never felt before. Cuffs. On my wrists. The nurse from the third floor had made it down to the lobby. “That’s the man!” she cried, half yelling angrily and half inconsolably weeping. “He killed a mother and her 10 year old son. Broke both of their necks.” I’d never been so confused in my life until I skimmed as quickly as I could through pages of “blahs” which came out of my brother’s mouth, while he discussed something about hallucinations caused by my cancer pills. All it took was this remembering to realize what I’d actually done. There were no goons. I broke the necks of a mother and her son inside a pediatrician’s office. I thought of how odd it was that I no longer hallucinated the memory of my hallucination. It’ll be okay, I told myself. My brother will get me out of this. I passed out. When I awoke, I lied on a stiff bed behind some very expensive looking bars, with my brother reciting the “Unabridged Encyclopedia of Blah” on the other side of them, telling me he told me so. In the next cell, the same two goons from the third floor of my brother’s building bullied an inmate. And there was nothing I could do but hear the words “blah” and the sound of gas cracking from my newly retired bones.


You see, humanity is alone in the universe. Always has been, always will be. What seems to be a depressing quirk in our existence was in actuality a result of clever design... the ultimate sandbox for a species to flourish. The challenge was never to expand outwards within the sandbox, though we certainly ran with that idea for some time. It was Prof. James H. Heraldton that first posited the theory, after eons and eons of humanity's search through the stars, that our universe was ours and ours alone. His was met with much controversy and ridicule, after all the distance between solar systems (let alone galaxies) was measured not in the usual units of measurement but rather through time. A distance so incomprehensibly vast it could only be compared in scientific metaphor against the limits of physics. Not to mention the countless stars dotting the skies in all directions. It's not un-heard of for us to have missed a spot somewhere, most would think. Prof. Heraldton was adamant in his assertions, believing our own odds of failure in contacting another civilization to be so unlikely at this point in humanity's existence that the answer must be arrived at via Occam's Razor. That is to say, what if the reason nothing has been found is because there is simply nothing to find? Though Prof. Heraldton would unfortunately pass before his theory reached its greater end, it would be that seed which would be attributed to the creation of humanity's greatest feat: The Machine. But first would have to come understanding. Not a world, nor a galaxy, but a universe all to ourselves. The lonliest playthings in eternity, a blessedly cursed existence. No competition or threats from the unknown, just what we've always known: Us, ourselves, and the world around us. It was not an easy thing to accept, and so it wouldn't be. It did in fact take centuries between the proposal of Heraldton's Hypothesis and the Great Runaway, when humanity split into various factions and spread like wildfire across the stars with wild abandon, however this was widely attributed to technical difficulties more than societal ones. After all when given an opportunity to justify greed people don't often turn their nose, and this was no different an occasion. Once we had settled on a handful of various star systems across our arm of the Milky Way it was obvious we knew what we were doing and the act of Star-Settling became standardized. The world-, sorry, Universe was our oyster. What was once a terrifying proposal all at once over the course of a century became an exciting endeavour. Imagine being able to monopolize an entire solar system for your vacation resort, mining operation, or even just a private getaway (usually on some of the smaller systems). Much like the gold rush of eons past, settlers spread out eagerly searching for their own plot of space to conquer. However, it didn't last long. That is to say, on a time scale relative to the first ape who fashioned a tool from a stone it didn't last long. Many came and many went before humanity felt an all too familiar feeling gnawing at the back of its neck, an unmistakeable dread that had escaped humanity long ago. It was inevitable, of course. You don't become a civilization spanning an entire galaxy without a certain level of hunger and desire. If we were content with what we had we'd have never left the trees in the first place, and there's something rather unsatisfying about taking planet sized candy from a baby. It was then that Heraldton's Hypothesis began to show its true form, and just as when it was first proposed as a thought experiment many rushed once more to fight its implications, only now with greater fear. Heraldton's Hypothesis was no longer a mere thought experiment. Heraldton's Hypothesis was real. We are alone here. You'd expect this was where the story would end, humanity expanding endlessly in repititious pattern until all the stars burnt out, and if you had existed in the time of Heraldton's Hypothetical Hyper-Mania you would most certainly have believed it to be. Humanity is not so easily beaten though, and while it took some time they eventually discovered a new answer to that hypothesis which multiple millenia ago spawned a hurried frenzy of innovation, expansion, and fear. Heraldton had been more right than he ever had a chance to know, and once again Occam's Razor shines its clarity upon us. The Machine was conceptualized a millenia ago, and will finalize its construction after a millenia more. We've already found small success, but the energy requirements are staggeringly inefficient. One millenia of research, and one of conceptualization. Heradlton's Hypothesis states only this: "We are alone in the universe. Always have been, always will be." Humanity has finally responded: "This universe isn't enough.


The Kearnes had not made this journey pleasant for any of us, utterly salivating at the fact they had control over so many, no doubt. Usually, these weaklings would have been kicked down and left in the dirt. But their close proximity with the King and coloured history allowed them to operate with impunity. They poked and prodded each other, hurled rocks at passing animals, and acted in general, far below their station. Micah pulled up beside me, cloak pulled over his head. “Bunch of absolute morons.” He spat under his breath. I nodded in approval. “However, they are our appointed guides for this journey, and we would do well to not rouse any suspicion for what our plans are.” He quietly pulled his warhorse back into the fold. I looked towards the front of the group. The Dunkans still held the front, their great lumbering bears seemed to never lack stamina, as they trotted at a quick pace for the last several hours. We could easily feast on the blood of animals when the occasion called. Our party left the carcasses of many rotting beasts behind us, strewn across the path. While it satiated our hunger, we all had a deeper need for something more fulfilling. I hoped for some more humans to share once we reached the village. The winding road outstretched before us as we crossed the plains of Gwynedd. At the top of the nearest hill lay the village in question, fortified on all sides by stone walls and a great iron gate. It seemed the reports had been far too modest in terms of what we were up against. In the middle of the village towered a great keep that likely had archers stationed within the battlements. As we proceeded down the path, Cian held his hand up, motioning the party to stop. He held the scroll up to his face, illuminated by a torch that was our only guide in the pitch darkness. “The report says the party was attacked here nearby…” Cian urged his horse to the right of the beaten path. The smell of rotting flesh greeted our nostrils uninvited. “House leaders, join me.” Roy, myself and a few others motioned our companions to wait on the path while we moved forward. We waded through trampled branches and fallen trees, clearly signalling some kind of combat not long ago. There were claw and sword marks in the trunks of some oak trees which had been completely toppled. The image of the melee came into my mind, as I attempted to picture just what kind of force had killed two of our brothers. “Look Rathiel!” Came a familiar high-pitched and urgent tone from behind me. “Layla, you’re not supposed to be…” “Hush.” She juggled something around in her hands. “What is that?” I jumped off my horse to get a closer look. The other leaders were starting to take an interest as well. “Looks like bullet casings.” She said, seeming smug and pleased with herself, allowing a smile to slip through. “Let me see that.” I picked one up off her palm. I studied the piece of metal carefully. My eyes narrowed into black slits as I pushed them into focus. It clearly was an ammunition casing of some kind, the make of which I hadn’t seen in many years. From the weight and appearance, it reminded me of the brightsilver that had been used centuries ago in the battles fought for east England. We had been trained about all silver weaponry extensively in classes as children. I dropped the casing, not noticing the red blotches it left on my hand. “Lets keep looking.” I motioned to the others to move forward. We fanned out in the forest. I walked further eastward, moving not a hundred paces before I heard Roy’s voice call out from behind me. “Here!” He shouted. I grunted and turned to a wisp of smoke, not caring for professionalism. In an instant, I reached his side with the others, and reappeared. There were two horse carcasses in the clearing, bloodied with claw marks and with bite wounds in their neck. This must have been where our brothers were attacked, I reasoned to myself. There was a human wagon not far off, toppled over and contents littered all about. Uninteresting books about Christianity, blunt weaponry and jewellery littered the piles. I heard a sharp HISSSSSS escape one of my companions over my shoulder. I turned to see Wayne Alnwick writhing on the ground covering his eyes. I rushed over to him. “Wayne?” I put a hand on his shoulder, worried. “Arrrrrrghhhhh. wretched Catholic dogs!” He covered his face and bared his fangs menacingly. As the others moved to tend to him, I walked to the source of the commotion. Beside the wagon lay an opened black box. Inside was a silver cross and a rosary that had spilled out. I picked it up in my hands, carefully inspecting the ridges in the craftsmanship. “Wayne, there are no blessings upon this cross.” I said reassuringly. I put it back in the box, but I was becoming worried. Turning to the others, I began to speak, but I was interrupted by Cian. “Its clear we aren’t just dealing with any rag-tag band of hunters here.” He said slowly, choosing his words carefully, which was uncharacteristic. “The side of the wagon bears the Kingdom of England and Ireland's Royal Coat of Arms.” Concern started to bubble up in the group as we all looked at each other, not knowing what to say. The royalty was not something we usually came into contact with in our coven. Even leaving Castle Beaumaris happened very rarely, to avoid such danger as angering the crown. “We cannot jump to conclusions…” he continued. “This must only be kept to yourselves, to avoid unnecessary panic.” All of the leaders present agreed, and our eyes flicked towards Layla, who also nodded in compliance. “If King James or other Royal houses are involved, this goes far deeper than we could have imagined. Wren, Dunkan, send your best and fastest men back to Beaumaris with this news, and keep it discreet.” I nodded and made my way back to the path to deliver the news.


