When I was little, my father told a story. It was a story of ancient times, before him, before his father. Before man. A story of gods and monsters. A story of Titans. Long ago, when the world was cooling, the first beings rose from the primordial ooze that covered the planet. Beings of immense and immeasurable power. These beings, who called themselves the Elysians, thought themselves to be the Earth Mother’s will. They could shape her form with only a swing of their mighty limbs. She trembled beneath their every step. Their breathes would cause storms that raged for days. The Elysians were the firstborn children of the Maiden Earth, and thus were made to stand above all that would come after. Born to be gods. Not all the Elysians were content to simply rule over their sibling races, however. A powerful warrior called Havi felt that he should stand above the others. He felt that even among the Elysians, he was superior. He called upon his brothers and sisters, told them of his thoughts. Some called him mad, said that installing a monarch among them would only cause strife. Others of his kind agreed, though not all thought that it should be Havi who would rule. Slowly, over many millennia, a rift formed among the Elysians, the mighty gods. Where once they were equal and proud, this schism tore them apart. A bloody, gruesome war scarred the flesh of poor Mother Earth as the first of her children split apart. Three factions were formed, and three factions fought. The first of these groups were the Asrithi, rallied behind Havi in a bid to conquer and rule over all others. The Asrithi, in preparation for war, had studied magic in its purest forms. They could call storms with ease and would use powerful weapons to beat their opponents into subjugation. To oppose their tyrannical siblings, the Aurra’Maaz rose. Benevolent and wise, they sought only to reunify as equals, to maintain the status quo. Gifted with the magic of Creation, the Aurra’Maaz erected stalwart walls and hardy lesser beings to fight for them. They claimed to rule as a democracy, but the wise Elohyym served as their voice and the most respected among them. Finally, from within the ranks of the Asrithi came the Olymparate. Those Elysians who disagreed with the selection of Havii as the Monarch of Elysia instead allied themselves with a sky-king called Dyauss. Under his leadership they formed an oligarchy of kings and queens, with each choosing to specialize in a unique aspect of magic. Dyauss, the strongest among them, was said to be unbeatable in combat. The war raged for eons. With each clash of her children, the Earth wept. She would heave and tremble and shake and split. Great chasms scarred her flesh, so deep and wide even the Elysians dared not risk falling into them. Soon, only twenty-six Elysians remained of the thousands that had once lived. Nine were Asrithi. Sixteen were Olymparate. Only one of Aurra’Maaz remained. Unlucky Elohyym. He had watched his brothers and sisters die around him, cut down by yet more of his family while he only grew stronger. Where once his greatest strength had laid with the powers of creation, eons of loss had warped his mind. His infinite creativity turned toward more sinister powers, and slowly, ever so slowly, he lost himself to madness. Abandoning the name that the Earth Mother had bestowed upon him on his creation, he bade all that saw his terrifying Hex Magic call him by his chosen title, Luxilishan. Seeing what this feud had done to their eldest brother, Dyauss and Havii called a truce and attempted to reason with the mad Luxilishan. This, however, only ended in the loss of Havii’s right eye while Dyauss was beaten within an inch of his life. Luxilishan had proven stronger than both powerful brothers combined, capable of conjuring hordes of nightmarish creatures with a wave of his twisted and deformed hand. It was only through Havii’s quick thinking that nothing more than an eye and their pride was lost, as he was able to distract Luxilishan long enough for Dyauss to harness the power of the Rainbow Bridge to spirit the pair away. Even with his remaining siblings in hiding, the terror of Luxilishan did not cease. He instead turned his sights on the fledgling races that had managed to avoid extinction. He tormented these beings with his nightmare army, forcing upon them acts of malice and depravity. Havii and Dyauss, though not rejoining, knew that Luxilishan could not be beaten by either one of them alone and thus the Asrithi and Olymparate formed an alliance that against their wicked brother. The two factions conspired together to create a plan to split the power of the Mad God in half and combined their magic to create a weapon capable of doing just such a thing. Hephairon, the Olymparate forge master, created Gungnir and Astrapes for Havii and Dyauss. The two legendary spears would be able to cleave Elohyym from Luxilishan if used together. Simply splitting these two aspects, they knew, would not be enough. One would need to be sealed away from the other, to keep them from ever rejoining and resurrecting the Mad God. After a few centuries of preparation, the time finally came for the allied pantheons to face their twisted brother. The battle between the was brutal, twenty-five Elysians finding themselves losing ground against their eldest sibling. Havii and Dyauss were given no opportunities to strike as Luxilishan released wave after wave of monsters. In a desperate bid to turn the tide, Tywazz, the loyal lieutenant of Havii, sacrificed his right arm to bind Luxilishan long enough for Havii to drive Gungnir through the Mad God’s chest. Dyauss wasted no time using Astrapes to strike Gungnir with the sky’s fury, forcing the madness of Luxilishan from Elohyym’s form. The diminished Luxilishan wildly rushed towards his other half, only to be bound by Sheolus. The eldest Olymparate sacrificed himself to bind Mad Luxilishan, flinging the pair into the deepest of the Earth Mother’s pits and using his corporeal form to create chains that would hold the Mad God for as long as his own will held strong. On the surface, Havii, Dyauss, and the remaining Elysians stood over the weakened form of Wise Elohyym. He was emaciated and frail, though he also appeared at peace for the first time in eons. He pleaded that his brothers remain allied and leave him be. He wanted no more bloodshed between family. Ultimately, the other two agreed to go their separate ways and divide the dominions of the Earth Mother between the three. Elohyym was given the Southern Realms, a peaceful kingdom where he could rest easy and guide his people with a gentle hand. The Olymparate decided upon the Western Realms, a fertile kingdom of farmland and seas. They passed down the importance of strategy and philosophy to their people, instilling in them profound ideals of free thought. Finally, the Asrithi took the Northern realms as their own and created a hardy people, powerful and skilled warriors who held honor and glory above all else. The three kingdoms prospered and grew as the scars of the Elysian War slowly healed. Elohyym never really recovered fully, and eventually withdrew from his people entirely, only intervening when necessary while the story of his Mad half slowly found its way into their minds, giving birth to the legend of Elohim and Lucifer. The Asrithi eventually became known as the Aesir Gods, the Rulers of the Wild Norsemen. The Olymparate, after creating a stronghold atop their realms’ tallest mountain were renamed the Olympians by the people they protected. As time grew long and guilt ate away at the hearts of the Asrithi and Olymparate, they too withdrew from their people. They came to deem themselves unworthy to lead after the parts they each played in the torment of their own brother. Instead, they came together one final time to create a bloodline of champions, born of both factions, to protect the world from the same terrible fate they had set upon it. Once this task was done the powerful Elysians withdrew into their lofty homes amongst the skies, hoping that their final gift to the world would be enough. This was the story my father told me and it will be the story you pass on to your children when I am gone, for this is the story of our family. It reminds us of the terrible power we wield, of the destruction caused by unnecessary violence. We as the scions of Elysia of a duty to be protectors, a safeguard against those that would misuse power in any form so that the mistakes of our forefathers are never repeated. We are the last of those mighty guardians and when I die, you will be all that is left of us. My son, take heed of this tale. Engrain its lesson deep within your being. Once, there were Gods, powerful but fallible. Now only we remain, a final gift to a healing world. A safety measure to ensure the circumstances that allowed a being like Luxilishan to rise never happen again.


