Deft hands riffled through the filing cabinet. She always hated this part - it was never where she needed it to be. Margaret slammed a drawer shut to search another. She grimaced at the bare decor and studied the vanilla blinds. The chairs were cheap and worn, and the walls wore bland art. Dirt eroded the low-pile carpet in a maze-like pattern. She hated the place. Disgust renewed her motivation to get the hell out. She’d been in too long already. “Mrs. Sanford, please sit down.” It was barely a whisper, but it was enough to break her mental barrier. The scene flooded in. Lights flickered on and a man in a white coat appeared. He waited. Margaret struggled against the memory. It was fruitless - the chair met her backside before she realized she was complying. “Your results have come in and I’m afraid it isn’t looking good. I’ve consulted with a colleague and they agree with me. You need to get the treatment or this cancer is going to kill you.” The doctor’s voice was calm and level despite the sweat on his brow. “I’ve survived this long without it, doc. I don’t want the treatment. I don’t want to raise my daughter while weak and sick.” Margaret raised her hand to her throat. She no longer had control. “Marge. Please. You could live a long and happy life with James and your daughter. I know you don’t want to seem weak, but this is not something that makes you weak. It takes great strength to decide to get treatment. It’s not easy. Do it for them.” Her jaw clenched, teeth grinding hard on one another. Still, the words spilled out. “They are the very reason I’m *not* doing it. Trust me, doc, they don’t want me like that either.” She tried to resist. “And you don’t understand what I’d be giving up.” It was quiet, but he heard. “*Ma’am,* no disrespect to you, but I recognize exactly what you would be giving up. I see this every day. I see people die from this almost as frequently. I don’t want you to be one of them. I like you, Marge, please. Maybe just think about it? Talk it over with your husband again.” Mentally crossing her fingers, she lied. “Okay. Sure, doc.” The pressure that held her to the chair released and the lights flickered off again. She was finally free to resume her hunt. She popped up from the chair to search the desk. “Junk, junk, *junk.*” she grumbled. “Where *is* it?!” She toppled the clutter on Doctor Franklin’s desk with a sweeping motion. A clinking sound, metal against ceramic, caught her attention and she dove for the pile of knick-knacks on the floor. On her knees, she shuffled through the man’s belongings. “*Aha!*” The golden key was only one part of the equation, but she was *so close* to escaping. Whispers began anew. She fought to put her walls up, but she was growing weary. The memories sizzled at her barriers like mosquitoes on a bug zapper. Each hit made her more vulnerable. She shuffled toward the main door. “The most obvious solution, but why not try it?” She fumbled with the key in the office's entryway door lock. It didn’t fit. “Shit.” She turned toward the back door. “Lovely to see you, Marge!” the voice of a receptionist chirped at her. *Zap.* The door nearly met her face as she plowed into it, extending the key to the lock. “*Shit.*” “This way, Margie. I’ll get your gown,” a distant nurse echoed. *Zap.* “Guess we’re gonna have to do this the hard way.” Margaret set her stride at a brisk pace, key at the ready. She plugged it into each door she passed, hissing a curse at every failure. It was never where she needed it to be. Her eyes widened with realization. She made her way to the ladies’ restroom near the back of the office, pushed open the door, and grinned. Her eyes raised. *A window of opportunity, indeed.* She chuckled at her own joke as she tried the lock. *Click.* She used the sink to boost herself up and pushed through the window. “Oof.” The bedroom floor knocked the wind out of her as she landed. The sound of urgent footsteps echoed through the floorboards against her ear. Her husband appeared. Without a word, he weaved his arms through hers to lift her back to her bed. Once settled, he brushed her hair out of her face, hiding the clump that fell out. “Are you alright?” He looked her over. “Mmh.” “What happened? Was it another dream? Was it bad?” Margaret averted her eyes. They landed on the snow globe. “Mmh.” “My love, I know this is awful. I can see that you’re in so much pain, but…” he took her hand in his. “But I need you to talk to me.” She turned toward the window. *If only there was a key to that one, too.


A whisper condensed in Caroline’s ear, startling her awake. She swatted at the culprit. “Hey, relax. It’s just me.” Jeff nuzzled into her neck while she grappled with consciousness. His hands swept the length of her body with obvious hunger. She groaned and pulled away, knowingly disappointing the man, but it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Overnighters were *not* her thing - she fully expected to pay for the accident. She whipped the comforter off her body and flushed at her own nudity in the company of another human. A glance over her shoulder revealed he was *clearly* not so embarrassed. “Let me make you breakfast. I never get to see you in the morning.” It wasn’t the first attempt he’d made at getting her to stick around *just a little longer*. She could only imagine his thoughts. A scene straight out of a romantic comedy where the morning light glowed off her messy hair and he would swoon and just know that he was in love. He’d think “this is it, she’s the one.” And finally, the swell of a ballad. Caroline bounced around the room to pick up her clothing. A shirt that led to a sock leading to a pair of jeans, only half inside-out. Her face burned knowing that Jeff was watching her. At least it was easy to find everything in the daylight. The trail of garments went cold just outside the bedroom door. The inside of her lip was already raw from previous chewing, but her teeth took no issue with tearing into it once again. She wondered if she had let the question linger too long. A buzzing escaped from the clothes stuffed under her arm, and she tried to wriggle it free from its prison on her way to the bathroom. Privacy was just the ticket. By the time she got to it, the screen read, “Missed call: Dad”. Her brow scrunched at the odd hour. “Shit.” The clock practically laughed at her joke. 9:49 AM. She stuffed herself into wrinkled jeans and shoved the phone into the back pocket. She shouted an “I’ll call you later” in the general direction of the bedroom before leaving behind a cartoon dust cloud at the door. In the elevator, her phone buzzed again. Jeff texted *miss you already* with a kissy-face emoji. He wasn’t so bad. He’s a simple man, eager to please. *What was she doing with him?* There was nothing appealing to Caroline about a white-picket fence, kids, and a dog named Spot. It seemed cruel to keep him hanging on without the promise of some kind of progress. The ding of the elevator reminded her that she was in a race and she dashed off into the lobby, very likely toppling several victims in her wake, but she was too hurried to turn and find out. The buzzing persisted throughout the morning, so Caroline silenced and quarantined her phone in the top drawer of her desk. It was time to put her nose to the grindstone and get shit done. She had complaints about her job, like anyone else, but she loved it. She let spreadsheets consume her, craved formulas, and loved the dance of her fingers on the keyboard as she entered redundant and superfluous data, even on such a tight deadline. Of course, in the blink of an eye, she realized she’d missed lunch. Her stomach growled its complaint, but her mind went right to her phone. The missed calls were piling up, but she knew if it was important, her father would leave a voicemail. She stuffed the phone back in its hiding place and headed for the beckoning cafeteria. As she headed for the stairway door, a goddess emerged. She had legs up to her eyeballs and slow-motion music video hair. Her pencil skirt had a risque slit up the thigh, but everything about her was tidy. Professional. *Sexy.* “Greta,” the celestial form said. She greeted the silence in return with a giggle. “Oh, hi. Yes, um. Caroline. Hi.” She wiped the sweat from her palms on her pants and reached for the one offered to her. They shook hands and Caroline gathered herself. “Was there something I could help you with?” “Oh, goodness. I thought you’d be expecting me!” Greta’s cheeks flushed, but she composed herself quickly. “I’m meeting with the partners today? I have an appointment. I apologize, I assumed you were one of them.” *Me? The utter puddle in front of you?* “Right. No, I’m not a partner but I *do* give excellent directions.” She turned and pointed to the conference room. “Looks like they’re all in there. Must be waiting for you.” *Lucky assholes.* “Great! Thanks, Caroline. It was a pleasure to meet you.” Her smile was dazzling. She was a freaking toothpaste commercial. “The pleasure was all mine,” she replied. And then she headed back to her desk. Caroline struggled to remain focused on the tasks that usually thrilled her. *What is she here for?* She tapped aimlessly at some keys. *Damn, I still forgot lunch.


