My name is Fernando Alvarez, and James J. Park is the exact kind of wrong that I get paid to deal with. He blipped onto my employer’s weirdness radar after he was connected to several, seemingly unrelated, cancer deaths. The man, if he was a man, must have been radioactive since before his conception. Both his parents died due to complications related to cancer, testicular and ovarian respectively. Several of his k-12 classmates had also died because of cancer related complications, in their case, carcinoma and leukemia. He was a radioactive isotope with legs. However, as soon as my employers took notice of him, he vanished, absconding with some as yet unknown technology from his work. Enter me. For the past couple days I’ve been staking out Park’s residence in the hopes that he might show. He hasn’t though, and if he hasn’t by now, I doubted he ever would. It was time to put my sniffer to the ground. I exited my vehicle, taking my gun, a flashlight, and a Geiger counter for safe measure. His home was “protected” by your run of the mill security system. The kind that gave you a stake to plant in your front yard, and an app that connected to a door cam. It was easy enough to bypass without fiddling with the security system. A hopped gate, and a climb, later, and I was stepping into his bedroom via a two story window. I flipped on the Geiger counter and watched it tick between normal. The high end of normal. The bedroom itself didn’t yield much. It was spartan. A bed accompanied by a nightstand. There was a gun in his closet, but that wasn’t much of anything in this country. I did find some lab grade chloroform, hidden at the bottom between pairs of extra shoes. Chloroform wasn’t the tried and tested instant knockout vapor that you saw on tv, but it would knock you out eventually. On the same floor, he had a study and a spare room. The spare room was filled with old science journals, and tech drafts. I knew enough to understand that the journals were about new frontiers into theoretical physics, but not the particulars. Best I could tell was that he was keen on the areas of quantum mechanics and entropy. The tech drafts were completely beyond me though. Presumably one of these was related to the technology he’d stolen. They kind of looked like the pictures I’d seen of super colliders, but smaller. The study had a computer, and a drawing desk. But mostly it had four walls of bookshelves stuffed with cheap plastic folders. I pulled one off and took a look. It had pictures of grade school children. I thought back to the chloroform, and wondered, was I dealing with a radioactive pedophile? You could knock a kid out much faster with chloroform than a full grown adult. That didn’t seem right. There was something here, but it wasn’t pedophilia. Something here seemed familiar, oddly nostalgic. I didn’t catch on until I found my own picture in the folder. Ice settled in my gut. These were pictures of children from over two decades ago, the fashion should have been a dead give away. I pulled out another folder, it was the same thing, but smaller, more concentrated. I didn’t have to flip long before I found myself again. The next folder was all me. From highschool onward, this guy had been keeping tabs on me, but why? Who was I to him? I’d only been assigned to this case for a week, but this guy had been tracking me for years. I hate to admit that my search became much more frantic after that. It had become personal. I pulled out more folders, and threw out the drawers of both desks. I found more pictures, but not of me. They were women. According to the folders, each was a verified genius with accolades and awards in varying scientific fields. They were each identical as well. Not enough to be mistaken for twins, but enough to know this guy had a type. Dark skin, curly hair, and smart. The folders were creepy, but what was the through line? And what did it have to do with me? I found more technical drafts inside the desk drawers. They looked like they could be fitted onto the specs I’d seen in the other room. The design was for a glass tube like structure that was fed into by the mini supercollider. The measurements gave me the impression that it was meant to house a person. So we were dealing with a mad scientist. Where there was a mad scientist there had to be a secret lab. Find the lab, find the man, get some answers. There was still the computer to comb through, but my expertise was on weird, not hacking. I didn’t want to risk fiddling with it now and locking it. Having decided my course of action I made to leave, but the screen came to life. On it, an alert, granting access to an applet with permission to be interactable on the lock screen. “You have a match!” read the app on the screen. “Qiyana and James 99% match, be the first to send a message!” It was a dating app. I recognized the name and the face on the profile picture too. It was one of James’ folder girls. The lock screen applet let me take a look at an inbox as well. There was only one chat history here. It was between my creep James, and one Trisha Beller. The two had agreed to go out on a date the night before he disappeared. It was all starting to come together. It would be nice to know how I personally figured into this, but those answers would have to come later. The dating app came alive again. “Hey, I don’t normally message first but I’ve never gotten a 99% match before. I’d love to meet up, could you do tonight?” “...” he was typing! “I’m busy tonight, could we do tomorrow?” “If it’s not tonight, then it’ll be a while. Got a work trip :( sorry” “Let me move some stuff around then, let's make it happen :)” They set themselves up for a date at a local restaurant. It would be happening later tonight, so there was time for more snooping. The ground floor was uncanny valley levels of normal. I guess if a psychopath absolutely had to have company over to keep up appearances he wouldn’t want to stand out. As a result the only thing of note were a pile of bills in front of the door's mail slot. Normal stuff, like water and electricity, but also rent for a property near the beach. A quick search online of the address said it was a warehouse. Found the secret lab. I went back out the way I came, confident I had a plan. But it was when I hopped back into my car that I realized I had a decision to make. I could go to stakeout James’ and Qiyana’s date, or I could take advantage and snoop around his lab when I’d know he'd be out. He hadn’t planned on leaving his lab today, maybe the first girl was still there. I could help her, snoop around James’ lab, and get the jump on him when he got back. I made the pragmatic choice, and started driving toward the lab. The warehouse was a dingy two story structure with a receiving door for unloading trucks. I hopped out of my car, gun holstered, flashlight out, and Geiger counter ready. The receiving door was locked, but I didn’t have to look for an alternative entry point. It was held shut by a poorly made lock. I basically just jimmied the thing open. Inside was the machine I recognized from the technical drafts. It was as large as the ground floor of the warehouse. As I suspected, the glass tube structure had been added on, with tubes that were fed from the mini collider looking thing. One of his folder girls was already inside. Trisha Beller. She was out cold. “Trisha? Trisha Bellar!” I banged on the glass. She stirred just a little. I banged some more. Awake. It looked like she wanted to scream. She was still wearing the getup that she must have worn to her date with James. “It’s okay I’m not with the creep who stuffed you in here. My name’s Fernando, I’m here to get you out.” “Thank God!” she wailed. Tears started to come down her eyes. “Hey, hey, it’s alright. I’m gonna get you out of there. Do you have any idea how I get this thing to open?” “I don’t even know how I got in here. I just woke up like this.” “Have you been in there since he brought you here?” “No, he kept me chained up under the stairs before today.” I flashed my light toward a set of stairs that led to an office. Underneath there was a bedroll, some water bottles, and a bedpan. eugh. “Alright, I’m gonna start trying to figure out this machine. In the meantime is there anything you can tell me about the man who put you in there?” “I don’t know. He’s a psycho. He’s been talking crazy talk since I came to the first time.” “Think Trisha, give me anything at all. It could be important.” “I don’t know. I guess he was lonely? He kept talking about how he was tired of being alone.” “That’s great, anything else?” Talking might help her keep calm, plus I still wanted to know what this guy was up to. I found a console with some buttons labeled in masking tape. The lights were off in here, but this machine was running something. The small screen indicated that it was most of the way through “quantum mapping” Trisha. “He said I reminded him of his first wife,” continued Trisha. “...said I was gonna be the first of a new super race.” James hadn’t been married to my knowledge. He was born and raised in the states, and never left the country either. Another mystery for when I finally had this guy under control. For now I had to figure out what this thing was doing. I found a release button for the tube, but it was hardwired not to open until after it was finished with whatever it was doing. It dawned on me that there was a genius sitting in a tube right in front of me. James’ had selected his girls based on exacting intellectual criteria, maybe she could tell me something. “Trisha, weird question, would you be able to tell me what any of this machinery is?” “How would–” It’s like I saw a different person sitting in the tube. The academic in her had come out to overshadow her fear. “It’s a quantum computer,” she said, astonished. “How did this psycho get his hands on a quantum computer? They’re still just a theory for crying out loud!” She had gone from afraid and wailing, to astonished, to angry in seconds. Quantum computing, huh? That was some serious computational horse power. “Well it’s quantum mapping you, whatever that means, any ideas? Are you in danger?” “No clue. Quantum is basically just the smallest measurement of something.” She took a look around. “What I’m about to say is highly theoretical, by which I mean doctor who levels of science fiction, but I think he’s creating a super picture of me, maybe even right down to the electron. Think, like a scan for a 3d model, but not that at all.” “I see,” I did not. “Listen, It’s not going to let me release you until it finishes scanning so just hang on a second. It’s almost done, but just in case it doesn’t let you go, I’m going to have to break you out the old fashioned way.” She nodded. Trisha, to her credit, had started rolling with the punches. The screen indicated that it was done scanning when the lights inside the warehouse suddenly came on. I was already behind one of the larger pieces of equipment when James J. Park entered from the office upstairs. I could hear him taking leisurely steps down the stairs. “Good, you’re awake Trisha” said the radioactive psychopath. “And the machine is ready. Even better.” “What the hell are you planning on doing to me creep!” “Only what’s best for you. Now that your scan is complete, you’re only a flip of the switch away from godhood. Your very being will be blasted into eternity, entangled with itself so that even the end of the universe won’t stop you from reforming in the next.” “You’re going to vaporize me asshole. Let me out, let me out!” “You’ll feel different about it in a moment. We will outlive the cosmos together!” “Not so fast,” I said, stepping out of hiding, gun in hand. James was standing over the console. “What happened James, did your other date cancel?” “Yes– I mean, how did you–? Nevermind. We meet again, Alvarez. I was wondering when you’d show. ” “Step away from the console James, and what’s this ‘again’? I’ve never met you in my life.” “Not in this life, not in this cycle, but we have met.” “Then you should know I won’t be afraid to shoot.” “I’ve lived