Coming back to DC was something I never thought I’d do. I grew up hearing the stories: how it used to be the capital, about the surprise attack, and the remnants that remained. In fact, even being this far up the coast was unnerving. After eighty years, nothing seemed like it’d gotten back to normal or that it ever would. It was as if the whole eastern seaboard retreated inland when DC was lit up. The only people who lived here now were the ones who were changed. The van slowed to a stop. The driver, a muscular man sporting jet black aviators, an earpiece, and a pistol turned to me and my chief of staff, Aaron, in the back. “We’re here. Make sure your suits are fastened tight.” I turned to Aaron. “You ever worn one of these things before?” “Yeah, once,” Aaron said, “Make sure it’s snug.” Aaron pulled the zipper of his nanotryte suit up to the top of his neck and then clasped the four buttons at the top to keep the zipper in place. He then placed the reflective helmet on top of his head. I followed suit. We hopped out of the van and made our way up to the driver who was about a hundred feet ahead of us. “This is as far as we can go. Any closer and not even these suits would protect you,” the driver said, staring straight ahead at the ruins. “What’s your name?” I asked, eyeing him awkwardly. “A-549d3k” “That’s not—don’t you have a human name?” I said. The driver didn’t answer. He looked down at his feet as if contemplating whether he remembered his name at all. “Fred. My name is Fred,” he said finally. I nodded turning away from Fred and out towards the ruins of the White House. Smoke rose from the rubble as if the building still smoldered some eighty years later. My mind ventured to church as it often did. There was always talk growing up of judgment day and how the sinners would be the ones left behind. The Pastor would yell and scream and wail and raise his fists. I used to marvel at it. It was a special kind of theater. Now, I thought what if judgment day had already passed. “This whole place is a wasteland,” Aaron said, surveying withered husks of apartment complexes that dotted the edges of what was left of the National Mall. The stump of the Washington Monument poked out like a nub, the rest of it either obliterated in the blast or lost in the piles of rock that surrounded it. Aaron turned and put a hand on my shoulder pulling me in close, “I’m gonna go back to the car and make some calls. We should head out in fifteen to make it to the ANCF event on time.” As I took one last look at the remains of the nation’s former capital, I debated whether or not to blow the ANCF thing off. The Association of Non-Denominational Churches in Friendship’s annual gala was being held tomorrow and I was invited. In reality, it was just some podunk association of mega-churches that wanted to interview me and give me an award. I was the one who had convinced Aaron to leave a bit earlier so we could make this detour into the heart of DC. I turned to Fred and asked, ‘You have family around here?” I looked straight at him, his face motionless betraying nothing. He shifted slightly and said, “Uhhh, yeah, down by Georgetown.” “How are they?” “Fine.” “Good,” I said. \-- *“Welcome back, everyone! I believe we are now going live to Olivia Fields, who’s on the ground in Charleston where the protests are raging. How many Scarred would say are out protesting tod—”* The signal cut out as the TV screen turned to noise. I wasn’t surprised. It’s a miracle these small towns got any connectivity at all with how thick the cloud cover had gotten these days. I surveyed the green room in which I was now situated. A bank of TVs to my left showed a three-camera live feed to the auditorium where Jake Hannible was giving his monologue dutifully reminding the attendees about the offering plate that would make its rounds later. A lanky man in a button-down shirt that was two sizes too big monitored the feed, flicking a button every once in a while, but mostly just dozing in and out of sleep. “Jim? Jim Pennywalker?” A petite woman with a small clipboard and an ear mic stood at the door to the green room. I raised my hand in a brief acknowledgment of my presence and then walked over to her. “Am I up?” I asked. “Yep, you’ll be on in three minutes. Follow me backstage. You’ll be coming on stage right. Shake Jake’s hand. Pause for a few shots. Take the award and then sit on the couch. Jake will ask you a few questions and then you’ll leave. Got it?” I nodded, eminently sure that I’d forgotten every word she’d said. I had been to a few of these things over the years, though, so I wasn’t too worried. I walked onstage and spotted Jake, offering a handshake. His palm felt clammy to the touch. I looked at him. He had the expression one has when they are physically in the moment but mentally had checked out hours ago. As the audience cheered and several photographers snapped away, we meandered over to a pair of chairs situated behind us. “Welcome Jim, thank you for coming all this way. I know West Virginia is a bit of a trek for someone from Florida. How was the trip up here?” “Thanks,” I said, “I am so glad to be here and accept this honor. The trip up was fine. One I’ve made a few times over the years.” “Take any stops along the way?” Jake’s eyes narrowed slightly. I felt like a monkey in a cage being leered at by knowing scientists. “Yeah, we made a few.” “Did you stop in DC?” “Uhh, yeah we did a brief detour there. I’ve always wanted to see the remains of the White House. My mother used to talk about it all the time. “ “Ah yes, again we all were sorry to hear about Mildred’s passing. We were praying for you,” Jake said. “Thank you.” Jake paused, his eyes shifting off into the distance as if mulling in his mind the phrasing of his next question. “Jim, it does seem odd to me that a member of the Risen Savior Alliance would venture so far into Scarred territory.” “All I did was visit a monument. Nothing more,” I shot back. Jake’s narrowed again, but then in a flash that look was replaced with a smile. “Well Jim, as I said, it’s been an honor. Thanks again for coming and stay safe out there,” Jake said putting out his hand again. I took it and then made my way off stage, mumbling an incoherent thank you as I went. I rode back to the hotel in silence, turning my conversation with Jake over and over in my mind. Aaron was on his phone next to me organizing the schedule for the rest of the trip and Fred was upfront driving the van. “Tomorrow morning, we’re scheduled to have lunch with Bobby at 12:30 so we got to make sure we’re up early,” Aaron said, not looking up from his phone, “Fred, could you make sure to have the car running by 9:30?” “You got it,” he said. “How many more stops we got?” I asked, leaning over to Aaron. “Well, we’re meeting with Bobby tomorrow and then the Secretary’s dinner in Columbus the following day,” Aaron responded still not looking up from his phone. “How important is it that I go to that?” Aaron looked at me with a thinly veiled smile that was some sort of mixture between shock and horror. “You told me yourself this whole trip wasn’t just to accept some tacky award, right? It was to feel it out. Take the temperature. This is how we do that?” He whispered. I looked at Aaron for a while and then leaned back in my chair. “Yeah, you’re right, you’re right. Sounds good.” I turned my head and stared out the window, my mind fluttering longly towards the wet rolling marsh grass of Summitville and how I couldn’t remember what possessed me to take this trip in the first place. \-- Bobby was thirty minutes late to the meeting. As the West Virginia Head of the Patriots Party, he was a busy man. I heard a loud bang and turned my head to the entrance of the restaurant near the hostess stand. There he was in all his slovenly entitlement. I never liked Bobby. He waved to me. I nodded and turned back towards the table taking a sip of lukewarm coffee and nibbling on a bit of egg. Bobby waddled over. I was afraid he might tip over if he went too fast. As he passed by me to sit in the chair opposite me, he laid one of those hands on my shoulder that said I’m sorry to hear your mother passed, but I only learned that fact today and not two months ago at the funeral. I smiled, not willing to get pulled in. Bobby still had some crumbs from a previous meal taking up residence in his beard. Couple that with the rancid alcohol that was on his breath, and it took everything in me to not get up and leave. “Jimmm.” Bobby hung onto the “m” as if his mouth was permanently stuck in that position. “I’m sorry to hear about your mother, Jim,” he finished. “Thanks,” I said tersely. Bobby shuffled into his seat and flagged down the waitress, barking his order of scrambled eggs, bacon, and biscuits and gravy as she made her way over. It had been a while since I’d been up north but Bobby was a blatant reminder of why I had stayed away for so long. His was a legacy of failing upward into vital positions of power. “So Bobby, I’m sure you know why—“ “You’re looking to run, no?” Bobby grunted in between bites of egg and bacon. “Yes.” “Not gonna happen,” he said. “Wait, what do you mean? I’m running,” I responded. “You’re too moderate Jim. People are worried you’re too soft.” “Bobby, I head one of the largest parishes in Florida. What do you mean?” One of Bobby’s eyes twitched slightly. I wouldn’t be surprised if he dropped dead from a heart attack in two years. “Ever since Mildred started to go downhill, people got worried. She said some things. And then the incident with Cato? Jim, it’s just not your time yet. Wait a couple more years. We’ll take you off the bench then.” My face felt hot. I would be lying if I didn’t say there was a small part of me that wanted to reach across the table and strangle Bobby in the chair where he sat. “Is this coming from you, or—?” “Straight from Chicago. We’ve already chosen our guy,” Bobby shot back. “Who?” “Vince Bakersfie— “Vince?” “Jim, lower your voice. It’s done. Now we expect you to throw your support behind him,” Bobby said with a thin toothy grin, “For the good of the party.” I didn’t say anything. I got out my wallet, laid a couple of bills on the table, and left. \-- “You’re the guy who wrote that op-ed?” I looked around the bar to see who recognized me. A few washed-up bikers talked amicably at the far end of the bar and a middle-aged woman chain-smoked cigs at a table in the back. Besides them, the place was dead. I turned back in my chair only to come face to face with a brown-haired, bespeckled young man sitting next to me, too close for comfort. I nearly fell out of my chair in surprise. “Jesus Christ, what do you want? And back up a bit would ya?” I said, doing my best to keep my balance and not make a fool of myself. “Apologies, it’s just not every day we get someone of your caliber in our town’s bar. I thought preachers weren’t allowed to touch the stuff,” the man said, speaking quickly and gesticulating wildly with his arms as if he was a character in a sitcom. “If you could please, just leave me alone. Let me be. Thanks!” I responded, motioning to the bartender for another drink in the hopes of registering clearly my dismissiveness of this conversation. The man didn’t take a hint. “Who writes an op-ed denouncing anti-abortion laws and still manages to keep his job as a preacher?” the man asked. I shrugged in response. I couldn’t help but feel like I was under interrogation. “Look, I don’t even know who you are. Please stop harassing me or else I’m going to call the cop—“ I said. The man raised his hands in surrender, pausing for a moment as if trying to decide whether or not I was worth further conversation. “Forgive me,” he said, “my name is Stevie Marriot. I’m a consultant for DMA.” I nearly spit out half my drink. “DMA? What brings you guys here? To West Virginia” “We want you to run,” Stevie responded, far less animated and energetic, making me think his earlier schtick was an act. “Me? Run for president? Are you nuts?” I said, waving the bartender over again in the hopes of getting rid of this looney toon for good. “Here’s my card. If you decide to run give me a call,” Stevie said in a low voice, placing a card on the table in front of me. It said “S. Marriot, DMA.” I flipped it over and all that was on it was a phone number. “Is there a problem here, sir?” I looked up and the bartender, a burly man with thin eyes and a large forehead, was staring at me. “Umm, no sir,” I said, “My friend—“ I turned to the chair next to me only to find Stevie gone. I turned back to the bartender. “Uhh, nothing. Nothing’s wrong. All good here, man. Thanks!” I mumbled. The bartender frowned and lumbered away. I just sat there staring at the card. It was gold on one side and black on the other. \-- “The Democratic Martyrs of America want to draft you as president?” Aaron said, pacing around our hotel room. The question hung in the air, each word inviting the dissent and dissection. Aaron struggled to hide his adverse opinion of the idea. Next to him was Fred, my driver, and Rebekah, my communications director. I looked at everyone individually trying to get the best read I could or at least any read at all. I knew the DMA was problematic. They’d been practically non-operational for almost eighty years and for me to happen upon a supposed member in a random bar in West Virginia felt strange. “Well there’s no harm in calling the number,” Rebekah chimed in. She sat gracefully, cross-legged on the floor next to Fred who was leaning comfortably against a wall. A framed pastel painting of a beach house hung beside him. Stevie’s business card sat on the bedside table next to me. I grabbed it, turning it over and over in my hand. It had some heft to it and the phone number was indented, contrasting nicely with the solid gold textured background of the card. “It would certainly grab Bobby’s attention,” I said to no one in particular. The room was quiet in response. Fred looked deep in thought. Rebekah was fiddling with one of her shoelaces and Aaron was deep in his phone. “Thanks, everyone! Can I have the room?” Aaron said, still not looking up from his phone. Rebekah gave Aaron an annoyed side-eye glance and then sauntered out. Fred followed. Aaron moved to a chair directly across from me and breathed in deep as if mentally preparing himself for what he was about to say. “You can’t do this. It would ruin your credibility if it went sideways, and it’s likely to go sideways because all we have to go on is a business card from a creep in a bar. This could easily be a plant from one of the lesser parties — maybe, Climate or Freedom? — Point is this is too much of a risk? You do this and your career is over. I know the meeting with Bobby didn’t go as planned, but you wait for just two, maybe four years, and you could easily run for a major—“ “Aaron, relax. I was just curious. That’s all. I’m not gonna do it,” I said. Aaron let out a sigh of relief. “Good,” he said, kneeling down next to me, “And look like I said, a few more years you’ll get approval to run for a serious office, I’ll make sure of it.” I nodded. Aaron got up, grabbed his phone, and left. A moment later he poked his head back in and said, “Oh, and Mildred would be proud of you.” I nodded again, unsure of how to respond, still turning the business card in my hand. Aaron took one last look and then darted out. I set the business card back on the table. Looking at my watch, it read midnight so I quickly changed into more comfortable pajamas and brushed my teeth. Turning out the lights, I laid face up on the bed with my legs hanging off the end. I felt unsatisfied. This trip hadn’t gone the way I’d hoped and there wasn’t much to be done. The political winds had spoken.