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


#Hello r/ShortStories! A few weeks ago we announced our , where you all nominated your favorite content from the past year. The time has come to vote on all the nominated stories! Use the upvotes on the appropriate comments to vote on your favorites in each category. The winner of each category will receive our “Best Of Winner” Community Award, gifting them one month of Reddit Premium and !!! **Please do not make comments outside of the Off-Topic stickied comment.** #How It Works There are several categories in which you can vote on your favorite stories from 2021. In the comments below, you will find a comment for each category, with subsequent comments for each nominated story, made by me. Upvote the ones you think deserve to win! It’s that simple. Be sure to read the entire post for categories, rules, and deadlines. Should any changes be made to the schedule, they will be edited into the post, so stay updated! *** #Voting Categories ###Feature Post Submission Categories: - **Micro Monday Stories** - **Serial Sunday Installments** ###Tagged Story Categories: - **[SF] Science Fiction stories** - **[FN] Fantasy Stories** - **[HR] Horror Stories** - **[MS] Mystery & Suspense Stories** - **[RF] Reality Fiction Stories** - **[HF] Historical Fiction Stories** - **[AA] Action & Adventure Stories** - **[HM] Humor Stories** - **[RO]Romance Stories** - **[SP] Speculative Fiction Stories** - **[TH] Thriller Stories ** - **[UR] Urban Stories** - **[MF] Miscellaneous Fiction Stories** *Note: Categories with 5 or less nominations were filled in with the highest upvoted stories in the corresponding category.* *** #Schedule - **Announcement Post:** December 20th - **Nomination Phase:** December 20th - January 10th 11:59 EST (closed) - **Voting Phase:** January 17th until January 28th - **Announcement of Winners:** After the Voting Phase ends, results will be recorded and awards will be handed out. Winners will be announced in a post. *** #Voting Rules - Upvote anything you believe deserves to win. You may upvote several nominations in the same category. **Do not downvote any nomination.** - Attempts to game the system for or against any nomination will result in appropriate punishment for those involved. - Ties in the voting process will be broken by an anonymous member of the mod team. - **Do not comment in the voting area.** Use the off-topic stickied comment if you have questions or comments.   If you do have any questions, feel free to ask in the provided Off Topic Comment or send us a modmail! *** ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with or test your micro-fic skills with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


The Captain was far away. Sailing between the stars was, when it came down to it, mostly a tedious and repetitive affair. Out here in the uncharted territories, his crew hadn’t encountered anything notable in months. Staring idly out the port at the twinkling stars, it had been a long day of nothing. This reverie was broken by the navigator on watch. “Captain?” she said. “Yes, Jenks?” he replied, taking a breath to centre himself as if resurfacing from a dream. “Long-range scanners are picking up something… strange, Sir.” “Define ‘strange’, Ms. Jenks,” as the edge of the Captain’s mouth started to twitch. “Well, Sir,” she ventured tentatively, “something’s out there.” “‘Something’, Ms. Jenks,” the Captain twitted her now, “Asteroid? Alien civilization? Pirates?” He was smiling now as he warmed up to the idea that something interesting might happen for the first time in too long. “No, Sir. It’s a solid, but porous. Very low mass readings. I can’t get a handle on it.” The Captain turned to the helmsman, a wiry man with creases at the eyes and a completely shaven head. “Care for a detour, Mr. Calverts?” “Aye to that, and about damn time, skipper,” Calverts replied. “Alright,” he suppressed the chortle, turning back to Jenks, “Where are we going?” He could see her across the bridge, concentrating on her displays with a furrowed brow. “33,000km - we should be there in a few minutes. If we pitch 11 points up, negative 25 points yaw that should bring us on a rough heading.” “Lock that in, please Mr Calverts.” “Aye Captain, pitch 11, yaw negative 25 locked.” “Get us close enough for visual range if you can, but try not to scratch the paint.” “Aye-aye Sir” Calverts grinned back. Jenks piped in with, “12 minutes to rendezvous, Sir.” He acknowledged. After so long in the abyss, these few moments felt like a lifetime in anticipation. He started to fidget before slipping out of his chair quietly. “I’m going to grab a coffee from the mess. Back in a tick.” He could have asked the ship’s messenger on duty to get the coffee – but he needed something to do. A few moments later he re-emerged on the bridge cup in hand, and imbibed the strong but delicate brew. “We should be within visual range now, Captain,” Jenks said with a strange catch in her voice. “Thank you. Helm, engage reverse thrusters to zero delta V.” “Reverse thrusters, aye Sir,” Calverts replied, as the inertial dampeners kicked in to cover the sharp deceleration. “Coming to zero delta… now.” “45.8 km away,” Jenks chipped in, and with a smile to Calverts added, “Great job, Joe.” The Captain stood and walked to the forward port, with what he thought was his most purposeful yet calm air. He focused on breathing and tried to slow the thunderous beating inside his chest. He looked into the black for a moment, but saw only his reflection in the glass. He got closer to the armoured port and squinted out, frowning slightly. “I’m not seeing it,” he said after a few heartbeats, before turning his head over his shoulder. There, on the bridge, the entire crew was assembled. They wore stupid grins, and even stupider hats. Party poppers exploded streamers across the equipment. “Gotcha” beamed Jenks, holding a cake in front of her. 'Happy Birthday', it said in a scrawling script. There was nothing to do but laugh – he’d been got. Good. Embarrassed, proud and if he was honest, a little misty about the eyes, he scrubbed his face with his hands and started walking back to the fold with a sheepish look. How did they even know? A few steps later, the distinctive 'ping-pong' of the proximity warning cut their laughter short.