through countless cycles. Nothing is ever exactly the same, but the one universal constant is the thorn in my ass that is you Alvarez.” He hovered his finger over the console. I took my shot. “The universe expands, and collapses into heat death. Over and over again, coming back lesser each time, thinner somehow I don’t know. Everything except me. I’m literally built differently from everything in this universe. You cannot hurt me in a way that matters.” He pushed the button. “Well then, it’s a good thing I wasn’t aiming for you.” “What?” The machine spun to life and vaporized the air inside the broken tube. Trisha had jumped out just in the nick of time. “Tell me James, if we’ve tussled in other universes, then ballpark me. About how many times out of ten do I kick your ass?” “Grrr… augh!” he made to tackle me but I dodged out of the way. He slammed into the wall hard enough that he had to dig himself out of the crumpled ruin. “Psst! Fernando.” came a furtive voice. It was Trisha, now speaking from cover. “I don’t know what the fuck is going, but if this thing can make something like him, then it can unmake him. Keep him distracted while I fiddle with it.” “Right.” He dug himself out of the wall, screaming. “You can’t imagine the loneliness. Every cycle it’s the same. I come back to a universe that’s just the decayed corpse of the one I was born in.” He started running toward me, and I let him have the rest of my gun’s clip. The bullets ricocheted off him, but they weren’t nothing. He raised his arms up to keep them from hitting him in the face. I took the opportunity to jump kick him back into the wall, just to see if I could get him to budge. To my surprise, it worked. “Not so scary after all.” “Motherfucker, I am older than gravity. I’ll show you scary!” He came at me swinging. I was on the back foot. All I could do was retreat and weave. He bent a support beam out of shape with a single missed blow. Any time now Trisha, any time now. Another stray blow lodged his fist into another beam. I took the opportunity to reload my gun. “You’re lonely, I get it, but why this? Why all this?” “Why bother explaining, you could never –eugh!– understand the loneliness of god. I– eugh– kill my parents, just by being born. Too many cycles have passed, your kind can’t even survive in my presence anymore. Yes, I say your kind, you aren’t human anymore, not my humanity. I don’t know what you are. Thin as you are, decayed as you are, you’re aren’t truly alive. Eugh!” he ripped his embedded arm out of the support pillar. “My heart goes out to you,” I said, backing up with my loaded gun, “truly.” He started up another go at me. “Now!” yelled Trisha. I unloaded my gun into him, forcing him to raise his arms in defense, and allowing me to kick him into position. Trisha hit the console, and he began to atomize before our very eyes. “EUGH! You haven’t done anything Alvarez. If not this cycle, then the next!” He disappeared into a cloud of smoke. “In your professional opinion, do you think he’s actually coming back, or is he dead?” I asked. “My professional opinion is that if he isn’t dead, he’s close enough. More importantly, what he built here could launch us ahead by centuries, milenia even.” The building started to shake. He had taken out most of the supporting structures in this dingy warehouse. “If they can recover anything after this building junks his creation, let’s vamos!” We got out as fast as we could, and only made it by a hair. The warehouse collapsed in on itself. I notified the “proper” authorities, and gave them a sanitized version of what happened. I waited a few weeks to report my case closed to my employers. After all, if this guy could survive the end of the universe, then I couldn’t really be sure he was gone unless I stuck around for a bit. Right? Well, my new lady friend Trisha seemed to agree anyway.


Even though it was 2:30 in the morning, Lucy couldn’t help but lean over a sleeping Gabe to glance at the text message on his phone. She looked down at the sleeping man, shirtless, the covers bundled around his waist. “Cheater,” she muttered under her breath. With a sigh, she lay back down. She watched the flashing neon of the vacancy sign blink through the motel room window. \# The next morning, he shuffled in as she prepared eggs and toast in the kitchenette just off the reception office. Gabe shuffled in wearing only boxers. “When you manage the motel, that means you get free breakfast, right?” he said, scratching his belly. Lucy, keeping her gaze fixed straight ahead, sat down at the table and bit into her piece of toast. “None for me?” She ate a forkful of scrambled eggs. The reception door bell clanged. Lucy put her fork down and entered the reception. Amelia strode in, auburn hair styled like she was headed to some sort of society function in the city. Her blue eyes glimmered as if she knew where the party was. Lucy checked her watch. “Rooms 103, 212 and 116 need cleaning.” “What about that high school baseball team?” “No show,” Lucy said. She examined the almost-full wall of hanging room keys. “Jeeze, I’m sorry,” Amelia said. “If business doesn’t pick up…” Gabe peeked out from the kitchenette. “Oh, it’s just you,” he said, then stepped out. Amelia rolled her eyes and looked at Lucy. “Don’t worry. He wore his boxers until noon for me too when he and I were married. Except, I never ran a motel. Lucy shook her head. “Sorry. I’ll start on those rooms,” Amelia said. She grabbed a bucket, mop and cleaning caddy with various sprays, sponges and rags from behind the counter. On the way out the door, she ran into Officer Bond with a ding of the bell. The two gave each other awkward smiles as they contemplated which way each would go to get around the other. Officer Bond finally chose right, and Amelia finally chose left, and both swapped places with relief. Officer Carson Bond’s belly protruded over his utility holster and the wedding ring on his left hand was almost swallowed by the thickness of his finger. He leaned on the reception counter, tipped his navy blue cap and flipped open a notepad. “Good morning you two,” he said, catching his breath. He eyed Gabe in his boxers and frowned but said nothing. “We’ve got a report of a missing baseball team. I’m sure they’re just a little lost, but according to the school’s itinerary, they should have spent the night here.” Lucy furrowed her brow. “We were expecting ‘em. A no show.” “So, nothing?” Gabe offered a shrug. Officer Bond blinked rapidly. “Totally unrelated, but last night, we got reports of some sort of bonfire out this way. Did any of that bother you?” Lucy and Gabe looked at each other. Lucy lifted her shoulders and shook her head. “Sorry, no.” “I didn’t think so. Most people were in bed by that time, but I thought I should ask in case you saw anything.” \# Amelia climbed the stairs to 212 and unlocked the door, whistling a country song from the radio that morning. The room was in the standard post-guest disarray: Both twin beds torn apart, garbage overflowing and towels strewn across the room. She started from the back, in the bathroom. The small window over the toilet was open, and she stood on the closed seat to reach it. “That’s funny…” She squinted at the brush abutting the motel. In the woods the end of an old Greyhound bus peeked out between the foliage. Amelia shook her head, then shut the frosted window, beginning her cleaning routine for 212. \# “That’s pretty much all I wanted to talk to you about,” Officer Bond said, tipping his hat to Lucy and Gabe, exiting with a ding of the reception door bell. “I’m sure business will pick up,” Gabe said. “Not if you hang around here in your underwear,” Lucy said with a sneer. “Go put some damn clothes on.” She went to the window and watched Amelia in the gravel parking lot flagging down Officer Bond’s cruiser in the gravel parking lot. She leaned on his open window and motioned to the motel, then back at the reception, toward Lucy. Then Amelia stood, waved to Officer Bond, and the cruiser pulled away, merging into the flow of traffic on the highway. Lucy bit her lower lip. “What do you think that was about?” Gabe murmured from behind Lucy. “I told you to put some clothes on!” Lucy snapped. Gabe raised both hands, his eyebrow crinkled, a slight smirk of amusement on his face. He backed into the kitchenette and out the side door to the manager’s suite. Lucy noticed Gabe’s phone on the reception counter, glanced casually over at the closed side door and picked it up. The door dinged again. A grey-haired man entered, hair still wet from a recent shower. “I’m checking out of 102,” he said, sliding his key across the reception desk. Lucy left the phone and punched at her keyboard. “Credit card on file okay?” “Yep. By the way, I think you had vandals last night.” “Dang it,” Lucy said, exhaling. “What was it now? Swastikas? Racist things? Those kids are always spray painting something on the far side of the building.” “Graffiti?” The man looked confused. “I didn’t see any spray paint. I’m talking about the swimming pool.” Lucy waved a hand. “Pool’s been closed for three years now. Just full of dead leaves. We’ll bring it back one of these days, but right now it’s too expensive to run.” The man shook his head. “No. There’s more than just dead leaves in the pool,” the man said. \# Lucy and Amelia peered over the edge of the pool into the pile of dead leaves and scattered, melted red and white polyester clothing. “Are–are those baseball uniforms?” Amelia asked. “What kind of sicko would do something like this?” Lucy said. “There’s gotta be like thousands of dollars worth.” “Do you think it belonged to that baseball team?” “Your guess is as good as mine, but since the tournament’s in town, it could be any team’s.” “Think we should report it?” Amelia asked. The two women looked at each other. “Well, I saw you talking to Officer Bond about something already,” Lucy put her hands on her hips. “Why don’t you just go ahead and give him a call, since he’s your buddy now?” “It’s just that,” Amelia looked down at the ground and kicked at some stray gravel with the toe of her shoe. “What?” “I was interested in applying for a desk job at police headquarters.” “Damn it, Amelia. I need you. I’ll have to clean the rooms myself. And Lord knows I don’t have time for that.” “I know, I’m sorry. But the pay is so much better.” Lucy pointed a finger at Amelia. “Whatever. But for now, we don’t need any unnecessary police attention. Not with business as slow as it is. Pile some extra leaves on top of those burnt uniforms, and I don’t want to hear anything else about it.” \# Lucy pushed through the reception door with a ding in a huff. She stopped when she saw the black cardboard carton sitting next to Gabe’s phone on the reception counter. She approached it slowly. The kitchenette was empty, only the hum of the refrigerator kicking on and the buzz of the overhead lights. As she placed her hand on the box, Gabe’s phone lit up. It was a text message. From the same number as last night. Gabe’s \*mistress.\* “HERE’S A LITTLE GIFT FOR LUCY,” read the message. She read her own name and shivered, glancing at the door, then out into the parking lot. She scanned the windows of the motel rooms. “OPEN THE BOX.” Lucy picked up the box, hands trembling, she opened it. Looking at the contents, Lucy brought a hand up to her mouth and gasped. It was full of teeth. Teeth of various sizes shapes and colours, from alabaster white to corn yellow, sat jumbled in the carton. Ones that had silver fillings and others that were pristine. “YOUR BASEBALL TEAM HAS ARRIVED.” \# Her makeup streaked by tears down her cheeks, Lucy held the box gingerly and opened the door to the manager’s suite. The shower ran in the back washroom, steam fogged the mirror in the main bedroom. “Gabe,” Lucy called, voice trembling. She took a step into the room and inched toward the bathroom. The door was ajar, steam from the shower billowing out. “Gabe…” she said, raising her voice. There was no answer. Lucy clutched the box of teeth and entered the bathroom. \-- WC: 1,477 Feedback welcome.


