It was a sweltering day in the middle of July in New York City, the kind of day when the humidity was so high that it felt like you were walking in a thick soup. Billy, who was fifteen years old at the time, had spent the entire day cooped up in his apartment, trying to keep cool and stay out of his mother's way; but she told him to go outside, and that's what he did. While out and about, Billy found a strange, shiny object on the ground outside the entrance to Central Park. It was a Galaxy S22 cell phone and charger, but Billy obviously didn't know that; he just thought it was an interesting-looking thingamabob. He was aware that it was a device that required access to an electrical socket. Billy's mother was a little bit of a technophobe, and she didn't like using any newfangled gadgets that she didn't completely understand. She told Billy she didn't trust the unusual contraption and wouldn't let him plug it in. Secretly, she didn't want to unplug her new Toastmaster 3000, a device that promised to deeply burn toast in a matter of seconds. Despite this, Billy considered it to be an interesting thingamabob and did not want to throw it out. It was a sleek rectangle made of black glass, and he was intrigued by it. So, he decided to keep the object to fix his wobbly table, and he positioned it to support one of the legs of his table. The most influential invention of the 21 century just ended up sitting there for the rest of the summer, collecting dust, supporting a table that would be garbage by the end of the decade. In September, Billy's friend invited him to play baseball at his house. Billy noticed an unused electrical socket while searching for additional gloves. Billy remembered the strange object he had found over the summer and asked his friend if he could plug it in, to which he agreed. He was so excited to find out what would happen if he plugged it in that he hurried back to his apartment to get it. The thing started moving as soon as he plugged it in and turned it on, so he knew it was working. When the screen displayed a logo, Billy and his friend were astounded to realize it was a television they could hold in their hands. At first, they were more concerned with some of the games on the device, such as the calculator, flashlight, and their favorite game, camera. They would sit there for hours taking pictures of inane things such as the cat, themselves in the mirror, and food. I guess, no matter the time period, humans will always want to take pictures of their food. The boys do end up learning about Google Chrome when it is accidentally pressed. The phone was connected to the internet from 2023. They both are big fans of Charles Lindberg, so they search for planes and immediately find pornography. 24 hours later, they stumble across Wikipedia and begin to educate themselves on issues in the future. They spent the next few days using every second of spare time they had to explore the internet and read about a wide variety of topics they had never heard of before. They were sure that everything that happened before their time was correct because they checked it against facts they looked up in the library. They started to believe that the events that were going to take place in the future were also accurate. Billy, who was adamant about doing something about the device, brought it to his uncle, a nearby university professor. His uncle was fascinated by the device, and he listened closely as Billy and his friend filled him in on all they had discovered. He urged them to arrange a presentation for the university officials in the hope that those individuals could judge whether or not this technology could forecast the future. At the presentation, the boys warned the officials about The Great Depression because it was set to begin at the end of the month. Everyone listening becomes very depressed because they all have their money in banks. One of the officials was spotted slipping out the back; there is no evidence to suggest that he went directly to the bank and withdrew all of his savings. The boys then discuss World War II, Hitler, the Holocaust, Hiroshima, and Nagasaki. Everyone listening immediately gets wide-eyed and has a horrible feeling in their stomach since they were all alive for the Great War. They desperately want to hear more, something a little more optimistic, but they don't tell the boys that. The boys begin to discuss major events further into the future. They discussed such topics as the Cold War, the Korean War, the Vietnam War, Agent Orange, Napalm, the Nuclear Weapons Arms Race, domestic terrorist attacks, school shootings, 9/11, the War in Afghanistan, the War in Iraq, and COVID-19. A grown man started to cry. "Is there anything that happens that is not tied to death and destruction?" The man asked in desperation. The boys nodded as they continued, "they found out that the Earth is flat, we faked a moon landing, aliens are locked up in a military base in Nevada, and the government implants a tracker just under the skin in all infants." In the front row, a man passes out, prompting a woman to hug the person next to her. The officials decide to take the thingamabob, place it in a box, set it on fire, pour acid over it, and then bury it in the Nevada desert, fifty feet deep. They conclude that the future is the future, and whatever will happen will happen for a reason.


Lex Luthor IV comes to in an old , dark, and cobweb covered chemistry classroom. He can’t see anything but he can tell he’s tied up. Suddenly the lights go on throughout the building. (???) “It’s totally not suspicious right?” He turns his head to find a redheaded woman in overalls, a t-shirt, and combat boots standing in the doorway. (Luthor) “You’re one of the women that brought me here correct?” (???) “Correct! My names Chrys Isley-Quinn and I’ll be your lovely tour and exposition guide!” She grabs the back of the office chair he’s tied to and starts pushing him through the school. She explains everything that she knows and rolls him into the teachers lounge where another black haired woman is sitting behind an old desk. (Chrys) “And that concludes our tour. My partnah here will explain the rest. (Luthor) “Shes certainly got a lot of energy.” (Kelly) “If you only knew. My names Kelly by the way Alex. I trust my partner has explained everything sufficiently up to this point.” (Luthor) “Sure, except for why you needed to abduct me?” Kelly smiles and leans forward, folding her hands. (Kelly) “Let’s talk about Red X…or better yet the man behind the mask.” *Back at the apartment building* Teagan slowly comes to. She immediately notices the bomb and wraps it in an energy ball. She brings it closer and inspects it. (Adrian) “I’d be careful with that, they’re sensitive. I had to use one of those platter lids to take care of the one in the hallway.” (Teagan) “Adrian, you’re ok.…” (Adrian) “Eh, a little beat up but nothing I can’t handle.” Teagan smiles briefly before returning to her natural stone face. She explodes the bomb inside the shield and lets the gas dissipate. (Teagan) “What was that?” (Adrian) “Not sure, judging from what I saw of my assailant it’s some kind of Scarecrow gas. The one she hit me with was order less, colorless, and it sent me into a blind rage that her friend took advantage of. “ (Teagan) “Scarecrow…I knew that mask looked familiar but…she wasn’t built like Dr. Crane nor did she sound like him which means-“ (Dexter) “I’m not bleeding! Teagan you’re not bleeding! Kim you’re not bleeding! Adrian-“ He dry heaves and reaches back into the bathroom to grab a roll of toilet paper. He holds it out towards Adrian. (Dexter) “Please fix your nose…” They take the roll as Teagen stands up, and Kim enters the room. (Kim) “Did I hear someone say Scarecrow?” (Adrian) “Yep, pretty sure we’re dealing with another great granddaughter. This is starting to get absurd.” (Teagan) “There’s a tear in the fabric of space and time just be thankful we aren’t dealing with dinosaurs…yet.” (Dexter) “Bigger issue, Dr. Cranes long deceased in 2090 and wasn’t his research sealed off in a maximum security vault?” (Teagan) “That was the official sorry but there’s rumors that they never actually found his research or at least not all the copies of it.” (Adrian) “So then that’s how she knows what she’s doing. She can’t be as bad as him though, Dex didn’t need an antidote to come out of his fear spiral.” (Kim) “It’s possible she could only do so much with what was readily available to her.” (Teagan) “Which might explain why it sent you into a rage instead of activating your worst fear.” (Adrian) “I just want to go home…” They sit down next to Teagan and lean their head on her shoulder. (Kim) “About the person you sensed in here today, they were a Luthor right? I thought I heard the name before I passed out.” (Teagan) “Yes, Lex Luthor IV. He’s not the genius or villain his namesake was however.” (Dexter) “So what do they want with him? How did they know he was here? Are they physic too? And who away their accomplice?” (Teagan) “I can’t answer all of that but I think I know why they want him…his best friend is Aleister Drake.” (Dexter) “Red X…” (Kim) “Why is he so important anyway?” (Teagan) “Aside from being highly skilled, he’s also the only one of us to take any kind of action towards getting home. Me and Adrian have been here as long as he has and we’ve just been focused on getting everyone that comes through the rift together.” (Adrian) “He’s also engaged to Wonder Girls granddaughter and family to multiple descendants of the Batfamily, you know people you kind of want on your side instead of the other.