Fairytales and childish movies have given us a skewed perception of what fairies look like. Man created such beautiful depictions of fairies to make them more pleasant to the eye. However, by doing this they forgot what fairies truly look like. They aren't beautiful at all, they once were but not anymore. No, they are repulsive, with skin-like bark on a dead tree, black and fractured. Crackling off into small pieces as they move. They don’t have pretty wings, instead, they are leathery, covered in mold and decay. They look like the very essence of death. However, the most noticeable thing about their appearance is the fact that instead of having rows of pearly whites, depicted in the movies; they have yellowed, crooked, fanged teeth, like a decomposed rat. No, they aren't very pretty at all, but mother nature never really was either. Throughout our history, mother nature is the one thing you can always count on men to destroy. They tear her down bit by bit using her body however they see fit. Man is greedy, we take and we take until there's nothing left. We once lived in harmony with her, she gave us her body for our salvation with the promise that we would not hurt her. We took her body and murdered it. Each time we cut her, bombed her, burned her, she screamed out in agony sending waves, fires, and earthquakes as we drilled deeper into her soul. It’s not a surprise that she wanted revenge. While we preyed on her children, she preyed on ours. She created a protector. A way to fight back. Fairies were once innocent things, beautiful even. However, once man evolved and produced generations of themselves, the fairies no longer were beautiful or innocent. Man found a way to hurt them too. Each time a child is born a fairy’s innocence is taken from them and given to the child, leaving the fairy repulsive and weak. Because of this, the fairies no longer have childhoods. Where they once flew with butterflies and birds they now sleep. Plucked of their innocence they were weak and filled with rage. On the other hand, human children flourished, living out their innocence for 18 long years. They have a childhood and innocence that does not belong to them. Once mother nature learned that man has yet again taken this from her too, she was distraught, enraged, furious. She focused all of her energy on the fairies she made them strong, and no longer weak. When they were healthy again and awake, they took back what was once theirs. They would expose the human’s young to treacherous things. Their innocence left them sooner than the 18 years it was supposed to. The fairies relished in this. They were vengeful. While the fairies' children were dying, the humans were living. So their fairy’s created basterds, thieves, murderers, wars, in the hopes of getting rid of this pest. The fairies hoped that by doing so the humans would do what they’ve always done; kill each other. It worked. The humans waged war on each other killing themselves over and over again. Her body still may be destroyed but at least she knows that the pests will exterminate themselves sooner or later. Mother nature has taught humans a valuable lesson. Innocence is a privilege.


Lee lands on the frozen ocean, hard, creating a medium-sized wave as he lands. Lee sits up and looks at the wave he sorta made. "Talk about making *waves,*" said Lee. "Funny," said Michael, "Not!" Lee turned around to see Michael suspended in the air. A black and pink card floats from behind Michael and turns into a well-dressed man with a fancy watch for a face. "\**Ahem*\* Ladies & Gentlemen," said the watch man, "Boy & girls, children of all ages, do we have a fight for you tonight!" The watch man walks behind Michael, disappearing. "Thaaaaats right, Grand-Z-" Lee jumps as Grand-Z appears behind him, rubbing his shoulders. "-We have Lee Blanchard, master of the Apex Beasts-" Grand-Z flies back over to Michael. "-versus Michael 'The Dude' Vice!" "Nice to see you again Grand-Z," said Lee "always a displeasure to feel your voice in my head." The hands on Grand-Z's clock face point at 8 and 4'o clock, forming a frown. "Hey don't listen to him, bro," said Michael, "You bring the hype!" "Thanks, bro," said Grand-Z. Lee stands, dusting the water off of his shoulders. "Same old, same old," said Lee. "***High Rise Hopper, Kick Strike!***" Lee leaps into the air, kicking at Michael. Grand-Z screams as he and Michael fly in different directions, dodging the kick. "**Time Burst!*****"*** Said Michael as he dives after Lee. The two collide mid-air, creating a massive sonic boom that freezes mid-motion. Two cards fly into both of Lee's arms. "***Blazing Tiger + Rapid Hedge-***" "**TIME BURST!***"* said Michael as he knocks Lee back into the water. "**TIME BREAK!**" "*Start,"* said Grand-Z. Pink energy explodes from Michael as time resumes. A card flies from behind Lee before he begins to sink. "**TIME BURST!**" said Michael as he shot down, right into Lee, going deeper into the ocean. A few seconds pass then an object shoots through the water back onto the beach. Lee walks onto land, shaking the water off of him. "Give it up, Michael," said Lee, "Unless you want a first-class ticket back to wherever you came from." Michael gets up and smiles. A card flies in front of both Lee and Michael. "**TIME BUR-"** "***Swarm!"*** said Lee. A swarm of hornets fly from the card and consume Michael. Once fully consumes a bolt of lightning strikes the swarm. The swarm dissipates as a now charred Michael drops to his knees. Grand-Z kneels next to Michael. "Chill out, he's been through worse." "Guess another round goes to you," said Grand-Z, "Enjoy the rest of your night." In a flash of light, Grand-Z and Michael disappear. Lee leans over, holding his side as he hobbles back to the pier. "Couldn't have zipped me back this time, huh," said Lee. \*Click\* Lee turns around, surveying his surroundings. Seeing nothing, he continues his walk. *The world of magic is one of mystery and change, some for the better and some for the worst. Some fight that change, some embrace it, wholeheartedly, but at the end of the day no one knows what that change will bring. That change starts...


They’d been apart for the best part of a year now, separated by a huge expanse of water almost three and a half thousand miles wide. During that time Alice had given birth to his child, squatting like an animal on the floor of the eight by ten room she rented just above McGoldrick’s butchers. Her mother-in-law had assisted with the birth before dying from influenza just three weeks later. For days Alice was too overcome with grief to notice that her infant son was also displaying the very same symptoms. Day and night she’d nursed the child, sponging his forehead with apple cider vinegar in the hope that she could keep him in the land of the living. Completely alone she bore the brunt of it all unnoticed by anyone around her, praying for the day to come when her family would finally be together. The thought that her husband might arrive on the Titanic to find only her and two paupers graves waiting was too horrendous to contemplate. Fortunately baby Thomas pulled through, although left with a hacking cough. Common sense dictated that he should be kept warm and indoors which she had done up until now. But today she wrapped him up warmly in a freshly washed vest and cardigan and swaddled him in a clean but fraying blanket before hurriedly setting off for the docks. A few minutes earlier she’d heard a heart stopping conversation going on between a group of customers in the butchers shop downstairs. “Sank like a stone,” she’d heard a young woman say. “Sweet Jesus!” a man had exclaimed loudly. “My brother’s on that ship!” And with that the man had bolted through the door of the shop and sprinted off down the street heedless to the shouts of Mr McGoldrick who’d stood waving the brown paper parcel of bacon he’d left behind. The baby was already howling when she stepped through the door onto the pavement. “Come on Thomas don’t cry,” said Alice hurrying along the cobblestone streets. “Titanic Sinks!” shouted a newspaper boy holding a crisp looking paper aloft. “Fifteen thousand dead!” “Let me see that!” cried Alice snatching it off him. “Not unless you pay,” retorted the boy snatching it back. Alice fumbled in her pocket for a few coins. But she didn’t have enough. He spat at her feet and looked the other way, continuing his voluble sales pitch. As Alice got closer to the docks the sound of mayhem assaulted her ears and a heavy rain began to fall. Hoards upon hoards of people milled around in confusion shouting out the names of their loved ones. Grown men cried openly and women frantically searched the survivors’ lists shaking their heads in disbelief. Pushing and shoving broke out as an official stepped forward and pinned another list up on the board. Desperation was written on every face. The wait for news intolerable. It soon became apparent that some had been there for two or three days because makeshift shelters set up by voluntary organizations were scattered about. Just as Alice thought her legs were about to give way, some kind soul guided her to one of the shelters where hot broth was provided and dry clothes. Alice sat huddled up in a blanket watching the steam rise from the watery broth hoping it was all some bad dream. She shuddered and looked down at Thomas who was lying in her lap sound asleep now that he was warm, fed and dry. Maybe he was all that was left of her husband, a living, breathing monument nestled in her arms. A tear escaped and she wiped it away wearily. All of a sudden there was a massive uproar. A vessel had been spotted making for port. “It’s them!” someone shouted. “They’re coming!” “It’s the Carpathia!” Alice stood up with the idea of going outside again. “It would be better for the baby if