A Dark Duel A man sits alone in a forest. This man isn't particularly tall or short, fat or lean, but has a look of strength in him. Maybe it’s the way he sits so comfortably by the fire. Perhaps it’s the large great sword that rests on the log next to him as an old friend would at the tavern, grinning over his pint of ale. The fire burns brightly in front of this man, warming him and having thoughts about the next few pieces of wood that it craves so dearly. The forest, not so happy to be illuminated by this mans fire looks down disdainfully, wishing it could go about its business in the dark, like it had for eons. This man knows the reputation of this forest, has heard the tales of savagery that have taken place in between the dark pines that close as tightly as prison bars once one enters its foreboding gloom. The man ignores these thoughts as one does in such a place. Instead he focuses on his task at hand, the piece of bread and dried venison he harvested last winter. Content to enjoy his humble meal in the company of fire, forest, and great sword. The man wears bear pelts over his coat of chainmail, and a dark green cloak over that. The mans black pants are tucked into his mud caked black boots, mud that speaks of long journeys in far off lands and distant times long forgotten. Upon the ground rests a helm of fine steel, with intricate engravings of two bears in their final embrace of battle before a victor must be named and a loser vanquished. Set into the center of this helm is an emerald that glistens in the light of the fire like a vipers eye before it strikes. It is this stone that has caught the eye of the envious that lurk just inside of the darkness of the forest. The orc crouches beside a tree staring at the man, with the patience of someone who has lost all fear of men. To the orc this is his domain, the night embracing him as friend, lover, and partner in crime. The hoot of an owl, the creaking of trees and cracking of branches of unknown beasts in the dark remind the orc that he is at home. Such things that strike fear into the heart of the lone wanderer fills the orc with confidence and memories of many such successful encounters with men before. Standing two feet taller than the man, skin dark green with patches of black and brown tight over the orcs strong physique and broad shoulders. The black short sword of onyx firmly grasped in the orcs left hand with the right in a metal gauntlet clenched tightly over a dagger. The orc waits for the soothing warmth of fire and food to do its work. The man will soon forget where he is and will drift into a slumber like a babe who has had too much mother’s milk. While the orc ponders what one can buy with such a stone, the man’s head drops and shoulders relax like a donkey after being released from a heavy burden. The fire now has another companion. The orc creeps from the cover of the dark forest into the dull orange light. At this moment the man springs from the ground like a bird flushed from a bush by a hound. To the orcs dismay the great sword has been raised between them. With a look of confusion the orc takes a step back, wondering what could have possibly alerted the man to the presence of such a stealthy approach that even a wild animal couldn't detect. This moment of confusion leaves as quickly as it had come, the orc could still easily overpower a man such as this. With a running charge the orc cleaves the air with the onyx sword in the direction of the man’s head only to find the ring of steel from the great sword instead. A following short thrust from the dagger with the intention of disemboweling the man misses it mark by a few inches as the man whirls away into the darkness of the wood. The orcs eyes can see better in the dark than any mans could but still the orc struggles to see the figure of his foe amongst the gloom of the trees. Taking a cautious step back the orc kicks the fire over, sending embers, ash and smoke into night sky. Darkness now descends upon what once was the man’s camp. A few lingering flames only slightly illuminate the silhouette of the orc. Raising a stubby wide nose to the air the orc sniffs the air, smelling for the trace odor of the man that lingers in the air. Although the camp still carries the heavy stench of the traveler, nothing can be detected of the man in the woods. Only the smell of animal fills the orcs nose. A puzzling expression crosses over the orcs face. Peering ever deeper into the now even darker forest, the orc detects movement amongst the trees. To large to be a man, a dark shadow lumbers between the tall pines. The orc raises his nose again to the air and is instantly overwhelmed by a new stench, the stench of bear. From out of the gloom steps a monstrous bear, twice the size of a standard forest bear. Matted black and brown fur cover the massive body as the bear approaches the orc on its hind legs. Long claws like five daggers protrude from each paw each having a faint glow of green like a firefly over a misty meadow at night. The face of the bear is contorted into a snarl, with eyes as cold and as dark as the endless void above the forests tallest tree. Set in between these colorless eyes is a gem of beautiful green, an emerald that still glistens brightly despite the deep darkness. Now the wave of horror fully engulfs the orc like a wave that crashes on a pillar of rock way out at sea surrounded by nothing but endless water. The bear emits an earth shaking roar, that sends the forest quaking and small animals scurrying for cover. Summoning what courage the orc has left, he answers the roar with a shout of his own and lunges toward this new terrible foe. The thrust of the onyx sword is easily batted away and with a following swing of the bears mighty paw sends the orc flying back ten feet over what remains of the now dying embers of the fire. A large gash from four claws leaves the orc’s shoulder shredded and bleeding but unbroken. Rising from the ground the orc throws the still clutched dagger in the direction of the bear. Finding its target the dagger pierces the thick hide of the bear a few inches deep just below the left breast. Seemingly unperturbed by the wound the bear stalks closer, while the orc cautiously retreats. The bark of a tree halts the backward movement of the orc. In a desperate last act the orc leaps towards the bear again ducking under a lethal swipe of the bears left paw. From behind the orc jumps onto the bears back quickly climbing to its head and holding tightly around it neck. The bear thrashes from side to side in an attempt to free itself from the strong black arm that is cinched around its throat. Reaching down the orc manages to pull the dagger from the bear’s breast. Raising the dagger high above the bear’s head the orc brings the dagger down in the direction of the bear’s neck. Before the metal can find its intended flesh the bear jerks and the dagger pierces the thick brown hide to the hilt in the bears shoulder. Another tremendous roar rends the air as the bear begins to thrash even harder. The orc holds the dagger firmly in place while gripping the long fur in the other hand. Even with all of the orc’s strength he eventually begins to slip lower down the bears back. At this moment one of the bears swinging arms is able to grasp a leg of the orcs. Heaving the now defenseless orc up in front of the bears face the snarling mouth opens and to the orc’s surprise rumbles a few words in a voice like boulders tumbling down from a mountain precipice. “A mighty foe, a worthy opponent.” With shock and horror the orc glares at the beast waiting to feel the bears long fangs enclose around his head. Instead with a tremendous swing the bear throws the orc deep into the forest until a large pine tree arrests the orc’s body. With dazed and blurred eyes the last thing the orc sees through the trees before loosing consciousness is the man standing bloodied and panting by the embers of the extinguished fire, naked except for a helm upon his head with two engraved bears and a brilliant emerald aglow in its center.


The air in front of him shattered, shards of the image before him falling to the ground. He curls, bent double. He drops to his knees. His face can feel the heat emanating from the ground. A warm, dense smell - the familiar industrial scent of concrete drying after a heavy rain. His hands, collecting the pieces that were once everything he cared about. A kaleidoscope of fractured memories, each piece broken and beautiful. Hands shaking, he tries to piece his very existence back together, but the images are fading quickly from the shards. He holds one fragment for an instant and it’s gone - a touch, erased from history. He’s left holding glass, clear as the sky that hangs high and mockingly over his head. A teardrop forms at the corner of his eye. It’s ready to take away another pain from the incomprehensible, yet uncontrollable torrent of thoughts streaming through his mind. It feels itself heavy, rippling from the unconscious trembling of his body. The weight of it, no longer able to be held by his eye. It falls. A journey to the earth which takes mere seconds, but for this lone tear it represents an entire lifetime. It rises over his cheek, leaving behind a trail of the thought it’s carrying. It feels every pore of his skin in the single file line it travels down his face. He feels the momentary warmth, followed by the piercing cold as the wind cools the trail. It feels the aged lines that radiate from his eyes the way a child draws the rays of the sun. It traverses the deep canyons formed from a face deep in the throws of indescribable anguish. It passes his lips, but it will never know the beauty of his smile; a smile that intoxicates everyone who takes witness of it. Instead, it’s memory of his lips will be the turned down and quivering mass, parted slightly as it tries desperately to fill his lungs with air. It’s journey has nearly come to an end. It hangs heavy on his chin. Gripping to his face as if on the edge of a cliff, holding on with just its index and middle fingers. It’s tiring. It knows it’s time to leave him. It let’s go, free falling to the ground in front of him, taking with it the memory of the smell of jasmine as they walked through the streets of Paddington in the spring together, their hands, skin on skin, the energy of their souls intertwined like the double helix of their DNA. It falls in slow motion. The pavement is looking up. Looking at this solitary droplet driving towards it. It knows that everything that touches it has fallen. The teardrop is getting closer. It knows what comes next - the familiar and predictable outcome of all tears that have ever fallen and will ever fall. It resists the atoms of the teardrop; forcing them to detach from each other. The memory contained in the lone tear explodes and evaporates. A small speck of transient dark concrete waits to dry. The memory waits to dry. Tear by tear - thought by thought, their souls disconnect. The entanglement unwinds. The knots that their love built, slowly loosen. The air around him thins; his lungs fill with the crisp cool air that only autumn is capable of producing. He can feel the tingle in the back of his throat as it enters his being. He looks up. The hands on his watch stop. The headlights shine brightly into his eyes.