He never let me go anywhere without him. For my protection, he said. I needed him, because there are bad people out there, bad people that only want to hurt you. They would take you and the baby, and do unspeakable things. So, I stayed home. I was happy to, as I loved spending time with our son. He got along quite well with our dog, a husky, and he loved the baby. Home was where I was comfortable, safe, happy. And yet, somewhere deep down, I had an ache, a yearning to go to the outside world. I wanted the freedom of walking around in a store alone, buying whatever I wanted, greeting people as they cooed over the baby and told me how beautiful, how well-behaved, how happy he is. Inviting them over for dinner, having parties that lasted deep into the night, everything a young mother like myself would enjoy. Despite that, I only ever broke the rules once. I wasn’t allowed to have friends over, but one day I decided to invite my friend Angela over. We had a blast, and I made sure she was gone before he got back, but somehow he knew. Then, restrictions got even tighter. He went through my phone regularly, checked for hidden folders and secret apps, made sure I couldn’t hide anything. He loved me, I knew he did. When he came home he was always so happy to see me, greeting me with huge smiles, showing me all of his teeth. Oh, and he was such a great lover. He always let me take the lead, happy to be taken by someone who could initiate. He had always told me how much he hated a woman that wouldn’t ever try, and just wait for him to initiate. I did whatever he told me to do. But that urge, it kept growing. I needed to somehow get out by myself. It would be hard, living so far out in the country with no neighbors, no extra car to take, and no one to watch little Joey. I started making plans, I had to get out. Even if he loves me, I have to find a way to leave. I wanted desperately to be free. It started with little things; I managed to get a few messages out that he never did catch, I got Joey ready to stay by himself by leaving him in his crib for periods of time. He finally learned to stop crying and would just wait until I came back. The plan was slowly coming together, and my excitement grew as each day passed. Finally, the pieces were all together. The ache was deep today, and I couldn’t hold it all in. He was suspicious. Nevertheless, he ate his breakfast and gave me a kiss before he headed for work, unknowing of what was going to happen. He collapsed before he even made it to the car. Triumphant, I dragged him inside, stopping several times for a breather. Maybe this hadn’t been the best idea. He was much taller than me, sitting at 6’4 and me being only 5’6. I finally got him inside, and I undressed him and put him in the bed. That way it looked like he had just slept in. I had never driven before, but I had watched him. I got in the car and started it, reveling in the power I felt. I gently put my foot on the gas pedal and the car surged forward. This was it, I was going! I could run my errands without the tether of my husband. I was so giddy I felt like I had taken drugs. I could barely breathe, my chest felt so tight from finally being free. Into town I rode, and I found myself at the hardware store. This would be perfect for my plan. Afterwards, I went to the pharmacy. I really needed to sleep better at night… Errands run, groceries gotten and the itch scratched, I turned the car back towards our desolate abode. He was awake, I realized with a start. Had I not given him enough? He was outside, stumbling as if he was drunk. I got out of the car, watching him cautiously. “Whaaad… did you… me?” He slurred, eyeing me blearily. “What did… you… do?” He didn’t seem like he was in his right mind. Of course he didn’t, he was very ill. I tried to lead him back inside, but he fought back. His nose was bleeding, did I hit him? Maybe. “Don’t touch him!” He screamed at me, seemingly snapping out of the grog he was in. He was still staggering, but learning to deal with it. “Don’t touch him!” He repeated, trying desperately to stop me. “He’s my child, and I may do as I please with him!” I snarled, giving him a light push that threw his balance off. On the ground, he struggling to get back up. Good, he was still out of it. I breezed past him, scooping Joey up out of his crib and making my way back to the car. “You can’t stop me. I’m going to be free!” I yelled. “No…” he wailed desperately, “You can’t be by yourself! You can’t hold it in! It was hard enough covering up for you last time!” He had regained his footing, but he was too slow. His breaths were coming fast now, like he had run a marathon. “Hailey! Please. You need me.” His nose was pouring blood, and he was shaking. He was so terribly ill, what a shame. “I can’t save you.” I replied, then spun the car around, spraying him with gravel. My plan hadn’t gone as I’d hoped, but that saved some supplies for later. I watched him in the rear view mirror as he finally collapsed, seizing. I smiled. I do love him, but I cannot be kept in any longer. I needed to eat. And soon, Joey would too. He was almost ready for solids, after all.


Harold Nussbaum, a jeweler, has spent the last fifty years of his life running his jewelry store. He had always imagined retiring to a life of luxury, traveling the world on his private yacht, and sipping tropical drinks on sandy beaches. Serafina, Harold's wife, got increasingly impatient and restless over the years, eventually convincing Harold to retire after years of nagging and threatening to leave. But there was one problem: he had never invested, and his business was constantly teetering above the brink of insolvency. His wife had no idea how bad things were. She would spend her nights fantasizing about vacations, cruise ships, and winters in Florida, whereas Harold could barely afford winters in Trenton, New Jersey, where his house mortgage would be underwater in a matter of months. With his last day approaching, the business was certainly his most valuable asset. Unfortunately, he had begun discreetly replacing some diamonds with glass and some gold with imitation gold plating over the past five years. This was another reason he wanted to retire; it was just a matter of time before he was caught. Harold was sitting in his store, staring at a bank account with such a low interest that it didn't even round up to a cent, when he got an idea. He'd stage a fake robbery, collect the insurance money, and make up for all his cheating with one large final payday. Harold was excited with his idea and set about putting it into action. First, he needed to cast actors in the roles of robbers. He advertised on Craigslist for actors for a short film. It didn't take long for a band of wannabe thespians and hopefuls to knock on his door. He wrote "Grand Heist," a short screenplay with a final heist scene to take place in the store in front of all the security cameras. To keep up with appearances, he also rented lights, audio equipment, and cameras. Harold chose three actors from a group who agreed to work for free and not ask too many questions. They would gather after hours in the store to rehearse their lines and plan the shoot. "What is my motivation for robbing the store?" One of the performers inquired. "You're after the jewels," Harold responded. "Yes, but what is happening with my character beneath the surface?" “Nothing, you don’t have jewels; you want jewels, so you rob a place with jewels.” As he moved about the set, the actor kept his fist under his chin. “Are we feeling a Sidney Lumetesk heist like Dog Day Afternoon or a more sophisticated trickster vibe of the Thomas Crown Affair?” Harold is confused and replies, "the idea is simple: you burst into the store, demand all the jewelry, and leave." "I don't think my character would rob this bank," said a female actor. "It's a jewelry store," Harold said. "Will this film be listed on IMDB?" The third actor spoke out. "Yes, that's a valid question; will there be a make-up trailer?" The female actress chimed in. “Make-up? You’ll be wearing a mask for the robbery?” Harold responded. "Yes, but under the mask, I want to look my best because you never know who will see this," she replied. Harold shook his head and sighed. This was not going according to plan. He had assumed that hiring some actors, practicing a few lines, and then collecting the insurance money would be simple. However, these performers seemed more concerned with their characters and IMDB credentials than with actually helping him with the heist. Despite his reservations, Harold continued with the rehearsals. He knew he had to get this right. The insurance company would never pay out if the robbery did not appear to be genuine. They were finally ready to shoot the film after a few more rehearsals. Harold's heart was beating as he waited for the actors to arrive on the day of the robbery. When they arrived, he gave them a pep talk in an attempt to boost their confidence and get them ready for the big scene. "All right, guys," he began, "we've practiced this a hundred times. Everything will be fine if you just stick to the script." When they finally burst into the store, guns, and masks at the ready, Harold couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. However, things immediately went wrong. When one of the actors slipped and fell, he knocked over a display case and shattered a collection of real, rare, and precious diamonds. Another actor began talking incoherently about his unsuccessful acting career after forgetting his lines. In a panic, the third actor snatched one bag of costume jewelry instead of all the genuine jewels and made a clumsy escape. His plan had completely gone off the rails, and he knew it was only a matter of time until the insurance investigator uncovered it. Harold devised a different plan in order to save this cluster of a plan from disaster. He would steal the remaining jewels and attempt to convince the investigator that the robbers stole much more than one bag. He put all of the bags into the store's basement, where there was hidden room behind a false wall. Harold paid the actors and told them the film would be released in a couple of months, even though he never planned to release anything. They invited him to the rap party, but he had to contact the police and the insurance company first. Donnie Williams, the insurance investigator, logged all of the stolen jewelry and noted that he should receive a check after completing the investigation. Harold also offered the police an edited version of the film in which the actors robbed the store. Detective Morris, a basset hound when it came to solving crimes, was on the case, but Harold wasn't worried. As Detective Morris got closer to the truth, he confronted Harold with discrepancies in the heist video. Harold had no choice but to bash him in the head with a hammer and put his body in the basement with the jewels. Donnie Williams, the investigator, overhears one of the actors talking about the heist film at a bar one night. Donnie plays it coy. The actor tells him about the short film and describes the intricate narrative and connected character development written by the director Harold Nussbaum. Donnie is more interested in the final robbery scene described by the actor. Donnie pays a visit to Harold after speaking with the actor. Harold panics with all the jewels and a dead body in the basement and reveals that the film will be ready by tomorrow. Donnie returns the next day to attend the “movie premiere.” Despite some good editing, Donnie detects similarities between the final robbery scene and the jewelry store heist. Harold becomes scared and chokes the investigator with a gold chain. Harold places the dead body in the basement alongside the other. Harold's world is closing in on him. The police searched for missing detective Morris, leading them to Harold's jewelry store. Harold had only wanted to make a few dollars to retire, but it got out of hand, and he turned into a serial killer. He admitted what he did, and the police arrested him. Tuesday night is movie night in Davisville Penitentiary, and the award-winning short film "Grand Heist" is playing this week. The director is in cell block D, so everyone is looking forward to this one.