21? Twenty-one sounds like an overrated number. I should probably explain that better; I’m twenty and only four weeks away from being twenty-one. I don’t know why this impending birthday is my first mid-life crisis birthday. Most people get excited to hit the bars and welcome the most exciting years of their lives? Maybe it’s because I have a lot of friends in their twenties who are already tired of the bars and $8 beers when that money could be spent on better things? Or maybe it’s the awful commute from the “up and coming,” real-estate lingo for overpriced and out of the way, neighborhood. You know the ones that have the “great coffeehouse culture”, also known as generic hipster remix of Dunkin and latte art. Life gets busier, work gets harder, people grow farther apart and there is no such thing as spring break, or summer break, or syllabus week!!! Then again, why should I be worried. There are plenty of stories that are going well. My friend hit it big with some Wall St. firm, and now he’s got a great place in Brooklyn and went backpacking in south America for 8 days. I’ve done my homework. I should be in a good place. I should be free from the worry that “I’m not going anywhere”, and into that place of “I’ve got myself in the right position to be in an amazing place tomorrow.” That relentless optimism that comes with youth. There never seems to be a middle ground in the twenties. It’s either the best time or the worst time. Hopefully, I’m on the right side of this fork? Of course, I haven’t tackled the biggest source of angst for most twenty-one year old’s. The highly anticipated access to the bae4life app. I know the algorithm is said to be perfect. The AI’s comprehensive interview analyzes every aspect of who you are to find your perfect match for life. Sometimes, I feel like an old man. I just cannot fathom how a five-hour facetime conversation with an AI and its advanced neural network developed from over a hundred years of match making has yielded an app that will not only give someone a match and that match is the perfect match. Things have happened to my friends who matched with this much touted “one.” Sure, people say love’s one hell of a drug, but I still can’t fathom how Dereck went from being constantly high on some drug or another since he was fifteen to meeting his match and getting clean by himself. Hell, his girl’s got him convinced he should go to college. Flash forward to a year later, and this stupid shit ended up in Harvard. Ironically enough, Emily who hasn’t so much as sipped on a beer or spoken any second language got matched to some Thai drug lord last week. They hit it off so well on their first date that she decided she wanted to stay in Thailand. People hadn’t even know what happened to her until she sent everyone gold-plated wedding invites. I know you probably think I’m crazy for thinking the best part of turning twenty-one is the part that worries me so much. People have used the app for generations now. It seems like when they meet their bae4life match they find that part of their soul that was missing for twenty-one years. It’s been found in some of the most unlikely places as well as the most mundane of places. There are the normal ones out there like Mike and Ashley who have been dating since middle school. They lived across the street from each other since the 2nd grade. Who was surprised when they matched with each other! Of course, anything sounds better than going back to the old days. My triple great grandpa loves to tell the agonizing stories of all his failed marriages. The disgusting divorces he went through until the app got developed and turned his life around. Ugh, I’m not really sure how to explain divorce. Essentially, it’s when you are older than 21 and you break up with someone. I know crazy right? Back in the 2000s every other marriage used to end up in divorce. Since the app Bae4life started no ones had a divorce in three hundred years. I guess the reason I’m worried is because all these people really thought they knew themselves, but what they thought wanted turned out to be so far from reality. I could just picture myself being matched with some psychotic, roid raged, and half deranged stranger. Surprise, your best complement for life is a complete nut job because you are one too. If I’m being honest with myself, that would probably be the favorable outcome. At least there’s someone else on the match screen. Someone is always better than no one. I don’t know why, but some sixth sense tells me the app won’t work for me. It’s like I am wired different from everyone else. Almost as if I’m not a human, and the algorithm’s going to break when I use it because it has never had to match a non-human. Could I just be another angsty young twenty something? I hope I am, but something tells me the radiation my pregnant mom endured during her deployment in the fifth moon wars did something more than just give my skin it’s signature bluish glow. Two weeks to go, and I can’t help but wonder if now, might be the appropriate time to hit the panic button on life. My roommates think I am being melodramatic again. I have a hard time believing that I’m the one being histrionic. I can’t understand why everyone wants to keep taking me out to party. Everyone says they are doing it so I can enjoy the last days of the “single-life,”. It really just seems like everyone wants an excuse to party. Last I checked the single life consisted of sad hot pockets and sadder Netflix shows about the moon wars. Is it weird that I worry about future worries? I’m worried that I’ll wake up the morning of my twenty-first and complete the interview only to find that I’ll have the most anxiety filled time of my life until I get my match. It isn’t an instantaneous match because there may not be someone in the world at that moment that clicks with you. The wait to match can take weeks and knowing me every second I don’t get a match is a second of agony. One day to go...I had the weirdest conversation last night. My mom basically asked me if I had ever considered setting my location preferences for the moon colonies. I don’t understand why she would want me to match with a second-class interplanetary colony citizen.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: - **Prompt: Set your story at a roadside .** - **Bonus Constraint (10 pts):** Story includes a pink elephant (a picture, statue, toy, etc. would also count) This week’s challenge is to set your story in a roadside diner. You can use any part of the location as long as it is the story’s main setting. There are many ways to use it: it could be in space, on a boat, in a , or even a diner run by elves! So feel free to think outside the box and use it creatively. The bonus constraint is not required. You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. Use to check your wordcount. - **Leave feedback on at least one other story by 2pm EST next Monday. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday. *(Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)* ###Additional Rules - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read the stories aloud and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and/or listen to the others! Everyone is welcome and we’d love to have you!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Weekly points are awarded based on the following system. **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** (one crit required) | up to **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 in-depth, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* *Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.*   *** #Rankings for - u/AliciaWrites - u/Peter_Palmer_ - u/DannyMethane_ **Crit Stars:** - u/AliciaWrites - u/ATIWTK - u/Peter_Palmer_ *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Experiment with tropes and different genres with the brand new feature [**Fun Trope Friday**]() on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on [**Serial Sunday**]()! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