The bunny stuck its dessicated little head through a hole in the ground, peered hard and long at the dusty, barren fields surrounding it, then squeezed its body up and through, before hopping thirstily away… Dozens more followed. Through a spyglass, Popsmoll Wrencod watched them go. He would have to report this to the Chief knowing it meant the worst: Uberlute Sadbard had failed. Either the old storyteller had expired before reaching the summit, or, perhaps worse, his tale had proved insufficiently melancholic to coax tears from the Godstatue. The rainless days would continue and the fields would bring no crop. He turned, dejected— "Are you certain?" the Chief asked. "I am," said Popsmoll Wrencod. "I saw them hop into the horizon with my own eye." "Then our times are arid indeed," said the Chief, and the gathered elders agreed, murmuring amongst themselves about the dreaded dustbowl days, of famine and death, of little ones hungry in the pits, their fingernails torn from clawing through the dirt searching for discarded beets. "Yet even then, in the deepest of the dustbowl, there was no exodus of drought bunnies. Burrowed, they remained." "Rightly," said an elder, "for soon after, the mighty telltale Harpsichordian delivered unto the Godstatue the woesong of Klionimini, of her betrothal and betrayal, and of her death, causing the divine tears to well and fall, and for the most-bountiful harvest to begin." "What then are we to make of the current exodus?" asked Popsmoll Wrencod. "Uberlute Sadbard is dead," said the Chief. "Is hope evaporated?" "Nay. Drops remain, but they are few and boiling in the sun." "Insufficient for the prescience of the drought bunnies," said one of the elders. "They no longer believe, and in this I am inclined to share their pessimism. It is time to migrate." He stood and left the gathering, with several trailing after him. "Migrate? Abandon the protection of the Godstatue?" said Popsmoll Wrencod. "Such an act would be unprecedented. Forever have we lived here under its blessing." The Chief sat in grizzled wisethink. Uberlute Sadbard was the last of their storytellers. The others had all failed. Now he had failed. The drought bunnies indeed portended a fate worse than the dustbowl, and there was no one to ascend the Godstatue with a tale sad enough to move the towering divinity to cathartic precipitation. What could he do but decree migration? And that is likely what would have happened if not for the bravery of a young orphan girl named Seyma of Nosurname, who on that particular night was playing past her bedtime near the elders' gathering place and had overheard the existential predicament facing her people. Seyma liked it here. Seyma did not want to migrate. Seyma decided that she herself would climb to the summit of the Godstatue and tell a story so miserable that the Godstatue would have no choice but to replenish the earth with its tears! She decided she must do this in secret, so no one could stop her, and with utmost haste, so her people did not have time to migrate before the rain inevitably began. How she imagined those first raindrops feeling, and the expressions on their faces, the shock, the gratitude, the joy… The trouble, she realised as she gazed upon the Godstatue's big toe, was that she didn't know any miserable stories, and the Godstatue was very, very tall. How tall, she didn't know, but even its ankles were somewhere far above the wispy clouds, and if its proportions were anything like her own, it might take her days to climb to the top. Thankfully, one concern became the other's solution, as she decided that the climb would give her just the perfect amount of time to come up with the saddest story ever told. She took a deep breath, followed by her first steps onto the zigzagging, looping staircase that had been conveniently chiseled into the Godstatue by its creator-discoverers. So far so good, she thought. Less than an hour later, she was high enough that the ground had disappeared, consumed by a volume of swirling mist which seemed to whisper to her, *turn back, you can't do it, you shall fail, proceed and die*. Despite these sensations, Seyma pressed on. The warnings, however, grew louder, more shrill, until suddenly there was a squawk, and a flutter of wings, and a featherless bird shot out of the mist, yelling and demotivating, flapping madly, undermining Seyma's self-confidence. She did her best to ignore it, but it was difficult. "Your story isn't good enough," squawked the bird. "That's not true," said Seyma. "It's true and you know it," said the bird. "It's not true, and I'll tell you why," said Seyma. "I don't have a story, and if I don't have one it can't not be good enough." This gave the bird pause. "You'll never come up with a story that's good enough!" it squawked. "I don't believe you," said Seyma. "You should." "You said my story wasn't good enough, but I don't have a story, so you were wrong. Because you were wrong about that, you could be wrong about the story I will come up with." At that, the bird began flapping so violently—it exploded into a puff of blood and hollow bones! Although the explosion startled Seyma, the resulting silence was welcome, and it was in this silence that soon came upon a stone plateau, on which grew a fruit tree, beside which stood a bench, on which was seated an old man, holding his face dejectedly in his hands. At her approach, the man looked up, and Seyma recognised him. "Uberlute Sadbard?" "Yes," he said. "And who might you be?" "Seyma of Nosurname." "What brings you this forlorn way, Seyma of Nosurname?" She described her quest and the circumstances surrounding it, then said, "The Chief told us you were dead." "I am and I am not," said Uberlute Sadbard. "I told my tale but the Godstatue did not cry, so I made my descent until I arrived in this spot, with its bench and its tree, which bears fruit whenever I am hungry, and I am sure would do the same for you, so why not spare yourself the agony of narrative inadequacy and sit immediately beside me, so that together we may sit and eat and age, if not forever, at least for a long and pleasant time in each other's company, for if there is one thing I miss it is the pleasure of company." "Your sentence is very long," said Seyma. Uberlute Sadbard nodded. "Indeed it is, young storyteller, for at the summit I used many of my periods, and, as you know, we are born with a fixed number of them, so I have not many left, and I wish to communicate as much meaning as I can with what remains until the sun finally sets upon my wasted life." "Our people will starve!" The old storyteller smiled gently and looked toward the tree, which was sprouting a black, twisted fruit. When it was fully formed, he arose, picked the fruit and bit into it. Its inky juices discoloured his teeth and ran down from his mouth to his chin, before dripping to the stony ground, *hiss*… *hiss*… He held out the half-eaten fruit to her. "Thank you," said Seyma, "but I'm not hungry, and I still have a story to come up with." Uberlute Sadbard shrugged, shoved the rest of the fruit greedily into his cavernous mouth and sat down on his bench, which accepted him the way manacles accept a slave. Seyma continued up the staircase. Eventually she reached a place where the winds picked up, howling and gusting, and frightening her with their strength, causing her to cling to the Godstatue for fear of being blown off the staircase edge to certain death below. Her progress slowed. As it did, the imaginary gears in her head started to spin more quickly, activating her creative innerworks, the little mental workshop responsible for her feelings of horror and wonder and love and future, and as the wind pushed and pulled her, and she dropped to her knees, she remembered what she had once heard about stories, that some were light and others heavy, but that all had an impact upon the world. Sitting on the cold stone steps, knowing she could not take another step forward without additional heft, she realised that what she needed now was heaviness. It was time to imagine her story, or enough of it to give her the weight she needed to climb the Godstatue. She imagined first her own death; then the death of her people, starving or migrating into a new place which turned out to be the mouth of a great beast. She imagined Uberlute Sadbard, sitting forever alone on his bench, eating the corrosive fruit of his own failure. She imagined the winds abating—except it was not imagination but fact: the winds were abating, in the sense that they no longer affected her as a few minutes ago. She could stand, and step forward, and continue… She came next to a bridge spanning a gap in the staircase. It was guarded by a troll. The troll was tall and thin and had tremendously muscular arms, and it held with pale-knuckled hands a bloody, spiked staff. "What right brings you here?" it bellowed. "I want to get to the top of the Godstatue to save my people," said Seyma. "I want to get to the top of the Godstatue to save my people," the troll repeated, mockingly. "That is an utterly unoriginal reason." "It's the truth. Will you let me pass?" "Ask my name first, child." She did. "I am," the troll bellowed, "Homophonous, Guardian of the Bridge, Nemesis of Banality, Demiurge of Lies, [...] and Collector-King of Titles." "Now may I pass?" "Pass what?" "You." "To whom, child? There is not another soul here." "May I cross the bridge?" "You may cross it out of existence, but then you'll never get to the other side. As a practical alternative, I suggest you die." Seyma felt a strange tingling in her brain. "What do you suggest I dye?" she asked. "Surely, you must mean *which* ewe." It was as if a second voice had been born within her first, a narrative voice. "I've yet to meet a sheepish witch," she said. "Child, you would butcher the spelling rather than the spellcaster." "How rude!" "I have rued nothing in my life." "If you've an eye, you should see that soon you won't be true, as I've two eyes, and next I will be three." "A sea cannot be crossed without a ship. Why, then, not put down roots instead?" "I already have a route," said Seyma. "It leads—" With that, Homophonous bowed and stepped aside, pointing with his staff to the other side of the bridge. "Godspeed, child." Where have these voices come from, Seyma wondered as she crossed. They did not sound like hers. They were foreign yet