you stayed in here till things calm down dear,” said one of the volunteer women patting her hand. “But my husband…” protested Alice. “I need to find him.” “There are over forty thousand people out there. Believe me. You should wait,” said the woman earnestly. Reluctantly Alice followed her advice even though every agonizing minute seemed like an hour. For a while it was just wall to wall bodies outside. But after several hours the crowds began to thin. Now she could make out faces, drawn with inconsolable grief and burdened with untold anguish. Some however still held hope, their heads held high, searching through the crowd hoping to recognise the features of their husbands, wives, fathers and so on. Alice felt she had waited long enough. Thanking the volunteer women she left the shelter and stepped outside once more. Unsure of where to go she made her way to the front where the Carpathia was now moored with massive ropes thicker than a man’s forearm. But all of the survivors had disembarked leaving only its harried crew on board. She walked around for a while searching the faces of every man she saw but with every passing case of mistaken identity her heart sank further still. The number of people waiting dwindled even further as people finally accepted the truth and made their way back home. But Alice just couldn’t accept it. Bobby had to be here somewhere. “Alice!” came a shout from behind. She spun round praying that they’d found each other. But she could see no one. Without even realising it she’d walked straight into the path of a family of eight children, stumbling along after their newly widowed mother. “Sorry,” she stammered, taking in their pitiful little faces. “Alice!” said a voice from directly behind her this time. “Bobby!” she cried falling into his arms. Tears rolled down both their faces as they alternately hugged and kissed in the rain. “I’m so glad you’re alive!” sobbed Alice, handing him the baby. Little Thomas began to cry so they shielded him from the rain with the blanket Bobby wore slung over his shoulders. Suddenly Alice became aware of a good many eyes upon them, all envying their happy family reunion. From under her husband’s arm she watched the widowed mother of eight still visible up in the distance and realised just how easily that could have been her. For once however the gods, fate, destiny or whatever else you wish to call it, had been kind to Alice and spared her another taste of grief. An undeniably rare privilege on Pier fifty four, April the eighteenth, nineteen twelve. Once they made it back to the little room that Alice rented above the butchers something seemed to happen to Bobby. The elation they both shared on being reunited seemed to dessert him over the next few days and was replaced instead by a strange vacant minded apathy. Of course Alice had expected him to be affected by the tragedy – as anyone would. But nothing prepared her for his sudden withdrawal from the world – worst of all, his drawing away from her. “I’m just popping out for a bit to get some bread,” she told him one day. His response was barely more than a grunt, just a brief acknowledgement that she had spoken. She looked at him sitting on the end of their bed – the bed that she had slept alone in for months wishing for nothing more than his presence. The irony was not lost on her. Alice suppressed a sigh and planted a kiss on his forehead. “See you in a bit Bobby,” she whispered as if she didn’t want to interrupt his reverie. The baby reached down and grabbed a handful of his father’s hair. Before Alice could stop him he’d uprooted about half a dozen strands. That seemed to elicit a stronger response. Bobby blinked and looked at the child in surprise as though he’d never seen him before. “No Tommy!” scolded Alice. Immediately the baby began to howl, sending several hot tears running down his chubby little cheeks. His father continued to blink in amazement at him. After a minute or so his crying subsided, so Alice decided it was time to leave. “Give daddy a kiss,” she said, holding him close enough for his father to reach. Bobby kissed him, but as Alice and Tommy pulled away he held out his arms to them in desperation. “I tried my best!” he cried, his face contorted in sorrow. “Don’t worry,” Alice replied, not understanding. “We know you did. You always do.” “But it wasn’t enough,” he muttered, looking down into his lap. “Of course it was,” she told him reassuringly. “We’re together again now and that’s all that matters. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” His shoulders flinched as the door slammed shut and once again he was a prisoner. As Alice walked past the smell emanating from the bakers made her mouth water. Only she knew that she hadn’t eaten in days and only she knew that their money had all but run out. What little food she had been able to afford lately, she had given to Tommy and Bobby. Now there was no money to buy more and she knew if she didn’t eat something soon her milk would dry up. The man inside the bakers turned his sign round to open and Alice pushed open the door feeling for the last few cents she had left in her pocket. Behind her the door opened again as three or four more customers entered the shop. “What can I get for you?” asked the man from behind the counter. “Er…well, I was wondering if you could sell me some of yesterday’s bread at a reduced price,” stammered Alice. He looked at her for a moment as though sizing her up and then disappeared out the back. Suddenly someone leaned over her shoulder. “You don’t need that kind of charity!” the woman hissed at her. “Your husband came back – he’s probably at work as we speak no doubt.” Alice turned to face her accuser, paying particular note to her drawn face and red rimmed eyes. The woman next to her was obviously an acquaintance of hers because she patted her shoulder kindly as if to comfort her. “There, there Charlotte. Don’t upset yourself further,” she said. “Well it’s not right!” protested the woman called Charlotte. “I’ve nine hungry mouths to feed and my husband, God rest his poor soul, went down with the Titanic.” Alice felt like running away, but her stomach kept reminding her with its persistent growling that she should stay and get what she came for. “Here you go Miss,” said the man, returning with two day old loaves. “I’ll just take one thank you,” Alice said. “As you wish,” said the man, deftly wrapping it up in a sheet of paper. After the incident at the bakers Alice actually felt glad she had so little to buy. So as soon as she bought a little block of cheese to go with the bread and a few ounces of sago for Tommy she made her way home hoping that Bobby might be feeling better after a little solitude. She opened the door to their bedsit and found that things couldn’t be further from the truth. The room was empty. Bobby was nowhere to be seen. Setting the still sleeping child in his crib, Alice tried her best not to panic. But it was hard not to when she thought of how Bobby had been since his return. It was two weeks since the Carpathia had left him and the other survivors at Pier 54 but he hadn’t even made mention of looking for work or asked how she was managing to put bread on the table. She could see that he was traumatised so she thought it best not to push him to talk about it. Perhaps that was the wrong thing to do, she thought watching her little son smile in his sleep. Where could he have gone? He didn’t know anyone here. All she could do was wait. And wait she did. For three hours. “Bobby! Where have you been?” she cried, when he finally walked through the door. He looked surprised at her worried expression and instinctively he enfolded her in his arms. He hadn’t meant to worry her. “Have I been gone long?” he asked. “It doesn’t matter,” she murmured, pressing her face into his broad chest. “As long as you’re alright.” His breath seemed to catch in his throat at that. He shook his head and held her tighter than ever. “I will never be ok Alice. Not after what I’ve seen.” “Where did you go?” she asked, fighting back the tears. “Pier 54,” he answered in a tortured voice. “I had to go and see if there was any news of them.” “Any news of who?” Her legs were beginning to shake now and she was almost too afraid to hear what the answer might be. “When the ship was going down I tried to help a young mother with a baby about the same age as our Tommy,” he told her. “It was a baby girl I think. Her name was Eleanor, or something like that. We found the last two lifeboats. But it was chaos as everyone tried to climb on board. The crew began to lower them over the side before they were full, so I quickly jumped in and shouted for her to pass me the baby. I held out my arms but she hesitated for too long. All of a sudden the life boat I was in plummeted and then stopped just short of hitting the water. I shouted for her to try to get in the other boat but I never did see if she made it aboard. That’s why I went back to the pier today to see if anyone had news of them.” “That’s terrible!” said Alice. “Surely someone helped her onto the boat if she had a baby.” Bobby shook his head. “You would think so. But it wasn’t like that. I saw lots of children, even babies floating in the water.” Alice gasped in horror. “Let’s not talk about it anymore for now,” he said, tilting her chin towards him. He kissed her gently and Alice felt comforted, glad that he was finally opening up to her. After that day things gradually improved but even so Bobby made it his habit to visit Pier 54 every morning until the day he died at the ripe old age of ninety two. Whether it was in the hope of finding out what happened to the young mother and her baby or that he was stuck in the past no one ever knew – not even himself. But one thing was certain -he was a prisoner, a life-long prisoner of Pier 54.