When I was a kid I had a monster at the end of my bed. It wasn’t like everyone else's monster, all teeth and scary eyes. Mine was different. Every night, when the lights went out, there would be nothing at the end of my bed. A horrible, ominous mass of nothing, looming in the dark. Some nights the nothing would touch me. Those nights were the worst. I would be engulfed by a feeling like coldness. It wasn’t cold though, wasn’t anything really, but it was like cold, like the idea of cold. I know that doesn’t quite make sense, but that’s what it felt like. When the nothing got too near it was overwhelming. I could feel it pressing down on my chest, making it almost impossible to breathe. The nothing would loom over me, an inch away from my face, too close. It didn’t have any recognisable features, wasn’t anything close to human. It was just a mass of nothing at all. A big, gaping absence. I can still remember that exact feeling, being a small child paralysed by fear. An indescribable terror, of nothing. Nothing physical, nothing real, nothing I could explain. But, like all kids and their monsters, I grew out of it. The nothing stopped appearing at the end of my bed, and eventually I thought about it so little I almost forgot about it entirely. Now I had proper adult things to worry about like taxes and climate change. I was about 24 when I noticed it again. It wasn’t the same as before, but still, i recognised it. My nothing. It came back so gradually I didn’t even realise it was there for so long. I was at work, sat at my desk, trying to focus and refocus and focus again on something deeply meaningless. I felt something like coldness. Not cold, but something close. Time shifted, I couldn’t tell if it had sped up or slowed almost to a halt, but it had changed. The wave of nothing slowly abated, but I don’t know if it ever went away entirely. It came back again the next week. I had been walking to the station. The wind hit my cheek, but I didn’t feel it. Or I did? But not as much somehow. It was as if I knew the wind was on my face, but I knew it in a different time, or a different place. My walking became somebody else's. Somebody I was watching. Like playing a game, I was controlling a character, I knew it was mine, but somehow it wasn’t me. Over time the nothing engulfed me. It filled my body, compressing me into the centre of myself. I no longer touched the edges. Everything I saw, felt or did was through a thick membrane of nothing. It began replacing parts of me, displacing them with absence. Like a parasite. It ate parts of my memory, I would lose names, whole people and moments of my own history. It took my joy, and my sadness too. It was totally indiscriminate. I was small, inside myself, and everything was so hard. I fought so hard to even exist. I was fighting nothing, there was nothing there. Nothing oppressive, nothing parasitic. Just me. I’m not a little kid anymore. There are no monsters under my bed. I am scared of nothing.


#Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills and areas in which we excel, as well as places we’d like to improve. So I’d like to present a brand new weekly feature. This will be a weekly thread to discuss all things writing! And… to get to know your fellow writers a bit! Each week I will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion. Feel free to chime into the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, etc. You do not have to answer all the questions, but try to stay on-topic! *** #This Week’s Roundtable Discussion **This week I want to talk about Focus. For me, it’s one of the most important parts about writing but also one of the most difficult. What I need to help me stay focused on writing is quiet and comfort but you might need something different. So this week’s question is:** **What helps you focus on your writing?** #Introduce Yourself: - **We’d like to know more about you! How long have you been writing? What’s your favorite genre to play in? Your favorite book? Anything! Let us know in the comments!** *** #Reminders - **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** - **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussion in any form will not be tolerated. - **Please try to stay on-topic.** If you have suggestions for future questions and topics, you can add them to the stickied comment or send them to me via DM or modmail! *** ###Subreddit News and Happenings - Come practice your micro skills on or experiment with long-form writing on - You can also post serials directly to the sub! Check out for more information.


I slid my clothes off and cranked the shower knob, holding an orange in my palm, toes and fingertips heating up red. Brushing dirtspace from my wet knees. Crouching in the clatter, sinking my chin lower into my chest. Silverfish climb the curtains up to the cracked ceiling. Citrus smell joins the hot steam between careful bites, and I watch little hairs suck down the drain in a dark whirlpool. Glowing red capsules churn inside me. Ten, maybe twelve. Swallowing them pill-like makes me less nauseous than the syrupy version, but sometimes that’s all the store has. Tonight is a mix of both (and the fruit hides the taste of glue). Cut the water shivering. I lay out my towel and just sit until dry. Seeing double now, two towels. I put on loose boxers and a long shirt. Limbs lag through the holes at ten frames per second. Opening the bathroom door now. A dim night light blinks in the hallway, plugged low by The Old Woman. She’s in Hawaii this week (and I must remember to pay her when she gets back). There’s two doors in my room, but it’s really true, I’m not just seeing it that way. One to the hallway and one to the backyard. I squint at the clock by my bed and think. Lover Boy should be here soon. I hear taps at the backyard door. It’s the cat. She slinks between my legs and camps in the cubby of my nightstand (only it’s not a nightstand, it’s an apple crate turned upright to look like a nightstand). I look outside for a sign of Lover Boy. I see grapefruit trees, plastic flamingos and tarped furniture. A wheelbarrow, too. No Lover Boy. The dark sky is bright, shaded misty gray by the distant stadium lights. I hear the hush of leaves and skin. It’s him. He emerges from the gap in the fence like I told him to because The Old Woman has a camera at the front door. He calls me beautiful. He asks if my name is really Mango. Of course it is. Lover Boy jumps up onto my bed. I try to do the same but I can’t feel my legs, and I fall. You’re bleeding, he says. I tell my tongue to say something but no words come out. My head wobbles down, connected to my neck like a Slinky. He’s right. A red drop made it to the surface. I wipe the blood with my thumb and lick it clean, smiling at Lover Boy. Lover Boy studies the way my boxerfabric clings to my crotch. A coin flip for him, one outcome luckier than the other, wondering if I’m more boy or girl. His hand glides under my waistband. My eyes would be shut but I notice a dead bee caught in his hair. Lover Boy seems happy. I can’t feel what he’s doing, the red slush of cough medicine in my stomach turning me ghost. He’s like a mime then. The cat watched from the floor and I wished she would leave but then she jumped on Lover Boy’s head and ate the dead bee. I tried to laugh, paralyzed below Lover Boy and the cat. The noise part of the laugh came a few seconds late, brain and body lagging still. Don’t go, Lover Boy.