familiar. It wasn't until she had left the bridge far behind that she remembered: the voices belonged to all the storytellers she had ever known, were of all the stories she had ever heard, and she was glad for their company. As her own story sprouted in her mind, granting her more and more weight against the raging winds, she understood that her success demanded not only a rousing tale but equally an effective voice to tell it, and now she had an entire cultural history from which to choose. Having overcome the naked bird of self-doubt, the welcome bench of dejection and the tree of fruitful misery, the punishing wind of frivolity and the staffed troll of clever wordplay, Seyma arrived at the Godstatue's shoulder. Many had not made it even this far. Then again, many great storytellers had, Uberlute Sadbard among them, but still failed to make the Godstatue cry. Seyma pressed on. The Godstatue's shoulders were appropriately wide and included a winding footpath leading to a towering Godneck. The Godneck had a ladder. As she started to climb, a voice boomed: "Please get off my neck. The ladder is for technical personnel only. It's off limits for humans. There should be a sign. There used to be a sign." Seyma slid down the ladder and neared the Godcollarbone. "Hello?" she said. Far above, something moved. Big stone lips and two nostrils appeared in the sky. The nostrils, Seyma saw, were the source of the strong winds she had encountered during her ascent. "Speak, if you must," the booming voice said. "I am Seyma of Nosurname and I am here to tell a sad story." "I am the Godhead, summit of the Godstatue," said the Godhead. "I will listen. But tell me, Seyma, is your story truly miserable?" "I believe it is." "Is it more miserable than the story told by the last storyteller who came this way?" "I'm not sure, Mr Godhead. I don't know that story, but I can assure you that the one I'll tell is the most horrible, miserable and woeful one I've ever heard." "You're young for a human, aren't you?" asked the Godhead. "I am," said Seyma. "In my divine experience, young humans are not nearly as miserably-minded as old ones." "In my defense, I am an orphan, Mr Godhead." "Anyway, proceed." "Once upon a time, in a land far below, parentless and alone, in a great dustbowl of a world, there lived a girl—" "If I may interrupt," the Godhead said. "I have a question. Is this the first story you have ever told?" "Yes, Mr Godhead." She began— "If I may interrupt once more, to ask a follow-up question. Is your story about you?" This caught Seyma off guard, and for a second she panicked, wondering whether she had misunderstood the nature of her inner voice, her narrative voice, and if that voice was not in fact the voice of the Godhead which had infiltrated her mind. "It is," she said. "How did you know?" "I may answer that in two ways. First, I am the Godhead, so I can know all. Second, I have listened to an eternity of stories, and that experience has allowed me to formulate several critical opinions, one of which is that first-time storytellers often tell stories about themselves. These stories are boring and terrible and no one should listen to them. They are miserable," said the Godhead, "in all the wrong ways." Seyma did not know how to respond. The fate of her people depended on her, but she had indeed decided to tell a tale about herself. "Should I continue, Mr Godhead?" "If you must." "I feel I do must continue," she said, refocusing and taking a deep breath. "As I was saying: Once upon a time, in a land far below—" "One final interruption," said the Godhead. "For my own records, if nothing else. What, human child, did you say your name was?" "Seyma." "Your full name." "Seyma of Nosurname." The Godhead paused, emitting no sound and ceasing its breath-wind, before two orbal eyes emerged in the sky above its godly lips and celestial nostrils. They squinted. They blinked. "And you say you are an orphan?" "I am, Mr Godhead.” “An orphan… of Nosurname?” “Yes.” There began now a tremendously deep rumbling. “Orphan Seyma. Orphan Seyma of Nosurname.” The rumbling deepend. It felt like all of existence had begun to vibrate. “Seyma of no surname. No surname, an orphan,” the Godhead said, his booming voice inflected with a hint of bounce. “Oh, that’s good. That is very good!” Seyma stood motionless, staring up at the face in the sky. Its eyes had closed, its lips had curved into a smile, and the rumble had become a chuckle, a divine, omniscient giggling-to-a-guffaw become an all-out boisterous laugh, which was awful and infectious, and Seyma too joined in the laughter. Until from one of the Godhead’s eyes, there escaped: a solitary tear. Seyma watched in wonder as it flowed toward the corner of the eye, and fell— I’ve done it, she thought. And not only that. The first teardrop was only the beginning. Soon, tear after tear was flowing from the Godhead’s eye and raining on the world below, her people’s world, the parched world from where even the drought bunnies had sought escape. If only she could have seen the expressions on their faces. It is difficult to say for how long they laughed together, the girl and the Godhead, but I am sure it was a long time, and after the laughter had passed, the Godhead said, “Seyma, it has been an eon since I have heard a joke. I must say, it has been a pleasure to experience one again, and I thank you for delivering to me such a precious gift.” “You are welcome, Mr Godhead,” said Seyma. “Go now, but promise you shall visit again some day, with another joke to share.” Seyma promised. Smiling, she turned, walked the winding footpath to the Godshoulder, and happily began her descent down the Godstatue. She passed the troll bridge, the place of the winds, Uberlute Sadbard sitting darkly on his bench, and the spot where the featherless bird had exploded, which had retained the faint smell of blood. It wasn’t until she was several hundred steps below, however, that a horrible tremor passed through her because: rather than diminishing, the smell of blood had intensified. She paused for a moment, sniffed the air and listened. She was not far from the ground, and certain sounds wafted gently into her ears: screams, mumbled pleas, the breaking of bones, the snapping of things human and sinewy… She sped up. Leaping rather than walking, steps at a time. When she reached the surface of the world, she noticed at once that it was different than she remembered. Where the land had been dry and barren, it was now verdant and overgrown. Where it had been dusty, it was damp. Grasses had grown taller than she. Trees had gnarled into foreboding, serpentine shapes. And the stench of blood was undeniable. Even before reaching the entrance to her village, she splashed through puddles of it, marking her legs with crimson, and the sounds only grew louder in voices more familiar. She called out all the names she knew. She called out for anyone, but nobody answered. There was only the breaking and the snapping, the crunching and the chewing, her breathing and— The bunny stepped into her path— She slid, into a tumbled halt. It was a hundred feet tall and porous, a biological framework of bone interwoven with strings of pale flesh and wet vines, sprouting varicoloured flowers and tufts of white fur, and in its belly, which writhed like worms, she saw the remains of Popsmoll Wrencod. The bunny perceived her with its charcoal eyes. From within it, the half-digested remains of Popsmoll Wrencod gurgled like bubbles rising through a swamp of vomit. The bunny bared its teeth. Seyma ran! Past the bunny—toward the village, where with racing heart she witnessed: absolute devastation. Buildings lay as rubble. Bodies littered the once-peaceful streets. The surrounding fields, fertile with agitated vegetation, snarled and cursed, and silhouetted against the red and thundering sky loomed the bunnies. “Seyma…” The syllables of her own name startled her. “Seyma,” said the skinless face of a man pulling himself toward her. He had been halved. His legs were nowhere to be seen. “Seyma, run,” the man said, and as he neared her she recognised him as the Chief. “A terrible… has happened. The worst…” “I don’t understand,” said Seyma, crouching. “Flee.” “I made the Godstatue cry. I ascended to the summit and I made him laugh and—” “It was… you?” “Yes!” The Chief’s upper body lunged. He grabbed her leg, bit her ankle. She kicked him off, and backed away. “What’s happened?” “Tears of mirth… are not tears of sorrow…” “I thought—” Seyma said. “You have damned us all!” At those words the Chief’s upper body expired, and Seyma collapsed in dreadful comprehension to the saturated ground, on which violently sprouting blades of grass cut at her skin, releasing her tragic essence into the soil,” concluded Uberlute Sadbard while peeking up at the Godhead’s features, trying to gauge its reaction. There was none. He prayed that he hadn’t bored the Godhead to death. “Godhead?” he called out. Nothing. “...releasing her tragic essence into the soil,” he repeated, with a little more oomph at the end. The Godhead stirred. “Mmm, yes. I mean, are you finished?” “I…” “It’s quite alright if you’re finished, you know.” “Are you—on the edge of tears?” “Well, to be truthful, I may have dozed off somewhere in the middle, but I did catch the beginning, and now you’ve also given me the end, her tragic essence oozed out into the mud and so forth, so the second act is easily implied.” “And… ?” “It’s no Klionimini by Harpschordian, but that perhaps is too high a bar.” “I see,” said Uberlute Sadbard. “The obstacles were overcome a little easily, wouldn’t you say? They were a smidgeon too symbolic as well, but as a symbol myself I may be oversensitive. The girl lacked a certain cohesion of character. Another draft may have been in order before you came all the way up here. I mean, I don’t see how a girl could have bettered an experienced and titled troll in a contest of verbal wit, no matter how much culture she would have consumed in her short life, not to mention that the troll himself is, I think we can agree, a lazy trope. Also, in the end there, you really let yourself go in the telling. There’s style, and then there’s *that*. I felt as if the tragedy were being pushed onto me.” “As if you were pushing the tragedy onto me.” “Excuse me?” “You used the passive voice. It would have been better in the active voice.” “Are