The Stork We’d been trying for a baby for years before the stork came. Hundreds of letters sent to Stork Deliveries Inc., all ignored(or so we thought). I’d always be disappointed when months passed without any response, and my husband would try to cheer me up. We had already given up on the idea of raising our own children and accepted our fate as a barren couple years ago when a mysterious letter flew under our front door. Well, it wasn’t really a mysterious letter; the logo of Stork Deliveries Inc. was printed very obviously on the envelope. I was giddy with excitement when I rushed into the kitchen where my husband was eating his lunch. “Tom!” I cried. “The Storks send us a letter!” “A letter? Who uses those nowadays?” Tom replied with a twinkle in his eye as he took the letter from me and stared at its face. He reached to rip it open but paused. “Sarah,” he said slowly, “a letter from the Storks can only mean one thing. As soon as we take this letter out, a stork will come and hide a child in our house and if we don’t find it within a day, the stork has to live with us until the baby is 18.” “Well,” I said nervously, “we don’t have a large house; there aren’t many places you can hide a baby, and a day is plenty of time. Plus, even if the stork lives with us, it’ll be fine. The Patterson’s across the road failed finding their child and now they have a stork who helps with chores around the house.” Tom nodded, took a deep breath and ripped open the letter. “Congratulations, Mr and Mrs Campbell. Stork Deliveries Inc. are delighted to inform you that you have been deemed eligible to receive a son. A stork has arrived with your future child and is currently in the process of hiding it in your house. If you don’t find the child within 1 hour, the stork will live in your house until the baby is of age or it sees fit. Your timer starts now. STORK DISPATCHED NAME: Ben SEX: Male AGE: 58 ADDITIONAL NOTES: LMAOOOO good luck” “One hour?!” I exclaimed. “It’s changed!” Tom scanned the letter again. “I don’t think-“ He stopped speaking, staring at something past me. I turned and screamed. A stork with yellowed feathers and a stoned expression was staring at us from the entrance of the kitchen. It had a red bandanna tied to its balding head, a faded blue backpack and an orange tag with the number 208794 written on it was attached to its leg. “Is that a stork?” Tom gawked. “Yes, I’m a stork,” the stork replied. “It talks!” I jumped back. The stork shot me what looked like an annoyed expression. “Yes I talk, Sherlock, and I have a name. It’s Ben. Now I’d recommend getting a move on with this child-finding business before your timer runs out.” It pointed at a clock on the wall—which was definitely not there before—and winked. *Right,* I thought. *There’s a child to be found. A child! I’m going to be a mother!* I closed Tom’s open mouth. “Well, you heard it— uh, him. We have to find the child!” For the next hour my husband and I turned the house upside down looking for the child to no avail. The clock started screeching and my husband and I had to run back home from the roof to turn it off. “Ha, y’all didn’t find him!” Ben taunted as we defeatedly walked through the front door. “Yes, we get it. Where’s the child?” I asked. Turns out the baby was in Ben’s backpack. Tom and I tried protesting that it wasn’t fair but Ben just threatened to fly away and take the child back to where it came from. We reluctantly agreed to let Ben stay for 18 years(“But drinking age is 21!” Ben protested. However, we were in Australia so take that, motherf-), but all complaints were forgotten as soon as we gazed upon the child’s face. And at that moment, I knew I would never, ever, ever give that baby up. Or let it down. We named our child Dave, and over the next 18 years he grew into a strapping young lad. He was a perfect son, and we were so proud of him at his graduation. However, those 18 years were the worst years of our lives. Because of Ben. Of course, after we received Dave, Ben moved into the master bedroom(Tom and I’s)and complained about how small and cramped it was. He constantly whined about how his old family had lived in a huge mansion and fed him the best fish that money could buy. We were too joyful over our son to give Ben much of a crap. The problem started when he stumbled across the cellar. We came home one evening after taking Dave out to the park to a very drunk Ben, slouching on our couch smoking and watching television while eating microwaved pizza with empty bottles of wine on the floor. I believe that the sight traumatised Dave and made him hate the taste of pizza, though he doesn’t seem to remember the incident. I put Dave to bed while Tom scolded Ben and cleaned him up. I hoped that this would be a one off incident, but whenever we were away I would always find evidence that someone had stolen more alcohol from our cellar and a smell of smoke that I could never scrub out afterward. 18 gruelling years of living with a literal animal took tolls on Tom and I’s health. By the time Dave graduated we were only 48 years old but had white hair and wrinkles(and probably lung cancer too). The day after Dave’s birthday, the master bedroom was empty, the cellar was missing 5 bottles of whiskey and Ben was nowhere to be found. Years later we received an invitation to Ben’s funeral. “Ben will always be remembered for the many good things he had done for the company,” the CEO of Stork Delivers Inc. said during his speech. “He had fun at parties, drinking with everyone. He took his colleagues to the bar, as long as the other stork was paying. He…thank you for listening.” Tom and I laughed for a full five minutes once we got home. It would seem that not even his boss thought much of him.


A lonely young man and discouraged young woman make a pact in high school. If they are both single at thirty they say, they will get married. Several years go by, she gets engaged but breaks off the relationship. He does not find love, so the day of his thirtieth birthday he calls the woman and asks if she is seeing anyone. She laughs and says No. Me neither. You know that was a joke right? she says. He responds with an affirmation, adding they should try again when they are forty for they are still young and much of their lives is yet to be lived. Shortly after this conversation the woman is introduced to her roommates brother. They hit it off and are married. They have kids, careers, buy mid-sized cars and a house in the suburbs they can not afford. She works as a receptionist at his practice. One Saturday she lets herself to find him inside a partner. Papers are filled soon after. Property is split. Visitations figured. Now the kids have two Christmases. In a month she will turn forty. The young man strings together one relationship after another. He uses dating apps, work connections, friend’s sisters. They all bring sex without intimacy. His partners are for the most part willing and present. The fear is his. He cannot commit because if it. He does nothing to address the fear. Therefore on his fortieth birthday he calls the woman and asks if she is still single. She is but not is not a good time, she says. She talks about her divorce, about her pain and her need to be single for a little while so she can figure out who she really is. Why don’t you call me when we’re fifty? He laughs through the phone. Immediately the man dialogs with his inner voice. He confronts himself in the mirror, seeing a lot of middle age and not a lot else. He is inspired to get help. He finds a therapist he likes, a young asian woman with a doctoral degree from Columbia. She is expensive but their work pays off. The man address head on the issues of his life. He opens up about his absent father and overbearing mother. He learns to trust, others and himself. He begins a spiritual practice of twenty minutes of silent mediation morning and evening. He encounters his true self, the eternal place within. Living from a more authentic center he begins to flower. He opens himself to more intimate relationships. When vacationing with his girlfriend in Italy, he cries as she holds him. They are married on the plane ride back by a minister who happened to be sitting next to them. A stewardess served as maid of honor, one of the pilots was best man. The people traveling first class sit and wonder what’s with all the commotion happening in coach. On the ride home from the airport, their cab is sideswiped by a drunk driver. Both the driver and girlfriend are killed. Waking up in the hospital the man learns of wife. Only death consoles him. He wants to be reunited with his love. He wants to relive their Italian romance. He wants to unplug himself from the machines keeping him alive. On his fiftieth birthday he calls no one and no one calls him. The same thing happens the years of his sixtieth and seventieth birthdays. However at age eighty three there is knock at his door. Standing in his porch is the woman. She’s remarried but her husband has recently passed. I lost the one I wanted to keep, yet the one I don’t want is still around she says. They pass the time as friends, talking about their lives, their pains and triumphs and the lonely desperation of youth. They confess their ill-fated affection of one another. We didn’t get it right this time says the eighty-three year old man, adding do you think we will get another shot? I suspect not. I suspect the same. Would you like to hold hands and walk to the park? I would like that very much. The people of the park remark to themselves the loveliness of the cute couple in love at their twilight and they pray they might be so lucky.