Every time the elevator doors open to your floor, you think to yourself, "I really wish I didn't live all the way at the end of this hallway". The buzzing lights are just a little bit too dim, and you feel eyes behind peep-holes following you as you tread quickly and quietly over the stained carpet. It feels like an eternity, but when you finally get to your door, you realize you've forgotten to pull your keys out from your pocket. You try to look back towards the elevator using your peripheral vision as you jam your right hand into your pocket to grab your keys. You don't want them to get you by surprise, but you also don't want them to know you're looking for them. Shit. Your keys snag on your belt and drop to the ground. Their jangling is deafening in the hum of the hallway. You bend your knees slowly and wince as they give away your mistake with a small cracking sound. But you keep your back fully straight and maintain peripheral eye contact with the elevator - they won't catch you off guard. Your left hand brushes the dirty carpet below. Fuck. Where are the keys? You can't look down because you know the moment you stop paying attention, they'll be right behind you. You realize that your back is entirely wet with sweat. You steel yourself and quickly glance down - there they are. You snatch them from the ground and immediately straighten your legs, shooting upwards into a standing position. The feeling of doom in the pit of your stomach drives your eyes to dart right back towards the elevator. There's nothing there. But this doesn't help you feel any better. You still need to get the key in your lock. You've done this so many times that you know the feeling of your apartment key in your hands, and you identify the correct key without looking away from the elevator. You start the search for the keyhole - you know where the lock is, and you know the teeth of the key point up, but the keyhole is small. But you won't look away from the elevator again. With a slight tremble in your hands, you blindly scrape the key, teeth upright, against the lock. Two agonizing seconds pass. Where's the hole? All of a sudden the key slips in easily as you hear the comforting clicks of the tumblers. You realize you've been holding your breath. You turn your key clockwise, still with your eyes on the elevator. The humming feels louder - you can almost feel it buzzing behind your eyeballs. You need to make sure nothing follows you inside. The lock opens and you push down the handle. The weight of your body against the door pushes it open, but as soon as it's wide enough to let your body through, you dash inside and slam the door closed, never once taking your eyes off the gap between the door and the frame. You're home.


Go ahead, ask anyone about the life and lies of Squidward and I assure you, there will be an overwhelming amount of negativity to suffer through. This hate against the classic villain from SpongeBob has been fostered over years of careful production, through hours of screenwriting and voice acting. Squidward is portrayed as the evil of the show and naturally, that means he is. The off-blue octopus did not have an easy life, of course. Living next to a neon yellow, overly enthusiastic, and possibly mentally ill sponge with his cognitively impaired best friend takes a lot of energy that the character just didn’t possess. As introverted of a character as he was, it also seems cruel to put him on the front lines of a restaurant, dealing with navigating the ins and outs of society. On the other hand, the sea creature wasn’t necessarily the friendliest in return, even when one factors in the inner workings of the story, seemingly all set against him by default. Having lively neighbours isn’t necessarily a justification to be stuck up or rude, as Squidward has been described. People have even gone so far as to describe him as a “terrible person” who “doesn’t deserve anyone’s sympathy,” credit to u/\[deleted\]. Is this judgement too harsh? Could it be that Squidward is a being merely longing for love, but having his heart broken time and time again? Only time can tell, and it surely did. As one may or may not think, depending on their dedication to SpongeBob or simply their intelligence quotient, after the era of SpongeBob ends none of Squidward’s personality will have mattered anymore. Not one thing, good or bad, could be remembered by him or his peers, unless of course you consider the producers of the show to be peers. On that day, the entire era, the childhood of many, the show will be ended. That’s right, the flow of creative work came to an end and media began a new period in time. But this leaves the mind scattering to find peace – what happened to Squidward? Now, of course, the characters of the show could not have died, it is simply not feasible. The death of something that never truly existed – is that really possible? Well, in a sense yes. But think not of it as a physical death. The characters simply ceased to exist, leaving behind everything they called home but at the same time one most wonder… are they not still there, stuck for eternity in the closing scene, down in Bikini Bottom? In the famous words of Billie Eyelash, when Squidward falls asleep where does he go? When you think about it closely enough, it all really makes sense. He’s in a constant state of being somewhere between the living and the dead, a sort of Limbo, if you will. He can’t feel, see, hear, smell, or taste anything, as all his spirit is tethered to are fading memories, as soon as those memories die out, whatever is left of him now will just be forgotten by the sands of time, a place where many a soul will always end up. The rest of Bikini Bottom has suffered the same exact fate. Empty streets with buzzing streetlights, vacant homes alive with mildew and molds, not a whisper to be heard, just the material plane left untouched for eons. Not a soul present, yet not a soul removed. This, to the purest and innocent of souls, could seem overwhelming. It’s not anything to fear though, this fact of life. That is, for most people. But then, of course, a select few, the Chosen Ones if you will, have the desire, the pulling force that guides them to look deeper within themselves and discover the dark truth. That maybe, just maybe, death really does exist for those in the Bikini Bottom. And that possibly, in some alternate universe not fully discovered but slightly unsheathed to those most worthy, the characters of the show lay in wait. Their bodies decomposing into smithereens just as the houses crumble and the stove corrodes. Of course, they can no longer feel it. You may think. They are, of course, gone, dead or not. But then you realize that in some glitch in the metaverse, they feel everything around them. They are simply unable to react. Squidward can still feel the pain of his entire life, stemming from the pure hatred stacked upon him from his first day of existence. You wonder if maybe, just maybe, Squidward is able to reflect, feel, but not react. And then you realize, as you, now embodying the being and whole of Squidward, drift off into what may seem to be a fever dream at first. But you know it is real. Of course you do. Enter Squidward, a man who had no desire in life other than to make others happy, to keep them well. Life did not harbour the same plan for him. Flipping burgers wasn’t where Squidward wanted to be. His one true desire in life, the only thing that could truly make him happy was… nothing. And it wasn’t a matter of being picky, no, it truly rested in one’s realization that the squid would never be remembered in a good light. The Creators, the worshipped ones, had decided that an enemy of the plotline was needed and that decision, in and of itself, created both a victim and a monster. Squidward. His generous, giving personality did not match the attributes assigned to him, in fact they went against the biological capabilities of a being’s brain. And so eventually Squidward snapped and became what he was portrayed as. At first it was difficult to conform, but soon it became a part of him. At first his true being started to become merely ‘watered down’ by the mask he was wearing, but soon this mask became a part of him, whether forced or by some sort of… intrinsic evil nature. Squidward became the person he swore never to be, and while most of his brain had become in line with what he was his morals, his ability to simply know what was right, had not changed in the slightest. And so he was not happy, knowing that he would be remembered as the squid with no heart but with no ability to change this fate. The moody, depressed squid. The picky squid. And he was. The ending of Bikini Bottom was a bittersweet moment in time for the middle-aged squid. As he continued to grow old, he had grown more into this bewitched personality and completely lost his true identity, but his moral standings for what was right had grown stronger by the minute. And so as Bikini Bottom faded to a grey and white memory, Squidward did as well. SpongeBob lost all life in his eyes, Patrick lost his smile, Mr. Krabs’ blissful nature disappeared. But Squidward, besides the change of color, had no change in the lack of life behind his eyes, or his always annoyed facial expression. As Squidward’s entire city crumbled around him and his ever-conflicting biological alterations came to a standstill, he did not care. Even in Squidward’s last moments of life, of being, of existence, no life in his eyes was detected. It had never been. As long as the Squid had existed, he had been seen as a terrible person, one with no capability to love, to feel. Little did they know that he was capable of such things, but that they had been ripped away by the capitalism of the media once again. Bikini Bottom would never be his home, not after what they had done. And as the city lay still, one by one, everyone forgot about the emotional turmoil “Squidward’s character” had caused them. But Squidward, his conscience and his being, will never forget. He will remember. You come to, with either a new realization or a deeper one. Squidward is in the multiverse, thinking and feeling, with conscience but somehow, lacking consciousness. But of course, in a world with so many possibilities is it not foolish to assume that this is the correct one? What secrets are revealed in another, undiscovered territory of the verses that we have yet to experience? Well, of course, it is just as foolish to attempt to dwell on this, and to figure out every possibility in a sea of them. But there are some things that simply need to be touched on, spiritually and physically. The slide guitar being one of them. And of course, you and Squidward, your souls now morphed into one in a way from your past experiences, feel yourself drift into what seems to be another experience. But this time, it is not out of body. You can feel yourself, your tentacles, your bald head. The clarinet you enjoy so dearly to play seems to harmonize with another instrument off in the distance. You guessed it, of course you did as a long-time member of Bikini Bottom – it’s the slide guitar. And unbeknownst to most, but to you and to Squidward; a sad slide guitar plays somewhere in the distance just out of earshot. A weeping soul, broadcasting it’s last hoorah on our soul wavelength; you then realize, it’s not sound your hearing, the guitar is communicating with you directly. It’s but a messenger for feelings previously unfelt, experiences most unknown, warnings and omens of the coming trials of tomorrow. We have yet to face them, but they will surely bring us to that same dingy lake one day. It reverberates through the trenches of the abyssal zone in the deep ocean, snippets of information being lost in the dense mass of water. The surrounding pressure feels, strange. Void of life, you may not realize it now, but this world you believe to view is devoid of any life, including you, a cob which has left behind it’s husk. A wandering spirit. These pitch black navy waters crushing you down but only in a silent and determined way. Millennium pass during your trek of these deep sea trenches. As you exit this mind-altering state of being, you do not feel fulfilled as with the last flash of vision. You are filled with envy and with dread – almost as if you are beginning to experience an existential crisis, if you will. But different than you have felt before. This leaves you feeling, feeling more than you believed to be humanly possible. You may not want to hear more of this dreadful, eye-opening material but curiosity and a passion to know what is beneath keep you from turning to the exit. And so you move forward through the dark halls, taking turns in directions never before travelled. You open doors that are pathways to memories, new experiences never showcased in the seemingly happy show. You are in the backrooms, of what you do not know. Each door you pass is a possibility, and each you do not open is one you will never gain knowledge from. You stop at the passageway featuring a cascading blackness, a level of unlight you did