In a city full of color, there lived the man in black. He always wore a black trench coat over his black button up matching his black pants bonded by his black belt. Needless to say, he wore black dress shoes with black socks. He wasn’t the most sociable person in the world but if you got to know him, he wasn’t a bad person. Every Sunday morning when the clocktower struck 10 times, he would run to the local café and enjoy a black coffee. He would escape the troubles of his week by reading the Sunday paper in as other customers passed by him. They overlooked him as a lonely old man though he was in his early 30’s. Whenever the clock tower nearby struck 13 times: he looked at his black watch, paid his tab, and left without a word. On one rainy Sunday, the man in black entered the café to find it completely deserted. The man in black walked over to his usual spot and ordered his black coffee. About half an hour or so later, the café’s door swung open and in came a woman who was soaked from head to toe. She ripped off her rain jacket revealing a simple white dress matching her white shoes. She walked over and sat at the booth across from the man in black. The man in black lowered his paper to take a quick glance at the rain’s refugee. She had long silky white hair as if she was an old woman, but the pitch of her voice as she ordered a latte told him she was around his age. The man in black went back to reading his paper. After a few minutes, of complete silence, the woman in white looked out across from her booth to the man in black. Though the newspaper blocked her view of the man in black’s face, she could see his smooth combed back hair poking out from the top. The rain was relentless and she had no desire to become a drenched cotton ball. She decided to sit around a bit and tap her figures against the cup in a rhythmic pattern. They sat like this for nearly an hour. “Do you come here often?” asked the woman in white as the man in black set down his paper for a moment to sip his coffee. He looked around to see if she was addressing someone around her, before realizing the two of them were the only ones in the room. “Every Sunday when I can,” replied the man in black as he set down his cup, “Never seem you around, are you new here?” “I just moved into town yesterday,” replied the woman in white, “I just finished school and plan to get a job here in the city color bursts around,” “I wish you the best then,” said the man in black curtly as he went back to his paper. The woman in white wasn’t done with him yet though. She picked up her belongings and moved over to the man in black’s booth. The man black looked up for a moment before continuing to read his paper. The woman in white sighed and pulled out a paper and pencil. When the clock tower rung 14 times, the man in black got up, paid his tab and left without a word. After a week passes, the man in black walks back to his usual café for his usual cup of coffee. But as he slid into his usual booth, his leg touched something beneath the table. “I see that you’ve become accustomed to sitting here,” laughed a familiar voice. The man in black looked up to see the woman in white sitting across from him. In front of her was a pencil and a sketch of the other side of the café. The man in black slowly got up. “I don’t mind sharing the booth,” she said grabbing his hand. The waiter came over with a latte and a black coffee and set them by the table. The man in black sighed, took out his paper and started to read. The woman in white smiled and continued to work on her drawing. After an hour or so, the woman in white looked at the man in black as he sipped his coffee. Like everything he wore, his eyes were also black. He caught her staring and went back to reading. “So, what do you do for a living?” she asked trying to ease the awkwardness. “An office job,” replied the man in black as he flipped to another page. “Well, I can tell that much by the way you dress,” she laughed lowering down the paper, “But what do you do specifically?” “Talk to people about buying things and selling them,” he said before pulling back up his newspaper. “So, you’re a salesman? For what company?” asked the woman in white. “Palette Corp,” he replied still staring into his paper. “The biggest conglomerate in the entire city?! I heard it was started up a few years ago by a wonderkid fresh out of college. What’s he like?” pressed the woman in white. The man in black lowered his paper and shook his head. “He’s not that great,” he said before looking at his watch. The clock tower then rung 16 times and the man in black started to get up to leave. “It’s my dream to speak to him one day and ask for funding for my art studio,” said the woman in white getting up to join him, she showed the man in black her finished drawing. It was a detailed picture of the café booths which sat across from them. For a moment the man in black thought it was a black and white photo. “Maybe,” he said before paying his tab and walking out the door. The next week, the man in black walked into the café to find it packed with people. He found that his usual booth was taken up by an old couple talking about the weather. As he was about to turn around and go home, there sat the woman in white in another booth waving at him; two cups sat in front of her. Reluctantly he sat down and took a sip of his coffee. The woman in white pulled out a binder from her bag and opened it for the man in black to look at. Inside were detailed plans for a building alongside some art piece examples. There were portraits of people in the park, animals in the forest, sailors on a boat, and so much more. The man in black quietly adored the drawings as he flipped through them. If it wasn’t for seeing her draw last week, he would’ve thought they were all black and white photos. “I’ve made an appointment to meet with them in two weeks’ time,” she said watching him stare at the pages. “So, I was wondering, could give me any tips about my presentation to the board of investors?” The man in black thought for a moment and closed the binder. “I wouldn’t recommend seeing them,” he said before taking a sip of his coffee. “It isn’t a place for someone like you,” “Please, this is my dream!” begged said the woman in white caressing her binder. “Are my drawings not good enough to be sold?” “No that’s not it,” he said placing down his cup. “I just think that all this effort won’t get you anywhere there,” “Then help me!” said the woman in white picking up his hand. He saw the flare of passion in her eyes; something he hasn’t had for a long time. The man in black freed his hand from her grasp and leaned back into his chair silently. “I see… if you don’t want to help me, I’ll just figure it out myself...” said the woman in white before gathering her things back into her bag. “You’re missing a business plan,” said the man in black softly as she left the booth. She turned around, smiled at him, and sat back down. The man in black took out a pen from his coat pocket and started to write out plans on a napkin. When the clock tower rung 17 times, they left the café agreed to meet next week. That next Sunday, the man in black went to the café almost empty. Alone in his favorite booth sat the woman in white with two cups and a binder. The man in black sat down and looked over her plans. He was impressed by how much of his advice she took and how professional it all looked. Once he was done looking at the plan details for himself, the woman in white practiced her presentation on him. They went at it for hours, with the man in black stopping her at times to ask practice questions and give input on her presentation. When the clocktower rung 18 times, they were both sure that the woman in white’s presentation would land her the deal. As they went out the door of the man in black wished her luck and started to walk back home. The woman in white stopped him and pulled out a small box from her bag and gave it to him. “I wanted to give you this for all your help. I’ll be back at the café after my meeting next Sunday, I want you to be the first to hear about the results,” she said before waving goodbye and walking off. When the man in black got home, he opened the box to find a drawing of him reading his newspaper at the café. If any normal person were to see the drawing, they would just be a photograph of the man in black on any normal Sunday. He placed the picture on his mural and saw that there was something else in the box.The day of the meeting the woman in white walked into the meeting room of Palette Corp. to find various men in women seated around a large circular table. They all dressed the same way the man in black did, but in different bright shades of color which almost looked like a rainbow. She felt nervous but knew this was her chance to prove the world what she could do. When she walked to the front of the room, the room fell silent and she began to present… The man in black as usual went to the café like he normally did. When he was seated in his usual booth, the waiter brought over his black coffee and hesitated for a moment. The man in black has been a loyal patron to the café for years so all the staff knew who he was. But in all years which he came, he always wore the same thing. But to the waiter’s surprise: there below his neck was a white tie… When the clock struck 20 times, the man in black walked out of the café and looked to the sky. This was the first time for him to ever see the night sky from the café’s front door. He wondered how the woman in white did with her presentation. The next Sunday, to his surprise the man in black found the woman in white waiting by the front door of the café. She greeted him quietly before they entered together and sat at his usual spot. They sat in silence for a few moments before she cleared her throat, “First I’m sorry for not meeting with you like I promised after the meeting. They liked the presentation and made me an offer,” smiled the woman in white. A single tear rolled down her cheeks, then another. The man in black said nothing and waited patiently as the woman in white looked down to the ground. “I-I had to turn them down. They wanted me to add all these things to make it seem more marketable and I couldn’t accept it! I’m sorry for wasting your time, but I can’t let them paint all over me!” she cried before looking back up. She saw that the man in black was wearing the tie she had got for him. The man in black ordered her a latte and a black coffee for himself and they sat in silence until the clock tower rung 13 times. When the woman in white walked to the café the next week, she was surprised to see the man in black was already in his booth reading the paper. Beside him was a suitcase and two cups on the table. When she sat down, the man in black put down his paper and opened the suitcase onto the table inside was a copy of the woman in white’s plans and all the money she asked for. She was completely speechless. “I’ve been looking for a reason to sell all my shares of the company to those greedy board members,” he said before closing the case. The woman in white was speechless. The man in black went back to reading his paper. 10 years later, the man in black stopped by the café like always on a Sunday. When he walked over to his booth, there sat the women in white drawing for another commission with 3 cups on the table. The man in black sat down and felt something touch is leg. He looked under to find a little girl wearing a grey dress pulling at his leg. The girl in grey.


I go into an immediate cold sweat when I see it. There, not more than 50 feet in front of me is a man holding the door open to the grocery store. His soft smile and kind eyes help this good-natured older gentleman give off the aura of a man who is just happy to help out other people in any which way he can, and right now, that help is coming in the form of holding the door open for me. Even at this distance, I can see him wink and nod his head in the safest and most inviting way possible. He's practically begging for me to walk through his open door. I gulp because I know at my normal walking speed, I'll be inconveniencing him. I hate disappointing people, especially a man like that who is glowing with kindness. I make some short lived eye contact and weakly wave, my hand not even reaching above shoulder level. He nods again with complete understanding and a sort of fatherly love. With those Skechers firmly rooted in the pavement and that vascular, strong forearm gripping the door with a strength and ease that makes me feel like a hug from him would be one of the most satisfying experiences in my life, he waits. I'm still an uncomfortable distance away, so I half heartedly jog. He waves me on, encouraging my effort. The parking lot seems to stretch on further than I realized, and I don't want to keep such a helpful gentleman waiting. I can't bear the burden of knowing that his time better spent shopping for groceries was wasted holding open a door, a door I am perfectly capable of opening myself, on such a pathetic loser like me. I jog harder, but my legs feel heavy and I just can't seem to make any forward progress. The beating sun is torturous as it burns and mocks my attempt at hurrying. The man waves on harder as if he were the third base coach and I, a kid on his little league team, was scared and confused as to what to do as I round the bases. The trust in his eyes pierces my very soul. I can't let him down. I'm running now, harder than I have in a long time, trying to reach that door, that open door leading to a world of cool air and satisfaction, but I can't. The expanse stretches on further and further like an unforgiving desert of asphalt. The other cars are gone, the lines for parking are gone, the buildings, the trees, everything but the grocery store and the kindly man are gone. The sky is infinite blue oblivion with the harsh, unforgiving sun domineering over all. I'm pushing my body as hard as I can now, not knowing what else I can do. I'm afraid if I look behind me, everything I've ever known will be gone. My legs strain and my feet ache. My lungs burn as they struggle to take in the oxygen my muscles and heart are screaming for. This grocery store is my sanctuary now and this man, this benevolent man, my savior. I'm running from the abyss, running from everything that has ever been, everything I ever was. Onward I stride, my hands cutting through the thick, hot air. My face and shoulders blister as the sun does its best to destroy me. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end as the eerie feeling of being chased consumes me. This sprinting is that of survival like the frightened gallop of a chased gazelle. The pumping of my stressed heart can be felt in my ears. I stumble and fall. The searing asphalt scrapes and burns my skin. I'm scared for my life now. Despite my best efforts, I'm still so far away. I shut my eyes tightly as this impending doom approaches from behind. My only option is to surrender to the abyss, lose my body and soul to whatever cosmic power has cursed me into this existence. Tears stream down my cheeks and evaporate on the parking lot pavement. Behind me in the searing oblivion are the screams of billions of souls from billions of worlds, formless, anguished, eternal suffering in an ephemeral state. Then the drone starts, a deep, sonorous hum. It looms over the atmosphere, drowning out the cosmic torment, until it becomes so oppressive that I feel it in my bones. They twist and turn, writhing in the hot agony of my melting flesh. I am just about to add my screams to the rest. Then I hear him. "C'mon, son! I've got the door open for ya!" His powerful voice rings out like church bells, a beacon for my panicked soul. There he is, through the blur of radiating heat, I see him. His golden arm still stalwart in holding open that door to safety. He's waving me in. He's smiling. He believes in me. I get back up, inspired now. The heat fades. My body cools. That terrible drone leaves my body. I have strength again. My legs carry me faster than any speed I have ever known. The wind rips my shirt apart like tissue paper as I glide across the lot. The expanse is closing now, however slightly, but it is closing. I'm doing it. I feel the man's confidence in me give me strength. My shoes fly off. There's no need for such earthly luxuries now. The raw human spirit coursing through me is all I need. I will make it. The gap between the abyss and the door is shrinking. My body is like a divine engine. Closer and closer. Harder and harder. Faster and faster. I am not a boy anymore. I've ascended to something far greater. So close now. The background is beginning to return, the cars, the trees, the people, the world. Finally, I reach the door, the kind man, the beautiful figure and savior who rescued my soul from oblivion. I hug him with tear filled eyes and thank him so much for everything he's done. He's made me a far better person. My fears and anxieties, my self doubt and self loathing, everything holding me back - they're gone, and he's to thank. Within my tight embrace, I tell him how much I appreciate him holding the door for me. He replies, "No problem.