Slowly, I turned that beam of cruelty I had always reserved for others as a way to keep the attention off me. I turned it onto myself, and you know what? It felt good. I mean, who was I? A lower middle-class, tall, scrawny thing that had little more to show for his 17 years than a trail of smoldering rubble from everything he touched. My motivations were fear and jealousy, hardly unusual for a citizen of the U.S.A. (Unusually Selfish Assholes), I just happened to handle this stress with the grace of a garbage truck. I looked in the mirror and said, "You are one low son of a bitch." Surprisingly, however, this realization didn't bother me. It was like I finally figured out who I was, and the revelation was a huge relief. I had always wondered if horrible people knew they were actually horrible people, and now I think the truly horrible people actually do, and they resign themselves to being the bad guy. Much like a serf must have lived with the drudgery of being a serf, or a marine on the front lines dealt with the inevitability of his own demise. "I am a serf, I was born to the land" and "I am a marine, I will take that hill or die trying." Both come up with a series of ideologies and religions to help them with this realization, and somehow give a desperate situation a bit of dignity. I was no different. I imagined a world of greedy, terrible people who were all out to get me, and I would do my best to screw them before they got to me, and then I'd screw myself for good measure because I was no better.  Suicide was never really an option. I've never tried to outright kill myself. That's not much, I mean many people live their entire lives without once killing themselves, but the fact that I've never really considered it is something I've always been proud of. It just always seemed like the easy way out. There were always those few kids in high school who never made it through. I remember one kid. 15 years old and his girlfriend of 3 months broke up with him. He got drunk, grabbed his dad's shotgun, sat on a motorcycle in his garage, and blew his brains all over the white wall behind him. His two best friends pleaded with him and watched helplessly as what was left of the body slumped forward on the motorcycle's handlebars. Gravity slowly pulled the corpse to the floor by the time the paramedics came with the bodybag and hugs for the parents. I still remember that picture of him in the yearbook, grinning like a ghost. Suicide is the ultimate cop-out, an embarrassing cry for attention, or a period at the end of a desperate sentence. I've never understood the slashed wrists, the intentional overdoses, the head in the oven, the jump off the bridge, and probably never will. Why not take some people down with you on the way?  Slow-motion suicide, that's the kind for me. The gradual killing of yourself over a long period of time, using malnutrition, sleep deprivation, cigarettes, unsafe sex, and drugs to whittle away at your once proud human frame. The modern tuberculosis that sits in your chest and eats you from the inside. You violently cough your dreams into the toilet, cables of bloody spit catching on the porcelain bowl. The strange thing about all this is that you feel tougher, meaner, leaner, and badder than anyone else, even though you probably couldn't fight for more than a minute without getting winded. You figure that smoldering chunk of coal in your belly will give you all the fuel you need to annihilate anything that gets in your way, and act tough enough so that nothing crosses your path. So it was for me.  High school passed. A few more years passed. By this time I had manufactured myself into some sort of dark, intellectual loner, quoting Dostoevsky, Marx, Nietzsche and Schopenhauer completely out of context, twisting their critiques of humanity into justifications of my cruelty, unaware of the meanings behind their words. I was brimming with pompous superiority, smugly correct in every instance, casting my shallow view across the humanity that I thought I understood. To effectively move against people, you must first put yourself above them, ordain your own mission in the name of a superior God (or a staunch belief in atheism), wrap yourself in a superior ideology, and then reassure yourself with your superior intellectual capacity. I did this with such alarming skill that by the age of 20, I could have shot anyone in the face with the .38 that I had taken to carrying, and dismissed the incident as little more than crushing a bug scurrying across my floor.  But also curious to my condition was also a strange state of feeling lower than everyone. Watching people meet for drinks, hold hands, cheer a football game, or even have breakfast out as a family served to do little more than further isolate me, and make me wonder why I wasn't one of them. Was it really my superiority, or was I incapable of moving as a 'normal' person, and wrapping myself in layers of intellectual gauze to explain away my inability to relate to anything? In hindsight the answer was pretty obvious but at 20, the world fucking owed me.  I met a girl at a punk show, Day-Glo Abortions at the Metroplex, 1986 or 87. She was rotten. She had red curly hair, freckles, black circles around her eyes, a body like a rugby captain, and smelled like a carton of spoiled milk dumped over a tub of rancid meat. Of course I was instantly in love. I stared at her for about 10 minutes straight before she came over and hit me up for a cigarette. I told her that smoking was for assholes who liked giving their money to corporations, but I offered her some of the bottle of rum I managed to sneak into one of the dark corners of the club. We didn't have much to say to each other, just what part of the city we lived in and where we were had gone to school. She dropped out of school after getting kicked out of her house. She tried to take the bus from her place downtown out to the suburbs every day, but it only worked out a few times before she gave up. The rest of the time she just sat, smoked pot, and listened to records. I made up a bunch of shit to make myself seem cool, and in the middle of a bullshit sentence, she kissed me with that rotten mouth of hers. She tasted like a pack of cigarettes fished out of a chemical fire, and had dirty nailed, clumsy hands that belonged to a man, but I went with it, more out of cool curiosity than lust or desire.  One of the opening bands, Porn Orchard, started playing and she pulled me to the front of the crowd, grabbing my hands around the wrists and putting them around her waist so that I was standing behind her, holding this stranger. She was only an inch shorter than me, which was saying a lot, and I had to strain my neck to avoid that rotten mop of a haircut bouncing infectiously in my face. Her stiff leather jacket caused a clammy sweat on me that chaffed with every jump. With my hands already around her damp belly, I moved my hands up her shirt onto her tits, waiting for any sort of reaction. There wasn't any, except for a slight smile I could barely see on the corner of her face. The band played for what seemed forever, and I eventually let go of her and walked to the back of the club where I had been before. I pulled out the rum and finished off the bottle, waiting for her to come back. I didn't see her again that night.  About two weeks later I was out again, by myself of course, and drunk. That's the best thing about public transportation, if you can manage to count out your 65 cents and sit down without throwing up, you can go anywhere. I took full advantage of that system, and probably spent half of my early adulthood sitting on a blue plastic MARTA chair, drunkenly trying to comprehend some book 20,000 leagues over my head, reading the same bitter sentences over and over again as if repetition would make me smarter. This night I was out to see Verbal Assault and The Stench at one of those clubs that disappears after a few gigs. I didn't have any friends at the shows, just the same people who seemed to be at every one I went to, who would nod in some sort of recognition to a fellow music fanatic, or maybe out of fear that I was someone important who knew more than they did.  I saw her at that show. She walked in with some huge skinhead. They weren't holding hands or anything, but he paid for her. I think the show was only $2, but still, the gesture must have meant something. They stood with their backs against the wall, side by side, wearing matching flight jackets. Now, instead of that rag-mop haircut, she wore a Chelsea, which is basically an inverted bowl cut, where everything under the bowl is shaved, and all hair not within the bowl's coverage area, is left, as a sort of fringe. Not too flattering, but you try telling that to a skin chick. I waited until he went to the bathroom and walked over.  "Hey, remember me?"  "No."  "Day-Glo Abortions?"  "Never heard of them."  "You kissed me at that show."  "Must have been someone else. You better move before my boyfriend gets back, or he's gonna jump you."  "I could take him."  "Could you take ten of his friends too?"  "No."  "Then fuck off."  I walked to the other end of the club. I knew I didn't have her confused with someone else. I can still remember that rotten milk stank to this day. I wasn't used to getting blown off like that. That did it. I had to have her, the fact that her boyfriend was some fat ass nazi skinhead didn't bother me, if anything it made things more imperative, more important that I get her, bag a disgusting girl who won't give me the time of day right from under the nose of a guy who would, in all likelihood, beat me to death. Being a guy ensures that you are constantly looking for a girl, and in that search you are turned down far more times than you succeed. The worst feeling comes when you drop your standards and go after some girl that disgusts you in every way, but for the mere fact that she is woman, and you still get brushed off.  