not know to be physically possible. And it isn’t. But you are no longer in the physical world, no. You have entered the limbo. You are the limbo. Opening the door provides a wave of dark, sinister feelings but with that you bear more knowledge. And the further you walk through this, the more you realize, and the more you fear. You come to a great fork in the road that is existence, you choose the one that calls to you most. And you are faced with yourself, and with the turmoil of life itself. He still lingers in the salty depths of the underwater world, deep below, farther down than any human was ever meant to survive. But we, we feel this thing that Squidward is experiencing, some lost in translation, but a burst of passion, if anything. This abyss leads places that intelligent life may never know about, these deep winding tunnels only mocking us, coaxing us deeper into the depths of the unknowns. There is no fear, no sadness, no happiness, nothing. We have only ever experienced, and only ever will, but only so much. Squidward knows of this as well, he refused it his entire waking life, even during sleep at times. A miserable life led to nothing other than a foggy cavern of mystery for our beloved Squidward. What an unfortunate series of events, from the canned milk to the clarinet, he was a mortal soul, calling out into the void, praying for an answer. None was given. Now he is left alone in this moisture to contemplate what he once was, a mind without a matter, a life, without death, and a death, containing nothing other than his true essence. Fear. Running out, back, up out of the dark state of mind you are in seems to take forever. And of course it does. The state of mind cannot be changed once it has been altered like this. You become one with this darkness and you are permitted to leave the abyss. But if you do not, you will stay in the depths and eventually become one with it, but not by choice. You accept the depression, the terrible realization that what once was will never be. And of course you are let out of the abyss, but there is nothing else to life other than the abyss now. Everything has lost its color; you are fading just as Squidward has. All that is left are the possibilities, and they envelop you. One stands out. In it, you are back to a realization that you have almost had before, but with a much deeper understanding of what is and what is not. In this alternative way of existence, you do not see Squidward but you know of his presence. Unbeknownst to the sea creature, he was born into a world where abstract constructs are all the eyes will ever see. This deep longing he dealt with his entire life, compacted only into a thought, occurring within a split second; ceasing continuation within an infinity of time, going by in a spark. This bursting decadence he once felt, then stifled by his own machinations. Soon not to be, and to be, he never was, he lives on in one way or another. His fleeting light, trapped in a limbo, a one dimensional plane, with four dimensional pieces. His whole life, though passed and experienced, he knows nothing about. Memories begin to fade, what once was his life, his love, his hatred, and his pride are all burning embers of an extinguished flame. Though he knows not now, he is subject to what many might consider a personal hell, what mortal minds see as bad, he merely just sees it. Without a body, he is left to only receive. No sight, no sound, no taste and no feeling. Merely his fading memories there to guide him, confused and dazed as a life form, he is now a supernova, a black hole, a universe. But once more, he knows not of what he witnesses. Staring into the deep blue and pitch navy-black trenches of the abyssal sea, he wanders, searching. Though a lost spirit, he is curious; a feeling once again felt after decades of empty existence. On, off, on, off, he lived only once in binary. Flowing now, he is able to see what he once missed out on, fearful of what lies past the horizon of this cruel pressure. Non-physical, he may be, but every immeasurable amount of pressure he still bears. Eons pass as he wanders the boundless stretches of lonesomeness, stuck in a timeless zone of constant fluctuation. The feeling has been present since the end, an instant realization that these waters, as large and infinite as they may be, they are lifeless. Devoid of any and all other conscious beings. Numbness may be the only description of this silent cavern of salt water. What lies above the surface he has never tried to explore, in dreams he may venture to god Neptune, nay here, he lay quiet. This deafening hollow landscape, fading exponentially, some may want to reflect. This soul we watch after does not. Distant steel guitar plays, just out of earshot, it weeps for us all, though of course, it’s only sitting in with his own reality. Playing notes never once before heard, it carries a message hidden between each memory, faded but available, it is found once more. His soulful coil ever changing in a non-Euclidean sort of way. His last moments of activity consist of more wandering, the same wandering he refused to give up in his physical being. Gone. Inactive. Wiped away, he ceases to exist, you may believe he was once here, but as a mortal being, we may never know the truth of our own inner workings, and those who have already left us in more ways than one. Sands of time have consumed his every part and trigger, everything that was once around him growing mildew and mold. Wallpaper slowly ripping itself off of his once habited abode. At the point in which you are, coming back from such darkness no longer seems to be a possibility. You long for the bliss that SpongeBob and his friends possess, and that is when you realize that Squidward is more a part of you than ever before. Squidward was a being entered into the Limbo before any other, existing in a world he was not meant to be in. Would you be happy in such a way of life? Of course not, and this has been proven to you today. It seems that the only thing you could really find comfort in at this point is the satisfaction of knowing that someone relates. Squidward. But of course, who is to say what is and what is not, as previously stated? How can we be sure that Squidward is what we think he is? The only real proof of Squidward's existence is from the creator's mind, so at the end of the day he could be completely different, and the animator could just have a bias against him. Is it possible that a very similar, yet different biologically of course, Squidward-like-human exists somewhere. Technically Squidward could be anyone, since no one has proof of how he looks or what he's really like, beyond the mind of the media. You could be Squidward, but you wouldn't know it since your brain doesn't have the capacity to understand that it is. No one is Squidward, he does not exist. But everyone embodies him, in every way, shape, and form. You exit the journey, no longer the same, no sense of joy within your soul. Every aspect of ignorance and bliss has been stripped from you, and you are left in the desolate and dingy lake. It is too far below the surface for anyone to see you and help you out, but too close for you to lose your last sense of hope and stop treading the waters. Oh what a realization it will be when it becomes known that you are tethered to the bottom of this bottomless abyss. There is nowhere to go but down, and there is no end to life or to death in this Limbo either. You hear the guitar somewhere beneath you, and you hear the sounds of boats atop the lake. Squidward is everywhere around you, but no where in sight and not reachable by any force known to man or to any living matter on the known universe. His weeping may be heard another day, from another sky than ours, he will call you, he will call I, limbo may be around the corner, but that will never stop you and I from living what he may have never been brave enough to live.


At the height of the pandemic, I quit my job, packed up my life, and moved back in with my parents. Moving back into my childhood home came with many conflicting emotions—while it was something nostalgic and familiar, I also felt like a stranger in my own home. Luckily, my parents welcomed me and my puppy Brownie with open arms; after the death of our beloved family dog 2 years ago, it was clear that they enjoyed having some companionship around the house again. It was a good change for Brownie as well—I could tell he preferred living in an actual house versus our cramped studio apartment in the big city. He loved having so much more space around him and enjoyed exploring all the new smells in the neighborhood. On our walks, I would usually take Brownie to a small park near our home as most dogwalkers in our neighborhood frequented that area. I had also befriended some of the regulars there, so it was a good opportunity for both the dog and I to socialize within our new community as well. There was a larger park located outside our neighborhood that was more quiet and serene that I had never taken Brownie. Our late dog Samson had loved this park but we hardly ever took him there because it was farther away (~20 minute walk each way). So for Brownie’s first birthday, I decided to take the long trek to this park to kickstart his big day with a new adventure. As a former street dog, Brownie had very strong instincts; sometimes it seemed like he had a built-in GPS. He had never even been to this park but as we got closer to it, the harder he started pulling towards it. He knew all the turns and paths to turn to get there—even I had to navigate our way there with Google Maps. Without a beat, he dashed past the playground, swing set, and benches to a fenced off area that I had never noticed before. It was the size of a dog park enclosure, although it didn’t seem like it was one as the grass looked pristine and unused. There wasn’t any signage that indicated what this area was either. Right in the center of the garden was a patch of beautiful flowers, arranged in a rainbow-like gradient. Brownie sat in front of the open gate begging to go in. I was hesitant because I didn’t want him to mess up the garden as it looked like private property. He absolutely refused to move so I relented, “Fine, just five minutes.” I looked around to make sure no one was watching us and went in, closing the gate behind us and taking off his leash. As usual, Brownie sniffed and galloped all over the garden. I was worried that he would make a mess but thankfully, it didn’t seem like he had left any marks. This place seemed like a paradise for him and he didn’t want to leave, but I stuck to my guns and enforced the five-minute rule. After some whining on his end, I had to carry him out and walk him home. The rest of Brownie’s birthday went well. We got him a doggy cake and invited some friends and their dogs over for a party. He got all his favorite treats and all the love from his favorite people (and me). As I was getting ready for bed at 11pm, I noticed Brownie sitting by his leash. Once he saw me looking at him, he started to whine, indicating that he wanted to go for a walk. It was strange because we never walked him this late at night so he had never asked to go out at night. “Sorry boy but it’s late, I promise you’ll get a longer walk tomorrow morning,” I said. He didn’t seem happy with my response and started crying loudly, borderline howling. Not wanting him to wake up the entire family, I gave in and started putting on his harness and leash. The second we were out of the door, he started running in the direction of the large park. “Brownie, slow down boy,” I wheezed. “I can’t keep up at this speed for 20 minutes.” He stopped and sat, looking around as if to re-evaluate his surroundings. He spent the next couple of minutes sniffing the ground and after that, he took a different direction, leading me through a series of unfamiliar alleys. As we were still new-ish to the neighborhood, I had absolutely no idea where we were going and honestly, I was a little afraid of what we were getting into. However, no more than 5 minutes later, we arrived the large park. Somehow, Brownie had found a shortcut to this park—which was very impressive. Thankfully, the park was brightly lit by streetlamps so I felt more at ease, although there wasn’t a soul in sight. Once again, Brownie begged to enter the fenced garden. “Five minutes,” I said, and we went inside. As I closed the gate and bent down to unhook the leash, I heard something footsteps and panting coming towards us from a distance. I looked up to see a white schnauzer running towards us, its tongue sticking out and looking overjoyed to have found us. The dog completely ignored Brownie and came right up to me, rubbing his face all over my leg and licking me all over. This poor baby had probably been lost in here without its owner and was dying to be let out. He looked just like Samson and reminded me of him as well, because he would also nuzzle & lick me every time I came home for the holidays. “Aww hi baby,” I cooed as I squatted down to pet him. “Are you here all by