The sail to Stetguttot Heath was the longest I had ever been at sea. It took close to three weeks chasing the variable westerly winds from the southern tip of the Archipelago to its northern reaches. My new, permanent lodgings onboard Alessia’s boat proved invaluable. My own space, and an actual bed, however small, made the journey pass with relative ease. Still, I couldn’t help but feel relief when we finally spotted the landmass of Stetguttot Heath emerging from the oceans ahead. The islands in the north of the Archipelago tended to be larger than those in the south, and Stetguttot Heath was no exception. A series of hills like the points of a crown rose from the ocean. Tufts of uneven wild grass littered the steep banks, broken by pockets of white stone. As we got closer, I could see more apexes rising in the distance, and further back the tallest hills crested even higher. The entire island was a series of peaks and troughs rolling across the land. We began circling the island, looking for a safe place to land the boat; the steep banks and rocky waters proving too dangerous a place to moor. Then, on the south-east corner, we spotted a small wooden harbour. Three high wooden jetties jutted out from the shoreline into the sea. Next to one, another vessel bobbed waywardly in the choppy waters. The third jetty was stunted, its second half having collapsed into the ocean. Broken stalks rose from the water, bent at odd angles, supporting nothing but air. The other jetties looked little safer. As the tide rolled through, they swayed with the current, the joints of the columns creaking, small gaps appearing between bindings. We delicately slid up to one of the jetties, being careful not to bump it too hard in case we should send it toppling into the ocean. As we stepped off the boat, the planks creaked beneath us, letting out a panged ache with each step. “Any last advice for dealing with people here?” I asked Alessia, as she stepped up behind me. “Tell them that they can’t build jetties for shit,” she said, staring down at the ocean between the cracks in the planks. “Yeah. I learned that one too,” I replied, my voice flat. “Beyond that? Your guess is as good as mine. I knew how to get here, nothing else.” We took slow steps up the slip until our feet met firm land. A small stone causeway had been built, creating a level surface between the two hills that rose in all other directions. Some twenty metres’ climb up the hill to our right, we could see a large building tucked into the hillside. “Go see who we can find?” I suggested. Alessia shrugged, but nodded for me to lead the way. The wooden structure was probably thirty or so metres across. It was made of plain-brown planks mounted vertically on end, with a steep, sharp pointed roof. On the broad side I could see two small windows seemingly placed at semi-random, their heights not quite aligning. Approaching the building, we found a sign nailed to the door. It was perhaps only fourty centimeters across, and written in simple black font. “Harbour Office. All visitors must report.” I turned to Alessia and raised my eyebrows. “Guess we’d better report then,” she said wryly, reaching past me and knocking on the door. “Come in,” came a dry voice from the other side. Inside, the room was dark and gloomy. Lightless shadows crept across old desks and lopsided shelves laden with books. A few weak lanterns did their best to fight off some of the gloom, but their reach seemed to only cover a quarter of the space, giving colour to select parts of the building. At the far end, we could see three office workers sitting in a circle - two men and one woman. They leaned back in their chairs, their feet propped up on the tables. As we stepped inside, their eyes turned to us, but they didn't stand. "Hello, how can we help. Are you registering a ship?" "Yes," Alessia replied. "We've moored up at the jetti outside." "Excellent," one of the men replied. He stood up with an odd excitement, and began flicking through books on a desk next to him until he found the right one. He turned the pages and settled on a blank page. "What's the ship type?" he asked, while rummaging through the drawers in his desk. "B-Class trading vessel" The man produced a pen and held it up triumphantly before taking down information from Alessia regarding the ship. “And what's the purpose of your visit?" "Well, we were hoping to find out about someone who lives here, or at least did." The eyebrows of the woman still sitting suddenly raised. "Oh, I can probably help you there. We keep records of birth and education here. What's the name?" "Sannaz Lytta" She looked up and to the right. "Don't recognize the name. But we can have a look through the records. They're organized by year. Do you know how old they are... were...?" "No idea, I'm afraid. Adult. Not old enough to stop being active. So... older than twenty, but less than sixty." I winced, fearing how unhelpful I was being. The woman let out a small, sharp cackle. "Not much to work with," she looked over to the shelves of books to her right, "but we'll find them." She walked over and grabbed five thick ledgers off the shelves. "Halifax, get off your backside and help." The last of the workers still sitting rose and walked over as the woman placed the books down on a table under one of the lanterns. "Everyone grab a book and start searching." While the mission of finding the record was bound to be laborious, I was shocked how easy it was to find out more about our target on Stetguttot Heath. Back on Tima Voreef we had had to complete an errand and even then blackmail our way to simply see a record in a book. Yet here, the people couldn't have been more willing to help, almost relieved for a long but arduous task that at least broke up the monotony of doing nothing. Inside the books were a series of columns, each row representing the an islander.. I read the columns at the top. *Name, Section of Birth, TBU, Section of TBU, Occupation at 25, Section at 25, Occupation at 35, Section at 35...* I glanced right, the last column no more than a centimeter across, a tiny "Section at 75" scrawled in the margins. In the book I was reviewing those final few columns were always empty. But all too often, so were earlier ones. Given the years I was looking at, everyone here should be in their forties by now, but way too often only the first two columns were filled out. Whether the blanks were from a mismanagement of records or life I couldn’t be sure. I had gone through maybe twenty pages of names when suddenly one of the men raised his finger to the air. "Found him." The woman leant over and inspected his work. "That's the right record alright. He's thirty-seven, from Section F." She spun the book around and pushed it towards Alessia and I. We both leaned over to the read the first few columns. Sannaz Lytta, F, 17, F, Digger, F, Digger, F. "I assume Section F is a location?" I asked. The woman nodded. "There are fourteen sections across the island. F is pretty far from here, north-western tip, but you can walk there over a day or two across the hills." "What's TBU," I asked. "Test for Better Undertaking," the woman replied. "Everyone at age fifteen takes a test to determine their skill levels. Both general intelligence and knowledge of certain areas like engineering, medicine. Key skills. From there we determine what career people should have." "So one test when you're fifteen and you decide who becomes a doctor and who goes into manual labour?" I asked through gritted teeth that hid my pensiveness. "Yes," the woman replied. "There's a committee in Section C that work at designing the test, revising it over the years to make it the best it can be. Ensuring it has the right variation - not too easy, not too hard" I looked down at the ledger. "And a score of 17?" "Bad. Real bad." The woman shook her head, snickering slightly. "Your guy's a moron. Probably why he was assigned to be a digger." "A digger?" Alessia asked. "Yeah. They dig," the woman said, tilting her head forward. "There's a bunch of mines in Section F. Diggers do the initial brute work of clearing out new routes so the miners can come along and pick out the copper." I looked up to Alessia. The man who had left Stetguttot Heath, had the money to hire an army from Tima Voreef, and then left to murder Deer Drum had spent twenty years underground clearing out tunnels. The background seemed so benign that I couldn't make sense of it. I had expected a scorned island leader, a guerilla fighter, and instead found someone whose own island deemed them an idiot and sent them to a life of digging. Alessia looked back at me with a small shake of her head before turning back to the woman. "We know Sannaz left here. He ended up attacking an entire island, virtually wiping them out. But you have no idea who he is, no idea what may have led to him doing that?" The woman's neck craned back and her eyes widened. "Honestly, with a score of 17 I find it remarkable he would ever have been able to leave. Probably wouldn't have realized you can't breathe underwater, walked right into the sea and drowned." She turned to the other two workers, and they let out a chuckle on cue. "Are there any other records on this man? We need to find him," Alessia said. "No other records. Only thing I can think of is to head to Section F and ask around. See if anyone there knows anything." Alessia looked around the room. "Two day trek you reckon?" The woman nodded. "We can pack some stuff from the boat, a few provisions," Alessia said, turning to me. "Up for a small camping trip?" "After three weeks on a boat, a few days on land sounds delightful." “Oh, I’ll make a sailor of you one day, Ferdinand. But, meanwhile, let’s get packing.