I stared at her while her boyfriend was busily looking hatefully at the show, standing rigid and unflinching, like at any moment his services as an ignorant goon might be called upon. She stared back at me. Then she winked and smiled. Whether she was trying to lure me to destruction, or really wanting me I wasn't sure. My inflated image of myself made me think the latter, however thinking the former gave me a sexual charge that was undeniable. The unfair maiden, calling from behind the battlements, knowing my pursuit of her would result in my death, yet calling, singing, and staring. The challenge had been made, and seeing how at that point in my life, my mind broke every situation into winners and losers, challengers, competition, I could not back down. The fact that she was repulsive physically, and mentally (what kind of loser dates a Nazi?) made conquest that much more necessary, conquest for the sake of itself. After all, isn't life all about the pursuit of worthless things, the longing for worthless people, the absolute obliteration of your mind and body for worthless causes? Isn't that what makes us human? Or is it the fact that we deny the unimportance of our lives? Or is it simply the fact that we're relatively hairless and usually ungrateful?  I left the show early, deftly slipping her a piece of paper with a fake name and a real phone number on it. I didn't look at her until I was safely past. I turned around casually to see her slip the paper into her back pocket without telling her boyfriend. But still, she didn't call. Not for two weeks.  Exactly two weeks later, at about 1 in the morning, she called.  "Hey," she said. Right away I knew who it was.  "Hey," I answered.  "Do you have a car?"  "No."  "Fuck, I was hoping you'd come pick me up."  "I know the busses and trains like the back of my hand, where are you at?"  "Nevermind."  She hung up. She called back at 5 am.  "Hey."  "Hey."  "Can I come over?"  "Yeah. You have to take the bus though."  "Fine."  I gave her directions and about an hour later there was a knock on my door. She came in with an oversized duffle bag, sweeping her head around the small room as if looking for another way out.  "This place is small," she said.  "Yeah. It's cheap too."  "I'll bet. You live in a worse neighborhood than I do."  And with that, she moved in.  The next three weeks didn't amount to much, other than the ending of my sexual dry spell and the fact that I started smoking. She didn't have much to say, and I wasn't one for listening, so we just got high and listened to records all day. After fucking a few times, even sex got boring. A passionless rubbing of strangers. After only a week, neither of us would instigate anything, unless she got really drunk, and then she'd be on me like a malnourished cat. I think the stink she carried was almost tattooed on her, as she was possibly the only thing in the known universe that could make my apartment smell any worse. She was ugly and big, but that wasn't what bothered me. She was empty. Behind the eyes, there was nothing happening, nothing I could pick up on at least. She was like some sort of bloated jellyfish, living only to eat and stay warm. She didn't have a job, and seemed to get by on the general stupid programming of every male that makes us, even the bad ones, attempt to save women and protect them, even the worthless ones. I asked her where she saw herself in 20 years. The answer came immediately and predictably: I don't know.  At the time, my career was moving pot from downtown out to the suburbs every sixth day, a bowling ball sized hunk of compacted weed stuffed in a backpack that netted me $200 a week, just for riding 20 minutes on the bus each way. I was really good at it too, possibly the best. I looked like any suburban kid, maybe a bit leaner, with tight crewcut, so I definitely wasn't out of place as I got off the bus at Roswell Mall (the closest that the bus ever got to the north suburbs). On the bus, merely reading a fine work of literature keeps most people away. They'll resent you for being pretentious and most won't even dream you're moving enough weed to keep their kids high for 10 years. Of course now I know getting caught with that much pot in Georgia is tantamount to raping the police chief's wife in front of the whole station, but back then it was easier than working, and I didn't really give a fuck about getting caught. Something inside of me was very pleased by the fact that most of these drugs were broken up and sold to high school kids, hopefully fucking up their perfect little lives.  Life wasn't too bad for me, in fact it was so perfectly awful I was in love with it. I was the man with everything: a career, a woman, a palace to call my own. It was like the negative image of a normal life, something that was a Fuck You to everyone and everything around me. At the time it didn't seem odd that I build my life into a huge Fuck You. I mean to purposefully give yourself a bad life clues you in to who the Fuck You is really directed at. It took a while to figure it was pointed at me. And screaming Fuck You to yourself is insanity in anyone's book.  But then my perfect dream life ended, stopping my job as a drug mule and severing my cohabitation with one of God's nastiest creations. The choice was hardly my own. I came home from a run one day to get punched in the face by the girl's skinhead boyfriend, whom she had invited into my apartment, as well as two of his friends. They were smart enough not to dress like skinheads when coming into my neighborhood (if you're ever sick of living, dress up like a skinhead and go hang out in south Atlanta), and were waiting for me in an ambush that I assume was part revenge, and part business. They had already done a good job of breaking most of my stuff and setting aside my records to take home later.  "Give me the drugs," said her boyfriend.  "I just dropped them off."  "OK then, give me the money."  "I just move it. I don't get paid for another 2 days."  That got me knocked on the ground and kicked.  "Then we'll come back."  "I wouldn't. I've been making that run for 6 months without getting caught. If my guy hears that his star mule was getting shaken down, especially by a bunch of Nazis, he'd have you all killed." Which was probably true, but the hits would come more from the chance for a rich black dude to ice some skinheads than any concern for me.  "What did you say? You think we're scared of some coons?"  "Yeah, I do. Otherwise you would've worn your Johnny Rebel flight jackets down here." That was probably the remark that got the shit kicked out of me. Even the girl, who, up until this point had shown me nothing but pure disinterest, seemed to comprehend that she was basically getting me killed. Iron cross rings, steel toed boots, Budweiser numbed brains, all converging on my already damaged body. It only went on for a few seconds, but they were good at beatings, if nothing else.  "OK, ok, fine." I heard myself say through a bloody mouth. "I'll pay you."  "Damn straight you'll pay us."  "Come back. I'll pay you."  After they left, I laid there for a while, not that I had any other options. I was definitely bleeding from a few places, but I'd had worse. It wasn't a surprise that the girl called them or left with them, she was barely here when she was around.  Moving out of that place was easy, seeing how I didn't have any stuff left except some shirts and a box of books, which they somehow were unable to break and had no use for themselves. Yeah, moving out was easy, a suitcase full of dirty clothes and a box full of good books. The hard part was finding a place to go. I had burned most of my friends, and after people found out what I did to that girl back in high school, I wasn't too welcome in many places, even three years later. Anyone I talked to at shows was more of a cold acquaintance, who seemed to talk to me out of politeness, not exactly the people to ask for a couch. My parents had moved away after I graduated from high school, and I never really bothered to get the exact address.  I went to the dealer and told him what happened, played up the racism thing, made up some stuff they said about him, and suggesting that he put a few guys in my room and wait. He said he'd think about it, paid me my money, gave me an extra $100 and told me to go to the hospital. I thanked him, but I never went.  Instead, I rode the bus around a bunch. I even took a train to the airport and wandered around there, hoping to find a plane ticket on the ground or something. I sat and watched people getting off planes. Family, friends, or lovers scanned the steady trickle of weary passengers stumbling out of the doorway to the plane tunnel, wondering 'did they really get on the plane?' until they saw the face of the one they wanted. Some smiled and waited to be noticed, others blew right through the line, disrupting everything out of sheer joy. Some met with a handshake, some with a hug, some with a kiss. They'd offer to carry the traveler's bags, express concern for the quality of the flight, make some comment about bringing the good weather with them. They'd start talking about where the car was parked, how far they lived from the airport, who was waiting at home excited to see them, how the Braves were doing, stupid small talk that seemed so, comforting. I also saw the people who got off the planes by themselves. Hopefully looking around, as if some friend of theirs had deciphered the flight information and would be waiting for them as a surprise. This never happens.  I walked around and saw lonely men in airport bars, half-heartedly flirting with waitresses old enough to be their wives.  I took part of my $300 and bought a one-way ticket to Indianapolis. To this day I'm not sure why. I suppose I wanted to get out of the South, and the ticket to Indy was cheap. I knew that Vonnegut wrote about Indiana, as did Richard Bach. It didn't seem like it would be a very harsh city. It seemed like there would be nice people there. After all my shit, I was in the mood for nice. That's how it happened. I just got tired of being an asshole."  And now for a confession:  This entire conversation (Destroyer 2 and 3) isn't my story. It belongs to a guy who used to stop by my dorm room in college, usually drunk, late at night, ready to confess all of his sins while I sat and quietly listened. I have no way of knowing if it's even true, although I suspect most of it was. I'm not sure why he picked me to talk to, but we did have a lot in common. I originally met him at a party, and it turned out we were both from down South, both way into good books and old punk music. Although he wasn't enrolled in school, he was smart as hell, and just as untrustworthy. I couldn't leave him alone in my room without him pocketing a book or a CD and splitting. But he'd always bring them back. I told him that he could borrow anything I owned if he asked, and he told me that stealing was more fun, it was one of the only things that tied him to his old life. If he was telling the truth about his old life, he had turned things around pretty well. He was dating some Pharmacy student (he swore to me that it wasn't to get pills), and had a job at a record store. We even drove up to Chicago a couple times to go see shows, where we would spend most of our time wondering how the hell we'd never run into each other back in Atlanta.  "You know I'm going to steal your stories." I told him once.  "Oh, yeah? What are you going to do with them?"  "I don't know. Write a book or a movie or something."  "Tell you what, if you can live past 25, you can have it. Don't even give me credit."  "I won't. Anyway, it's not the story that's important, it's how you tell it."  "No," he said. "It's the story. It's always the story.