Out of the Cave (CW: Gore, Psychological Horror) He watched as his farmhands dragged the body in by the wrists, bound, coursing a thick line through the mud. Evening’s end smouldered through a skylight streaked with soot, casting the men in claret-dark patches. They slumped the body against the gate of a pigsty. The pathologist kept the hood over the corpse’s head. Better this way, for matters of instruction and practice. It was just another body. He ran his knife back and forth against a whetstone, weighing meaning and matter idly. He called on his farmhands to bring two pails, one with fresh water, the other empty. A shallow, kidney-shaped dish for his finer instruments, a bulkier, ox-hide case for the larger. He placed the knife upon a dampened towel near the body. A viewing lantern came forward, fire licking its insides, the light flowering out, insectile wisps arcing into the dark beyond. Poor conditions, poor environs. He was used to the latter, less so the former. No time to wait for an improvement. The pathologist pulled on black gloves and a mask. He angled the light towards the neck and chest and unbuttoned the blood-sodden shirt, exposing a frail lattice of ribs. The lip of the empty bucket touched the side of the neck, as he turned the head away a deep artery swole like a worm surfacing. He spread a cloth over his palm and gave pressure above the collarbone, a firm squeeze. From the other hand a knifepoint fell upon the worm as quick as a flicker of light caught the motion and the palm drew down; another draining squeeze. The blade was out and away and the hand claimed its red winnings, the smell of iron and a soft metallic patter dribbling into the bucket. “Turn the body back towards me” The pathologist told another to take the pressure where his own hands were as he moved down to the thighs. He released the belt on the body’s trousers, pulled them to the ankles, the lantern sat supported upon a hip. The knees, dun-coloured with filth, were washed from the freshwater pail. A cloth across a palm, a hand pressing the inside of a thigh, a knife point revealed, the process repeated. “Wait” The pathologist paused. A young voice, the groom of the stable, Isaac. “Speak up then” “I want to do it. You told me I was ready.” Lantern raised, within the crooked frame of night shone an adolescent face, spotty and shining with grease, in bold relief to the dwindling hours. “No you will not”, the mortician replied. “Why not”, the boy winced at the tone of authority. “Because yours is the first exploratory incision: breastbone to yolk-stalk” Less than smiling, he nodded. The pathologist turned his attention back to the thigh incision, as the flow fell weaker, the men massaged the flesh to drain the blood as thoroughly as possible. At an earlier hour they would have strung the body up to drain over hours, but it was too late. Identifying whether the old man had been infected with the blight was all that mattered. A blood stained hand twirled the knife around to its handle. The boy was to make his incision. He met the invitation without hesitance. Locating a space beneath the sternum, breath hissed from his nostrils as he drove the knife tip down. A sound of jellied spill blubbered up from the blade slitting down to the groin. He pulled the long puckering gash apart, the body sagged within itself. A pungent gas mushroomed out sour spores of rot and the men recoiled and gagged under their masks, only the mortician and boy keeping close. “Good work. Bring out the large intestine.” The knife aside, the boy reached into the cavity with his hands. A few searching and pulling movements isolated the organ. One of the men staggered outside to vomit. Flecks of ash picked up with the wind outside, turning the black outline of his profile a blotchy gray as he wretched. The pathologist took hold of the cecum and called the lantern in. The veins were marked with star-splayed tendrils of orange blotches, the surrounding epithelium pallid and sick. Closer inspection revealed the speckled pattern to have spread to most of the surrounding organs, the more the blood was drained, the deeper the penetration of infection. “So it has travelled this far”. “As far as the Patea River, it seems. You know what we have to do, right”. “Yeah”. “Then call it”. “Bag it and burn it”. Soon a sack, barrel and canister of gasoline sat at the foot of the corpse in preparation for its disposal. Gusts of voices distant whistled through the barn. The pathologist turned his head, sensing a message on the air. “Quickly now”. A sack was drawn up over the body from the feet upward. The outside voices started to close in; they must have been spotted during collection. Wrangling with the sack turned to hesitation among them. The *second fit*, a violent cadaveric spasm typical to the virus upon the host’s passing, could happen up to 48 hours after all life signs were declared extinct. Such phenomena had been documented as unpredictable and dangerous, explosive with hazardous live contagion. Some accounts went as far as to describe a state of temporary near-reanimation. It was agreed that the intruders beyond had to be deterred and the body hidden before plans for safe disposal could be made. The farm hands moved to close the barn doors and stand guard. The pathologist pulled the boy aside and told him to hide the body. He nodded, nose sniffing, eyes squinting. He looked back at the corpse, the frozen gasp of its jaw pulling the hood taught like a shallow dish, the sack scooped up to its chest, the splay of infected organs an image still impressed upon his mind. It was impossible to imagine anything but nullifying solitude in that cavernous husk, to sense anything but the occluding silence of death’s walls drawn upward. The pathologist shook him. “Listen to me, no matter what you see during our work together, understand that life and death are separate. I need someone young, willing to learn, and without superstition. Someone who will continue my research whatever happens. No matter what you see or hear, nothing resides beyond this life.” “No matter what I see or hear” the boy repeated in reflection. The pathologist had left him to address the commotion outside. The boy reached into the medical bag. He was seeking a sharp, snub-nosed saw. This time he knew they were simply going to lift the sack into the barrel and burn the body whole out back. He knew correct procedure differed. A body going through the second fit while engulfed in fire was a bad idea, no matter the size of barrel. He rolled the sack back down. He could hear voices beyond the gate: “Gentlemen. Ma’am. How can we help you.” “Evening guys, I don’t know if we’ve met. I’m Sherriff Tuteao of the South Taranaki Bight” “Recently appointed, then. Excuse us for being out of the loop, we tend to avoid affairs in town-” “Fine and fair, unfortunately it’s my job to inquire into yours. Would you mind telling me where you fellas were at round three o’clock this afternoon” The voices outside flickered low under the breath of the wind. Dismemberment had to be completed quickly; a fit could occur at any moment. The boy was surprised at the efficiency of the saw, or at how easy it was to cut up a body. Outside, the voices were getting louder. “Been at ranch all day. Got our own witnesses here. Nothing more to it.” The young Maori farmhand gave a curt nod, leaning on the handle of his pitchfork. “Like I said, that’s not what we’ve heard from eyes and ears local. You boys know the river is off limits at the moment. I’m not accusing; I’m asking if you believe there’s been a mistake-” “Ay there’s been a mistake. Got all we need down here, no need be hanging round upstream or down. Bit fed up with that lot over there sticking their ihus in where they’ve no business, though”, another nod suggested the village westward. The pathologist raised a conciliatory hand. “Let’s not be testy, Sheriff’s just doing her job, we need not antagonise the locals”. “Antagonise” the young farmhand repeated with a sniff. “Choice word”. “Look, problem is we’ve had reports suggesting that a group of men were seen dragging a sack southwest from the inlet at three in the evening, large enough to contain a fully grown deer. Now if being there’s bad enough, you should all know hunting’s strictly prohibited.” “And we’re the only group of guys east of town you know about. Understood.” “More to the point, town marks you out. Multiple accounts, similar descriptions. Some saying that if *you* were there” - she kicked the dirt and looked up, as if it were her own, difficult admission - “then previous records and statements in the station’s archives could suggest a pattern of activity. It’s a plausible avenue to explore...” “But again, so we’re clear, you’re not accusing...” he delivered the measured words slowly, in a neutral tone. The farmhands coiled back firmly into their casual stances, exchanging wry looks with clenched jaws. “...I figured on your honesty, meeting you and your lads face to face. You haven’t disappointed me yet. Could we take a look around” Her