Let me tell you the story of my 17th birthday- a story of how someone once saved my life. As long as I had been alive, I had been running for my life. I lived in a small town; an attractive, tranquil place nestled alongside a lake, the kind of scenic village you may see in a postcard. I would not have minded growing old here, yet I feared greatly that old age was not something I would live to see. As I grew, I had borne witness to much change; people came and went from my life in the endless song we all sang. But only one person had been constant, and that is the one who chased me. I believed that one day, this town would be my resting place. At some moment, I would inevitably collapse, unable to summon the strength within me to keep evading. The hunter kept after me, and I was beginning to tire of chase. The moment of submittance was near, that I could sense. My will was weakening, and my eyes shed tears. This life was not sustainable, that I knew; but it was the only life for me, so I would have ran until my last, dying breath had left, when the cavity of my chest had let in death. For all of my years until this point, as sure as the moon chases the sun each night, my shadow had hunted me. He was the darkness that followed me, and only when the moon shined upon us did he vanish. But night did not bring relief; in darkness he molded unto the world itself, and in this state the harassment was ceaseless. He would enter my mind and whisper words of darkness into my soul, corrupting me and the little light I still held dear. There was no escape, or so I thought- I could not outrun him, I could not hide from him, and I certainly could not outlive him. He was the corruption bound to my soul, and I knew not of how to release him. The new moon was with us on this night; the new moon is from whence darkness thrives more than light. As the sun set, fear grew inside me, consuming me, and feasting on the little hope I had within me. And again, I found myself walking alone after dark, roaming the streets of this place that meaned so much to me. Streetlights flickered solemnly, guiding me to this town's heart. But the light cast my shadow behind me; a reminder of why I walked, and of why I could not stop. Towards this town's center I continued further, dragging heavy legs farther, farther and onwards. Closer I came, and then, among shuttered storefronts and paved sidewalks, I saw many small, flickering flames illuminating the dark. The Candlemaker was a well known, and well loved figure in our town. A jovial old man, the Candlemaker was always happy to see the children of this town come into his store and smell the candles, even if they were not to take any home. The Candlemaker ran the store with his wife; he made and sold candles, while his wife sat in her old, rickety rocking chair and knitted beautiful garments for the poor and needy- a necessity in our cold, cold snowy seasons. The Candlemaker's passion was in crafting light, and it was light he and his wife shared with all the people who visited his store; a smile he said, was much brighter than anything he could make with wax and wick. The amalgamation of dim lights intrigued me on this night- the Candlemaker was not known to run his store after dark, so seeing these lights in the distance was very unusual, nearly cause for fright. As I approached the storefront, I could see that the Candlemaker had dragged that old rocking chair onto the porch before the store. Surrounding him, was what must have been hundreds of lit candles. They were haphazardly strewn around the porch and railing, each casting only a small amount of light; as a whole, however, they shined greatly, illuminating the creases and wrinkles on the Candlemaker's ever aging skin. He was humming a tune that buzzed more and more incessantly in my ears as I grew closer and closer. It was a familiar melody, yet one I could not place. A song I had heard it all my life, but the name remained elusive- it felt as if the stars were singing to me directly; a mysterious tune, yet meant to be lucid. He was watching me, and in this moment, I felt as if he had been waiting for me all this time. "Your eyes carry the weariness of your travels, young Starboy," the Candlemaker spoke. "What is it that saps your strength?" "All my life, I have ran from my shadow. I grow tired, and I fear I will soon lose the will to continue on." The Candlemaker waited a moment to speak, as if captivated by thought. "When," he spoke, "are the times, where the shadow that haunts you is gone?" "In total darkness, my shadow is not behind me, but it becomes all that is." The Candlemaker waited again, as if this time letting me become captivated by thought. "And?" I remained silent, not sure of another answer. He spoke again, "What is a shadow?" "Darkness," I replied. "Yes... your darkness..." the Candlemaker spoke, "and darkness dissolves within light. When does total light eliminate your shadow?" I struggled to answer this at first, but I soon saw where he was trying to lead me. "At noon, when the light is greatest," I spoke, "my shadow is not behind me." "Where then," the Candlemaker spoke again, "does it go?" "Well... I suppose as noon approaches... the shadow grows nearer and nearer to me... so at noon, it must be completely within me." "Yes, yes," the Candlemaker chuckled as he continued to talk, "you see that quite clearly. Now, is it not that at noon, under the most light, you feel most alive?" "I suppose it is," I replied hesitantly. "Well then," he spoke, "you know what must be done. Follow the light, and you will find your peace; you will need not to run any longer." He opened his hand, letting his palm face upwards to the vast expanse of nothingness we call space. And then, from seemingly thin air, materialized a radiant, golden butterfly, casting a great amount of light all around it. And then suddenly, the candles extinguished all at once, and the Candlemaker was gone. But the golden butterfly was not. It took off, flying ever so peacefully in a direction towards the outskirts of town. It drifted ever so softly in the night's breeze, floating lazily along, yet with purpose and direction. I knew I needed to follow this light, and so I did, letting it lead me further and further away from civilization. Into the dark forest we went, with only that butterfly to illuminate our path; onwards we walked, until sunrise was near. It stopped, and here there was the mouth of a cave in front of us. It should have been ominous, yet it was oddly comforting instead. The radiant butterfly continued on again, leading me deeper and deeper into this cave. The air down here was stale, and I could hear the dripping of water from the caves ceiling as I walked further into the unknown. And then we came into an expansive chamber at the bottom, with no way out but the way we had come in. Above where we had come in, a small, angled hole led all the way to the surface; it looked vaguely man-made, yet I was unsure of it's purpose. On the far end of the chamber was a small, still pool of water, and a small flat rock in front of it. The golden butterfly flew to this rock, before exploding in a brilliant golden flash. Darkness came, but not totally; I could now see the purpose of the small hole, as the rising sun began to cast light down it, and it flooded into the chamber. I walked over to the flat rock, and waited for something to happen, staring into the pool of crystal clear water. As the morning sunlight hit my back, it cast my shadow in front of me, into the pool of water. Here, I could see it clearly, for all it was; it was but a reflection of me, staring back the same way I stared at him. I felt love and compassion, a deep, aching sadness for the darkness that engulfed him. In this moment, I understood clearly; that shadow was not only a reflection of me, but it was me, as much me as I was me. Into the pool I waded, and I sat there, staring at the reflection of me staring back. Here, I decided I was done running, and I let my shadow become one with me. We merged, and I felt the pain of a thousand repressed memories become mine; deep sadness, anger, and hate overwhelmed me, and threatened to destroy me. But it could not destroy me, for it was my true being. By accepting my darkness, and allowing it to be a part of me, a part I acknowledge and let be, I found my true self- I had found true peace. Without my darkness, I realized, I was nothing more than a shell of who I was meant to be. That darkness was as much part of me as was the light inside of me. Running from it did no good; all this time, I was only running from myself, and all I had to do was allow my shadow to complete me. The greatest birthday gift I had ever received- the pieces missing from me. I left the cave, and time went on, as it tends to do. I left town, grew old, and married the kindest soul on the earth- someone who had accepted her own shadow as well, and together we were even more complete. But I had an itch calling me back home, so with my wife I went, to the town of so many memories. But when I arrived, I saw that candle store had closed- the Candlemaker and his wife passed away many moons ago, a tragedy indeed. And in that pang of sadness, I knew what would truly complete me. And so I write this from my little candle store I opened in that small town, a place where I can show my light to all who wish to see how bright life can be. The kids fill my store with laughter and love, and I am thankful for the opportunities that have been presented to me. I see the next one now, roaming the dark, empty streets. They call me the Candlemaker, and soon the cycle will repeat.