yourself? Where is your family?” He looked at me with longing eyes and licked my face. “Aww you’re so adorable, you look just like my Samson,” I said as I looked into his beautiful brown eyes. His ears perked up as he got even more excited and started running around me in circles. Meanwhile, Brownie seemed elated to have found a new friend; he followed the dog trying to sniff his butt. Upon noticing Brownie, he stopped, sat, and stared at me with sad eyes. “Oh I forgot to introduce you two! This is Brownie, today is his first birthday so go easy on him,” I joked. “He may look scary but he’s a sweet boy just like you so you will get along great!” Brownie tried to nuzzle up to him, licking him all over his face but the dog looked devastated for some reason. After a few moments of petting him and trying to get them acquainted, the dog started to perk up and reciprocated Brownie’s licks and butt sniffs. They got along great, chasing each other around the garden and rolling around in the flowers. After about 10 minutes of playtime, both dogs came back exhausted and laid down on either side of me. I took this opportunity to search the lost dog for any ID tags but he didn’t have a collar or anything on him at all. I reached for my phone to take a picture of him but realized that I left it at home as I thought we were just taking a quick walk around the neighborhood for Brownie to potty before bedtime. The dog crawled into my lap and looked up at me with his big sad puppy eyes. He was such a sweet, adorable dog and I felt bad for how sad he must have felt being all alone here. I was glad he was having a good time with us. As I got Brownie ready to leave, I realized I couldn’t just leave this dog alone in the middle of the night. I didn’t have an extra leash with me so I tried scooping him up into my arms. He happily obliged, but once we walked towards the exit, he jumped out of my arms, ran towards the flower patch, and laid down there. “No it’s okay sweetie, I just want to give you a nice warm bed to sleep in tonight. We’ll find your family tomorrow, okay?” I told him. He still refused to budge. I tried carrying him out of the gates a few more times but each time, he would leap out of my arm and lay in the flower patch. Even if I didn’t carry him, he would refuse to follow me out of the gate. For a dog that looked at me with so much love in his big eyes, he sure did not want to go home with me. I checked my watch and it was close to midnight. Brownie seemed exhausted and I had to let him go home to take care of him. “Fine, you can stay here tonight,” I told him. “But we will be back here first thing in the morning to help you find your family, okay?” He just stared right back at me. I felt my heart crumple with guilt as I turned around and left the park with Brownie. I had only known this dog for less than an hour but it felt like I had abandoned him. Brownie looked sad to leave as well, but I couldn’t keep him out there all night either. The next morning, I recapped the events of our night-time adventure to my mom over breakfast. “I’ve never seen a fenced-up area at that park, it must be some kind of construction work,” she said, sounding quite surprised. “Maybe, but it didn’t look like there was any kind of work going on there at all,” I responded. “The garden seemed quite tranquil and well-maintained as if it were someone’s lawn.” “Who even leaves a dog at the park in the middle of the night?” “No idea, I know I felt awful leaving him behind but I had no other choice, he completely refused to come with me. He was a white schnauzer that looked like Samson and he seemed to like me while I was there.” Mom gave me a hard time, saying I should have tried to take the dog home with us and that there was no excuse to leave him behind to fend for himself. I know it was wrong of me to do so, but I had genuinely tried all that I could to lure him out. Annoyed with my bad decision, she decided to come with us to the park to help check on the dog. “Come on boy, take us through the shortcut again,” I told Brownie. Again, he sniffed around to find his bearings, but he looked back at me with confusion in his eyes. I sighed. “Fine, I guess we’ll have to take the long route.” 20 minutes of walking, sweating, and panting later, we finally made it back to the large park. My eyes searched all over for the fenced garden, but it was nowhere to be found. We walked around the park whistling, trying to catch the attention of the dog that was there the night before. A couple of passersby gave us judgmental stares, but we ignored them and focused on our search. I walked my mom over to the spot where the garden had been. The fencing was gone but the rainbow flower patch was still there. Mom walked towards the flowers and gently ran over them with her fingers. “Pretty, aren’t they?” she remarked. I nodded my head in agreement while Brownie started sniffing and licking the flowers. “When we buried Samson here, we planted these flowers to add a nice touch to his grave. I’m surprised they’ve lasted this long considering they were planted 2 years ago,” she said. My jaw dropped. “Th-this was where Samson was buried?” I stammered in shock. She nodded her head in sadness. “Yeah, we wanted him to have somewhere to run about and play in the afterlife… if it exists, of course.” I stood there in silence. “So where was the garden where you found the dog last night?” Mom asked, looking around the park. I slowly lifted my finger and pointed to the flower patch, “Right here.” Mom’s face went pale as we stared at each other in disbelief. I had always felt guilty over not being a good owner to Samson. I had moved across the country for college when he was only 4 years old; even though I’d come back to visit over breaks, I still felt like I had missed out on most of his life. Despite this, he was never angry with me and he was always ecstatic to see me every time I came home to visit. When he was diagnosed with cancer at just 8 years old, I immediately traveled home to see him. Even while he was ill and could barely walk, he was still upbeat, energetic, and over the moon to spend time with me. When I left a few days later, I held him for hours, crying because I knew that it would be the last time that I ever got to see him. Weeks later, my parents texted me that Samson had passed away peacefully in his sleep. The guilt of leaving him behind pained me every time I left, but it weighed heavily on me especially hard that last time. Even when I adopted Brownie over a year later, I still felt guilty about loving another dog. Somehow, maybe Samson’s spirit had held onto our world just to see me again one last time. If that were true, I finally understood why he was happy to see me but sad when he saw Brownie. I felt a tap on my shoulder breaking me out of my thoughts. “Look over there,” my mom pointed to the left. I turned my head to see a rainbow lighting up the sky and smiled. I’ve never really cared for rainbows, but this one filled my heart with warmth and love.


I open my eyes and I see an all too familiar sight. My white padded room with one light bulb hanging above. My legs are broken and cast while they hang above me. I have been sick in my mind for a very long time, but today is a new day. To my left are monitors that read my vitals and currently indicate that I am physically stable. To my right is a plastic cup of water and two pieces of bread on a padded table. I’m too dazed to eat, I feel as if I have awoken from an eternal sleep as the things around me feel like the things in my head. I have been in this room for what feels like several lifetimes, but I know the real prison is my own self, containing the evils that have plagued me like all illness all the time. I have a feeling however that forever ends today. The doctor entered my room and informed me that my casts are ready to be removed on my legs, the reason for them being there still remains a mystery to me. I take my meal and eat while several male nurses in protective gear come to remove the casts, those who weren't cutting had tranquilizers at the ready. While confused, I continued to eat and soon enough the casts were off and the nurses were gone. I stare at my bare legs and see whole patches of yellow skin that was once blue and swollen now healed from whatever destroyed them. The doctor comes in again with an armored assistant and asks if I am interested in a new experimental medication that has the possibility of curing the hell in my head. He says we can start today, and hands me the bottle and leaves. I take two with no water. Five minutes. Nothing. Two more. Ten minutes. Nothing. \*two more\* I am alone in the room and yet I hear many voices. \*take two more\*. I hear it again telling me, begging me. Maybe just two more. I do as it tells me. The walls around are melting, yes they're melting to the floor. What reality is this? \*take it all\*. What will become of me? \*you will become what man was, is, and always will be…an animal. true terror that no god has ever seen, for you will become the god that all vulgar creatures will bow. we are the serpent, this pill is your apple, and you are getting hungry.\* My hand moves not by my doing, but by whatever thing foul or fair above me. I do as I am told. My vision turns a shade bloody red, and my eyes are truly open! There it is, I see it! Never has evil been shivered so much in fear at what I see in front of me. \*you are the black goat, the one sent by worldly powers to tear this world in two by your claws. all flesh will fall at the sight of you and no kingdom of this world will overcome the rage you unleash upon it. with your mighty horns may you rip the world apart until they are reduced to bare nubs, may you consume until you are left to gum what is left, may your screams be heard until you are reduced to aching whispers, and may you march in darkness until you are left to slither on the world that remains.\* I shall. I take the single light bulb that hangs above and shatter it on the ground. In darkness I screamed until a curious nurse came to inspect. He enters slowly and calls my name. I ambush him from behind the door and slash his throat with the glass. So brutal and so swift was my hand that his last words were left to mere sounds of wind. I close the door to mask the unholy preparations I make for my rampage. The guards notice the trail of blood leading to my room and prepare to breach. They enter and are left in a nauseous confusion as my once white room now a maroon confinement stands shockingly before them. \*now\* I pounce from above and sink my claws into the chest of the strongest man there who fell to my feet…heartless. I take the two on my left by their legs and use them to smash the four on my right. I pummel them all until there is no solid left as I crush the heads of the weaklings fallen at my feet in violent strength. One remains and he stands at the end of the room. I stand stronger, a beast no longer man, covered in fur once black now a deep crimson and I move toward him. The man takes his weapon aimed at me as he shakes at the sight of otherworldly fear. Whatever torture I would have brought upon him will remain unknown as the man turned the weapon on himself while I was only three steps close. \*now eat, for I have provided\* I shall. I exit the room and lay waste to all the poor souls who remained in my godless sight. Floor number one, floor number two, three, four, five, six. Six, six was the medication warehouse. I fill a bag with as many bottles as it can hold. I retreated to my room as advised by the morning star. He instructed me to commit evil so heinous that no one man could destroy it, and to be the bridge between evil of this world and the next. I climb to the top of the asylum and already I see the waves of soldiers entering the gates and at the mere sight of me some begin to cry. The thought of God was unthinkable in a time like this. They assume position below me as I stand mighty above them. I go to take my final bites of the life giving bits of the darkness below, but on the bottle I notice it peeling. I remove the false label and read “sugar pills”. I have been in a constant battle with my inner and outer self, and this was the excuse it needed to escape. I knew that my time was up and the voices in my head became muffled as my mind raced toward the end. I decided that no hand will take me other than my own. So I look over the edge of the roof and see my inevitable doom. I close my eyes and take a step. \*your doing is now undone, but darkness remains forever. rest now for your time is over, in my cold arms may you suffer for all time. wake again as i cast you back to earth just as i was, and may you continue this pain for as long as pain can be felt\* I shall. Evil was the cold hand that gave me the strength to escape my own self, but it cannot save me from this. I open my eyes and I see an all too familiar sight. My white padded room with one light bulb hanging above. My legs are broken and cast while they hang above me. I have been sick in my mind for a very long time, but today is a new day.