ingratiating affectations were a statement of intent. The pathologist scanned Sheriff Tutaeo’s wide, freckled face. The domes of her eyes shone in the hearthfire evening, glinting sharp light over black pockets. Despite an exchange of lies by omission - she’d not venture forth with armed men before checking police records - he and her had no want of understanding. The insinuations laced through her talk would pull taut at any resistance to her request. A violent knowledge lingered. The men beside her stood as blank columns of muscle and bone, the blood within them hissed. “This way”. Over the work of the saw the boy could hear the voices outside the barn closing in. He hurried to push the detached limbs down into the sack. His eyes searched the workshop, the hay and manure compartments, the sty. He chose the latter, leaving the sack of limbs and torso hidden behind a trough and a team of bulky sows slumped in their rows, sleeping. His hands shook as he reddened a pail of water with his hands and the saw. Thoughts of his actions flooded his conscience. He had to hide from the voices beyond, from himself, shame and dread entwined, fear and trembling. He ran over to the workshop table, threw the tools underneath, and kneeled on the workbench to wrench a .22 rifle off the wall mount above. The sound of a bolt on the barn door snapped open at the same instant he fell back, taking the rifle and a rusty bracket with him. Scrabbling to his feet he pushed himself behind one of the haystacks, under the whining clatter of the barn door testing its hinges, he fiddled with the rifle’s action, clacked it shut. One. “Indoor feeding lot, workshop with horseshoe forge, bedding. We rotate livestock through here twice a season. We’ll keep poorly stock underroof for monitoring of physical health; hydration, infection treatment, stool quality, so on. We operate by the Bight guidelines, over two-thirds are fit and healthy for transport and slaughter. We compost the rest.” The boy heard the squelch of footsteps in the mud, a group of five, six extra pairs. The tinkling of buckles, holsters and spurs, the groan of leather like a gasping throat. He heard a female voice. “Healthy *for* slaughter, you say, when they leave *here*. Well there’s a lot of blood around, what’s all this mess about?”. The sound of something firm tapping the gasoline canister he’d forgotten about; a stick, the toe of a boot, the end of a weapon. “I said the poorly stay here for a while. See those pigs over there. They’re breeders, but their teats are swollen, they bleed. Damaged produce. When times are tough, less sows are brought to bearing age. There’s a plague out there, as you well know.” “He’s saying we deal what we’re dealt, missus. What you call mess scrapes us a living” one of the farmhands interjected, “...while all else is dying”. The sound of spit hit the ground. The boy heard the piercing whine of a single note in his ears. His mouth was dry and open, his bloody hands shook, clamped around the rifle’s muzzle. He pushed forward through a gap in the hay. A hiss, until he could go no further. The shadows of their bodies stretched together like a fortress mapping the ground, warping under the lamplight. A chill caught his neck, his breathing grew heavier. He was cold. Condensation exhaled from his mouth and nose and he drew a hand up quickly to try and mask it. Everything was cold. The rifle wavered under his arm and nearly fell. His eyes fixed on the dark shapes before him, as portions split from its mass, the centre of the fortress gave way to a passage within. The surrounding arch thickened and pooled into an inky black substance, breaching the translucence that bars shadows from the primary world of their objects’ cast. A deep, subterranean warbling percolated under the piercing din, a noise splitting into voices. He saw the dark heads of human-like figures within the archway. The voices split again and again, an endless fractioning off, the parts increasing beyond the sum, yet if he listened closely, he could hear each individual figure. Worlds of one and all bled together into an hypnotic experiential rush. He felt a giddy sense of omnipotence shroud his voyeurism. Many figures sat beneath the arch. Others came and went within the sparse confines of the interior, some sat on rock-like protrusions, others moved back and forth restlessly, in and out of a vast network of catacombs beyond. One figure leant against a wall, carving a tally, as if counting the members present, or marking time. A veiled, feminine figure stooped down in despair, holding her head in her hands. She sobbed out a long list of names, sometimes leaning back to cry them out as if they were the names of her own children, gone, yet the names were so numerous, so diverse of time and place, that this was impossible. The figures congregated at the centre sat in front of a large wall, their silhouetted bodies obscured whether they looked up at it, or outward. They murmured under the howls of the veiled woman, as if speaking to each other, but they only told their own stories, to themselves. One spoke of an ocean so hot it spat the bones of the life within it out upon the shore, a cage of bleached white ribbing the brown coast for miles. Another recounted the story of an adolescent, delirious from hunger, who injected air into her sick mother by mistake, killing her. He imitated the girl’s helpless weeping with an air of mocking irritation. Another spoke of a seedling that grew a shoot out of scorched, dry land and wouldn’t die. He repeated the tale over and over, like a mantra. But within the mass of stories, a single voice drew in the boy’s reception. “My fault. The blame lies with me. Elsie couldn’t hide me from them any longer. Came for me early morning. I just knew it. Some new, self-appointed lawmaker had her thugs kick down the door. *‘I’m in here, it’s me you want’*. I roll off my bed and claw my fingers into the floorboards, dragging my useless body, breath rattling and I know what’s coming: *‘Else, get out of there’*, but the walls trembled and the guns barked *rah rah rah* screams and I’m hauled over the floor out onto the mud, covered in my baby’s blood. Then the *crack*; a bullet per head. Kill the host and the vectors. Did me last; sentence and execution. Her dead black eyes. Dumped me by Kaupokonui Stream, and that was that. My wife, my daughter. Should’ve taken care of myself as soon as I caught it. At least wherever they went in the end, it isn’t here.” “The stream...” the boy heard himself mouth the words. “*You should know my guilt, Child”* The shadow got up and stepped beyond the congregation. “*You’re the one who opened me up”.* Naked shock lapped over the boy, awareness prickled through his body like a wildfire fever. The faceless audience was facing *him*. The veiled woman cried out a name, impossibly familiar, ancient, yet placeless: *“Abraham”* *“Abraham”* the audience responded in chant, first in the disparity and chaos of their number, then in unity: *“Abraham... Abraham... Abraham”* His gaze trembled, his breath tore in and out like bones raking up on the shore. He was watching the dead speak against the world from the end. The back wall of the cave lit up: his pallid, spotty face, drained with terror, reflected in unbearable brightness. *“Abraham, Abraham, Abraham…”* the black council sped up their chants. “*Be still, lad”* the man said against the chanting, *“you shan’t suffer long, it might be yours that lifts the sentence of our Lord”*. His voice quivered with sadness. A dark gloved hand came down upon the boy’s head, pulling him back by his light blonde hair, exposing the neck. A cold, sharp sting, the teeth of the snub-nosed saw sank upon his throat. A grimy light winked off the crimson surface of the blade. *“Abraham - Abraham”* A voice answered: ***“Here Am I”***. The audience groaned in morbid ecstasy. The man marking tally dragged his score down into the rock, wracked with madness he sank to his knees and the long gouge marked this sacrifice to heaven and dirt as the teeth bit into the young boy’s gulp and the desperate voices clamoured upward like thrashing piranhas. A gunshot erupts. **“Isaac!”** The pathologist runs over to the boy convulsing on the ground by the hay. The boy’s eyes flicker upward, his throat gurgles, but when he feels the pathologist’s arm against his chest he clings to it, holds it close, the struggle ebbing away, his gasps dropping to a sigh. His gaze steadies and stares upward, his parched lips rest into a placid smile, the expression of a martyr passing over. No longer of this world. The second fit smoulders, then dies, within him. A farmhand picks up the discharged rifle. He walks over to one of the men standing near the body of the sheriff. The men look at each other blankly. “Guess we’d call this an accident”. One of her guards tips her head back, exposing a single gunshot wound to the neck. “Guess we would”. “What now, Abe” The pathologist closes Isaac’s eyes, then his. “Burn her with the other body. But not the boy. The young deserve better.