I've just decided yup, that's a spaceship when it thumps to the wet sand nearby. It was moving, or falling, fast enough that it seems like it should have broken, but it seems unharmed. It's a big grey egg. I've wondered about this sort of thing before. It came up a lot during my pothead phase: What would you do if a UFO landed? People seemed to come down on the issue based on which science fiction they'd seen or read most recently. I liked to think of myself as the open-minded guy in the group, and I'd seen the most Star Trek, so I often took the position that I'd be the person who wandered up to an alien artifact and held out a hand to shake, hoping for the best. Turns out, I'm not that person. Never meet your heroes. I cower, for what it's worth, because there's no cover anywhere. It's a wide, empty beach and the moon isn't out. My family is probably still asleep in the tents. I like to come out here alone on our camping trips because the stars are impossibly beautiful and my wife doesn't know I still smoke. In fact I realize I haven't dropped my pipe or lighter. They're clenched in my sweaty, vibrating fists. I decide to praise myself for having steady hands, instead of acknowledging that I've probably got a problem. The space egg does nothing. It's not making any noise, or glowing, or anything. It's a little larger than a Volkswagon. I straighten up because the half-crouch is hurting my thighs and pride. A minute or two goes by. I take the remaining hit from my pipe without taking my eyes off the egg, then put it away. So this is it. First Contact. It occurs to me that it's probably technically possible that this thing is just a rock. I squint at it. Am I the world's biggest idiot? I'm comforting myself with the notion that an egg-shaped space rock is still a pretty cool thing to be able to show people, when the side of the thing dials open silently and a person steps out of it, waving vaguely at me. I stare. The figure leans backward in a long, slow stretch, then rotates it's upper body in the familiar "I've been driving too long" movement everyone does. It moves just like a human. It's about six feet tall. It's wearing black pants and a baggy floral patterned shirt. It just kind of looks like a dude. Apparently that's enough for me to step forward and wave, and I say "Hey there," like you do when you pass someone in the parking lot of a grocery store. Immortal words, if this really is First Contact. Shit, did I just start a war? I am too high for this. The space egg dude steps away from his egg, and the side of the thing closes again. He holds out a hand with the wrong number of long fingers and grins at me with a mouth that's confusingly feline. His voice is a quiet, controlled yowl. "How's it going?" We stare at each other. His hand is still out, as if to shake. It's smooth, brown, and has something like narrow, curved, black fingernails. I don't know what to do. My heart feels like it's going to explode but that just happens sometimes when you smoke good pot. The space egg dude yips and rolls his eyes, withdrawing the hand. "First alien?" "Yeah." "Yeah, that tends to be the case out here. Well, I mean you no harm and all that. I'll be out of here in fifteen minutes." He looks around the beach and sighs. "Hard to believe it takes that long to catalogue... this." "I like it here," I say, a little offended. "What are you cataloging?" I'm vaguely aware that I'm not reacting to this situation in anything resembling a reasonable way. This is not what I should be asking. I should not be talking to this being. A normal person would have run away. A really brave and smart person would be asking why the alien speaks English like he's from Long Island. The alien gestures around. "The area. A few cubic units of it, at the atomic level. Because, you know, nowhere else has saltwater and sand." "This is... your job?" "Got a clever one here, don't we?" He yips again and I realize it's a laugh. "Yeah, this is my gig. There's all kinds of nerds and weirdos who buy scans of frontier worlds. My cousin's a scan broker. It's all right. It's fucking boring, but the ratio of pay to actual effort is pleasingly steep." He takes out a little device and sucks on it, then exhales a vapor that sparkles dramatically before vanishing. It's a vape pen. What is happening? It isn't supposed to be like this. I know it. I can feel it the way you feel that voice telling you to get a gym membership, and it has as much authority over me. I can't make myself give a shit. It's like we do this every year when I come camping. I'm just accepting it. Why? "What are you smoking?" "Smoking? God, no, you people still smoke? This is sparkling. Much better for you. Want a hit? I've never seen what happens when one of you guys tries it." "I probably shouldn't," I insist, pulling my own pipe back out again. He's smoking, so I guess it's all right if I do too. "I'm on a trip with family. Can't get too crazy." The alien shrugs. We smoke, together and separately, for a quiet minute. I study his body with interest while the tiny voice inside grows increasingly disturbed. He's not human, his bones and muscles aren't in the right places and his face is all wrong, but he looks enough like one of us that you wouldn't be able to tell the difference from fifty feet away. He's barefoot, standing on broad, clawed tiptoes in the sand. I'm not concerned, just curious, so I ask, "Are you doing something to my emotions somehow?" The alien yips quietly and nods. "Oh yeah. Got to. Are you kidding me? You guys freak out if we don't. Don't worry, it won't hurt you any. It just makes your brain not able to panic until after I leave." "That's pretty neat." "I use it on myself when I'm stressed," he says in agreement. "I keep thinking I should be reacting more strongly to all of this," I admit. "Nice to know I'm not just crazy." "Yeah, well, enjoy that feeling. It goes away once you try to tell someone about the alien you did drugs with." I laugh out loud at that. He's totally right. I laugh again at the thought of someone putting up some kind of First Contact Monument, a great bronze man and alien, ripping fat clouds. "That reminds me," I chuckle, "There are cultures on this planet that do a Peace Pipe ritual when they meet with foreigners or whatever. We're kind of doing that." "Super," the alien purrs. He inhales and exhales dancing light, watching the waves with evident disinterest. "I keep forgetting to ask, why do you look so much like a human?" "What do you mean? I don't look a thing like you." I gesture vaguely at his whole form. "Maybe not superficially, but isn't this kind of crazy, in evolutionary terms? I mean what are the odds of two advanced intelligent races from two totally different worlds, bearing this much of a physical resemblance to each other? I mean you can even speak my language perfectly!" The alien yips repeatedly at this. "Where to begin? First of all, I'm not speaking whatever your language is, that's a brain gadget too. It makes you understand me in your dialect. Second, nothing about this stupid fucking planet is 'advanced' in any sense of the word, which brings me to the next point, your species' level of understanding of evolution, and the conditions of the universe, is childish." That's a lot to swallow, I suppose. "How do you mean?" He gestures up and down at our bodies with the hand holding his glitter device. It trails brief auroras. "This is the template that works. You don't get tool-builders without free hands. You don't get free hands without evolving in trees. You don't get big brains and tribal cooperation without the correct set of behaviors, nutrition, and so on, and so forth. So yeah, nearly every spacefaring species more or less looks like this." "Do they all act like us, too?" This is blowing my mind, sort of. A little. "I guess. They build cities, they conquer each other, global commercial interests replace government and religion, interplanetary culture arises as a by-product of space-based resource gathering operations. Usually takes a few thousand years. Or the species kills itself. I think it's like twelve percent that make it? I don't know. It's been awhile since school." I find I'm packing my pipe again. "Do you want to sit down?" "What? No, I'm leaving in about ninety seconds." I feel sad. The little voice mourns and wails. "That's too bad. There are so many things I want to know. Are more of you coming?" He shrugs and turns towards his space egg. The side of it opens. I can't see inside it, somehow it's blurry. "Depending on who likes these scans, maybe? If you're lucky, you can be a busboy in one of our hotels. Take it easy, human." "Drive safe," I say, waving. He shakes his head and sighs at me as he climbs back into the shadowy innards of the egg. It closes, silent. I watch in awe as it lifts out of the sand without disturbing a grain, leaving a perfect ovoid impression. It slips into the sky. I lose sight of it when I finally blink. And that's when I remember and start screaming.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Prompt: Three survivors. Two days. One chance.** This week’s challenge is to use this simple writing prompt as inspiration for your story. The sentences do not need to appear in your story (but you are more than welcome to, if you like). You may interpret the prompt any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some actionable feedback.** Do not downvote other stories on the thread. Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - **Send your nominations for favorites each week to me, via DM, on Reddit or Discord by Monday at 2pm EST.** - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied I have made some significant changes in the ranking system. We’ll see how this works over the next few weeks and make adjustments where necessary. Here is a current breakdown: - **Use of Constraint:** 10 points - **Upvotes:** 5 points each - ***Actionable* Feedback** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Bonus:** Up to 10 pts. (This applies to things like bonus constraints and making user nominations)   *** #Rankings: This Past Week Keep up all the hard work! I loved the variety of stories this week, making nominations was *hard*! Well done, all around. I have loved the uptick in feedback the last few weeks. <3 - - Submitted by u/katherine_c   - - Submitted by u/Lynx_Elia   - - Submitted by u/katpoker666   - - Submitted by u/merbaum   *** ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


#Hello r/Shortstories! I’m here to talk about yet *another* author! Let’s give a big congratulations to… ... u/Xacktar! His serial, Captain’s Orders, came to an end just a few weeks ago, with 19 chapters. That’s quite a feat. I’m so happy to have gotten to know Xack over the last couple years. He’s been an active member of the rWP and rSS community for a long time, way before me. You can often find him on the Theme Thursday threads, making everyone laugh, as well as on our discord, where he’s encouraging writers and chatting about random things (. ) Again, congrats Xack! I hope you’ve taken some time to treat yourself to something nice.   ***   #Captain’s Orders - Written by u/Xacktar **A brief synopsis from Xack:** A socially-inept police cadet gets assigned to the enigmatic, and poorly named, '22th' Precinct. Assisted by a former classmate and an eccentric coroner's assistant, Joe attempts to solve a murder, uncover the truth of the 22th, and keep the public safe from the force of nature that is Captain Boss. *If you haven’t had the chance to read this yet, get ready for some belly laughs! I highly recommend kicking your feet up and making an afternoon of it.* | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |   ***   #A Chat with u/Xacktar about Serial Writing Let’s take a few minutes to see what Xacktar has to say about writing a serial! ##**What have you learned throughout the serial writing process?** Cutting a story apart into sections made me throw out a lot of my usual habits and forced me to really get into the small bits of sentences and dialogue to keep the tone throughout the piece. Comedy alone is difficult, comedy in a serial was so much so. I'm not sure I succeeded in keeping the levity alive throughout the whole piece, but attempting to do so really pushed me to use new skills and techniques. A fellow redditor /r/Ryter had some great advice about slowly making things 1% more funny and I had to put that in practice a lot over the last few weeks. ##**What did you enjoy most about writing this?** Hearing everyone in Campfire lose their composure after the readings was definitely a highlight. Captain Boss is so much fun to write and twice as fun to read. I love, love, love making him abuse the English language. There is this fine line I have to keep between making his tirades completely off-base while also keeping them understood by the audience. Running in-between that line is always immensely fun, and incredibly satisfying when it plays perfectly to the audience. ##**What was the biggest challenge you faced and how did you overcome it?