Somewhere, there is a forest. This is true. Somewhere, inside that forest, there is a sword. It is old and rusted; stuck straight up and down into the hard brown dirt. It has stood there for a long time, longer than you or I have been alive, a symbol of *something*, even if no one quite knows what that thing is. This, too, is true. Once upon a time, there was an adventurer. You can call him such, but a plethora of other names will do just as well: a writer, a storyteller, a bard, a musician. He traveled across the world gathering stories, recording them with his pen and voice and a variety of other means. He spoke of dragons in the clouds and fire smoldering under the earth, of people together and people apart. Another truth. However, as stories are told and retold and spread, their edges warp and become unlike the original. Their meaning distorts, perhaps even until you can no longer recognize it as what it once was. They change with each telling according to the whims of the teller, and every person carries a separate version within their heart. This is true as well - or do you disagree? No matter. This is my story, full of my truths. If you should write your own where the above statement is a lie, I shall not stop you. Fill it with the words that ring true to your heart, and cast aside mine as lies. But this is not your story, not yet, and to me, these words shine true, and so too they will in this story. This is fair, I believe. But once, although no one - not even I - knows where or when, he stumbled across this sword. He saw its rusted edges and imagined that it was not always so; that it had been grand and gilded and wielded by kings. And, as a storyteller must, he went forth and spoke of this sword and the legend. This is... questionable. He might have done what I have described above, or he might not have; simply writing or speaking of the sword as an odd occurrence, a coincidence of fate. But he told the story to at least one person, and they told it to at least one more, and it spread. Perhaps it was him who originally shaped the truth into a legend, perhaps it was not. There is no way to know for sure, so let us move on. Regardless of how it happened, or who had made it come about, the story changed. No longer was the sword simply a sword; it became so much more. It was a monument to a fallen kingdom, they said, the last legacy of a dying king. Whoever could wield it was worthy, no, whoever *found* it was worthy. It meant the coming of better times, the coming of a savior! It meant a destiny grand in its expanse, a story that would awe the entire world. It became hope. This, at least, is true, even if the legends surrounding it are not. Perhaps the sword truly is magic, awaiting a savior to herald a golden age. Perhaps it was simply the marker of a grave for a fallen friend. Perhaps it held no true significance at all, lost or abandoned by one who did not want it. It is impossible, I think, for anyone to ever know for certain. When you tell this story, you may decide what it is, or perhaps what it isn't, or if it even exists at all. Perhaps the stories the people tell about the sword are false. Perhaps they are true. Perhaps it doesn't matter at all. Perhaps what truly matters about this sword is not what it was, but what it became.


People, it turned out, had gotten God backwards. You learn this when you’re out walking your dog one evening. Your dog is an awesome dog. He’s been your buddy since you were a little kid, seeing you through good times and bad. You love him very much. You watch him sniff at a clump of leaves floating in a puddle for a while as you think of this. Then, you hear something high up in the air, like a plane but louder. A lot louder. You realize that it’s trumpets. Before you can even wonder why you’re hearing trumpets all of the sudden, a bright light fills the sky, turning night to day. Finally, the clouds part, revealing a giant dog in the sky with a brilliant halo between its floppy years. You drop your dog’s leash, but he doesn’t go anywhere. He’s just as stunned as you. The giant dog, accompanied by a chorus of winged dogs singing the most beautiful notes you’ve ever heard, gives a single bark. It echoes through the entire Earth, and you feel it practically in your bones. And then your own dog is singing along with the celestial pack, actually and genuinely singing! The most you’ve ever gotten your dog to do is stay for a few seconds, but there he is now, singing in a language you don’t understand but seems to be mostly howls and whines in a gorgeous arrangement. The song ends and your dog bows to the sky dog. And now he starts flowing in the air. You try to catch him and bring him back down, but he keeps slipping from your grasp, getting ever and ever higher. You grab onto his leash and feel yourself being pulled up. but then the collar gently loosens and slips from your dog’s neck. You fall roughly to the ground as he floats up and up and up into the sky, which you now realize is full of other dogs. There have to be thousands–no, millions–making their way to the giant sky dog. The sky is alive with yips, yaps, woofs, barks and howls. All you can do is look up and watch the dogs pass, one by one, through a shining gate and dissolve into golden light. You spend several hours doing this, never once getting used to the sight. When the final dog passes through, the trumpets give one last report and fade. The giant dog withdraws back into the clouds. Just as suddenly as it began, it’s over. The following day it was reported that all dogs everywhere in the world have disappeared, floating up into what one can only presume is doggy heaven. Meanwhile, all the humans stayed, well, right where they were. Absolutely nothing happened to them at all. Everyone in the world was left to ponder questions that will never have any answers, at least not for them. Time passes. Humans, while sad, get used to a life without dogs. And then, one evening, the sky opens up once more, and a great white cat appears in the sky.


#Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills and areas in which we excel, as well as places we’d like to improve. So I’d like to present a brand new weekly feature. This will be a weekly thread to discuss all things writing! And… to get to know your fellow writers a bit! Each week we will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion. Feel free to chime into the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, etc. You do not have to answer all the questions, but try to stay on-topic! *** #This Week’s Roundtable Discussion Different perspectives are what make the world go round in real life and also in stories. Depending on what you are trying to achieve, your choice of point of view, can change how a story is perceived. Do you like the intimacy of first person or the broader world view of third? Are you into second person, where you can bring the reader in, in a unique way? - **What is your preferred POV?** - **How does it fit into your narrative goals?** - **If you use a lot of different ones, what influences your choices?** - **Any advice to others on using different POV?** - New to r/ShortStories or joining in the Discussion for the first time? **Introduce yourself in the comments!** What do you like to write? *** #Reminders - **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** - **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussion in any form will not be tolerated. - **Please try to stay on-topic.