I sprinted over to Lachlann. He lay face down next to a small pile of rocks at the bottom of the cliff. I reached down and pulled on his shoulder, rolling him over. I recoiled. My stomach wretched and I felt vomit in the back of my throat. Even though I only saw him for a beat, the image was already etched in my mind, carved like the great granite cliffs beside me so that no erosion could ever remove it. He had landed on the corner of his face, just next to the left temple. The area of skull that met the rock shattered on impact, breaking apart the eye socket. Nothing remained of his eye. Behind him the rocks were crimson, thick splatters of blood splashed against the rocks like flecks of paint from a carelessly flung brush. I slowly turned back to where he lay. “Is he…” I didn’t want to finish the sentence. Alessia decided I didn’t have to. “Yes.” My arms jolted and seized, as I felt the concoction of grief boiling in the back of my throat. “There must be something we can do.” “He’s already gone, Ferdinand.” Alessia grabbed both my shoulders, holding eye contact and keeping me still. I turned my head away from her. “Surely we can do something for him.” Alessia grabbed my head and pulled it back to face hers. “He’s gone, Ferdinand.” “We can bury him,” Kurbani said. “Like he deserves.” “I can… I’ll lift him…” I couldn’t find any words. Alessia tightened her grip on my shoulders. “Kurbani and I will take him back to the boat. You wanna be of use, go help Xander. Find Sannaz.” She paused waiting for me to react, but I failed to fully process the instructions. “Go.” I ran back up the hill, the view blurry, Lachlann’s broken face smeared across my vision. There was also a small voice in the back of my mind running over everything I said and what could’ve been said differently; what might’ve saved Lachlann’s life. In that moment, his life had been entrusted in my hands. And I failed him. By the time I reached the summit the red embers of the sky had been snuffed out, trodden down to a black star-filled ash. I turned and headed south west, where we had seen Sannaz leave. Nothing seemed distinct in the nighttime. Flickering distant trees could be a torso - a branch, an arm. The shapeless wall at the edge of the town could mask a body for hours until the light came again. I scanned every direction for something that looked unnatural, something more than vegetation. I saw a figure walking towards me, but the frame wasn’t that of Sannaz. “Xander,” I called out. He noticed and walked towards me with slow trudging footsteps. “Lost him,” he said as his features came into view. “Could be anywhere by now.” He rested, his hands on his thighs. “Lachlann?” I shook my head. I refused to say the words. “Shit. Poor man.” “Kurbani and Alessia are taking him back to the boat.” I looked around at our surroundings, making sure that nothing moved. “We won’t find him tonight. And leave it much longer we’re more likely to find a northern soldier.” “He was there, Xander.” I pointed to the darkness. “We were this close.” “Trust me when I say we will find him and I will kill him.” Xander’s promise of revenge seemed to contain a new wrath. “But it’s not going to be tonight.” There was another explosion in the distance, the first one for a few minutes. I turned to the noise as the shockwave rippled my shirt. “We need to get back to the boat.” I shook my head as we spoke, denying my own instruction to give up the hunt. We jogged together back down the slope towards the harbour, both of us refusing to say anything more. Lachlann was dead. Sannaz had escaped. We had lost another life, and gained nothing. There was a growing hollow sensation at the core of my stomach. Not pain, not rage, not angst just, a void - a vacuum sucking energy and warmth from everything around it, until I would be left as a husk. As we reached the water I could see the great Deer Drum ship ahead of us forty metres out. It dwarfed every other boat on the island, looking almost like a caricature next to the small fishing vessels. I stepped up onto the wall and turned left. “Where do you think you’re going?” Xander asked. “The rowboat?” I examined the waterfront, looking for where I’d tied it. “How do you think Alessia and Kay got back?” I turned back to Xander. “So we’re stuck?” Xander huffed and pulled his shirt off over his wide shoulders and dropped it to the ground below. “You can swim can’t you?” He walked to the wall’s edge and dived head first into the water. He disappeared for a few seconds before resurfacing, going straight into an effortful but inefficient crawl. I scanned the seafront once more for a rowboat. From the town I could see people running down the winding path. Some carried a few precious belongings. Others had small children clasped to their hip. Others just ran, abandoning all they had known. But all of them were heading for the water. I stripped off my shirt and dived into the sea, feeling myself engulfed in the salty waters of Granite Vowhorn. As the water rushed over my skin, pooling around my nose, eyes and ears, I wondered how much that hole inside me weighed. Would I just sink to the bottom of the harbour and disappear among the dark waters? For the briefest moment, there was quiet. The world was peaceful. Serene. All the chaos and violence and horror was a problem for the world above. I swam beneath the surface, comforted by the embrace of the water around me, taking long breast strokes until my lungs demanded relief. My head hit the air. The distant sound of burning buildings and people shouting returned. The turmoil was still there. Through tired instinct, I stretched out my arms, and began pulling my hands through the water. No part of me was consciously focused on those strokes, the numbness had reached my head, and there it remained until my hands hit metal. I shuffled along until I found a section of rope netting draped as a ladder down the side of the boat. I climbed, pulled myself over the top and hit the floor, lying on my back panting with exhaustion. “Here.” I turned to see Kurbani throw a towel and one of Xander’s shirts down beside me. I dried myself as the rest of the islanders prepared the boat to leave. “We got enough room to turn?” “Just.” “Drop the foresail.” “Dropping the foresail.” The commands went back and forth. “Where’s Alessia?” I asked as Kurbani passed me. She turned as she walked, hurrying to the rear of the ship. “Gone back to her boat. Said she’d meet us a mile or two out.” I picked the shirt off the floor as Xander passed me. He hit me on the arm, the wet skin making a slapping noise and leaving a slight sting. “You okay?” I nodded, giving a half-truth. I pulled the shirt on. It was at least two sizes too big, but it would do for now. In front I could see Xander, leaning over the side of the boat, looking back to the town. “Raise the anchor,” Eir called out. I heard someone turn a capstan, and the great chain begin to lift. “Wait. Drop the anchor!” Xander called out. “What?” “Drop the anchor. Do it. Now.” Xander walked over towards the chain, prepared to kick it down himself if necessary. “Why?” “Look.” He pointed to the harbour. I ran to where Xander had been and leaned over. People had fled the town until they ran out of land. And when they had to keep fleeing, they did so, jumping into the seas, nowhere else to go. Xander sprinted down the boat and called out to Eir at the helm. “How many can we hold, at least till the next island?” “I mean, we have sixty rooms.” “If we all squeeze. How many?” Eir took a deep breath. “If we sail straight there, we’ve got enough food and water for a couple hundred.” Xander turned slowly, making sure every islander had eye contact for at least one syllable. “Then that’s how many we take. This is Deer Drum. These people are fleeing. We rescue them.” Around the boat, people nodded. “Eir, we may have to go quickly when we’re ready so prepare.” Xander pointed as he gave instructions. “Kurbani you keep count of those coming on board. Sirad, stay by the anchor. Lift it as soon as we hit two hundred. Everyone else, help.” I looked over to see a group of Southerners who had sprinted around the harbour and were now standing opposite me, looking out across the water. We waved to them, beckoning them to us. One by one, they jumped in, deciding to risk the waters rather than stay on their home. The sea quickly became a frenzy of thrashing limbs, the flat water of the cove turned to foam as bodies collided in their rush to escape. The mass of heads, arms and legs moved towards us till they began climbing the netting. As the swarm reached us, we outstretched our arms and pulled them over the final metre. One evacuee at a time, we took them aboard and offered them safety. Each one was greeted and taken somewhere below deck, out of the action and into the dry. We kept going. Pulling men, women, boys, girls, babies, from the water and onto the boat until there was no one left. Everyone who had fled was either in our boat or jumped aboard one of the fishing vessels. “That’s the last of them!” Xander shouted. “Let’s get out of here.” I looked back at the empty harbour. Who knew how many were still in that town hiding, or already found. But there was no one left calling out for help. Those whose pleas we saw, we had answered. We unleashed the sails and the winds kicked us away from the island. I was spent. I leaned back against one of the masts, sliding down the great wooden beam, until every inch of me was pressed