** Keeping the tone consistent and giving all the characters a moment to shine were my two biggest issues. I attempted to solve the tone issues with the advice from Ryter, which helped but not to the level I had hoped. The character issue was a bit trickier as I'd added a lot of 'third wheels' to a story that, at its core, is all about Joe and Captain Boss. I tried to fix it by spreading out the ending and tying up some of the loose ends with each character, but I think I failed a bit as it left Captain Boss out of the finale. It's something I need to go back and examine at some point in the future so that I can learn from it. ##**What advice would you give to writers who are thinking about writing a serial for the first time?** Having a strong, well-developed character idea helps a bunch with a serial. If you have a character who can cause a lot of change or emotion, it makes it easier to roll with the ever-changing themes and limitations of Serial Sunday. It's a great place to put those characters you never had a story for, you throw them out there into the Serial and the setting and plot and everything else just grows around them. Also, don't be afraid to fail. Things like this are perfect for trying new things and seeing how they fly. The weekly feedback gives you a good idea if your experiments fly or fall so go ahead and push yourself! This is a great place to jump out of your comfort zone and tackle something new!   ***   Xack, thank you so much for taking the time to talk and share with us. No two writers’ experience or advice is the same, and it’s why I love taking the time to do these. I very much enjoyed watching your writing and characters grow over the last several months, and all the laughs you gave me along the way. Fellow writers and readers, please take a moment to leave u/Xacktar some love in the comments below! You can even ask him questions! Even completely random and silly ones...   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Having packed some supplies from Alessia’s boat, we began climbing over the hills and troughs of Stetguttot Heath. The trek was arduous from the start. Paths rose between gorse and thistles, weaving their way up steep gradients. Then, at the top of a hill, you could see across the valleys ahead of you, before you descended down into the basin below and began the process again. Though the northern spring air was cool, the constant climbing on uneven dirt paths was tiring - the cool breeze icing my face while my thighs became caked in sweat. “What do you make of this place?” Alessia asked as we crested our third hill of the day. “About what?” I said, panting. I couldn’t help but feel a minor frustration at how much calmer Alessia’s breathing was than my own. She let out a small chuckle. “I meant about this guy apparently being some idiot.” “Doesn’t add up. They went from being a miner to suddenly having enough funds to buy an army. Then they want murder and books about history,” I said, taking a few deep breaths before we began clambering down the hillside. “Any chance that whoever did it gave a fake name and island to Tima Voreef?” “Sure. In theory. But then why use the real name of someone from another island? Just jumble together some letters and call it a day.” Alessia shook her head. “Probably the same guy, but you’re right. Something’s off.” “This whole island’s off,” I replied, as I stepped over a large rock blocking our path. “The islands are more spaced apart up here. Means fewer traders, and that means pirates, and that means even fewer traders. But there should be someone coming up this far. Yet, I’ve never once been sent here on a trading run or even heard of anyone coming here.” “Well, hopefully we’ll find out after another…” I looked up at the climbs that awaited us. “...few thousand hills,” I sighed. It was tempting to cut across, away from the paths, and trek in a more direct route, but any shortcut always looked blocked. Thick thistle bushes grew from uneven cracks in the ground; rigid branches that crept up to waist height ladened with spikes. Even if you dared to wade through the vegetation, the bushes blocked out sight of the ground, and uneven rocks and ditches promised to twist an ankle or break a bone. Elsewhere, the hills were simply too steep. The heathland would give way to a sudden, sharp cliff. Stones that protruded from the wild grass offered the only warning of a quick ten metre drop to the floor below. We could shave off a few seconds, cut the odd corner, but the reality was that our journey across Stetguttot Heath would be slow. A great deal of effort, with little mileage covered. I woke the next day with stiff legs, my knees creaking with movement, as the pain in my thighs refused to evaporate entirely. We were unsure of how far we had even walked. There were now some valleys behind us, but the number in front still seemed endless. However, a cool breeze and a good sleep helped invigorate us as we resumed our walk. After a couple of hours we stopped for a drink. I pulled off my satchel and laid it on the ground. I opened it up, took out a canister of water. The path here was wider. Two parallel lines of dirt - fit for two cart wheels - traced up the hill, a thin strip of weeds poking out between the worn ground. Beneath us, the path continued with a series of gradual switchbacks that snaked into the gorge. It was a more pleasant path to take than those we had been on, but at the same time I was aware that a smoother and easier descent meant even slower progress towards our eventual goal. Above us, grey clouds hung oppressively, smothering us, giving the air a claustrophobic taste. Around the edges of the smog, halos of yellow gave promise to the sun behind, but failed to penetrate, leaving the ground shadowless. Without the sun to guide us in the constant twists and turns of the mountains it was easy to get disorientated. “How much further do you reckon it is?” I asked. Alessia rolled her shoulders. “I’m just assuming we’ll get there sometime tomorrow.” I laughed. “Are you even certain we’re heading the right way?” “I think,” she paused. “Probably,” she paused again. “Fairly sure.” Out of my peripheral vision I saw a figure contrast against the sky as they walked over the summit of the hill behind us. “Maybe they can confirm?” I asked. “You’re not trusting my directions all of a sudden. You know I’ve navigated weeks on the ocean right?” “Yeah, but we’re not at sea,” I said, taking another sip of my drink. As the figure walked closer, I could see they were a young man, most likely still in his teens. His tall lanky frame seemed disproportionate to his pale boyish face. On his back, he carried a rucksack that seemed a size too small, and it gripped tightly at the shoulders, pinching his collar. “Excuse me, can you confirm if this is the correct way for Section F?” I asked as they approached. “Uh, yeah, eventually.” The man’s pace was unchanged, and he continued walking towards us as his eyes darted around, scanning his surroundings. “Thanks,” I replied, an unidentified uneasiness creeping up on me. “Do you know if the path is like this most the way?” “I think so,” the man said, now only a few metres from us. “Great, we’re just-” The man ran forward, bent down, and grabbed the satchel by my feet, charging past me down the hill. I let out a delayed yelp of anger as he sprinted away, plumes of dust kicking up from his heels. “Get him!” Alessia said, in an irritated tone as she quickly repacked her own bag. I gave chase after the man. His young, gangly frame skipped across the dirt path as he pulled the satchel over his shoulder. My feet took long leaps between each step, the gradient making each pace a fraction longer than expected. Slowly, I was catching up. As we reached one of the switchbacks in the path, the man took to the outside of the curve, my outstretched fingers just brushing the edge of his shirt as he went by me in the opposite direction. But as I rounded the bend, I looked up to see Alessia running down the higher parallel section. She looked over the edge and spotted the man below. She turned sharply, leaping off the steep embankment. Her feet landed mere centimeters from her target, and with her outstretched arms she caught the man, as her momentum sent them both into a tumble. They came to a stop at the edge of the path. Another roll would likely have taken them both further down the hillside. The man coughed loudly as he lay on his back, arms sprawled out. I caught up and stood next to him, leering down. “Don’t even try and move,” I said, my voice artificially gruff. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the man said, his voice younger than it had been. Alessia stood up and quickly checked herself over for any cuts and grazes. “We’ll be taking this back,” she said, as she pulled up the stolen satchel. “You can have it. I’m sorry. Just. Let me go. I didn’t want to cause any trouble.” “Don’t worry. We ain’t gonna hurt you,” Alessia said. “Might as well see what’s in here though.” She yanked the rucksack from beneath the prone man’s arm. “Hey. You can’t take that from me. That’s mine,” he protested meekly. “Uh huh. So was the satchel a couple of minutes ago,” Alessia hummed as she undid the clasps on the bag. “Look. Take your own bag back. And I’ll pay you some more if you want, just give me back the rucksack.” The man’s voice was becoming increasingly frenetic. He pulled himself off the floor, sitting on the dirt, his hands reaching out pleadingly towards the bag. “Why? Whatcha got in here?” Alessia opened the flap and looked inside. “Nothing. Nothing that would interest you, I promise.” Alessia reached in and pulled out a large book. It had thick, hard covers, with what must have been a thousand pages of content held between. Alessia turned it over to read the cover. “Medea’s TBU Preparation Guide, volume 23” The man looked to the side, but he remained silent. “What is that?” I asked. “Nothing important. Honestly. If you just give it back-” “You’re a terrible liar, kid,” Alessia said. “Now this book ain’t worth anything to us, but I’m guessing you want it back with good reason.” The man leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. “Honestly, it’s just some book. It’s not worth anything.” “So you won’t care if I start ripping pages out of it one-by-one?” Alessia opened the book, holding a sheet of paper tightly in her grasp. The man closed his eyes. “Please don’t” “Okay, so then stop speaking crap,” Alessia said walking towards him. “What’s your name?” “Cameron” “And, *Cameron*, why do you want this book so bad?” Cameron paused, his tongue stuck at the edge of his mouth. “I stole it. I’ve been trying to work out a way to steal it for like a year and I finally succeeded.” “And then you tried to steal from us?” Alessia chortled. “Yeah. Seemed like an easy target.” “No one ever tell you to do one dumb thing at a time?” Alessia said, rolling her eyes. “So what’s so important about this book anyway?” Cameron very slowly pulled himself to his feet. Alessia took a couple of steps backwards, tightening her grip around the book. Cameron let out a self-loathing sigh. “You’re not from the island are you?” “No,” I replied. “Why?” “Because if you were, you’d know what that book is,” he said to me, before turning to Alessia. “It’s a guidebook, to the test that every person on the island takes. A small group of people who are involved in creating the tests also produce a book that contains all you need to know to take it.” “It gives you the answers?” “No. It teaches you. It’s a study guide. You still got to work - be smart. But, it helps you prepare,” Cameron said. “The problem is they only make a handful of copies. They get bought by the teachers in the richest sectors, so those schools get a head start.” He paused, before pointing with a straightened arm at the book. “Teachers will pay a lot of money for that book, which is why I have been trying to find a way to steal a copy for a whole year”. Alessia slowly started putting the book back in the bag, treating it with care. “And so your plan is to go give it to some other school. Take the knowledge from one school and give it to another.” “Yeah. Stole it from the rich bastards in section B and taking it to F. And yeah, I’m gonna sell it to them. It’s not charity. But, still helps spread the word.” “Well, I appreciate you telling us the truth, Cameron,” Alessia said. “So how about we strike a deal.” Cameron let out a long bellowed huff. “What?” “You know these hills pretty well by the sounds of it. And I’m guessing you know a bit about Section F and the people there. You take us there, introduce us to people, get us the information we need, and we’ll give you your book back.” “And if I just grab the bag off you right now?” Cameron replied, squaring his shoulders. “Then I put my knife in your gut,” Alessia said, calmly. Cameron thought for a second. “Fine. But I swear you had better give it back.” “We will,” Alessia said. “But meanwhile,” she outstretched an arm pointing down the slope of the hill,. “lead the way.