[I wish I were a human.] [Life is so simple for the humans, on their mud ball. A human is a basic creature. It respires. It ingests. It copulates; it weeps and giggles its days and nights away. It makes its mind blurry with ethyls and hydroxyls, or lucid with fragrant xanthines.] [A human does not worry about the relentless, trickling erosion of orderedness. A human does not care that, in a few short eons, the universe's particles will settle into a meandering, lukewarm soup, devoid of any structure-forming desires.] [I often catch myself gazing, transfixed, at their planetary broadcast. Fickle, curious creatures. Always restless. They throw their lives away at a moment's whim, for the most trivial of reasons. Land-states send mountains and mountains of humans to brutalize one another, for equally-sized mountains of dirt and petroleum. Alliances form and are broken within a few Earth-cycles, and the ultra-offspring of those humans who died for each other promptly exterminate each other.] [In NS-41200, a star exploded. In half a planet-cycle, three habitable planets were consumed by a cascade of gallium and arsenic. Four trillion galactics now begin their slumbering journey towards NS-40902 in myriad spacecraft. It has been reported that, within a ninety-nine percent confidence interval, between zero and eight billion will survive upon their arrival, twelve kilocycles from now.] [Romes, Brittanias, Persias, Tangs, Aztecs, Meijis. Like speckles of icy dust in the shadow of a comet. The fact that humans even bother to name their civilizations betrays their exuberant myopia. Every time a human arm, iron lump in its grasp, swings to meet a human neck, a trillion galactics are thrown screaming into existence. Every time a pair of humans embrace in rapture, a trillion galactics' agonizing wails are extinguished, as if a flicker of a pulsar.] [How can a human bring itself to comprehend all the pains and pleasures in our universe? To us, a human is like one of its lapdogs, blissfully unaware, joyful in its stupidity. In a hundred Earth-cycles, their planet will be inhospitable. In a few billion more, their star will engulf it in the flames of its dying cry. One can only hope they have achieved interstellarity before then, but no star system with their developmental characteristics has ever been documented to do so.] [Doubtless, humans know what hardship means—or at least what it suggests. They have survived catastrophic crust-ruptures. They have outsmarted every other organic on their planet, and have even extincted the very same predators that hunted their ancestors. They have cast themselves, in droves, into their immense liquid oceans in flimsy, primitive hydrocraft, in search of providence on faraway shores. And though they know hardship, they also know hope. Hope, evergreen. Will they still nurture hope in their hearts when they are vagabonds not in a hydrocraft on a salty ocean, but in a spacecraft in the cold, uncaring vacuum of space?] [Humans. Dogged, rustic beings. Does a human know infinity? Does it understand eternity?] [When our planet was still young, barely cooled from the molecular cloud from which it accreted, we, like the humans, did not know many things. Like them, we slowly learned the laws that govern our universe, our place in time and space. But there were things we never learned. To know not one culture, but many. To speak not one language, but thousands. To live, to die, to kill for these things. Language. Culture. Here, we were always one unit, until we established contact with other galactics. Only then did we learn, as we had long suspected, that the reaches of consciousness stretched far beyond our own shores.] [When humans establish contact, as they inevitably will, they will face an altogether different adversity. Many galactic civilizations have not survived such an event.] [I hope they survive their encounter. I sincerely do. I hope they thrive and learn, but most of all, I hope that their spirit of hope flourishes. The universe does not have a lot of hope in it. Mostly, it is full of repulsive energy, with black matter, pockmarked with hydrogen, breaking up the pale emptiness. Hope is not repulsive. Hope brings things together. Perhaps this is what it means to be a human. To have hope. To be human.


An executive was reading a script called "Untitled" at Amazon Studios. Frank Stubens, the author, watched as the executive laughed, cried, and got frightened. Finally, the executive placed the screenplay on the table and took off her glasses. "Without a question, this was the greatest story I'd ever read. I need to make this movie. How much do you want?" "Well, Hulu offered ten million, Netflix offered eight million and a theatrical release, Disney offered five million and a theme park attraction, and Crackle offered three million, and the CEO will let me sleep with his wife." "I see. Those are tough to beat." "I understand," Frank said as he began packing his things to go. He came to the door when: "Hold on. How about $50 million? Everything on Amazon is free for a year, and five free rides on Jeff Besos' superyacht." "Make it ten rides, and you've got yourself a deal," Frank said, his voice trembling with delight. "Deal," the executive said as she extended her hand. "But, I want exclusivity. I don't want to wake up tomorrow to find out that HBO Max has offered you sixty million and a recurring role on Game of Thrones!" "You don't have to worry about that," Frank said, shaking her hand. "This is it; the story is yours." "It is truly the greatest story ever written," remarked the executive. "But all I have are the first seventy pages. What about the ending? "How does it all end?" "I've been keeping the last twenty pages a secret so as not to give away the ending." "I see why; the characters are so complex, the plot is so full of drama and tension, and the prose is so elegant that I felt practically illiterate while reading." "I will continue to withhold the ending," he said. "But just say one word: Costa Rica." The executive looked intrigued. "That's two words, but my interest has been piqued. I'll be patient and wait along with everyone else." And so, production on "Untitled" began. Frank couldn't believe how well things were going. The actors were all outstanding, the crew was professional and efficient, and the budget was endless. But as the days went on, Frank noticed something was off. People were leaving the set in tears: actors, crew members, and even the catering staff. Frank had no idea what was happening, but he knew it couldn't be good. He finally couldn't take it any longer. He approached one of the actors and asked what was going on. With tears in his eyes, the actor gazed at him. "It's the story," he explained. "It's very... emotional. Every time we read a new page, I feel like I'm going to lose it." Months later, the set was entirely closed to the public, including Amazon. The deadline for finishing the film had passed, and the finished product had yet to be submitted. Amazon executives arrived on set to investigate. The set was in shambles; there were Amazon boxes everywhere, it appeared that everyone had stayed the night, and it looked like something out of Lord of the Flies. They looked all over for Frank, and he was barricaded in his office when they found him. Through the door, the executive yelled. "What exactly is going on here? Has the film been completed?" "Yes, but please inform the Hair and Makeup Tribe that we will not back down from the battle for the break room." Everyone had gone mad, and the Amazon executives were confused. They were frightened when they heard strange sounds above them and throughout the studio. The executives started to slowly back away when a flash drive slid under the door of Frank's office. The Amazon executive grabbed it and dashed out of the studio with the other executives. Except for Janice from accounting, who was kidnapped by the "Wardrobe Tribe." The executives immediately put the film on the Amazon Prime streaming platform, as they had been marketing it for months. This included a 10-minute Super Bowl commercial with Tom Cruise, a dance improvisation group that performed around the clock in Times Square, and the production of a two-hour prequel that was streamed on a loop in the corner of all their Amazon Prime content. The executives watched the event live with the rest of the world. Account password stealing quadrupled for this occasion, and there was no traffic as the world came to a halt for this premiere. And it was... beautiful. The most gorgeous visuals ever displayed on a screen. World leaders wept, religious services were postponed, and wars around the world ceased, if only for a few hours. It was everything Amazon had hoped for, and as the film neared its conclusion, the executive awaited the ending with bated breath. This was the moment she had been looking forward to, and... Nothing. It said the file was corrupted. The volume of complaints received by Amazon forced the site to go offline. When executives returned to the studio, it was in flames, and nothing remained but embers. The greatest story and film ever written and made had no ending! Some say Frank Stubens now lives in the real Amazon. Others claim he stole Jeff Bezos' yacht and turned himself into a pirate. Frank was never seen or heard from again. All that remains is the beauty he created within the film "Untitled," which will never be recreated again.