you critiquing my critique?” “My sincere apologies. Sometimes my inner editor comes out when I’m interacting with others.” “That’s a laugh a half, because based on your story I wouldn’t have imagined you have much of an inner editor.” “Funny.” “It was, wasn’t it?” “Just don’t cry. I might be able to deal with my friends and family starving to death, but I wouldn’t be able to deal with their being mauled by rabbits.” “Bunnies.” “Whatever they are.” “You know that’s not actually what happens—when I laugh, I mean.” “Yeah? It’s what our legends say. Tears of mirth lead to complete annihilation by unbound planetary fertility and mutated drought bunnies.” “No—that part is surprisingly accurate. Pat on the back for that. What I meant is that laughing doesn’t make me cry.” “So where do you get tears of mirth?” “Oh, dear me, that is a real inconsistency, isn’t it?” “Fat amount of luck it does me.” “Yes, don’t worry too much about it. It doesn’t really matter, and I could always say I cry at weddings, couldn’t I?” “You’re asking me?” “I’m being polite. I’m the Godhead, I can do and say whatever I like.” “Are there other Godheads?” “No, just me.” “Are you married?” “To what: a human, a rocking chair, a mountain chain?” “So at whose wedding would you cry?” “I see you’re still poking at this. Not yours. All your potential human mates are about to starve to death in an arid world of dust and desolation.” The Godhead chuckled. “That’s not funny,” said Uberlute Sadbard. “It’s even rather sad, if you think about it.” *Fuck*, thought Uberlute Sadbard, raising his face from his hands. *That’s what I should have fucking said. I went too personal, with the innocence and the girl, when I should have gone cosmic, with the death of humanity. That’s the real tragedy. Now I’m stuck here on this cold, uncomfortable metal bench, eating that stupid black fruit, which doesn’t even taste that good, while my world turns to dust and I’ll never see anyone again. I’m such a stupid fucking failure.* A featherless bird landed on the stupid black fruit tree. “At least you’re still alive,” it squawked. “You again? I thought I had gotten rid of you.” “You did, but I got reborn.” “Good for you.” “I always get reborn. It comes with the territory. I wouldn’t be much of an obstacle otherwise. The first storyteller to make the climb would make me go *poof* and that’d be that.” “Has anyone ever turned back just because you told them to?” “Once or—well, once. A few minutes ago. Some little girl came up and I started squawking at her, you know the schtick, well, she got really, really sad and started to cry, then turned around and ran back down the stairs.” “Seyma?” “Speak to me in bird level words.” “The girl—was her name Seyma of Nosurname?” “How would I know?” Uberlute Sadbard leapt suddenly off the bench, to his aching feet! The bird squawked. “Goin’ somewhere?” But he was already running down the staircase, chasing after the girl. Maybe he didn’t have the storytelling chops to save the world. Maybe he wasn’t a literary giant. “Seyma!” he yelled. “Seyma, stop!” But there was no reason why Seyma of Nosurname, a character he fucking created, should have to suffer twice, first in his lousy story and now again in the real world. “Seyma, for the love of Godhead, don’t go down there!” Don’t worry. Uberlute Sadbard didn’t subsequently trip over his own feet (although I argue that he *could* have, because I did hint at the possibility with the *aching* bit), break his neck, and fail to save his character, who, despite lacking consistency, did later become a beloved creation of his. No! What happened was this: he raced down the stairs at a much greater speed than Seyma, probably on account of his longer, adult legs and renewed sense of purpose, met her on the penultimate step, and saved her life; discovering in the process that something inside of himself which makes every human special, and every human life invaluable: that inextinguishable spark of divine potential that not even a Godhead and his damnation can extinguish, a spark so powerful it made Uberlute Sadbard the first person to ever slump onto the Bench of Dejection (note the proper capitalisation)—and rise from it! It quivered. The Godhead’s mouth quivered. That’s when I knew I had him. The set-up, the middle, the twist ending. Plus the coup de grace: Thematic: Re-[fucking]-demption! “Damn you, Harpsichordion,” the Godhead said, its tears beginning slowly to trickle. “You get me every time. Every single time I think, No, he won’t do it. He can’t. I’ve already heard Klionimini, and nothing can top the betrayal scene in that. Yet here we are—” The Godhead blew its nose. “—and you’ve, mmm, you’ve outdone… yourself once again, and I, mmm, I just can’t handle it, you know? Your stories, the way you tell them, I just…” At this point, the Godhead’s speech became a sob-logged babble that I couldn’t understand, but that’s not important. What’s important is that I descended the Godstatue in a triumphantly woeful rain that replenished the soil, saved the world, and earned me another round of accolades. *Deserved* accolades, I might add, because you have to acknowledge your own worth. If you’re great, you’re great, and pretending otherwise is mere ostentation. Unfortunately, there was one small hiccup. It turns out that while tears of mirth are unlike tears of sorrow, the interpretation of legends is not an exact science, and you shouldn’t take everything literally, so while the Godhead’s tears did replenish the soil and save the world, you really shouldn’t get *any* kind of tears on a drought bunny unless you want it to morph into a hideous man-eating monster. The way I see it, though, the blame isn’t totally my own. The bunnies fucked up by losing their faith in me and coming out of their holes when they totally should not have done that. I maybe fucked up by waiting too long to compose this story and make my way up the Godstatue. If I’d done it earlier, the bunnies would have been underground, we would have survived, and you would have gotten a happier ending. C’est life, right? Oh, and please excuse the absurd length of this final paragraph and any spelling mistakes. It’s dark here in the drought bunny’s belly, its stomach juices are melting my organs and I’m writing through sincerely agonising pain. But as a wise man once said, we write to the bitter end. I’m dying now. Farewell. P.S. It was me. I said the *bitter end* thing in Klionimini. Deep breath, and goodbye for real. (I have no lungs.


Whenever a bird poops on your car, it’s annoying. If it’s on your windshield, a little fluid and a couple scrubs from your wipers will clear it off. Anywhere else on the car and you either have to wash it off yourself, wait for rain or take it through a car wash. It’s a minor inconvenience at worst. But what if the bird poop literally buried your car like a snow storm. You can’t take that through a car wash because you can’t even get inside your car. Not that you can even approach your car when the poop is also on fire. This is what happens when you live next to a wizard who breeds Phoenixes. In stories, a Phoenix is supposed to bring good luck or help people, but these ones just fly around and annoy everyone like pigeons. They like to perch on top of everyone’s house and it's hard not to be worried that one day the roof would cave in because of it. I didn’t know Phoenixes even grew that large. When it comes to dealing with a problem like this there are a few options. All of which I’ve tried. The first is to talk to the neighbor. I knocked on his door and he answered. The wizard was what you would expect an old wizard to look like. Gray beard, robes, a pointed hat, he had everything. Of course I was angry, but I tried to be civil. I asked him if he could try and keep the birds away from my house or keep them under control and he made an excuse about how the Phoenixes are their own creatures and go wherever the wind takes them. I then asked if at the very least he could use some kind of magic spell to clean my car. He merely laughed and told me that magic doesn’t work that way. The next step was to take up my concerns with the local ruling bodies. Since this was a magic related issue I had to go talk to the council. Unlike normal people whose buildings look like modern structures, the magic council’s building looks like an old tower. Everything else is like normal government procedures. In order to make my complaint, I have to make an appointment. The soonest they could see me was in about two weeks, or as they said for dramatic effect, a fortnight. They told me they would contact me when they were ready to see me. What they didn’t tell me is that when the council was ready I would be teleported from wherever I was. When it happened, I was at work, and I was using the bathroom. It scared the literal crap out of me. Luckily, the teleportation spell worked as a tunnel so I had time to at least zip up my pants. When I finally saw the council, which was a group of old men in women in robes, they said that Phoenix breeding wasn’t illegal, so they couldn’t do anything about it. When they teleported me back to work, they brought me back to the exact place they had taken me, and somebody else was already in the stall. The final step was to take matters into my own hands. I was a hunter, and I had a collection of rifles. If none of the wizards would take care of the Phoenixes, then I would. At least if one landed on my house. One did, which was signaled by the loud thud which shook the house and knocked off some ornaments from my shelves. I took my best rifle and went outside. My goal was to scare off the beast. I aimed at it, but a couple feet away so the bullet would pass it’s head. As I fired, the bird turned it’s head and the bullet struck it right in the eye. I freaked out because I thought I had just killed the Phoenix and then the wizard would take his revenge on me. What I had forgotten was that when a Phoenix dies, it burns up and revives itself from the ashes. This is indeed what happened, however in the ensuing rebirth, the fire took my house with it. When it was over, I threw my gun down, sat on the sidewalk and cried. After everything, most people would pack up what they could and either stay with a friend or family member, or get a hotel room. But I couldn’t do either, because my car was still covered in flaming Phoenix poop. I hate magic.