I no longer can handle this house that I once called home. The plain white walls with the judgmental eyes. They have long since made me feel quite uncomfortable. My ears ache with such pain from the loud squeaky floor boards. I have yet to decide if they are begging me for help or screaming at me to leave. The shredded green carpet, upstairs in the last bedroom at the end of the hall, to the left, must truly despise me. I say this because when I walk into that room the carpets dark, green hands always wrap around my feet causing me to fall. I am afraid to take simple baths in the once peaceful tub, in the upstairs bathroom. Every time I get into the water and scooch down in it to get comfortable and relax, the water comes back on once I rest my eyes. I always feel the hands of someone trying to drown me. My only friend was the wall size mirror in my living room. It has the most welcoming presence and the most beautiful blue frame. I use to be able to look into it and see myself, the positive and happy self I use to be before…before all of this. Now it too has since betrayed me. It portrays me as this crazy, delusional person my family says I am. They say I am losing my mind but I am not. They say I am just the most, clumsy person they have ever met and that is why I trip over the carpet all the time. They even have an explanation for the bathtub. They say I fall asleep once I get too comfortable and that is why I feel like I am drowning. If only they could see the warning on the back of the front wooden door, just below the diamond shaped window. How they miss it I will never know. The blood is everywhere. My name is Stephanie Grey. The year is 1997 and I am twenty-five years old. I have been living in this house for almost two years now. Before I moved to the peaceful town of New Seal, I lived in a very busy city. I was a very successful psychologist. I had a husband for about three years. We started dating when I was seventeen years old. Basically we were together for about six years. We lived together for four of those years. By now I am sure you are wondering why I continue to speaking in pass tense when referring to my husband. Well that is because in 1995 Gerald passed away. He was in a head on collision with another car. They both crashed into a guard rail. Everyone died involved including the little girl that was with her mother in the other car. I was completely devastated about this for a long time. Had my husband and I not been arguing then none of it would have happened. I stopped showing up to work and eventually lost my job. I didn’t even care. After living with such depression for almost five months, I decided in order to be happy again I needed to move on. I knew the only way that I would be able to do this is, that I would have to move out of the house that I shared with my late husband. I didn’t want to let go of the house I lived in for over four years but I knew I must be strong. That is how I ended up in this house that I have now. I found this house in a catalog. The description they gave was “a beautiful, three bedroom, one and half bathrooms, a large front and backyard and two car garage. A great house for a large family looking for a peaceful and safe place to live.” Now I know it doesn’t make much sense for one person to move into a house so big. What caught my attention most about this house was that it was the only one that had the words “peaceful and safe” in its description. The thought of that sounded so wonderful to me and I figured if nothing else I could have a lot of sleep overs. Maybe even rent out the rooms to people and make some extra money, since I lost my job. I called the number listed for the home and moved in about two and a half weeks later. The house was exactly as they said it was for the first year. The fresh air and the children playing in the street, brought more smiles to my face than I could count. I through parties often for my family and friends. I would invite the new people I had met since moving to this town. It was great and before I knew it I was back to how I once was. Although I missed my husband more than anything because he was my best friend, I was no longer sad. I have finally moved on and felt like I could be happy again. At least that is what I thought, till things started changing and the house became unfriendly. It started out small, little things that had to happen several times before I even noticed them happening. My family always told me I was oblivious to the obvious. I figured out that, that is the only thing they have ever accused me of and they were right. Never have I ever met someone who doesn’t notice when their chairs were rearranged or that their kitchen garbage was moved about three feet to the left and angled differently than they put it. I figured I simply forgot that I moved them and that was it. It didn’t occur to me that something strange was happening until I started seeing the figures walking in the halls. I could never get a good enough look at them though, so I eventually started to dismiss them too.


When I was 16 I broke a broom handle in shop class. I was an awkward sophomore that shopped at thrift stores and dressed like a 70 year old man. Different for the sake of different. My nights were spent staying up late watching Cowboy Bebop, Outlaw Star, and Trigun. I think Adult Swim shaped who I am today, or maybe it was a culture or a muse I innately knew. When Adult Swim was over it was bedtime. Time to shut my eyes and let my mind run its marathon of everything that has, does, and will bother me. Waking up was suffering. Groggy, disheveled, and red eyed i would walk into my first class of the day, shop class. My shop teacher, a short porky man who was a bit different. He once called me into the backroom of the shop and asked "Adam have you been partaking before coming into my classes? It's your life to do what you want i just need to know because it's a safety concern." "Partaking?" I inquired. "Have you been smoking marijuana before coming into my classes?" he clarified. Now I had never partook and I made that clear but when I was telling my classmate who sat beside me he chuckled "That's so funny cuz I come into this class baked every morning and he has never asked me." Looking back I might see why he suspected me of this. Once I was holding a piece of oak wood up to the light to see which way the grain pattern was running so I could miter the board in the correct manner. As I was doing this I noticed the shop teacher staring at me strangely. I do wonder if he believed I saw the grain pattern moving about the board and changing colors. And of course there was me stumbling into class half awake looking as if someone had just used a fine tipped red sharpie to draw on my sclera. As we were cleaning up at the end of a class I was using the wide dusting broom. I had put the sawdust into a neat pile and went to shake the remaining dust out of the shammy when the wooden handle split in two, the ends of both resembling a stake. I stood incredulously with two halves of a broom and turned to the nearest student to inquire if he had witnessed this spectacle. I told him what happened hoping he might vouch for me and he most helpfully replied "I didn't see it happen". Now granted this was just a broom stick but as the janitor put it "25 years in janitorial service and I have never seen a one inch wooden dowel snapped like that". My teacher likewise seemed quite dubious of my story but having no proof of misconduct he let the whole thing go. The next class of the day was English with Mr. Perry. Mr. Perry didn't really teach. Though he did once instruct us to stop telling people that he didn't teach. Class would begin with a What's New? segment. Students would take turns telling about something, anything new. The first student raised his hand "Adam broke a broom in shop class". The class half-laughed. Mr Perry directed me to explain myself and immediately began to reject my story, lecturing "Things don't just break for no reason something must have happened so tell us what happened." I repeated my story and he shook his head and moved on to the next student. Years later I found out one of my classmates used to sell Marijuana to Mr. Perry. Mr. Perry definitely partook. I had a friend in shop class, Mike. He was the one who ratted me out during What's New?. Mike and I had a great time together as we were both comfortably weird. Once Mike caught a fly and kept it as a pet inside his clear Bic pen. He had ripped its wings off so it couldn't fly away. I wonder now if Mike had some abandonment issues. Of all people I thought would believe me it would have to be Mike. When I sought validation of my story from him he replied "It's just a broom your not gonna get in trouble why don't you just tell us what happened." It was at the moment I felt crushed and alone and I knew no one would ever believe me. Now this situation was quite innocent but it makes a person wonder what one would do if the situation was not as such. It's a strange feeling to be the only person who knows what happened and have no one believe you. Your story is strange, improbable, too simple and yet it's true and no one will ever believe you. Sit in that dark dank corner you liar and don't come out until you are ready to tell the truth. The truth? The truth you say! I will tell you the truth. The truth is that I am the only person that will ever know what happened to that broom.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: - **Theme: ** - **Bonus Constraint (10 pts):** Don’t use the word “illusion” or any for it (the ones in red). This week’s challenge is to write your story based on the theme of “illusion”. For some additional inspiration, I will leave you with this quote by Iris Murdoch, “We live in a fantasy world, a world of illusion. The great task in life is to find reality.” You may interpret the theme any way you like, as long as you follow all post and subreddit rules. For extra points, try not using the theme word, or any direct synonyms of it. Good words! You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. Use to check your wordcount. - **Leave feedback on at least one other story by 2pm EST next Monday. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday. *(Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)* ###Additional Rules - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read the stories aloud and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and/or listen to the others! Everyone is welcome and we’d love to have you!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Weekly points are awarded based on the following system. **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** (one crit required) | up to **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 in-depth, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* *Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.*   *** #Rankings for - u/DmonRth - u/katherine_c - u/Tomorrow_Is_Today1 **Crit Stars:** - u/DmonRth *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Experiment with tropes and different genres with the brand new feature on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