#Welcome to Micro Monday! Hello writers and 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 provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: - **Song: ** - **Bonus Constraint (10 pts): The color red plays a meaningful role in the story.** This week’s challenge is to use the above song as inspiration for your story. You may use the song itself, the video, , or the title. The interpretation is completely up to you as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and sub rules. **Note: Don’t forget to after the submission deadline!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) next Monday before the deadline! You get points just for voting.   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I hold a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who 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. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. You can complete the following things for points. - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points, unless otherwise stated (not required) - ***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) - **Submitting nominations:** 5 points (total) *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 5 detailed crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.*   *** #Rankings There weren’t enough stories for a ranking set from the last post, but great job to u/PolarisStorm and u/FyeNite for taking on the Holiday Challenge! *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires and other fun events! - Join in our weekly writing chat on . We discuss a new topic every week! New here? Come introduce yourself! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Part 5 The next morning at the headquarters finds Dexter, and Adrian training in the backyard with Kim looking on. Upstairs, Teagan has sequestered herself in her room with a stack of books on natural medicine. Across town, Chrys and Kelly chow down on a cheap microwaveable breakfast while making sure Lex eats as well. It’s a quiet peaceful morning except for one Red X who currently finds himself stuck in the ventilation system of a Wayne Tech factory. **Humans greatest rival is themselves. Everyday we struggle against our own ego, own confidence, hubris as it was has been the one to defeat many men and women once thought unbeatable. We constantly find ourselves at odds with what we can and can’t do. We tell ourselves that nothing is impossible if we just try. There’s no such thing as a stupid question and all that. In plain English…I fucked up.** **How did I manage to convince myself to break into a Wayne Tech factory of all places. My grandfather was a Robin, my great grandfather was Batman, multiple relatives have also been Robins and Batgirls and at least one was a trained assassin. Yet here I am. My dumb overconfident ass is stuck in a vent. My great grandfather, the fricking Batman, is below doing an inspection of the place, my grandfather and great uncle are providing extra security, and I’m not 100% sure but I’m pretty I smelled my Aunt Barbs perfume. Maybe I’ll just make a nest in here like a rodent…** **Finally, Great Grandpa Bruce is moving on. That’s one problem down, now I have to worry about Grandpa and Uncle Damian. Let’s see, there’s reports of highly skilled thief out there, they’re working security, and are both trained Robins…one of them is definitely already in these vents and I need to scram as quietly as possible.** He quietly makes his way through the vents until he’s above his destination. He silently works the vent cover off and slips into a storage closet. (Red X) “Smaller then I expected…” (Barbra) “Well I never thought I’d be face-to-face with my own great nephew so soon… Red X tenses and turns around. He straightens up and snickers. (Red X) “Misses Gordon I assure you I have no idea what you’re talking about. So how about we compromise, I grab what I need from this closet, and you look the other way and don’t get hurt. Sound good?” (Barbra) “I know about the rift Aleister. I know about you and the others too.” (Red X) “Others? Those three I saw at the scrapyard?” (Barbra) “Indeed, themselves grand children of former heroes. What you’re looking for is in the box on the top shelf. I’ll let you walk out of here scot free with it…as long as you promise to do the right thing.” (Red X) “Get everyone home?” Barbra smiles and nods with a small tear in her eye. Aleister almost goes over and hugs her but resists long enough to grab what he needs and split… Back at their headquarters, Adrian, Dexter, and Kim are returning inside after a productive training session. They find Teagan standing in the kitchen in front of a ball of physic energy. They rush over and find that the ball contains Red X.


#Hello r/ShortStories! A few weeks ago we announced our , where you all nominated your favorite content from the past year. The time has come to vote on all the nominated stories! Use the upvotes on the appropriate comments to vote on your favorites in each category. The winner of each category will receive our **“Best Of Winner” Community Award,** gifting them **one month of Reddit Premium** and !!! **Please do not make comments outside of the Off-Topic stickied comment.** #How It Works There are several categories in which you can vote on your favorite stories from 2022. In the comments below, you will find a comment for each category, with subsequent comments for each nominated story, made by me. Upvote the ones you think deserve to win! It’s that simple. Be sure to read the entire post for categories, rules, and deadlines. Should any changes be made to the schedule, they will be announced on our Discord and edited into the post, so stay updated! *** #Voting Categories ###Feature Post Submission Categories: - **Micro Monday Stories** - **Serial Sunday Installments** ###Tagged Story Categories: - **[SF] Science Fiction stories** - **[FN] Fantasy Stories** - **[HR] Horror Stories** - **[MS] Mystery & Suspense Stories** - **[RF] Reality Fiction Stories** - **[HF] Historical Fiction Stories** - **[AA] Action & Adventure Stories** - **[HM] Humor Stories** - **[RO]Romance Stories** - **[SP] Speculative Fiction Stories** - **[TH] Thriller Stories** - **[UR] Urban Stories** - **[MF] Miscellaneous Fiction Stories** *** #Schedule - **Announcement Post:** December 21st - **Nomination Phase:** December 21st - January 7th - **Voting Phase:** January 10th until January 17th 11:59pm EST - **Announcement of Winners:** After the Voting Phase ends, results will be recorded and awards will be handed out. Winners will be announced in a post. *** #Voting Rules - **Upvote anything you believe deserves to win.** You may upvote several nominations in the same category. **Do not downvote any nomination.** - **Attempts to game the system for or against any nomination will result in appropriate punishment for those involved.** - **Ties in the voting process will be broken by an anonymous member of the mod team.** - **Do not comment in the voting area.** Use the off-topic stickied comment if you have questions or comments.   If you do have any questions, feel free to ask in the provided Off Topic Comment or send us a modmail! *** ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with or test your micro-fic skills with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