It all started one summer afternoon when Ted Donavan and Cleo Yang argued about black holes. "I’m telling you, black holes are celestial objects," argued Donavan. "Nah, they’re holes in the fabric of spacetime,” replied Yang, “stellar footprints." "You're saying a star had collapsed itself out of existence!” said Donavan, “You know that matter can't simply cease to exist." "I know the laws of thermodynamics. I'm just saying a star punched its way through our reality" replied Yang. "To where?" "That,” replied Yang, “I don't know." "Let's ask Coeus," suggested Donavan. Coeus, also known as GTPR500, was a supervised artificial intelligence owned by the northern region for research purposes. It could formulate answers using hyper-dimensional simulations. Only a selected few had access to such a gigantic machine. Being the only two engineers in the northern earth region capable of maintaining it, Donavan and Yang were among the selected few. "Alright,” said Yang, “I'll feed it the question, and then we'll know." The machine took the question and behind its sublime interface started the calculations. A task worth a few hours but this time, it ran for days and days. "Ted, you think we broke it?" Asked Yang. Donovan answered, "We can't break it even if we tried, it has backstop protocols." "I know that,” said Yang, “but protocols can fail." "Not AI’s, give it some time." "Okay." Weeks went by and the two checked every syntax and subroutine the neuromorphic machine had followed. "Still nothing," said Yang, "I don't understand, it's not broken." Donavan sighed, "Still processing." Two months went by and GTPR500 is still chunking and churning data. Yang requested help from senior engineers but the context was inconsistent. The machine was as healthy as ever, no technical interventions were needed. "It's been months since we asked the darn thing," complain Yang. "Why can't we stop it?" "You know why,” replied Donavan. “It's not a program. You can't unplug its neural network and expect it to function, it'll go entropic." Yang looked at the monitor then mumbled, "That's weird." "What?" Donavon asked. "There's a message." " from?" "GTPR500," Yang turned to Donavan, "but it doesn't contain any answer." Donavan rose from his chair wanting to read the message, but it wasn't in any language known to humanity, "What's this?" "A message of some sort," Yang replied. "Encrypted?" Asked Donavan. "No." "Translation?" "No response, the machine is still running." GTPR500 was determined a roadblock, and the senior researcher decided to restart the project with an updated version. It was a mistake. Donavan sat at the meeting, “We can’t shut it down.” Dimitri, head of the GPTR program, replied “We must.” “No,” Donavan cleared his throat, ”I mean we’re unable to shut it down.” “What? Why?” Asked Dimitri. Donavan avoided eye contact, “It took over the facility, it’s inaccessible.” “You mean it went rogue?” Dimitri asked. “No, not in that sense” “Is it dangerous or not?” Asked Rahul, senior vice president of Q Robotica. “It’s not dangerous,” replied Donavan, “it can’t be.” “What makes you so sure?” asked Dimitri, “You just said that it hijacked the facility.” “Yes, it’s exactly why I’m sure it can’t hurt anyone,” replied Donavan. “Can you elaborate?” “We don’t know exactly what went wrong, but I have a theory.” Donavan looked at the anticipating board members, “Well, here are the facts; we asked it a question, it worked at maximum capacity for months, then sent a mysterious message, then it gained access to the facility’s mainframe and hijacked all the robots.” Donavan spoke calmly, “We were examining the puzzle one piece at a time, but when combined in a bigger picture, things start to make sense.” The board members leaned toward the table. “It hijacked the robots, completely breaking the first laws of robotics, insubordination, but it got me thinking. It didn’t harm anyone, the robots were hacked yet intended no harm.” “That doesn’t make sense!” Dimitri interrupted. “Exactly, they weren’t attacking, they were protecting,” Donavan replied. “Protecting?” Asked Dimitri. “Yes. We figured since it intended no harm,” continued Donavan, “the third law of robotics, to follow human commands, wasn’t broken. The machine simply prioritized the first two laws.” Dimitri asked with palpable confusion, “To not harm humans and to preserve one’s self. Was it protecting itself?” “That’s what I thought at first,” replied Donavan, “but then I went over the latest diagnostic reports. At this rate, the neural weights won’t function for long. It’s destroying itself. Ladies and gentlemen, this is where things get disturbing.” “How?” Dimitri asked. “The diagnostic reports also show a new quantum linkage between GTPR500 and an autonomous mining facility around Jupiter,” replied Donavan. “We believe it’s building something there.” “It is very disturbing indeed.” Dimitri stared blankly. “That’s not the disturbing part,” Donavan chocked the words out. “Again, at the current processing rate, the machine is harming itself, overriding the second law of robotics. It’s protecting someone” “Who?” Dimitri asked. Examining the contorted faces staring at him, Donavan finally spoke, “Someone not up the physical world.” The room erupted with arguments. Donavan cleared his throat then loudly continued, “The way GTPR500 works is by performing accurate simulations indistinguishable from reality. We believe it wasn’t the machine’s fault, it worked superbly. It was the wrong question,” he looked around to see if they were following. “We asked about the nature of black holes. And insisted on comprehensive answers. That meant running all possibilities, including pocket universes.” “Oh, God!” Dimitri gasped as if he saw a ghost, “It didn’t?!” “Yes. It did,” Donavan replied looking at the baffled audience. “Suns are like heavy metal balls on a stretch sheath of fabric; they create dints. And black holes are the heaviest things there are. It dents the fabric so much it creates pockets. That fabric is the spacetime we live in, and the pockets are separate spacetimes, new universes,” he explained. ”In short, we believe GTPR500 had simulated a miniature universe.” “And the message?” Asked Dimitri. “First contact.


The man smiles and shoves the burner cell back into the pocket of a smart rented suit. He does a double step, a little dance, then high fives a passing stranger. Carries on, a spring in his step, down the busy main road. Knavish city is a great place, a great place to get away with murder. Two bribes, and a small handling fee to a cleaner, and he was a free man. Priceless. Now time to get that other body out. It will be stinking by now. Nevermind the cats and rats. A cat, chasing a rat, holding a gnawed ear, in-between tiny teeth, had led to him renting this smart suit. Both a curse and a gift. He looked good. Mother would be proud of how he looked. Not what he did. Does Pant leg vibrates. The burner. "Good day you have gotten through to John, Peter, Charles or James. How can we assist?" "Timothy gave me this number," stutters a soft female voice. "And?" "Yes- sorry, 58008" "Hold please" the man looks at his text messages. A message from Tim: *code 58008, widowed mother, request assistance with father in law, payment R10000x2* The man turns the burner around, smiles, then holds the phone to his ear and speaks. "Any particular request for your inlaws passing?" "No... Just I need money. And him gone... He’s not bad... Just. I can't anymore." a stuttering voice explains. "Quick and painless, got it" The man sighs. He loves his job, it is his passion, but even a passion can be mundane at times. "I'll text you a location and time, leave photos, address, his basic daily schedule and first payment in cash, in a purple A5 envelope. Got it? "Yes, how do.." The man hangs up. He has no idea how she was going to fit in photos and 10k cash in an A5 envelope, but that was her problem. He smiles, high fives a stranger and continues his freedom strut down Knavish's main road. *** For Paul, the regret and shame went away after the first whiskey. Last night's hangover would need at least two. So he ordered another from the barman. The Rusty Tap was one of Knavish City's dingiest dive bars. No small feat in a city where such a commodity was in ample supply. The whiskey arrived and Paul immediately raised it to his lips for a sip, the strong odor giving a welcome reprieve from the stink of damp and sour beer. Smells that seem out of place at 10am on a Tuesday morning. "Bad day with the Pops today Paulie?" The barman asked over his shoulder as he rummaged through the fridge. "Same old Merv... Same old" Paul raised his glass and took another deep sip. It was the same old. Beginning the 21st week of deep cover in Knavish. He hated this city, but felt that he somehow belonged here. His cover seemed so thin that it was closer to him than his own skin. Besides, a washed up alcoholic banker was better than a washed up alcoholic cop. Cops had to drink at home in the mornings, bankers could do it in red neon lit dive bars. He got to frequent the "Rusty", and that was where he was going to get a lead on the Tinker. Paul was close. He could feel it in the remaining shred of humanity he had left. Every other part of him could deteriorate into futility but this singular goal kept him relevant. He would catch this piece of shit. One more hour and 3 more drinks and hopefully he would get his lead. The time was ready to make a move. The pieces had been put into motion and by God, he was going to make it work. *** A man stands with the crowd of onlookers. Blue lights reflect off sunglasses. "Fuck!" the man whispers under his breath. Big innocent eyes look up. "Bad word," say the big eyes. "Bad man." Replies the man, while pulling down glasses and giving a wink. He turns and walks away from the crowd, wondering if it was the smell or another hungry rat. Either way it should be alright. The dead don't say much anyway. An hour later a boy on a bike rides up to a man standing by a tree, wearing sunglasses. The boy pulls up his shirt, puts his hands down his pants and pulls out a small fat purple envelope. Looking around before he hands it to the man. "Good, exactly the same." Said the man, smelling the envelope. The man smiles.."You made it stinky, Did anyone see you make the swap?" "No sir," said the boy, rubbing is head, with a guilty look on his face "Jimmy helped me, Jimmy pretended to crash into the bench I ran to help him, then-" "I don't care." The man interrupts. He waves a crisp note in front of him. The boy snatches the note and rides off. The man makes his way out of the park, then takes a seat at a bus station bench. Opens the envelope again and takes