against wood. Xander walked over. He leaned down and smacked me on the shoulder, then held his hand there. He had a wide grin on his face. I understood why. And I smiled back. Many people would have died when the Southern town was invaded. Some of them would’ve been soldiers, others just people in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was more destruction, more death, more loss. But for that hour, as we pulled the tired, frightened evacuees from the water, we stood against it all. We were in the right place at the right time. Across the other side of the boat I could see Novak sitting in the corner, holding Lachlann’s guitar. He looked down at the instrument in his lap, still as big as he was. With all the commotion, no one had checked on Lachlann’s musical mentee. I pulled myself up and slowly walked over to him. I knew I had to speak to him, but even as I arrived, I had no idea what I would say. “Can I sit with you?” He suddenly jolted his head to me, seemingly unaware of my approach. After a second he nodded. I shimmied around the guitar and sat down so that the neck stretched across me. I looked at the frets and the points on the strings where fingers had worn away at the wire. I could see stained wood, a million fingerprints leaving their oily trace on Lachlann’s favourite chords until the grain lightened. “They said…” Novak chose his words carefully, negating the reality. “Lachlann’s not coming back.” “Yes. I’m sorry.” I grimaced. “Just like everyone else.” There was a pang in my chest thinking at all the loss the boy had suffered on Deer Drum. “Did the same people get Lachlann?” Novak asked, turning to me. “Yes.” Novak glanced back to the guitar. “What do you think they’ll do with this?” “I think you should keep it.” Though I had no grounds to say it, it felt perfectly correct. “He would’ve wanted you to have it.” We both watched as a mixture of islanders and evacuees trudged back-and-forth in front of us, shoes trampling over what remained of Xander’s vegetable garden. “Lachlann’s been… was good to me.” Novak’s eyes remained fixed on the passers by. “He liked you. He wanted to spend time with you.” I tried to offer what comforting platitudes I could as I stared at Novak’s face, trying to see his reaction. “I liked spending time with him too.” “I’ll always remember the songs he played for us,” I smiled. Novak lifted up the guitar slightly, looking at it. “I’m going to keep playing, become as good as he was. Continue what he did.” “That’s…” I paused, a genuine smile crossing my lips. “That is exactly what he would want.” “You think?” He turned to me, sensing the shift in my tone. “That’s what we should all do. Try and be a bit more like Lachlann.” Novak rotated the guitar and placed his hands against the strings. “Can I play you the tune he taught me?” I grinned at the hint of energy in Novak’s voice. Novak nervously placed his fingers in the right positions, counted the beats in his head, and began strumming. I leaned my head back against the side of the ship, listening to the melody. The music continued. ———————————————— We met up with Alessia two hours or so out to sea. Granite Vowhorn was nothing but a silhouette. A distant set of lights, impossible to distinguish between town and fire. Xander, Kurbani, Alessia and I sat on the deck of Alessia’s boat, pulling a few crates round into a circle. The rest stayed behind, helping organise the evacuees: handing out whatever blankets they could find, or finding a space of floor on which to sleep. “Where will you go?” Alessia asked. Xander sighed. “Amnia Garman is the nearest place. Drop off the refugees there. Then, back to Talin Barier.” “Talin?” “Yeah. For Lachlann.” Xander pointed a thumb to Kurbani. “We took him back to his room - he’s the only one with his own place tonight.” She let out a small chuckle despite the watery film to her eyes. “There were some letters on the side from his sister. That’s where he was from. Originally. She still lives there in those slums. It’s not good news, but… she should decide what to do.” “Why did he never tell us?” I squinted. Kurbani shrugged her shoulders. “Sometimes when you come from not a lot it’s easier to reinvent yourself I guess. I imagine there’s a lot we’ll never know. All we get to know is who he became. A friend.” We sat around in that circle and shared stories. We cried. We laughed. We frowned, and we smiled, until we had said what needed to be said; until his good life was spoken to the ocean. Finally, Kurbani stood up. “We should get going, but I think there’s only one way we should end this.” I looked up. “How?” She closed her eyes and sang. Her voice found a perfect contralto tone. Soft, melodic, and sombre. My friends, come along. Don’t you hear the fond song? The sweet notes where the nightingale flows? For to hear the fond tale of the sweet nightingale. We all quietly sang the final two lines. As she sings in the valley below, As she sings in the valley below. We all remained in silence, letting the last notes resonate and hum against the wood, until their energy was gone. Kurbani walked over and embraced us both, holding us tight. “Stay safe out there.” “We will,” Alessia replied. We said goodbye, and untied the boats. Deer Drum left once more, filled with a new set of evacuees, and drifted off into the night. I sat back down on the crate next to Alessia. The boat floated aimlessly in the sea, slowly rising and falling over the waves. We were quiet, just listening to the sound of the ocean. The creaking of the old wood. The sloshing of water against the hull. The wind whistling in the loose sail. I thought for a moment of old idioms people would say when someone died on Kadear. “They’ve gone to a better place,” “They live on in your memories,” “They’re at peace now.” My mind was stuck on that last one. It angered me. If it were true, then Sannaz was right. Death is the best outcome, and we should all embrace its swift arrival. No. Lachlann wasn’t at peace. He just wasn’t there any more. A path of writing songs, or laughing with friends, of travelling the Archipelago. All the endless possibilities of the future, the love he might meet, the family he might raise, the fame he might find. Whatever eventualities awaited him, whether they were world-altering or merely mundane were snuffed out. All the potential in the world was reduced to one absolute certainty. The exactness of nothing. To rebel against that, wasn’t to say Lachlann was at peace, and it wasn’t to sit around quietly mourning. No doubt grief was coming for me, but as I sat there, in the peaceful ocean night I thought back to Novak’s simple plan to keep playing. And so I would too. Live double the life, go on twice as many adventures, share twice as many jokes with friends, bring twice as much happiness, and feel twice as much love. That was the rebellion. To reclaim what was lost. My reflection was interrupted by Alessia. “How you holding up?” “A bit better. We did a good thing helping those people on Granite Vowhorn. But, I know when I lay down tonight, I’m going to think back to Lachlann.” I stared off into the black void of the ocean and the distant outline of the Deer Drum boat. “I’m going to think every night. Think on what I said. And what I could’ve said to save him.” “Nothing.” Alessia said. “You heard Sannaz. He is killing because he believes it’s right. Even if you gave him everything he wanted he would’ve pushed Lachlann off that cliff.” My face twitched, but the doubtful frown remained. She shuffled to one side and grabbed my hands, holding them in hers. “Honestly, if anyone is smart enough and stupid enough and can speak well enough to stop a murderer with just words, it would be you. But the truth is, Lachlann was dead as soon as Sannaz laid eyes on him.” I nodded. Alessia let go of my hands, letting them fall into my lap. “When you think of that conversation, what you should be thinking is what we can use *now*. What did he say that can help us find him.” “There was nothing, Alessia. Just nonsense.” I bowed my head “Think.” She leaned down, making sure she stayed in my eye line. “He must’ve said something.” I took a deep breath and pulled my shoulders back. I stared up at the sky, and tried reliving the conversation. “He spoke about some site. He’s trying to find a place that he thinks we know. Somewhere, tied to the Archipelago’s birth, that he wants to find.” “Okay. So we find that before he does.” Alessia nodded. “There was all that stuff about why killing was for the greater good.” My head shivered with the memory. “He said he’d heard about us, me specifically. That he’d heard about why I was travelling the Archipelago.” Alessia shuffled back on her crate, rolling her head from side to side. “Okay, so he’s been asking after us.” “There was one thing.” I looked forward, peering into my memory. “What?” “He said he’d tried to find out more about me. Said he’d followed me and even visited… Pomafauc Reset?” I shook my head. “I’ve never even heard of that place.” Alessia quickly averted her eyes, her mouth slightly open. “Uh. You have.” I stared at her, waiting for a response. “What?” “I heard about it on those trading missions.” She spoke hesitantly, choosing each word. “It’s undergone some changes. So it altered its name. It used to be different.” “Alessia,” I said, a hint of irritation. “What did it used to be called?” She grimaced. “Kadear Coalfields.” # END OF BOOK TWO \ Book three of The Archipelago will begin the 3rd March 2022.