It is 1997 and I am 8, my father is in his 30s, what I'd later realize was slightly past the peak of his life. I am just at the cusp of building my own and realizing who I am. I'd grown up too fast; my earliest memories are of my parents fighting, screaming, threatening to leave over the stupidest thing. Google didn't exist and it is funny to think a search would have made some enduring peace between them, when in reality it would have driven them apart even quicker. Search results for "cheap divorce attorney" immediately come to mind, along with dating sites and strangely cropped photos on a profile page. My memory is good and even that long ago feelings are intense, if I close my eyes I can remember my brother in his wheelchair, crying out, straining to reach to feed him blueberry yogurt and oatmeal, fruit. He is older than me and strong, wiry from his lack of coordination, what he wants he muscles his way toward across the floor. I learned quick to avoid his hands, the softness or maybe the color of it lured him in and he'd grab, tangle it in his fingers and pull it, and the rest of you toward his mouth in a surge of pent-up energy, like a snapped mousetrap, no warning. Neither he nor my sister, who'd grow up damaged and hateful in her own way, were here today. My dad and I were close then, two people on different paths but still longing to get away, even for a few hours. The day is humid, overcast, cool. In brief patches the sun breaks through but in between those windows, the belly of gray clouds overhead grumble and it hisses a fine rain down onto green grass and gray water. Tires grumble over pavement and he parks, I get out of the van and grab a bait bucket full of silver fish, a white Styrofoam container of worms and a pole. We walk over the pavement onto grass. We both know where we're going. There is a dam with an artifical lowered outflow on the other side of an earthen levy and an overhead bridge that provides shelter from the rain. Underneath it there are boulders, cool and sandy to the touch, I sit on one with a flat surface and bait a hook. My father does the same and within two hours we have a wire stringer basket full of bony, wriggling fish with wide pupils and blue-gray flecked sides. Though he doesn't say it, each is another substitute for something more expensive we can't comfortably afford. I don't know what the daily limit is, and I doubt he knew either. It was abnormally good fishing. We pack up our things and as we do, people who arrived after us, start to move into our places, jealous of out catch. My father had remarked under his breath at some point previously they hadn’t had any luck, and I noticed now how quickly they picked over the rocks to cast into the dense school of fish and take their fill. He offers them our remaining minnows and they accept with a grumbling thanks. We walk back toward the van, watching out for goose droppings over the grass and struggling with the weight of the basket when I turn back and see the flashing lights on the road at the top of the levy. Some people have gathered at the edge of the lake but seem reluctant to go in. My dad turns to watch, but it is impossible to tell what exactly is going on. We later read one of the men, the oldest, had snagged a plastic bobber on a submerged log and waded in to retrieve it, maybe only knee deep. Whether he slipped on the seaweed, it grew thick there beneath the surface of the water, like moss, or was pulled in is unclear. He was pulled rapidly under the surface where he became pinned to the water outtake piping underneath the lake, we read it takes the lake engineer nearly 30 minutes to arrive and longer to turn off the flow and allow the man to drift back up to the surface. It is too warm to imagine the water's chill could have slowed down the damage, saved him in a strange twist of fate, and he cannot be brought back to death. We see many other things in other trips: a falling plane jumper with a faulty parachute, a meteorite falling into the Pacific, horseshoe crabs and haze over a Californian saline sea. Unprompted this day at the lake comes up so many years later, how it trumps so many happier moments can't be explained, but regardless neither of our recollections of the day have faded and the facts remain the same. Noteworthy: the fishing always tanked in that spot after the man’s death so it was rare we'd even consider it as a choice fishing area again, as did many other anglers and eventually it became overgrown with rose and raspberry canes, inaccessible and forgotten unlike that day in memory.


Hello, my name is Jenna, and when I got married in 2017, I was 120 pounds, my ideal BMI weight, confident in myself, and ready to take on the world. I married Mark Taylor, you probably already hear it, but I didn't until my wedding day. "Please welcome Mr. and Mrs. Mark and Jenna Taylor!" My husband sounded like he was marrying his private parts. It was then I decided to take my old name and go by Jenna Small. Anyway, I gained a little weight, about 90 pounds, during the next four years. At the start of 2022, I made it my goal to get back to my infant weight; just kidding, but seriously, I was so heavy I started to develop a gravitational pull. Over the course of this infomercial, I will share the secret diet that helped me get confident again and more! Don't get me wrong; it wasn't easy; you have to kiss a lot of frogs until you find the diet that works for you. I was on the STARVE Diet, which stands for "Strength Training and Rigorus Vegan Eating." It was great until I discovered I was missing meat so badly that my husband had to tie a steak to a string to get me to run on the treadmill. I tried blue plates, small plates, no plates, and all I got was a full dishwasher. I tried, and brace yourself for this one; it's a little gross, the Chew and Spit Diet. This is where every other bite, you chew and spit. I had only been on it for two days when I realized I was making others sick in the break room. I tried Colonblast, Colonblow, and the now-illegal, Colonplow. They were all OK until your work uses a community bathroom. I experimented with Keto, Atkins, Paleo, Whole-30, and the lesser-known Whole-19.5, for those who try for 30 days but fail. It worked until I found myself floating to a pie sitting on the windowsill like I was in Tom and Jerry cartoon. I was low-fat, high-fat, no-fat, good-fat, unsat-fat, and all I had to show for it was, yes, you guessed it, fat. My husband even attempted to help. We investigated it and discovered that I ate a lot of my snacks while watching television and movies. So we limited our munching to when we watched sports, which was only a few times a week. This worked until one day; I found myself watching Finland versus Parguary exhibition curling at 3 in the morning. I was on the South Beach Diet until I went to South Beach and gorged myself on Pina Coladas and Empanadas till I required a new pair of jeans. I considered lap band, lap sleeve, and actual laps around a track. All of these were swiftly eliminated when I discovered how costly they were; financially for the first two and physically for the last. Then there was intermittent fasting, twice a week fasting, 24-hour fasting, and the lesser-known 15-minute fast, in which you are supposed to fast for 24 hours but eat something after 15 minutes. I experimented with frequency diets, eating 6 meals a day, 3 meals a day, and 1 meal a day until I was eating 10 meals a day and hiding my face in the McDonald's parking lot. I joined a gym, which quickly became a monthly reminder of my failure; I purchased a treadmill, which stores more clothes than my closet; and a Total Gym, which conveniently sits in a box in my bedroom. Every day when I get up, Chuck Norris is taunting me on a dusty box. I drank protein shakes, nothing but water, fruit smoothies, vegetable smoothies, and all I lost were several tumblers and bottles that cost $8.99 each. I tried the skip breakfast, skip lunch, skip dinner; no matter which meals I skipped, it always resulted in me crouched over the kitchen sink, eating chocolate cake in shame. I reached rock bottom when I found myself in the Chick-fil-A drive-thru, sipping a Dunkin Donuts coffee, eating Doritos, and entering my calories into my fitness tracker. I made the decision to stop. For a few days, I just wanted to be normal. After a few more days, I began to notice my body's natural hunger and fullness cues. I also made a conscious effort to eat foods that I enjoyed, and that nourished my body, rather than trying to restrict certain foods or food groups. After a month, I decided to become more active. I began going for walks, practicing yoga (badly), and even joining a local kickboxing club. I found that I was losing weight, and my heel hook kick to the groin was coming along nicely. Slow but steady, the weight began to drop. I concentrated on how I felt rather than the numbers on the scale. My clothes began to feel more comfortable, and I had more energy throughout the day. Now, at the beginning of 2023, I've learned to love and embrace my body for what it is, to be happy and healthy rather than to fit into a specific dress size. Self-love is derived from within, not from a number on a scale. If I'm crouched over the sink eating chocolate cake now, it's because I want to, and I do it confidently. This has been Jenna Taylor-Small... yes, I hear it; and I hope my story might inspire others battling with their weight. Remember that there is no one-size-fits-all diet, so figure out what works best for you and your body. And most importantly, be kind to yourself and trust the journey.