so when you asked what happened in kentucky i thought you meant like what made Kentucky Kentucky lol but you meant what happened when i had guns pulled on me maybe? **8:50 PM** yeah! 😩 that's why i was confused genuinely interested bc thats a fun story post hoc (vocab word of the day! someone used it in class and im using it now in probably the wrong context) **8:52pm** lol, i was confused too clearly i was like, how the fuck do i explain Kentucky to a New Yorker and why am I being asked to **9:51pm** wait i wanna know what happened wit da guns in kentucky **12:25am** i'll tell the story tomorrow i don't want to tell it in a way that plays into stereotypes or paints Kentucky as a negative place because it's one of my favorite places on Earth  **7:07am** so first things first there was a pretty girl the prettiest think roll out of bed without makeup on pretty think a wardrobe full of things she bought in India pretty think no bra millenial hippy pretty think positive vibes and a longtime interest in Jainism pretty think 24 years old and slightly obnoxious in 2009  her boyfriend was a friend of mine a skinny affluent suburban kid from the northside of Columbus, Ohio  he liked to play video games the pro-social kind like Minecraft and he'd talk to me about how they could maybe save the world by bringing nerds together for good  he'd tell me this over craft beers in a Unitarian Church on Bardstown Road  you know the kind of church with taps and bartenders and salvaged wood tables with mason jars for water  the kind that got converted into a for profit company because the progressives who built it don't need God anymore  and besides their children were more interested in witchcraft pokemon and the understandable joys of dancing naked in same gender company in the thick dark woods  anyway, it's through these two people the pretty girl and her boyfriend that I met Andrew the girl's older brother  since he is the first character with a name i think it should be clear that we immediately hit it off due to a shared love of anti-civilization philosophy and anarcho-communist ideals  besides I knew how to farm organically and could strike up a wallet-opening harlequin smile at the St. Matthew's farmer's market  Andrew, for his worth, knew how to operate and repair machinery produce high quality bourbon and install gravity powered-irrigation systems on land his family had owned since the early 1970s  the land was a few hours south of all of these immaculately maintained victorian mansions in Old Louisville and the Highlands  it was also just a few hours south of where *we* lived at the time in a shotgun cohabitation with a large yard in Schnitzelberg  keep in mind, this is 2009 and I am an appropriate technology anarcho-communist on a farm hand's income so my directions were written down with pen and paper and there was no GPS in my car or on my phone  on the drive down, I listened to music loudly alone in the car but I didn't let Okkervil River, Neil Young, or Fleetwood Mac distract me i simply followed Andrew's written word like I was a fresh Biblical Scholar at Southern on the verge of losing my inerrant convictions through my sincere, devote attention to every serif and san of a higher power's life-directional >!lack of clarity!<  i got off I-65 the winding two lane road became a straight one lane road that one lane road became gravel then dirt and finally it stopped at tall grass and a small break in the trees  this was the end but something didn't look right i didn't see a large back-to-the-land yurt in a secluded clearing with three palimino horses drinking from a crystal clear, cold spring fed unpolluted creek  i saw a doublewide in decent condition with a mix of tobacco and weed growing in the backyard and shagbark hickory and dying ash in the front  i pulled into this dirt driveway slowly to turn around and briefly check my directions  however, that's when it hit me that i was driving a 2002 Saturn Ion well off the well-travelled roads and I was in a drug grower's driveway in a part of the country that is notoriously suspicious of *their own family members* let alone longhaired outsiders in India-import cowboy western buttondowns with big city, Jefferson County plates  i claim no great stroke of wisdom for this humble realization the dogs, the nine pitbulls, they helped me  so did the three adult men bearded, strong, healthy on their porch with shotguns pointed my way and words heading toward me that i couldn't hear  as dumb and clueless as I might be sometimes, I am the reckless, wayward son of Quaker missionaries and this was not the scariest thing that's ever happened to me not close  I simply raised my hands and slowly moved my left one to lower my window  the first thing i hear is WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE but against reason, i laugh i say: isn't it obvious? *i'm* *lost* I was *invited* to see Gerry Dickens do you know him?  at this, they laugh louder and harder than I had in my profound fear and vulnerability "*You* want to see *that* crazy old man who never wears clothes?"  (they lower their guns)  "See where the dirt road ends and turns into a skinny driveway of unmowed grass between those rows of mostly beech and elm trees *that's* where you go."  "But, first, let me guess... you're dating his daughter, aren't you?"  **5:10pm** i liked the way you told that very memoir-y like it could be a cool nostalgic bit in a lil memoir or book or whatever also thats not at all how i imagined it also is it not taboo to talk abotu how beautiful a girl is when ur friend is dating her? ALSO i see a pattern in guys liking the hippie no makeup kinda pretty bc all my guy friends (including you i suppose) have expressed this specific aesthetic  **8:52pm** haha, yeah idk i like people when they are comfortable like pjs over a fancy dress 99/100 times but this is Kentucky as I understand it or this is a slice of Kentucky i wanted to give the sense of a deeply rooted people who are comfortable with who they are and who like being outside and like doing things themselves and are a little romantic and kooky and it's not a joke i saw so many naked people in Kentucky and it's not necessarily a sexual thing it's just people don't think they need to be ashamed of their bodies or awkward about it even if they are women who haven't bothered to shave anything in 11 days \-not so bad, right? like not for everyone, but not a nuclear wasteland in need of other people's intervention and charity \-like fuck. this is the horse capital of the world and horses aren't exactly for beggers \-oh, and yeah.


I feel so tired, I woke up too early today so I closed my eyes to fall asleep again, It didn't help so I opened my eyes and just looked around and Started thinking of how my day would go. "Huh", I looked towards my door, "did I put my clothes there?" I don't have my glasses on so maybe it's just my imagination. I checked the time 5:34, I could stay in bed a little longer, I closed my eyes again. Still can't sleep but I could relax and maybe play another fantasy, what do I make it about? I haven't done many fantasy's lately but what should it be about? Ah, maybe that. "Hm, why does the fantasy keep cutting out?"Maybe I'm too tired, sigh, let's try sleeping again. How much time has passed? "I think I slept a little, let me check my phone. "It's still 5:34? Even if I didn't fall asleep the time should have changed, "let's just go downstairs and make something. I really don't want to move my arms, let's just think about how I'll make breakfast, I stared at my door and then my closet "those clothes I'll need to fold them" but why do i have so many? It probably just looks that way because it's bunched together. "Do I still have chicken in the fridge, what do I make?" Let's get started. I wanted to get up, but my limbs weren't budging, I'm probably still tired, "..wait then how did I check the time?" I probably just imagined checking. I opened my eyes again... but something feels weird, my eyes don't feel open. Ah, is it a fantasy?, more likely a dream since i can't feel the outside, what was it called again? I forgot. What do I do now? Since I can't move I can't properly enjoy this. Let me try making things move till I feel myself waking up, I 'look' towards the clothes in my closet and focus on it. I tried that for most of the things around me and nothing moved, 'don't tell me I'm just stuck here?' I tried forcing myself awake but it's still not working, there's nobody around to wake me up either. I heard some clattering, what is it?, it's getting louder, it sounds like a person. I try to move, what if I'm being robbed?, what will they do if they find me here? I force my eyes open to see..Mom!! That's right, I don't live alone! I live with my mom, she must have just gotten back from work, tired I gently close my eyes again. I wake up again to find my room warped, my closet is no longer next to the door, there is another bed in the room with me apart from the one I'm laying on. 'Another fantasy/dream thing?' I still can't move but I can feel my limbs, so maybe not, I open my eyes 'they feel open and my eyesight is not any less terrible' is this not a fantasy? I'm probably still out of it. I blink my eyes a bit and try to roll my body. It worked so I put my feet to the ground and stood up. 'Everything seems to be alright, but my room still isn't back to normal', I walk out of my door, I survey my surroundings 'it's an apartment, the kitchen isn't downstairs, another apartment is what's happening?' I look for mom, maybe I'll wake up from this if i find something my mind can't properly mimic. I find her but… she's asleep in the bed next to mine, "that's right she worked night yesterday", yeah and we live in an apartment we have been for the past 4 and a half years, I checked the time again 9:04. "Did my mind just trick me into thinking reality was my imagination and vice versa, scary". (Had to write it out because things took a while to feel real.