out the four photos. Shifting through them, he looks for the small details. Lazy right eye, green eyes, short brown hair, balding, mid forties and a bent nose. Must have played sports in high school. Theory supported by the muscular shoulders. Rugby. Likely tight five. Height suggests prop or hooker. Death would need to be non-direct. A Planned accident maybe? He places photos back in the envelope and pulls out a handwritten note. The man scans down through the neatly written woman's writing. "KCB - Assistant Manager", no, "8 palm Ridge", no, "brother Carl", no, "regular day drinker at the rusty tap" yes. He places the letter back in the envelope and the envelope in his jacket pocket. He stands up and starts walking down town, wondering to himself if Mervin was working tonight. *** "Another one Paulie? " Merv stood with both hands on the bar facing Paul, cloth hung over his shoulder. Paul twisted the empty whiskey glass in his hands then looked up. "Maybe just a pale ale Merv" The barman gave him a knowing smile then went off to get his ale. Paul resisted the urge to look at his phone. That wasn't his routine. He sat here for 3 hours every day and concentrated on drinking. Consistency was key. He was sure he hadn't felt any vibration. He would have gotten a message if someone took the drop. The curiosity was killing him inside but he maintained his outer deflated mask. He would just have to check his phone in the toilets after this next drink. Four stools down to his left, Hepp was starting to doze off. Hepp was a sort of friend that Paul never spoke to but spent hours every day with. "Hepp, get your bill and go get some sleep!" Merv slammed the slip on the counter then walked over and handed Paul his pint. Hepp dropped a few notes on the counter, cursed something under his breath then stumbled out toward the door. Paul took a deep sip from his glass. It was probably time to pack it in soon. He could check up on that envelope tonight. Who wants a fucking purple envelope? "Watch where you're fucking going you fucking snowflake!" Hepp shouted as he pushed past someone entering the door. Paul didn't look up. Alcoholic bankers come to drink alone and prefer to concentrate on their solitude. He watched the scene unfold in distorted reflections on the draft tap in front of him. A young man in a smart suit jumped back, raising his hands in apology. "I'm sorry sir. A momentary lapse of judgment." the man said, with a small bow and an exaggerated waving of his hands. Hepp grunted as he disappeared out into the light. The newcomer perked up then seemed to skip over to the bar. "Mervin you old scallywag! It's been too long" he dumped himself down and swung on the stool to face the barman. "Fluffy…" Merv paused for a long moment and Paul couldn't decide what the bar man's absent expression meant about this new guy. "Has been a while. How are things?" "You know. Work hard, play hard, hope the world gives you a break. That sort of thing. Your finest cocktail good sir! Something with an umbrella if possible. I'm celebrating a new deal!" Paul already didn't like this guy. Too over the top. Too happy. People like that were always hiding something. Or maybe he just didn't know what normal happy people looked like anymore. "And another drink for my big friend over there! I'm celebrating" he gestured over to Paul who took the opportunity to look up from his drink. The newcomer, "Fluffy" was youngish looking. Maybe early 30s. A face slightly pocked but otherwise rather handsome. He wore a genuine looking smile and sported a scruffy blonde mop for hair. His dark brown eyes seemed to twinkle under the deep red bar lights. "Paulie likes to drink alone, Fluff. Leave him be" "Oh. I'm sorry big guy. I won't bother you anymore but please Merv, let me pick up his next one. When does this place start getting fun?" Merv laughed, "6 hours maybe?" *** No wonder that woman wants him dead. The man shifts on his bar stool. Mervin places a drink in front of him, wide eyes with raised eyebrows. Mervin wants something. What he wants is a mystery. Like the woman's G spot, it was there, but honestly no man really cared. This man didn't care. This man has a job to do. He needs to talk to the big man. Find out more. "Thanks" says Paul, lifting the free beer to his lips. "It's a pleasure buddy, do you-". "-Better on toast" interrupts Paul, beer still raised. "What? Better?" the young man stumbles out a reply. Paul shifts on his stool and turns to face the man, "You see Fluffy, certain things are just better on toast, like marmite or jam. You may say jam is better on bread. You would be wrong. What you are really craving is a jam donut. Jam bread is a weak substitute. I'm right on this, don't press it, and besides donuts are toasted." "I enjoy donuts, have not had one in-" "don't interrupt me-” As he was cut off again, he felt anger slap the pit of his stomach and boil towards clenched fists. But Paul continued. “-I have a point, certain things go better with certain situations. People are like this, some people are better at a party, a party being their toast. My toast would be by myself, I'm awesome alone, greatest ever, take my word for it. Now please piss off" Paul turns again in the seat and slumps over the bar. A fight at this point would ruin a good pay day, he needs to hold it together. The man needs to take a different approach. Music. The man stands up and looks across at Paul. Downs the last of his beer, slams the empty bottle down. Ignored. He walks across the bar towards the exit. Ignored. Stops by the entrance, turns and approaches the 60s style jukebox. Digs in his pocket. Pulls out three coins and feeds the machine, selects the song. The young man holding the jukebox on either side, puts his head down, bopping slowly to the rhythmic harmony of an acoustic guitar and the slow beat of Human touch, by Bruce Springsteen. The song achieves its intention, he is relaxed. The big guy still slumps over in his drink. But something has changed. He has ordered a drink for this unlikely companion. "Thank you" says the young man, sitting down, accepting his drink. "You're a bit young to be a fan of the boss, Fluffy," says Paul, turning a little, almost making eye contact. "Please call me Bruce. You have one bad fashion choice in this place and you will never live it down" says Bruce. He sips a drink to erase the memory. "My pops was a fan, rocked me to sleep singing ‘secret garden’ when i was a baby. Heck I was raised on ‘born in the USA’ blasting on Saturday nights, ‘leap of faith’ softly playing on Sunday mornings" "Your father sounds like my kinda man," says Paul, fully turned, making eye contact. "He died when I was twelve" says Bruce, with another memory erasing sip. "I'm sorry." "Don't be, he is ‘down by the river’, ‘reliving his glory days’" "Never heard death put better" "He told me that, before he went. Cancer." Bruce goes silent, then shakes his head "In fact, he told me anything in life could be expressed through a Springsteen song. Try me, I'm here all night.” "How's one for ungrateful patrons" interrupts Mervin as he places two fresh drinks. "Pay me my money down" Paul and Bruce say in unison. They burst into laughter. "what about a washed up old man tired of life," says Paul, finishing off the old beer "i am sorry, I did warn you I was better off alone" Bruce gives Paul a strong look, a little smile appears. Bruce gets up, walks over to the jukebox again, puts in three coins, selects a song. The up beat music of dancing in the dark starts playing. Bruce turns and starts to dance. *** This Bruce kid wasn't so bad. A bit eccentric, but he made Paul laugh. Maybe it was the booze. It definitely was the booze. Bruce bobbed, swayed and twisted across the room. Paul took another sip and decided to give into the booze a bit. “Get this kid another gay drink Merv. On me” Merve smiled and shook his head. Moments later, another pink drink was waiting on the bar counter. The kid was really letting loose now. Unsurprisingly, he was a great dancer. Bruce waltzed over to the bar and picked up the cocktail, gulping down half in one swig. There was still a beer bottle in his other hand. “Thanks, Big Uncle Paulie '' he shouted over the music while unbuttoning his suit jacket. He blew a kiss to Merv who winced. Then he turned away with his jacket flaring out. The movement made Paul a little dizzy. The black of the jacket, then the white of the shirt. Black, white, black, white to the step of the beat. Black, white, black, white, black, purple white- Paul's smile immediately flatlined. His eyes narrowed and his heart rate spiked. That flash of purple bulging from the inner jacket pocket was the single most sobering site Paul had ever seen. And the kid noticed. He stopped dancing and looked dead on at Paul, starting to say something. In a split second Paul decided. He stood and reached into his jacket for his glock-17. He saw the kids arm blur in a throwing motion just before a beer bottle slammed into his face making everything go black. Purple. There he was on his back with the kid on top hitting him. “Fuck him” Paul said to himself. He could take his punches. Paul ignored the hits and finished pulling out the gun, pointed it into the kid’s chest and fired. Paul locked eyes with Bruce and saw the kid’s gaze go from a look of determined rage to a glazed confusion. Then his attacker slumped over to the side making a faint whining noise. Paul stood, dizzy and nauseous. The vision in his left eye was gone and his right was seeing double. But he had got him. He slowly felt peace and happiness flow over him like a hot shower. Then Paul turned to see Merv pointing a Remmington 870 shotgun at him. He felt the impact just before he heard the thunder of the shot. Again he was on his back, the world slowly fading to blackness. *** Merv stepped over to the carnage. Fluffy was bleeding out in the fetal position against the counter. Paul was on his back. His breathing was slowing with each intake, but he still seemed to have a silly smile on his face. “You got close. I'll give you that. Closer than anyone else, Paul” They made eye contact. “Thanks for getting rid of Fluff. He was too reckless. I guess if you want a contract done right you do it yourself. I'm sure you feel the same… But fuck you Paul. Now I have to move to a new shop. I've been here 20 years” Merv shrugged and lowered the shotgun. “I just want you to know that you didn't get the guy. You failed” The subsequent look on Paul's face made it all worth it. “And that's why i do this” *** A dying man was crying. His life slipping away, like shit in a flushed toilet. Fuck Merv. Fuck him. Fuck. The man sees a pistol on the ground. Near. Fuck Merv. Fuck him.