“Alexander, I need you to make me an oath.” My brother, Edmund, said. His eyes never left the fresh graves of his wife and son. “Of course, what is it that you had in mind?” I replied. “If I was to ever turn, I want you to put me down.” A stiff breeze blew through our family’s estate as I stood there dumbstruck and confounded. How would one respond to such a mad request? Edmund turned to me; his eyes glazed with tears as he struggled to keep his composure. “Please, I beg of you.” As I attempted to respond, he collapsed to his knees and buried his face in his hands. The emotional dam burst, and he began to bawl. He cried with a ghastly symphony of howls and sniffles as he lamented the loss of his true love as well as his flesh and blood. I crouched down to his level and held him like a father holds a pained child. I rubbed his back in a bid to calm him down. “Listen, Edmund.” He did not stop but quieted down to let me know that he would listen. I let out a deep sigh, “I do not think that it will ever come to that point.” I stopped for a second and thought it over. The sheer thought of my little brother turning into one of those things sent a chill down my spine. I shook away the thought and continued, “But if it did, I would be the one to put you out of your suffering. You have my word.” That was years ago, 1891 to be exact. We both went our separate ways after that. The corruption was difficult for all people no matter who they were or where they were. No one is quite sure how it started. Some believed it to be a plague brought in through the east. Others believed it is a worldwide hex created by a witch resurgence in the United States. There are even those who would believe that it is divine punishment. The hows, whats, and whys don’t matter right now. Whatever it is, it has the horrific effect of transforming people into horrific, deadly, and unstable monsters. Before they are turned, people described someone, or something, had called out to them with the offer of great power to help them. It makes sense because those that are turned are always those in need or in pain, whether it be physical or emotional. Normally, their call is easily disregarded, but fear and desperation can take anyone to the brink. No two Turned are the same, the corruption relied on the person’s own personality as well as their wants and needs. In my time, I have witnessed horrid mutations like a young lady who suffered from a phobia of fire turn into a hideous witch with the gift of pyromancy, or an old man terrified of growing old and frail become a volatile mountain of muscle. These people known as the *Turned* are hazardous and are to be exterminated at once. Now, Edmund was a gifted doctor and used our families wealth to put himself through medical school. He even started his own office at the manor, so that he could help more people. After the corruption, his skills were in high demand as many had either fallen to the corruption or became victims of the Turned. The English military even hired him to exclusively use his services. As for me, I wasn’t that smart. Being the first born son, my parents had left almost everything to me, but I rejected it. I instead opted to give it to Edmund, I knew he would make better use of it. I always knew I would join the English Navy. I joined up as early as I could and made a name for myself as a skilled enforcer and rifleman. That eventually led to me in my current job of eradicating the Turned for the English military. The last thing I wanted was to receive notice that my family’s manor was labeled by the military as lost to the Turned. Unfortunately, that is exactly what I received. I immediately gathered my supplies and set off for the manor, I knew what I had to do, and I dreaded it. The estate was a good couple of hours outside of London on horseback. I couldn’t use those new motorized vehicles, they were too loud and unreliable for my job, so a couple of horses and a wagon worked fine. I had left after midnight; it was safer to travel that way. The cover of darkness masked my approach, and the rain dampened my noise. The wind howled like a wolf, and the rain poured like a waterfall, blanketed in darkness and water these were less than optimal conditions, but I had to make do. I saw it from miles out, the beacon of light that was the manor sliced through the darkness. I followed the road, a splash of water echoed with each step of my horses. As I approached the front gate, I noticed that it was already open. Hardly a surprise since others like me had already been dispatched to the manor, but they never returned. With the chill of the night having set in on me and my horses, I directed them to a nearby stable that we had in the entrance. I had hopped off the wagon and splashed mud on my boots and trousers. I sighed at the discomfort and untied my horses from the wagon and left them in the stable so they can rest in an area not drenched in rain. The patter of rain filled my ears as I stepped back to my wagon and pulled out my weapons. First was an old family heirloom, a bastard sword that I had refurbished for combat. Its shiny steel surface sullied by scratches and notches in the blade, each one represented a Turned that had been ended by the sword’s cold metal. Second, an experimental lever action shotgun that I had commissioned from the John Moses and Matthew Sandefur Browning Company in the United States. Lastly, a simple knife that I acquired in my time in the Navy. These Turned were supernatural in nature, but they required no special process to put them down. No holy water, no garlic, and no silver. If it could kill your fellow man, then it could kill them. I slung the gun over my shoulder then holstered the sword on my waist and approached the entrance. I took care to not to slip on the smooth stone steps as I came upon the front door. Mere inches from the door, I took a deep breath and steeled myself for what had to be done. I grasped the cold iron handle of the door and pushed. The heavy wooden entrance gave way and creaked as it exposed the inside of my old home. I then stepped in and forced the door shut behind me as the wind tried to keep it open. I pressed my back against the door and surveyed my surroundings. The wall sconces were lit up and the chandeliers glowed. Beyond the smell of wet leather that emanated from me, I made out the smoky scent of lit fireplaces as their flames danced against the darkness. Their radiant heat warmed the manor but failed to cut through my damp clothes and chilled armor. It was quiet, but the drum-like sound of rain against the window and the persistent howl of wind was all that reached my ears. I unslung my gun and clutched it in the leather wrapped underbelly of my hands. I cautiously walked forward being careful to produce as little noise as possible. The further I moved in, the more the dreadful sickly sweet scent of decay reached my nose. The scent of death was so fierce that I could taste it. A bitter and sour flavor that made my face scrunch up. As I rounded a corner, I froze in my tracks. There down the hall were several bodies mangled and twisted. With my gun leveled I approached, my heart like a steam engine in my chest. As I got closer, I could see that they were well in the stages of decay with dark and bloated skin with a horrific stench that emanated from them. Their uniforms informed me that they were some of the soldiers sent in before me. I attempt to investigate further, but from behind me I hear him talk. “Alexander?” I slowly turn around and that is when I see what my brother has become. “What are you doing here? You shake as if in fear.” His voice broken into two separate vocalizations that spoke in unison. He was horribly altered. His unkempt light brown hair and light green eyes remained, but his body was not the same. He was two full heads taller and wider than me. Long gaunt arms the length of a man hung at his sides each with deformed fingers that ended in large keratin daggers. The sour stench of death came from his now dark purple skin. But his most prominent feature was the massive cavity in his chest. One could fit a whole child in there. “E-Edmund.” I barely get out as I shook like a dog in the rain. I take a deep breath, “Edmund, I’ve come to fulfill my oath to you.” Edmund’s eyes move around slightly as he tries to remember. His eyes widen quickly. “No, I’m so close, you cannot. My actions would be for naught.” He said. Confused I lowered my gun and asked, “What are you talking about?”. He replied, “My brave son and beautiful wife. I have to bring them back to life.” I snapped back, “All you are doing is killing innocent people.” I quickly readied my gun at his head as I could feel the tears as they took shape in my eyes. “You made me take an oath, years ago.” I lowered my finger onto the trigger, “If you were to turn, I would put you out of your misery, brother.” I paused a moment, “I’m here to make good on my oath, I’m sorry, Edmund.” I pulled the trigger, but it went awry as the tip of my gun was forced up and redirected the shotgun blast away from Edmund as he furiously scurried away as dust and debris fell from the newly minted hole in the ceiling. The thing holding my gun was one of the bodies from before, but now reanimated. “What in God’s—” before I could finish, the newly risen corpse repeatedly thrusted a broken saber at me. It managed to pierce my coat several times, but not the metal cuirass I had underneath. I kicked it as hard as I could in its ribs with a loud crack as it tumbled backwards. A dent in his dark blue coat appeared where my foot connected. While it struggled to get up as its limbs lagged behind its torso, I pulled the lever back on my gun. The spent brass casing crashed on the floor with a heavy clang. With a new round in the chamber, I put my foot down on the body to keep it steady as I aimed and fired at its head. A disgusting spray of dark half-rotten grey matter and clotted blood drenched the wall in front of me as the loud thump of the shotgun blast echoed through the manor. “Please, Alexander, leave me. Get out of here now and flee.” Edmund’s voice echoed through the hall. There was still part of him inside that creature, but that only strengthened my resolve. I needed to keep my oath to him. I exited the now soiled hallway I made my way to the room where Edmund did all his work, his study. The trek to his study was a quiet one, save for the rain outside and the distant sound of footsteps. There were more of those creatures in the manor; he had killed many and resurrected them all as part of a horrific experiment, a desperate bid to get his wife and son back. But nothing worked, so he kept at it until the military caught wind and sent soldiers out. As I was within sight of his study, I could hear a commotion behind me. It got louder and louder until a large group of those same resurrected creatures charged at me. I panicked and fired off my remaining five shells at them where a few fell to the buckshot lead wall. I decided to make a mad dash for the study, I had to end this now. I slung the shotgun over my shoulder and sprinted down the hall. The door nearly splintered when I slammed it open and I closed it tight, locked it, and threw a heavy oak cabinet over it. With my left side now in pain from tackling the door, I saw Edmund who stood in the corner, motionless as he looked my way. Sadness and anger welled up in me as I unsheathed my sword. “No more running, Edmund. I can’t stand seeing you like this. I’m putting you out of your misery!” I yelled out to him. “Leave now-.” I didn’t care what he tried to say, I charged at him and swung down as hard as I could. He attempted to block with his arms, but the blade cleaved through one arm and damaged the other. Viscous dark blood screamed from his wounds as it filled the room with its vile metallic scent. He roared out at me like an enraged bear. He used his remaining good hand and struck me back. I flew backwards into his bookshelf with a large thud. I gasped for air as I struggled to get on my hands and knees with my newly dented chest plate. Books tumbled down around me while I reached for my sword, but Edmund grabbed me. He dug his claws into my shoulders around the armor and one claw rested on my face. He slowly squeezed with each claw driving itself further into me like a hot knife through butter. As blood trickled down my face, I reached into my coat and pulled out my spare knife. With all the strength I could muster, I brought the knife to the underside of his arm and sawed my way to bone. With his tendons cut, his grip vanished, and I worked my way free. After a yelp of pain then a quick stumble, I reacquired my sword and brought it down on his neck. The blade stuck halfway in, but I placed my foot on his shoulder and yanked. Blood sputtered from his neck as he reached up at me with limp fingers. I readied my sword and swung once more. The blade cleaved through the remainder of his neck. His head was severed and dropped to the ground with a thud. I breathed a sigh of relief as I looked down at my bloodstained sword when I heard several other thuds beyond the door. I peeked out to find the reanimated dead once again, their source of power gone. I looked over at the corpse at what was my brother and collapsed, both from exhaustion and grief. I never thought that he would be one to turn, but it seems that it could happen to anyone. I took his body out of his study. Turned or not, he deserved a proper burial. I buried his corpse right next to the wife and child he cared so much for. He wanted them back so badly that he let himself become corrupted. As I stood there over the same graves where my oath was made, I couldn’t help but wonder if I could be next to turn. I could hear the dreaded call of the corruption as I stood there with tears in my eyes at his grave.