You’re curious about Marcus and his tower. I understand the temptation. A man builds a skyscraper in Dubai, does nothing with it except fill it with water, and someone is bound to ask “why?”. I’ll tell you what I know, but please understand; while I knew the man well, I knew the obsession almost not at all. His strange obsession with bodies of water started in early childhood. He would sit at the edge of pools and stare into them. We used to think that he was scared of the water. Perhaps, there was a time when he was scared of what he saw. Perhaps not. I am only certain that he did see something, because I caught a glimpse of it too. One day, while the others were teasing Marcus, goading him to jump into the pool, I got out to ask him, “What do you see?” “Look at the lights,” he said. *Lights?* I wondered. He was talking about the caustics, the fracture sunrays at the bottom of the pool. I stared at the lights with him, watching them dance their cosmic dance, and suddenly I felt a tinge of fear. It was a primal fear. The fear of a small animal, hidden in the brush, hoping that it had not been seen. It was those damned lights, the caustics, and their damned writhing. It was alive somehow, like the patterns of a great snake. Reflexively, I backed away from the edge of the pool. “You see it too?” Marcus asked. “No,” I lied, “I didn’t see anything at all.” He scrunched up his face, in disappointment or disbelief I didn’t know. He shrugged it off, and continued his peculiar contemplation. Marcus kept on like that for the rest of our childhood. He peered deeply into any volume of water, but was especially keen on large bodies of crystal clear water, where caustics could scatter on the floor. I never quite lost touch with Marcus, but in the years between the onset of puberty and the start of our first year of college, I knew him less. Memories of what the caustics revealed to me that day were overshadowed by the overwhelming need to conform with my peers, and the whims of my young heart. Marcus’ path and mine diverged for a time. Every chance encounter with him was a reintroduction. When we truly reconnected in our first year of college it was as practical strangers. Marcus was no longer the odd child at the edge of the pool, he was a charismatic entrepreneur. I should mention that Marcus and I were born into undeniable privilege. Our fathers were leaders of industry. But while I had not taken to my father’s lifestyle of business and capital, Marcus had. He inherited his father’s aptitude for markets, and could have skipped college altogether, but he insisted on receiving a formal education. Something else had changed about him though, something that had unnerved me from our reconnection onward. I think it was his eyes. Marcus had always had marvelous, crystal clear, blue eyes; but now they had a depth to them that could rival the Mariana. Worse still was when his eyes caught the sunlight just right, they reflected flakes of shimmering gold. Like light bouncing back from a fathomless, crystal clear ocean. A memory of fear resurfaced from that fathomless deep, and I’m ashamed to say that from then on I avoided his gaze whenever possible. I was forced to grow accustomed to his unholy eyes in our second year. Fate decided that we would be sharing a dorm. As a self made millionaire, Marcus could have afforded his own apartment off campus, but he wanted to experience “real” college life. I loathed the thought of sharing a room with Marcus, but you will be surprised to hear, as I was to live through, the beginning of our strong bond. I grew to tolerate the man, and then to appreciate him. I am not embarrassed to say that I even came to admire him. He was disciplined, both intelligent and strong, charismatic, and wise. There was never a single second of the day that he wasn’t working, and never a moment that he would drop his work to lend an ear to the troubles of his friends. I like to think that he had a certain respect for me as well. Inspired as I was by his character, I could never forget the maddening caustics; and so I dealt with my fear the only way I knew how, through my art. What I lacked in capital intuition, I like to think I made up for in artistic expression. I channeled the caustics into my works, and on canvases of purest azure I drew maddening patterns of gold. Yes, indeed, I think we shared a mutual respect. In my work, I was able to communicate something that Marcus had never been able to. He became my most generous patron, and most loyal friend. In time we developed a profound and familial bond. Now the tower. I only visited twice, but I wish I had never visited at all. After college, Marcus did not slow in his capital endeavors. He became a part of that elite society which greases the cogs of the global economy. He was completely unlike the Elon Musks, and Bill Gates of the world though, and enjoyed his wealth silently in the background. His one ostentatious expenditure was the Ocean Tower. It was a skyscraper, whose height was matched only by the Burj Khalifa. He filled it with water, and mechanisms for keeping the water crystal clear. It had ten sets of elevators in all for staff, and one executive elevator for himself that led straight to the top. Taking the executive elevator brought you to a hallway lined with azure and gold reliefs that he had commissioned me to design. “My dearest friend,” he spoke, as he led me down the hallway, “I would commission you one final time.” The way he said it. The conviction, the finality. He had the aura of a man ready to jump into an unknown that no other had ever even conceived. I wanted to shout, scream. One final time? My friend, what are you doing, what have you done? “I–” “Do not worry about your payment, my friend, it has already been wired.” He dismissed my hesitation before I could even vocalize it. I knew that I could not deny him his request. He threw open the doors at the end of the hallway to reveal the terror beyond. From ground to heaven, he had built a tower filled with the clearest crystal water. Within there were lights, angled to scatter caustics along the tower's length. It was oppressive. Though the space within was cavernous, I could not help but feel a horrifying claustrophobia creep into my spine. It was just as it was in the pool all those years ago. But the pool had only been a pinprick that belied the presence of some great unknowable monster. This tower was a window large enough for something to look back. I was frozen stiff before them, the writhing, undulating, mass of caustics. Their unnatural, alien, spasms told me I had entered the attention of something beyond my mundane perception. I could not comprehend it on this side of sanity. Marcus. YOU FOOL. “Paint me,” he said, “you will find suitable materials beside the door.” He stepped beyond the threshold, into the cavernous room. There was a walkway inside, suspended over the tower’s crystal depths. He sat down, and bid me paint. So I did. I steadied my trembling hand and began to work. Marcus sat at the end of his suspended walkway, staring deep into the crystal depths, and occasionally, to the scattered caustics on the walls above. It was then I noticed something, something that my younger self had missed, but that my trained artistic eye could now see. I had missed something, all those years ago by the pool, I had completely misunderstood him. Marcus had not simply been perceiving something within the caustics, he had been communing with something. I finished my work, adding the last little touches. Each fine detail, each stroke of the brush, a madness of its own. “What will you call it?” he asked. That painting, which you well know. The reason you entreated me to share with you my experience with Marcus and his tower was called… “Communion.” He nodded in approval, and asked me to return the following day, in case I needed to make refinements. When I returned the next day, materials at the ready, I did add one more detail. You see, after that day, Marcus was never seen again. There was nothing left of him, except where he had been sitting; on the end of his walkway, at the edge of sanity, was a smattering of blood, scattered on the floor as if it was a caustic reflected.


No one knew where it had come from. It had stood at the edge of the city for ages, to the point some sources even believed it had existed before the city. Though, of course, there was no way to be certain. The library was as enigmatic as it was beautiful, holding such marvelous wonders and stories, the likes of which no one had ever before seen. Through some magic, it was able to enchant both children and adults alike. Yet, as time passed, the magic seemed to fade. Every day, there seemed to be one less person visiting its silent halls, one less person losing themselves within a world unlike theirs. For a human living day to day, the change was gradual enough to be unnoticeable. But for an entity which had existed for centuries, if not millennia, an entity which had watched countless souls enter with despairing thoughts and leave with joy and solace in their hearts, it was like its heart was breaking. And the library could do nothing of its own to prevent their departure. The only tools it had at its disposal were its books. It would rewrite them, reorganize them, create entirely new stories. The shelves would realign themselves, forming a simple maze to bring readers places they wouldn’t venture themselves. Nothing worked, and soon enough, the library stood empty. Its doors remained unlocked, its stories remained unread, and its hopes remained unheard. Time passed, as memory of the library faded into obscurity. Everyone in the city knew of it only in passing, it being the subject of tales handed down through generations. They all spoke of it so highly, regaled children with stories of the worlds they’d encountered as if borne their own ideas, yet never once suggested they would return to it. Without anyone to visit, without anyone to care for its stories, the library began losing the power to stop nature. It started as a single sprout in the center of the floor, growing between the cracks in the tiles until it stood proudly as a vibrant violet hyacinth. That flower remained in isolation for years, feeding on sunlight from high windows, nourished by the steady drip-drip-drip of water from a crack in the ceiling. It had no sense of self, no ability to know where it was, and as such, lacked the ability to visit another world. The library watched the flower, acting as its lone guardian even as its magic faded further. Perhaps it felt something akin to brotherhood in the tiny spot of beauty, or perhaps it treated the flower as it would a new reader. It would rearrange shelves to ensure no wild animals devoured the flower, or provide comfort from the harsh winter winds when they would billow in through unhinged doors. But no one came, and no one would come. Not ever again. That was the harsh reality the library faced, and with its magic slipping ever further away, it became further enveloped by the natural world. Grasses would creep in through the doorways, taking root wherever dirt had been dragged years prior; vines would climb ever upward, using the library’s as a handhold in their journey toward the sun; flowers would settle down, growing in patches of simple rue, cerulean irises, and goldenrod tulips. None of them, however, dared touch the books, as if knowing they were sacred to the building which provided them shelter from the environment. None of them knew the truth behind the shifting landscape which they called home, the walls which would suddenly not be walls, the storms which would suddenly become a simple drip-drip-drip that fed them conservatively, the harsh droughts which would be relieved only by a sudden shade looming over. War came to the city centuries later, death raking its bony fingers across the land as if preparing the soil beneath. No one was safe, all dragged into combat for the sake of keeping their own alive, and few returned to tell the tales of the brutal onslaught they had endured. This holdout was never meant to last. Perhaps the other side saw it only as a form of entertainment, watching how long the people would scramble in their desperation to survive. Whatever it was, when the enemy grew bored, they stopped holding back. When the bombs came, no one was spared, no buildings were free of being targeted. Young and old, male and female and all in between, were targets of an undiscerning threat. And in the span of just a few days, the city was no more than rubble. The only building which remained was the library, unable to act as the city it had once called a friend came to exist no longer. It was unable to shed a tear, unable to vocalize its pain and sorrow. It had no magic of its own, no way to reach out. All it could do was protect its little slice of the world and hope no danger came its way. \* \* \* \* \* It had been decades since anyone had explored this part of the country, too terrified of tales from the war to risk venturing so far out. Though he had heard the tales from his parents, and them from theirs, having been saved from the destruction by distance alone, they held no weight to him. Why should he be afraid of a war which he had no connection to, and which no other child his age had ever spoken of? His journey through the rubble was rough. Though the city had apparently been destroyed by objects called “bombs,” they hadn’t leveled the remains, leaving peaks and crags formed by debris alone. To anyone who knew, it would’ve looked wholly unnatural. Yet, to him, who was to say this wasn’t just another natural structure, the result of some as-of-yet undiscovered weathering method? He had no reference, his own city bearing no similarities to whatever this one may have once been. Occasionally, he would find bones, sorrowful reminders that there was no life within the city limits. The first time it had happened, he had only then realized that there truly was no life. Not once had he heard a bird call to its mate, or seen the smiling face of a flower as it greeted the sun. There was nothing but silence, which in a word normally filled with music and voices, was unsettling. He traveled without aim, choosing the path of least resistance as a river would through the land. He climbed up steep slopes, using shattered windows as handholds, only to slide down their opposite side, kicking up dust. He ventured in some buildings, marveling at what had once been a grand fountain or sculpture, only to have such a view vanish from his mind the moment he left the structure behind. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular, simply something which would show the city was safe and ease his parents’ fears for his wellbeing. As such, it was quite the welcome surprise when he spotted a single building at the edge of the city, standing undamaged by anything but time. It was a large structure with an arching roof and an elaborate windowed façade. Draped over it, as if to provide warmth on a cold winter night, were all sorts of grasses and ivies. The windows were cracked, some missing entire panes, while the doors hung loosely from their hinges, creaking in the slightest of breezes. As he passed through the doorway, spying the rows upon rows of books beyond, the shelves burdened by stories of a city passed, he knew why the building had been spared. Despite the size of it, the library wasn’t grandiose, instead rather humble, offering a quite place of solitude for those few who had no doubt seen it as a rest stop on their grander journeys. He, however, wasn’t like that. To him, it felt as if fate had led him here, as if that tiny red thread upon his finger had been not a string to someone unknown, but the tassel which marked one’s place in a book. He ran his fingers gently over the shelves, feeling the wood remain solid despite what had to have been centuries of mistreatment. There was something else as well, just beneath the surface, something which brought a smile to his face, though he couldn’t determine what it was exactly. His journey brought him to rest in the heart of the library, where the highest windows provided a single spot of sunlight, and where there rested a single violet hyacinth. It stood proud, untouched by the occasional wrath of nature, but alone. As he watched, a single drop of water tumbled from a crack in the ceiling, before splashing against the flower’s petals. He knelt before it, gently bringing his nose closer so he could draw in its beautiful scent. His mother had taught him about flowers, and how each one held its own meaning, no matter where in the world one went. Some exuded happiness and joy, while others whimpered sorrow and despair. In the language of flowers, violet hyacinth said one thing, and one thing only. “Please forgive me.” As it was the largest flower within the library, and the one treated most prominently, he knew it was the oldest among them, and had been there for an indeterminate amount of time. It didn’t escape his notice that the others which grew showed despair, regret, but also hope. He smiled calmly and settled himself down beside the hyacinth, one hand running through the short grass which surrounded its base. He wished he could speak, not to himself, but to the library. He wished he could vocalize his thoughts, let it be known that the library would never be forgotten, that it hadn’t failed. Though it could not protect the people themselves, it had done the next best thing, and it had protected their stories for all future generations to experience. There was a shudder which he felt subtly, and he began to rise, fearing an earthquake. Yet, a moment later, the source was revealed. It was a lone shelf, dragging itself through the library’s interior, being careful to avoid the patches of flowers and grass as it approached him. By his side, a single book slid itself out further than its fellows. He took the book, wondered at its blank pages, until another book’s emergence rolled forward a pencil. That was enough of a message, and he once again sat beside the hyacinth, scribbling his message into the book. When finished, he returned it to its place in the shelf, only to grin in pleased shock as it popped out a few moments later, with new words written beneath his. He and the library went back and forth, exchanging words in a way no one had done with the building since before the city’s construction. They spoke of stories of humanity, they spoke of the library itself, and of him. They spoke of the past, and they spoke of the future. But most importantly, they spoke. As the sun began to set, he returned the book to its place upon the shelf one final time. His last scribble: “I’ll be back. You won’t ever be forgotten again, for as long as I live. I promise.


I think I've been murdered. The chilling realization crept over me like a shadow in the night, and every nerve in my body screamed in silent agony. But let me start from the beginning, from the seemingly ordinary day that spiraled into a nightmare. It was a gloomy Tuesday afternoon when I left work, the rain drizzling down from a leaden sky. The relentless patter on the pavement matched my gloomy mood. My mundane routine had become a monotonous march towards nowhere, and I longed for something to break the cycle. That day, a sense of restless curiosity tugged at me, urging me to explore the mysterious depths of the internet. With each click and search, I stumbled upon a website—an enigmatic forum filled with cryptic discussions and dark secrets. The site was named "The Twilight Conspiracy." Intrigued, I delved deeper into its ominous digital corridors, where shadowy figures discussed the unexplained and the macabre. They shared tales of strange occurrences, whispered rumors of a secret society lurking in the shadows, and debated the existence of supernatural forces. It was like stumbling upon a hidden world, a rabbit hole I couldn't resist descending into. One thread, in particular, caught my attention—a user named "CrimsonSoul" claimed to have discovered evidence of a real-life conspiracy, one that went beyond mere speculation. Intrigued and somewhat skeptical, I clicked on the thread. The user described a series of bizarre events, each more unsettling than the last. They spoke of inexplicable occurrences in their own life—objects moving on their own, whispers in the night, and a growing feeling of being constantly watched. They even provided a list of names and dates, hinting at connections that could unravel the very fabric of reality. I couldn't help but be drawn into the mystery. Maybe it was the monotony of my life or the nagging feeling that there must be something more to the world. Either way, I decided to reach out to CrimsonSoul, desperate to know more. We exchanged messages late into the night, sharing stories and theories that grew darker with each passing minute. CrimsonSoul confided in me, revealing that they had come too close to the truth, and that they were being hunted by a shadowy organization that would stop at nothing to protect their secrets. Intrigue turned into obsession, and I found myself digging deeper into the conspiracy. I poured over documents, old newspapers, and obscure online sources. I mapped connections and patterns, convinced that I was on the brink of a revelation that would change everything. Days turned into sleepless nights as I ventured further down the rabbit hole. My apartment became a tangled web of red strings and notes. Paranoia gnawed at my sanity as I noticed strange occurrences—items moved from their usual places, hushed whispers in the darkness, and the persistent feeling of being watched. CrimsonSoul urged me to be cautious, warning that they had lost friends to this conspiracy. They told me to trust no one, to keep digging but to do so discreetly. The more I uncovered, the deeper my unease grew, and yet I couldn't turn back. The truth, elusive and terrifying, danced just out of reach. One fateful night, as I hunched over my cluttered desk, a sudden realization struck me—the names and dates from CrimsonSoul's list had a pattern, a pattern that led to a date fast approaching—the same date when my investigation had begun. Fear surged through me, and I knew that I had to confront this conspiracy head-on. My heart raced as I prepared for what lay ahead. I had no choice but to confront the dark forces that had infiltrated my life. The night arrived, shrouded in an eerie silence. Armed with my research and an unsettling sense of purpose, I ventured into the heart of the conspiracy's labyrinthine web. The location was an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town, a place rumored to be a hub of their sinister activities. As I crept through the dimly lit corridors of the warehouse, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being herded like a lamb to the slaughter. My flashlight cast long, sinister shadows on the crumbling walls, and the air grew heavy with the stench of decay. Finally, I reached a chamber where a group of shadowy figures stood in a circle, their faces obscured by masks. In the center, an eerie ritual was taking place—a dark, foreboding ritual that seemed to defy the laws of nature. Before I could react, I was seized by an unseen force, and I watched in terror as the figures turned toward me, their masked faces devoid of expression. I struggled to break free, but their grip was unrelenting. A ritual chant filled the air, and I felt a searing pain, unlike anything I had ever experienced. It was as if my very essence was being torn apart. Darkness closed in around me, and I realized with horrifying clarity that I was becoming a part of their unholy ceremony. As the world dissolved into shadows, I couldn't help but think that I had uncovered a truth too dangerous to bear. I think I've been murdered, not by conventional means, but by a conspiracy that sought to protect its secrets at any cost. And now, my existence is intertwined with their malevolent agenda, a prisoner in a world of darkness and despair. Every day I live out from here I feel as I am deprived of belonging. I feel hallow and empty, living out the days of my mundane life with this harrowing secret. I've been murdered, not in body, but in soul, forever trapped in the chilling embrace of the Twilight Conspiracy. Heed my caution, for you to investigate as I did I fear you may be too.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: - **Image Prompt: ** - **Bonus Constraint (10 pts):** Use the words starfish, reflection, and tide This week’s challenge is to use the above image as inspiration for your story. You may use any part of the image and interpret it however you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and sub rules. The bonus constraint is not required, but I encourage you to give it a try! The base words should remain intact but you’re welcome to change the tense, if needed (i.e. reflection to reflects/reflecting is fine). You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. Use to check your wordcount. - **Leave feedback on at least one other story by 2pm EST next Monday. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday. *(Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)* ###Additional Rules - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read the stories aloud and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and/or listen to the others! Everyone is welcome and we’d love to have you!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Weekly points are awarded based on the following system. **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** (one crit required) | up to **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 in-depth, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* *Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.