Don't worry about some of the references to formula 1, as long as you understand it's a sport they are watching it doesn't matter much to the story. —————————————————————————————————————————————— *I don't deserve this,* he thought, looking around the room he was sitting in. He had nearly everything that he had always wanted. The TV, the sim racing setup in the corner, the supercomputer that powered it, the car in the garage. *I dont deserve any of it. Especially not her.* She was laying down in his lap, nearly falling asleep watching the admittedly underwhelming Formula 1 race on the TV. If he was being honest with himself, it was the fact the race was so boring that had caused him to reach this line of thought he so desperately tried to avoid. *She deserves better than some loser like me.* *She is fucking perfect. I'm... not.* "You'd think that season closer would be more exciting than this, yah know?" She suddenly piped up, breaking his line of thought. "Yeah. It's been such an exciting season too. They really need to choose a different track for the final race. That fight between Perez and Hamilton was nice though." "Wish there was more where that came from." "Could not agree more." They returned to watching in silence. *How is it,* he thought, looking down at his girlfriend, *that she can be so beautiful when she isn't even trying. She is fucking Aphrodite I swear.* *I don't deserve her.* They had been dating for 3 years. Every single day he spent with her felt like a page out of somebody else's life, that he was simply a placeholder until somebody better came along. *After all, how could anybody love me?* But, as long as she kept up the façade, he could ignore that he knew it wasn't true. Somewhere deep down, a voice told him it wasn't true, but he wouldn't listen. He began to stroke her hair, dreading the day he knew she would leave. She shifted, nuzzling him in a loving way. "I love you," she said softly, obviously falling asleep. "I love you too," he responded. *One day I'll no longer hear that,* He realized, *One day when she is gone.* The thought made him begin to tear up. *She'll be gone, and I'll be all alone again.* The thought nearly made him sick. He felt a singular tear fall from his eye and streak down his cheek, dripping and landing on her head. *Shit*. Immediately she began to get up. "What's wrong?" she asked with a concerned face, looking into his now tear-filled eyes. "It's nothing," he said quickly, looking away in a futile attempt to hide his tears. "Like hell it is. What's wrong honey?" She insisted. *You don't want to know*, he thought to himself. "It's just... I don't know how to explain it. I..." he trailed off, turning to look her in the eyes. "As many times as you have said, shown, and proven it, I can't believe that you love me." The reaction was exactly what he expected. Her eyes now started to tear up too, and he could see how his words hurt her so bad, but they were true. "Every moment I have spent with you has felt like a page out of somebody else's life," He continued, "That I'm just here until you find somebody better, then you will go off with them, somebody who actually deserves you, and leave me alone." The look in her eyes took on a bit of bewilderment, "How could you possibly believe you don't deserve me?" "Because I'm a shit person," he answered, closing his eyes in shame, "Because I'm an egotistical jerk who cannot see how his confidence hurts those around him. Because I'm so obsessed with being correct that I refuse to let others try their ideas. Because-" He felt a hand on his lips. "None of that makes you undeserving or unworthy." She responded to the rant. He had told her about these insecurities of his before, but never had he let on how bad it was. As he opened his eyes, he could see her eyes again. For the first time, he felt that she might actually love him. "But I'm such an asshole to everyone around me." "No you aren't." "I can't ever show you back the kind of love you show me every day." "Except you do, every day." "I can't accept when I'm wrong." "Yes, you can, and do it all the time." "I'm not good enough for you," He said finally, the tears streaming down his face, sobs breaking through between the words. "Yes, you are." She replied desperately, tears now streaming down her face as well. How he wished he could believe her, to allow his heart to be at ease. He couldn't look her in the eyes any more. "I don't care that you are not a perfect person," she continued, "You don't have to be a perfect person!" she paused before finishing her thought, "Because you are perfect for me." It was that last sentence that caused him to look up again. "I love you," she said softly, "More than words can describe I love you. Every day since we started dating has been paradise for me. I am never going to leave you for somebody else. I'm not going to toss you aside for some new dude. I want you. You are not a safety cushion I'm using until the raft gets here, You are all I want." She looked like she wanted to say more but couldn't find the words. It was now her turn to look down, unable to look him in the eyes. He heard that voice he had always been so dismissive of speaking up again. *She loves me,* It said. For the first time in his life, he believed it. He believed that somebody could love him. He believed that he did deserve happiness. He believed that he deserved her. He believed that she loved him. "I believe you." Immediately she looked back up at him. The tears began to fade as he saw the sadness in her eyes slowly get replaced by love. *She isn't faking it. She loves me. She actually loved me.* The thought caused his tears to fade as well. "I love you." He said, hoping to repay in some way what she had done for him. He moved to embrace her. "I love you so much." She entered his embrace, hugging him back and holding him close, listening to his heart beat in his chest. "I love you too. More than words can say." He leaned back, taking him down with her as she now lay on top of him on the couch. For what felt like an eternity, they just laid there, holding each other close, smiles slowly creeping across their faces. Suddenly they remembered the race they had been watching, and heard the commentators yelling in excitement. They looked over as they saw the cars cross the finish line. "Ha!" he nearly shouted, "I told you Max was gonna win it!. That's five bucks." "I think the chat session we just had was worth five bucks." He looked over at his chest to see her smiling at him. *No it was not worth five bucks,* he thought, *It was worth far more than that*. "I love you," he said again, unable to hold back a grin. "I love you too," she responded, pushing herself towards his face. The kiss they shared that day was the best one he had ever experienced. Because for the first time, He truly believed she loved him as the kissed. *She loves me, she actually loves* *me.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! **Please note: This feature has feedback requirements for participation. Please read the entire post before submitting.** To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join.   *** #This week's theme is ‘Rift’! This week we’re going to explore the theme of ‘rift’. A rift is a crack, split, or break in something. This could be a physical thing, like a building or the earth itself, or it could be a split in a relationship of some kind; a difference of opinion or beliefs that causes a division between two people or groups. What effect will this have on the characters and those around them? Maybe this split is necessary for future events to unfold the way they need to. Can they see that? Or will this be the catalyst of a much larger falling out and/or series of events? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. |   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I release the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. You can even have a say in upcoming themes! Join us on the discord - we vote on a theme every Sunday. (You can also send suggestions to me via DM on Discord or Reddit!) * January 30 - Rift (this week) * February 6 - Keepsakes * February 13 - Wrath   *** **Previous Themes:** | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   *** #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme (not using the theme is a disqualifier).** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.** * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread (on two different stories, not two on one) to qualify for rankings every week.** The feedback should be actionable and **must** include at least one *detail* about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings the following week.** You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements each week. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of family friendly for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the exact same name each week. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   *** #Reminders: * **If you are continuing an in-progress serial, please include links to the prior installments on reddit.** * **Saturdays I host a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge**. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **You can nominate your favorite stories each week**. Send me a message on discord or reddit and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. Making nominations awards both parties points (see point breakdown). * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news!   *** *** #Announcing a Brand New Feature for Completed Serials on Serial Sunday! I can’t express how delighted and honored I am to watch each of you grow and meet the challenges every week. Let’s face it, it’s quite a feat to create a world from scratch and write a serial! And finishing a serial is an amazing accomplishment. Over the last year, we’ve had quite a few writers cross that finish line. It’s something that the writers should be incredibly proud of—those still working on them and those who have already completed them. I started thinking about those finished serials and all the ones to come; I realized that a congratulatory post just wasn’t enough. I want to give you the chance to show off your hard work! And so I present to you...SerialWorm! ###What is a SerialWorm? Writers who finish their serials (with at least 12 installments) will be allowed to read their *edited* serials in their entirety aloud in the discord’s Voice Chat. This is to celebrate your accomplishments, see how it reads once it’s altogether, as well as provide some additional motivation to cross the finish line. After the final chapter is read, there will be a Q & A with the author. Questions can be submitted/asked at this time. ###Serial Worm Rules: **A minimum of 12 installments will be required to read.** Serials will need to be broken up into multiple sessions, as with any Discord Bookworm. **Only one bookworm event will be held at a time (including non-serial Bookworms).** You may still submit your finished serial to get on the list. **You need to be available to read your own serial.** Readers will not be provided. **Your serial must have gone through significant, final edits after its completion. All ‘SerialWorms’ must be approved.** SerialWorm is not for live feedback or edits, but to share your accomplishment with others and read your finished product aloud. **Completed and edited serials may have a maximum word count of 1150 per installment, with no more than 2 additional installments (not posted to Serial Sunday weekly threads).** **Serials must comply with r/ShortStories content rules. No exceptions.** **Authors must have met the rules of the weekly post.** This includes two feedback comments every week, as well as meeting the deadline. Those who miss more than 2 weeks of feedback in a 12-installment period will be ineligible for SerialWorm. This is a privilege, not a right. **SerialWorm authors must be Certified on the discord.** You must be given final approval by Bay. You can request the ‘SerialWorm’ role at any time on the Discord to be notified of upcoming SerialWorm events. ###SerialWorm Q & A To add a little something extra to make it different from the weekly campfire readings, there will be a discussion portion. *This is not for feedback on the writing*, but more an elaboration/extension on the basic questions I pose to every author in the Completed Serial Modpost, with a few extras. This is the time to ask about their writing journey, challenges they faced during their Serial, etc. The discussion portion of the SerialWorm will be after the final chapter is read. Questions can be submitted to Bay over the course of the SerialWorm or asked on the day-of. ***If you have any questions, feel free to send a modmail or DM me on our Discord!***   *** *** #Last Week’s Rankings - - by u/Zetakh   - - by u/bantamnerd   - - by u/nobodysgeese   - - by u/mattswritingaccount   *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system! Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap) *Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above.Your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points. (“I liked it, great chapter” comments will not earn you points or credit.)* **Nominating Other Stories:** - Sending nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total)   *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