“Your boy ain’t right, Jane. You know it and we know it. It’s becoming more obvious by the minute but let’s be honest with ourselves here. He weren’t right in the head, even before he was bit by one of them rabid things roaming the woods. He’s always been a tad on the wild side but this, this is somethin’ else. It’s dangerous.” “Alright Martha. I’ll reluctantly agree with that, but he was always a good boy! He always minded me. Now, not so much. He’s become a lil’ monster I can’t control. I don’t know what to do about the situation!” “Oh, hon. No one’s disputin’ he’s a good little feller. We all like him. We do. He’s a real joy and blessing to you, and brought huge smiles to our faces when he was around. I’m just saying what the rest of us are thinking. There’s very bad things lurking out there. You know what I’m talking about, and you understand what happens after they get ahold of somethin’. The madness is irreversible, right? Something’s gotta be done about your little man, and ideally it should come from you. You’re his family. Even though it’s not his fault, you know what needs to happen. We’ve all seen the tear-jerker ‘Old Yeller’. We remember how that sad story ends and we know how this one is gonna end too. It’s ugly as sin. No doubt about it and there’s no cure. You just gotta… ‘put him down’, real quick like. I’ll be easier. The decent thing to do is to put him out of his misery and end his sufferin’.” “That’s simple for you to say, Mar. He ain’t your’n. You didn’t raise him from a little ‘pup’. It’s.. just so hard to let go. I love him to pieces and had so many hopes and dreams for him. He depends on me for everything. He’s gonna be sad when I…” “No, no. It ain’t simple for any of us to say! No one ever said doing the right thing was easy but it’s the only thing to do, in this case. It’s not fair. We all know that. We’ve approached you about it because we know how hard it’s going to be to take care of, and we want to support you in this terrible time. Your little ray of sunshine is depending on you now to do what’s best for him, and in the end we know you will. No one wants to deal with something so heart-wrenching but in times like this, it has to be done swiftly. Good folks stick together to help each other in times like this.” “Thank you Martha! I appreciate it. I really do. You guys are so good to me. I just don’t have the strength to pull the trigger. How do we know he’s really suffering? Like you said, he was already a little wild hellion child. Maybe he doesn’t feel any pain anymore. Surely being like this is still better than being… dea…” “No Jane. Noooo. He’s infected. He’s frothing at the mouth for heaven’s sake. Just look at him! He has spasms and violent mood swings. He’d tear you to pieces if you got any closer. Your boy is not himself. It’s highly contagious and he’s in immense pain. You can see that when you look into his dilated pupils. Plus, what if he bites you? One of us will have to put you down too, and none of us wants to have to do that. It would’ve been totally unnecessary and preventable. There’s no saving him, but we can help support you. Take care of your boy.” “Would you please, pretty please do it for me, Martha? You just said you are all here to help. I can’t do it. That would help me immensely if you or Earl would….” “We would take care of you because we had no choice. There would be no one else left to do it but that’s not even close to the same situation, and it’s not fair of you to ask us. Frankly, we’re worried your sick little feller will bite you, and then you could spread it to all of us. Doing this will make you a much stronger woman! Every person should take care of their own ‘mess’. I’m sorry to be harsh but this is yours, Jane. You must clean it up.” Jane Weaver looked around the room with a deepening level of realization. The real truth slowly slid out of their forked tongues. They weren’t nearly as supportive as they pretended to be. It was a more of a pushy confrontation than ‘loving support’. Resentment was building rapidly in her heart. She wanted to lash out at them but the problem of what to do about her infected hellion still remained. The thought of having to blow his brains out was unbearable. Meanwhile, they stood there with their cold, calculating eyes. “If any of you had been more diligent about eliminating those infected creatures lurking in the woods, none of this would be an issue! Then he would still be himself! You knew rabid skunks and foxes were dangerous, and yet you did nothing about them. That is YOUR mess, and you need to clean THAT up! Perhaps I’ll just let Ol’ Blue out of his containment pen, and then you’ll be forced to take care of my good little boy, yourselves.


#Hello r/Shortstories! Guess who we’re celebrating today? u/GammaGames, congrats on your completed serial!!!! His serial, *That Unholy Ghost*, came to a conclusion with 13 chapters. It’s a wonderful read. Gamma has been part of the r/WritingPrompts family (including here at SS) for about a year and a half. I have enjoyed his energy and presence in the community, writing for all the features, always encouraging new writers and then zipping off to write more words. He’s such a delight to have around. If you haven’t read any of his work, you are missing out! It’s . You can read it all on . He’s even begun a brand new serial already. Such a champ.   ***   #That Unholy Ghost - Written by u/GammaGames **A brief synopsis from Gamma:** The story of Reverend Gregory Canmore after he is unwillingly relocated to a small town in the midwest. There, he discovers a purpose, and a corrupting being with no regard to the people of Faircreek. - - - - - - - - - - - - -   ***   #A Chat with u/Gamma about Serial Writing Let’s take a moment and hear what Gamma’s serial experience was like. ##**What have you learned throughout the serial writing process?** This was my longest story I’ve ever written, and I learned that I actually kinda like outlines! Not too detailed though. A few hundred words of major beats, some character descriptions and motivations, and (*checks outline file*) at least a thousand words of random scribblings for dialogue and plot ideas that I have while trying to fall asleep help a lot with keeping ideas going. Writing serials has also boosted my word count. Before, I was doing a SEUS every week and coming up with a different idea for each story took a lot of time. Having one story that I don’t have to create from scratch every week has been great for keeping motivated. ##**What did you enjoy most about writing this?** Since I knew where it was going, trying to tell the story nonlinearly was a lot of fun. Some of the earlier chapters could’ve been lengthened a little to allow more breathing room, but overall I enjoyed trying to plan it out. Also, the themes fit the outlined notes very often! That was mostly luck, but it did make it so I had to work harder to not skip a week when time was tighter. ##**What was the biggest challenge you faced and how did you overcome it?** Trying to find time to write it! I tried to get a draft and edit done by Thursday so I could try to get some feedback before posting, but half the time I ended up sprinting at 2am on Friday night to get a draft finished that could be edited Saturday morning. I haven’t overcome it! I continue to be a late-night writer, but I’m trying to be better so I can write more in the mornings instead. ##**What advice would you give to writers who are thinking about writing a serial for the first time?** Do it! I think a vague outline helps with thinking of ideas for the upcoming themes, but don’t sweat it if the story starts to diverge from your notes. Being able to write a story in little chunks at a time is a nice leisurely way to write, so give it a try!   ***   Thank you so much, Gamma, for sharing some of your thoughts with us! I love reading your words around the subreddits. And I’m already so intrigued by your new project! Writers like you make doing this such a pleasure. Be sure to leave Gamma some love in the comments below. Feel free to throw a congrats his way or ask him great writing questions!   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Once there was a little girl. She was neither tall nor short, thin nor fat. She had long, beautiful, light brown hair, a beautiful face, and a sunny disposition. Her milk teeth had come out and very large ones had replaced them. She was teased by other children, but it never stopped her from smiling. Home life was happy enough, at that time. Sure, her mother would lash out and beat and her father would get into the ale too much, but the little girl had her brothers, and her very best friend. Her reflection. The little girl was fortunate enough to have a room separate from the rest of the family. She would go there when noise got to be too much for her. She would dream and act, cry and read, and think about what it would be like to have her own cottage with her own little girl. Ah, but the mirror. That was where her best friend lived. You see, other than her teeth, no one had ever made comments about her appearance before, other than to comment on her complexion or eyes. She loved looking at herself, but not in a vain way. The way that birds like to look at themselves. She would watch her mouth form words, learned to wiggle her eyebrows and wink with both eyes, and would use funny voices with different expressions. When the girl would cry, she knew that if she went to her room and shut the door, her best friend would cry with her. They could tell each other that they weren’t at fault and things weren’t always going to be this way. The girl would sniffle and kiss her reflection, and feel better. This went on for a long time. And then, one day, the winds shifted. This man that called himself her “REAL Grandpapa” was coming for a visit, and the girl’s mother started acting strangely. The cottage was scrubbed, top to bottom, the beatings came more often and more harsh, and the girl started to go quiet. Not too much at first. Just a little less laughing and smiling. More hair being pushed behind her ears in a soothing gesture. The day for “Grandpapa” to arrive drew closer and closer. When he arrived, the girl was shy. Who was this man that resembled her mother so? Why did his young daughter look like a reflection of her mother? The girl was uneasy, as Grandpapa paid more and more attention to her, giving her a nickname for her smile, and ignoring her mother. Her Auntie was only five years older than her, how strange. She was mischievous and manipulative, but the girl kept quiet and hoped they’d leave soon. The Auntie was causing trouble with Mother and Grandpapa, acting like a child having a fit whenever he would engage with Mother. At long last, Grandpapa and Auntie took their photographs and bid their goodbyes. Auntie promised to write the girl and the girl promised back. As soon as their caravan was out of sight, Mother had tears in her eyes and trembling hands. She went to her bedroom and shut the door. After that, things around the house changed. Bad magic had been stirred up. Mother and Father fought and argued more, each battle worse than the one before. The girl was informed that she was getting fat, had a unibrow, huge crooked teeth, and was too...her. This crushed the girl, and at first, she tried comforting herself the same way she always had. Her best friend was still there, with her sad smile and tearful eyes. But then the girl REALLY looked at her friend. Mother was right. Her teeth were too big, her eyebrows too bushy and met in the middle, and she did seem a little chubbier than the day before. The girl turned away from her friend and whispered, “You’re hideous. I HATE you.” After that, whenever the girl was reprimanded, picked on, or told she was starting to get “heavy,” she’d sneak up to her room, look at her reflection and give HER the riot act. “Why can’t you be beautiful? Why are you unable to keep from knocking milk over? Why are you so LOUD? Can’t you keep quiet? Can’t you get better grades?” The girl would cry, engulfed in emotion, and turn away from her reflection. The years went by, and the girl stopped visiting her friend. She would look into the mirror, only see flaws, and run. She couldn’t stand her reflection, yet looked into a mirror every chance she got. Maybe in a way, she was trying to check in on her old friend, but only sad eyes and a harsh tongue met her. When the girl became a mother, she was so sad and angry all of the time, she lost herself. And one day, when the pain and crying were too much, she started feeling desperate. She needed to do something! Hurt herself, end it all, or make it all better! Her heart pounded hard, she couldn’t hear, breathe or see. She stumbled in front of the mirror and saw her friend. Her friend she had known forever. Her beautiful friend, looking so bereft and terrified. “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay. I love you, it’s okay.” The girl started muttering and then it got louder. “I’m so sorry. It’s okay, we’re OKAY. We’ll be okay. We just need to get through this. I love you. Don’t leave me. I’m sorry.” The girl watched her friend slowly calm. They looked at each other in quiet admiration. They had weathered the storm together, just like so many years ago. Things were going to get better, they knew it. The girl doesn’t talk to her friend much anymore. Her friend understands, it’s how things have to be. But every once in a while, while the girl is picking at her reflection’s face, tearing her down with sad and angry words, they lock eyes and know that they love each other. The End.