*   *** #Rankings for - u/AliciaWrites - u/MaxStickies - u/OldBayJ - u/poiyurt - u/katherine_c **Crit Stars:** - u/AliciaWrites - u/Blu_Spirit - u/dewa1195 - u/katherine_c - u/MaxStickies - u/OldBayJ - u/poiyurt - u/TheLettre7 - u/Tomorrow_Is_Today1 *Note: Being that I was a participant this past week, all votes have also been verified by another mod.* *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Experiment with tropes and different genres with the brand new feature on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Twenty-three. That was how many he could sustain in his own little group; how many he could protect from the harsh realities of the god forsaken world. It hurt his heart every time he found another survivor, only to have to turn them away, to leave them injured in the dust, exposed to the elements and beasts. Even worse when they were children. He’d never grown used to ignoring their cries for help. Twenty-three was the number of years he and his ragtag group of humans had wandered the world, hiding in hovels while he fought to keep them safe. The Demons were everywhere one looked, always looming over the horizon, roving like the wild, bloodthirsty beasts they were. They tended to move during the day, making it safer to sleep during the night and move only when they did. Twenty-three thousand. That was how many he estimated he’d killed in his time. Each one he’d taken down with nothing but his sword, striking true to protect his own solitary group. He cared not for the ravenous animals, turned a blind eye to their natural urges and instincts as he cut them down. They were nothing more than beasts, after all, trying to survive in a world that had been as cruel to them as it had been to his group. Twenty-three cities. That was how many they'd visited and seen ravaged by the Demons. Despite the abundance of supplies left over, miraculously unrotten after years exposed to the wild, the streets were packed with the monsters. They roamed in droves, idly shuffling along, kicking up dust wherever they traveled. It made it simpler to track their movements and forage, while minimizing the amount that needed to be engaged. Twenty-three eternities. That was how many lifetimes worth of sins he would have to atone for. His failure to prevent the fall, his inability to protect the humans as a whole, his continued rampage against the Demons which had wrought the apocalypse. They had all been easily preventable, yet he’d taken no action when they’d occurred. Now, however, he had strength on his side, and all the time in the world. He would correct what needed to be corrected, even if it took him centuries. Twenty-three blind sets of eyes. That was how many he’d converted to his cause, how many he’d convinced his ways were right, how many turned their noses up at the Demons and scoffed at the lower life forms. That was how many had said the Demons were nothing more than that: Demons. Monsters that had brought about the end of the world through their own selfish desires. Beasts that had turned the world into a utopia for themselves, while forcing inhospitable lands on all others. Ones that had chosen greed and power over survival of the whole. Twenty-three prayers, which he said before facing the Demons. Twenty-three simple sentences to tide himself over through the bloodshed. It made it easier to ignore how eerily similar the Demons looked to the humans he protected. It let him go deaf to their calls for help, their screams as he brought them to their knees, their gasps as he ended their lives. Twenty-three prayers are what he gave to the Demons in an attempt to rescue what little of their souls remained. After all, they weren’t human anymore. Not after what they’d done to the world. He felt no remorse for them, no guilt for what he had to do. They were Demons, and nothing more.


In a small town, there lived a six-year-old girl named Maddie who had recently lost her parents. Orphaned and burdened with grief, Maddie sought solace in daily sessions with a compassionate psychologist after school. During their conversations, Maddie revealed a peculiar aspect of her dreams. Most nights, her dreams were black and white, and they remained uneventful. However, the night her parents tragically passed away, her dreams shifted dramatically and were in color. The color dreams depicted the exact manner in which both of her parents died. The psychologist tried to reassure her that dreams do not kill people, that accidents can happen, and that, while tragic, it is a part of life. Maddie is adamant that her dreams are what killed her parents. The psychologist probed further, asking why she thought this. The child recounted being irritated with her mother before going to bed the night before her mother died because she wouldn't allow her to watch another episode of her favorite show. She recalls sitting in bed, thinking about the terrible things that could happen to her mother. That night, she had her first color dream, in which her mother lost control of her car and crashed into a tree. The next day, she found out that her mother died in a car accident just as she had dreamed: down to the curve in the road, the road markings, and how the accident shattered the axle of the front tires. Three months later, her father did something similar when he promised her she could go to her friend's house for a sleepover but had to back out since he had to go to work early the next day. She doesn't remember being angry at him, but her mind continually returned to the idea that her father was mean. That night, she had her second color dream, in which her father fell down a flight of stairs and broke his neck against a cement floor. Her father, like her mother, tripped while walking fast down the stairs, rolling end over end and breaking his neck on the cement floor at the bottom of the stairs. The psychologist dismissed it as a coincidence and asked Maddie to experiment with her. She asked Maddie to think of someone she was angry with or, at the very least, annoyed with. Maddie said she would think about a student in her class, Greg, who had called her picture "ugly" during art class. The psychologist instructed her to think about Greg before bed and then report on her dreams in the next session. So Maddie left the psychologist's office and went to bed thinking about Greg. She had a color dream for the third time in her life. Greg fell out of a fourth-story window and landed on his head in her dream. The next day, she went to school, and Greg was not there. The teachers were huddled and apprehensive, and the start of school was delayed. Eventually, the principal entered the room and announced that one of their classmates had passed away that morning. Maddie told the psychologist about her dream and the news that Greg had died that morning. The psychologist was speechless; she didn't know what to say. She was certain Maddie's dreams had nothing to do with these deaths, but the evidence was mounting. The rest of the session was spent trying to pull Maddie's attention off Greg's death and onto more positive things, but the psychologist was concerned. After that session, she called a colleague from the university to get another perspective on how she might help Maddie. The colleague was a consultant for the military and wanted to run a sleep study and some brain scans. Since Maddie was a ward of the state, the psychologist granted permission because she trusted her colleague, and he helped children all the time. Maddie was subjected to several tests over the next month, ranging from brain scans to psychic interviews. They kept repeating the same test, telling Maddie a story about a criminal, an evil person, or an enemy of the United States. They would tell her to think hard about this person before bed. Maddie would experience a color dream about the person they wanted her to think about overnight. And every time she had a color dream about the person they wanted, they died the next day. The military saw Maddie as a potent weapon, and her recurring nightmares continued to affect countless lives. Almost every night, Maddie was told a story about a horrible person. Everyone from leaders of countries with which the US opposed, tyrants who were murdering their people, to criminals who were destroying society. Maddie was being used so regularly by the military that she told them, "I only dream in color; I don't like colored dreams anymore." The military leadership didn't care since their implications were too phenomenal to ignore. There was no one to look for Maddie because she was an orphan; she was the property of the US Military, a weapon that could never be traced back to them. Maddie's original psychologist had passed her over to her colleague almost a year ago, and she hadn't seen her since. She saw her colleague at a conference, and Maddie was the first thing that came to her mind. It was an awkward encounter; the colleague felt bad and acknowledged that he had handed over the girl to the US Military and that her claims that her color-death visions come true were real. From then on, the psychologist did everything possible to find Maddie and bring her out of this horrible circumstance. She was stopped at every turn, suffocated by paperwork, and threatened with prison for meddling with classified information. Realizing the dire consequences of her dreams, Maddie reached a breaking point after 60 consecutive nights of being manipulated by the military. Maddie asked her night guard for a sip of water, and he unlocked her bedroom cell and let her down the hall to get one. As Maddie turned on the faucet, she heard the guard's phone ring, and he turned around the corner so Maddie couldn't hear what they were talking about. Maddie took advantage of the situation by sneaking out of the prison, navigating into the surrounding woods and climbing over an 8-foot fence. She ultimately arrived at a main road, where a truck driver reported seeing a young child and called the police. Maddie was picked up by a squad car about a mile from the station after the local police were notified. Agents from the top secret facility went to the police station and took Maddie back to the base. However, the next day, a reporter listening to the scanner heard the call about a missing child and questioned the local police about it. The police did not provide much information to the reporter, but it made the reporter skeptical of what was happening. Why was a little child out in the middle of nowhere on a country road? Was it related to the military base in the woods? What became of the girl? Despite publishing the article, it received little traction and soon faded. Maddie returned to the military base and her nightmares, but there was now proof of a mystery girl emerging from the woods in the middle of the night. Maddie's original psychologist uncovered the story of the girl who came out of the woods in the middle of the night two and a half years later, nearly 600 deaths later, and more stories of evil told to an 8-year-old than should be heard in a lifetime. The psychologist lobbied the US military to release Maddie and let her back to her life. The military was concerned that her location would be discovered and decided to relocate her in the middle of the night; little did they know that the psychologist was watching the base and noticed Maddie and yelled out to her. The psychologist gathered photographic evidence and decided to go to court. The military eventually released Maddie after considerable public outcry and the psychologist's unwavering efforts. The military attempted to explain that if Maddie were freed from military custody, she would be a danger to others if she was not constantly supervised. Ultimately, the military’s refusal to admit that they had this weapon would lead to Maddie's freedom. They were concerned that if it were discovered that the military had this weapon for more than three years, all deaths caused by Maddie's color dreams would have serious consequences for the United States. Maddie continued to see the psychologist, who helped her control her color nightmares and work through the reoccurring stories of violence she was cruelly told while under military custody. Her psychologist became her loving guardian, and Maddie's journey towards a brighter future began.