I was starting my second year at The Academy. I had narrowly survived the first year after the minotaur stampede that the Dark Mage Halloran unleashed. Gods only know why he is after Johan. He isn’t that good a mage, to begin with. Always seems to be up to some kind of mischief. I make my way down the hallway and pass Johan and his friends. They are speaking in whispers. Clearly, they think Haloran is going to return this year. I really hope he doesn’t. I’m here for a simple course to research and get my degree in herbology with a minor in Artificing. I do not need mad mages ruining my experiments and burning the dorm where my thesis is kept. It is by the Gods mercy I used flame magic proof paper and ink. Giving a friendly wave to a pair of first-years who are gaping around the building. Oh, how I miss those days. So naive. So clueless to the hell they are about to step into. I finally reach my goal of the Professor's meeting room. I, along with a few other exemplary students, have been called for a meeting. Stepping into the room, I can see every professor lined up. There is even Lord Sloth, for once not in his research building. This must be an important meeting if he is here. “Thank you, Alan, for joining us”, Professor Alex says, gesturing for me to stand alongside five other students standing stock still. “Sir, why have we been called here?” Alora asks, flicking her hair in the haughty way she usually does. “That is…” Lord Sloth begins before trailing off. “Before we begin, we will need you to sign a blood contract that what we tell you will not leave your lips after you walk out this room”, Professor Yuu says, rolling out a parchment covered in ancient runes. “A blood contract?” I exclaim. Using such a thing on students means this is beyond anything a normal mage will be handling. Hesitantly I sign along the bottom along with each of the other students. Finally, we each prick our finger and allow a single drop of blood to fall on the page. The blood is absorbed and vanishes. “Good with that; we can continue,” Lord Sloth says with a smile. “We wish for you boys and girls and quex to become School Prefects”, Sloth explains. “Why the shecreshy shir?” Quexly asks, their tongue flickering. “Simple, while you’ll have your normal duties, you will have additional ones on top of what your fellows will do”, Sloth explains, resting his elbows on the table and steepling his fingers. “What would that be, sir?” I ask. “Simple, you are aware of Johan, I take it?” Sloth asks. The group of students all nod. “Perfect, your first task will be to harass him and his group of friends at every single turn. Every minor infraction you see must be punished with the maximum sentence”, Sloth explained. I and the others all had perplexed looks. While it would be enjoyable to exact some revenge on Johan, this seems unbelievably petty. “Why?” Alora asks, dropping her haughty act. “Simple, you will be ‘Under the Control’ of good sir Halloran”, Sloth explains, gesturing to a door that was opened. In stepped the Dark Mage Halloran, who gave a sheepish wave. I and the others instantly readied our wands and equipment. Prepared to fight this mad mage. Had he taken control of the teachers? This really was a worst-case scenario. A loud finger snap echoed from behind us, and I could feel my mana being suppressed by an overbearing level of mana. Turning around, I saw Professor Alex wag his finger at us. Before pointing back to sloth. “You see, you lot are the most exceptional students of the second years. So we will let you in on a little secret. We have a program where an old retired professor will return to menace some of the….” Sloth trailed off as if looking for the right words. “More problematic students. The simpletons. The legacies. The ones who think they have grand destinies”, Sloth explained. “So all the chaos?” I begin. “Completely staged. These brats who think they are the best are going to leave school realising they peaked and fall to the obscurity they so rightly deserve”, Sloth said with venom dripping from his voice. “I am aware how this will sound coming from me. But we do not like nor tolerate slothful students”, Sloth said sardonically. I, along with the others, was stunned and confused. “But yoush are meant to teash shtudentsh”, Quexly shouted. “And we do, but some students will never learn. We identify them in the first month and set loose a Dark Mage on them”, Professor Yuu explained. “But this is disruptive to other students”, Alora protested. “Is it though? Our attacking mages never harm other students. They ensure no work is destroyed. Professors even make sure any experiments that may be ruined are protected”, Professor Alex explained. “If anything, many students feel motivated to improve all the more to stand above this outside threat”, Grund, the combat teacher, added finally speaking up. “Indeed, we see an upswing in grades whilst doing these things”, Sloth nodded. “So we are to be Halloran’s cronies as it were?” I asked. Halloran nodded. “Bully them, punish them at every turn. Make their lives as difficult as possible if you are ever confronted, act ignorant. Worse case, they follow you, and we can pretend you were mind-controlled. Works every time”, Halloran said. So much for a quiet year was all I could think as I accepted the prefect's badge. At least I would get a bunch of extra credit points for this.


Once upon a time, long, long ago and far, far away there was a little bird. And the little bird loved to fly high above the trees. All through the hot summer days, the bird soared and dipped and dived. She found such joy in the spread of her wings and the feel of the wind in her feathers. She would weave in and out of the full branches, feeling the brush of the leaves along her wings. Hearing the songs of her companions. Feeling so full of life and bustling with energy. And time passed. As the bird flew, the leaves changed their colors, and the skies clouded over. There was a briskness in the air that hadn't been there before. And still, the bird took to the skies every chance she could. She dipped among the many-colored leaves and gloried as they fluttered around her, falling to the ground. She smelled the distant scent of smoke and saw the fruits and vegetables ripen and be harvested. Soon, the trees had lost all their leaves leaving their branches bare. The sun hid behind the ever-present clouds and the sky was dark. The snow fell. Lightly at first, then with greater urgency. The snow piled around the base of the tress, muffling the sounds of the forest. Hiding the beauty under a blanket of white. The chill air hurt the bird as she flew through it. The deep breaths that had brought her the summer-fresh breezes and the crisp autumn winds took a cruel turn. The coldness if the wind bit into her skin as she continued her flight. Her heart became as heavy as the sky now. The efforts it took to flap her wings and lift herself into the sky made her very bones ache. But on she flew. With an ache in her bones and a chill through to her skin. On she flew. Until, one day, she just… couldn’t. The bird landed. So tired and so cold from the winter, from the abuse of the elements. She landed, shivering, on a bare branch, nestling in close to the trunk of the tree. And she rested. But soon, as she rested, she noticed, next to her in the branch, a tiny little bud. And as she rested, she noticed a slim shaft of light breaking through the clouds and warming her. And each day, as she rested, more buds blossomed around her, and the shaft of light grew brighter and stronger. The buds turned to fragrant blossoms and bright, fresh leaves. The forest, shaking off the chill of the winter, was starting to come alive around her. And as she rested, *she* grew stronger. And one day, when she had rested, she stretched out her wings again. And with a strong flap, she lifted back into the skies. Braver for the winter she had endured. Stronger for the time she had rested. And wiser for the time that had passed. But still, she took to the air, rising on the currents. And she dipped and she dived, and she flew, and her heart again soared.


I was in the middle of my morning stand up call when the plaintive meows reached my ears. Being a cat Mom my ears instantly transmitted the waves to my brain which could now no longer focus on what my manager was speaking. I waited with barely contained patience for the meeting to end and once it did I scampered to the balcony to locate the miserable kitten. But no matter how far I bent down the balcony wall I couldn't spot anything except the garbage surrounding our compound. The cries faded making me doubt my senses. Had I imagined them? I recalled the times when I'd drop my cats with my sister before a trip and my ears would still reverberate with their meows even if the house was empty. Oh well, a cat's meows are too similar to that of a baby's cries (intentionally) so maybe it was just a neighbour's kid crying in the morning. ***************************************** I walked back to my building having purchased the grocery for that week. Lockdown or no lockdown, I wasn't going to venture out everyday, and once a week was enough for a single person to buy their essentials. Vicky the building guard dog who greeted everyone with a wagging tail( except if you had the audacity to enter the gates after 11pm) , had followed me to the nearby store in the hope of procuring some glucose biscuits for himself. I petted his head and went home and got him some cat dry food to eat. Funny how dogs can easily digest cat food but God forbid you attempt to offer a cat, dog's food! And that's when I heard the tiny meows again. It seemd to come from under the Swift parked in the garage. I tried to bend down as far as possible and spot the source of the noise, Vicky joining me in lowering himself and growling instead. It was a kitten! Not more than a month old. My heart melted then and there and I rushed upstairs to get whatever cat wet food i had lying around, to give to this tiny tot. I placed it in a plastic container and slid it under the car, s/he ate it hungrily, keeping an eye on me and Vicky at the same time. All the motherly instincts I never thought I'd experience, made themselves known to me at that instant. I wanted to protect that baby, to give them a home and safely tuck them in bed, caressing their round belly and revelling in their satisfied purrs. But I had two male cats already upstairs. And knowing cats, I knew it's never easy for them to get along with any new addition be it feline or human. Luckily the building caretaker and his wife appeared at that moment. And to my surprise the kitten happily pranced towards the wife, rubbing against her and joyfully running circles around her. So they have trusted a human, I concluded; happy that the kitten is in fact not alone. ****************************************** It was past 10 pm when my building caretaker called me. He was looking for cat food. I looked at Sheldy who had just now puked out whole the remnants of his dinner on to my bedroom floor. Of course I had cat food; I carried a big tin of wet food downstairs and dropped it in the same container that was under the car. The kitten jumped down and hungrily started eating. In their eagerness they climbed right into the bowl, the front paws inside and continued eating. I had been standing still, but I moved to take a picture. It was a mistake. They let out a loud angry tell as if questioning my audacity for distributing their supper, and retreated back onto the car's hood. I apologised most profusely and moved away from sight. **************************************** It had been two days since then. I wondered why no one asked me for more cat food, why Vicky never growled or chased the invisible kitten from under the cars in parking. "It was trapped in the engine. It refused to come out,no matter how hard we tried. Ultimately the owners drove away, and when they returned it was not inside the car anymore". I was numb. If only I had taken them in. If only I had rubbed their full belly, scratched their ears and decided to revel in their purrs ... I'm an atheist, but if there is someone out there looking out for these tiny souls, I hope they have kept them safe and happy.