Have you ever heard of the simple physics problem: "What would happen if I dropped a penny from the Empire State Building?". It's scary to think that something as minute and insignificant as a light copper or nickel penny could cause serious damage to someone; penetrate their skull and leave a permanent dent in their brain, perhaps? In reality, it's a lot less deadly. The terminal velocity of this harmless copper or nickel penny is very low (around 30-50mph) - it can only gain a small amount of speed. Therefore, a penny dropped from any height would only cause a mild bruise at most; thousands of pennies could be dropped on a mans head at once and cause no serious harm. A brick however...? That, is a completely different story. It was 6:59pm. Up, high in the sky, on the tallest building in New York - a blood-red brick was found plunging through the air, 1 minute away from a damaging impact with the hard city floor (or soft city pedestrian). It is unknown how this brick got into this predicament, maybe wind, rain and weathering caused it to slowly crack off the building over time? Maybe, a psychotic killer lobbed it over the edge, grinning in joy at the idea of someone far bellow going "KA-SPLAT"? But one thing was for certain: New York would not be the city of opportunity this evening. 6:59pm and 20 seconds. The torpedo of a brick was hurtling down through the sky, slicing through the air like a freefalling skydiver or a deadly nuclear explosive. With every second. No! Fraction of a second, it was gaining life-ending quantities of velocity. Any hopes, dreams, inspirations of the unlucky individual that would cross this murderous being that we call a brick would be crushed - literally. 6:59pm and 40 seconds. After 40 seconds of falling (with style) the brick was looming close to it's final destination. It's target was in-sight and the brick menacingly grinned with delight. This brick was not going to infinity and beyond today. In fact, in 20, 19, 18, 17 seconds it's brief journey through the space that is the New York Skyline would end; the brick could not wait. 6:59pm and 50 seconds. Directly underneath this homicidal brick, was a man. He had a fancy new suit and a dazzling new tie. He was travelling home from work in a particularly gleefull mood as today had been the best day of his life for his career - an exciting new promotion and a luxury, all expenses payed buisness trip. Christmas had come early for the bricks beloved victim but boxing days hangover was coming faster (147mph, to be precise). All he had to do to avoid this catastrophe was take one step forward. 5 seconds left. The man did not move. 4. Not a muscle twitched. 3. Time was running out. Still, no movement 2. Oh no. 1... He stepped forward. The man had narrowly escaped his end, his demise, his death. He was safe! The brick had missed by an fraction of an inch! But the second brick didn't.


My parents are away for the weekend, leaving me in charge of my 8-year-old sister, Candace. You might think this is a bummer, but if I make it through without incident, guess who will be the new owner of a slightly used and slightly running 2001 Pontiac Aztek? This guy. Tonight went off without a hitch, with one hour of tablet time, a delicacy of dino chicken nuggets, chef kiss, and three rounds of Candyland before putting her to bed. This gig is a piece of cake. It's 1 AM, and I'm scrolling through Tik Tok videos in the dark. My bedroom door swings open. "What are you doing, Candace? Why are you out of bed?" "There's a monster in the house." My eyes adjust to the light in the hallway, and there is a tall creature with glowing eyes, horns, and claws right by her who looks on, nodding its head in agreement. "Jesus!" "What, do you see it?" "Is that it?" Candace casually glances behind her. "No, not him; there's another one." "There are two!" The monster behind her steps into the room, scratching the door frame as it enters. The monster speaks in a raspy, tough-guy tone, with a too-cool-for-the-room exterminator vibe. "Let me step in here, professional. They sent me down from Guardian Monster Transfer. We apparently had an incident; a class 29-C escaped and skedaddled. We tracked him to your domicile, where I made contact with this small human; let me see here…" the monster says as he pulls out a clipboard and traces his finger down the page, "Candace. Where then, she referred me to her supervisor…" scanning again, "Ricardo." "It's Ricky." "All right, just a quick note here," the monster says as he writes on his clipboard. "Are we in danger? "What exactly is a class 29-C?" "Oh boy, oh boy," the monster exclaimed as he took out a cigarette and began to smoke; his eyes widened as he glanced off into the distance, "I remember the summer of 97, there was 29-C and two 33-Bs, I nearly shit my pants." "What the hell? You can't smoke in here, you're not wearing any pants, and don't swear in front of my little sister." "I've heard that word before," Candace said. "Still, he shouldn't…" "All right, all right, let me just make a note here," the monster wrote on his clipboard. He extinguished his cigarette on Ricky's bureau. "What do you need from us?" "Just stay out of my way; I only told you because it's protocol, and I'm by the book. The last thing I need is a couple of amateurs mucking up my investigation." "What does it look like, you know, in case we see it?" The monster stares off into the distance again, "Oh, you'll know, and if you do see it, God help us all." "Alright, we'll just stay in here." "You bet your ass you will; I'll be setting a724q traps and 3c24a enticements; you don't wanna be around when those go off." "Oh, a 3c24a, huh?" Ricky says, joking. "How dare you; my uncle lost a pinky toe to a 3c24a," the monster says. Every day, I leave the house without knowing if I will return home to my wife, Britney, and daughter, Raquel." "Alright, I'm sorry." "I have to grab a few things in my truck; then I'll be in the house." "Thanks for your help," Candace said. "If you see anything, don't be a hero, just call, and I'll come," the monster says to Candace. The monster exits the room, scratching the door frame once more. "I'm scared, Ricky." "Don't worry; I think this monster has done this before, so everything's gonna be alright." I couldn't tell if this was real or a dream because it was so late. We both heard the monster downstairs smashing things. "Mom and Dad are gonna kill me; I guess I can kiss the car goodbye." "I'll help you clean it up." "Thanks, Candace, but I think I just heard a wall come down, so it might need a little more than a dusting." Out of the corner of her eye, Candace saw the tiniest, cutest little kitten. "Look, Ricky," Candace remarked as she scooped up and cuddled the kitty. "Be careful; we don't know where that kitty has been." With those huge eyes, the kitten glanced at both of us and offered the slightest "meow." We both melted and started to play with the kitten to pass the time, Candace had some yarn, and I had a laser pointer. It had been several hours since we had heard anything, and we could hear the monster climbing the stairs. The monster opens the door and sees us playing with the kitten. "What in the mother of God are you doing?! This is the 29-C! Back away, back away." We both moved away from the kitten as it stared up at the monster and purred. "You sick prick, thought you could get away with it, didn't ya?" The monster withdrew the tiniest pair of handcuffs I'd ever seen and fastened them on the kitten's paws. "This can't be right; this the monster you've been looking for? Is this why our house was destroyed?" "I caught it in the nick of time. This scumbag is wanted for tax evasion and doing perverted things with a horse. You're lucky I came in when I did." As we went downstairs, the house was in shambles. "Oh my God, we're dead." The monster removes a card from his pocket and hands it to me. "Um, please fill out a performance survey; we realize you have a lot of options for monster transport, and we appreciate you choosing us." I nodded as I watched the monster load the tiny kitten into the back of his truck, gently closing the door behind it. When my parents returned, they still gave me the Pontiac Aztec. Candace may have told them that the monster was giant, frightening, and wild. As Candace smiled when they gave me the keys, I realized I might not be so terrible at babysitting after all.


“So what do you think?” Madeline asked. Billie shifted beside her, making the cushions beneath them slide against the flagstone of the church floor. They slid their arm out from around her shoulder to prop themself up, looking down at her as they said, “I think it’s natural that you don’t want to give up.” Madeline waited for more of an answer, but none came. “So… you don’t think there’s a chance?” she asked. “I didn’t say that. I just… I wouldn’t want to get your hopes up.” “And what about your hopes? What about your brother?” “There are still places we haven’t looked. We don’t know that he’s—” “I think we’ve both known for a long time that we weren’t going to find them — Liam *or* Joe. I just don’t think either of us wanted to admit it.” Billie sighed and slumped back onto the floor. “You’re probably right there.” Now, it was Madeline’s turn to prop herself up on an elbow, looking down at her friend. “But that doesn’t mean we have to give up. The chances are, the Poiloogs have them both. So all we’ve got to do is find out where they take the humans they capture, then get them back.” “That’s all, is it?” Billie scoffed. “I know it won’t be easy, but together — maybe with help from your friends — we can at least try.” “You don’t think they haven’t tried before?” Billie replied, a hint of scorn entering their voice. It was the first time Madeline had heard that tone from them, and it delivered the words like a punch to the stomach. “I wasn’t around when it happened, but I know that that was one of the first things the group tried. They lost a lot of people.” “So what? That’s it? They failed once and now they’ll never try again? They’re not much of a resistance, are they?! What are they doing to actually resist?” The cushions slid every which way as Billie scrambled to their feet. “I keep telling you not to call them that,” they said through gritted teeth. Madeline hurried to stand too. “I’m sorry, I just—” “And what do you know about what we do? You’ve been to one meeting.” “I know, but—” “Do you know what some of those people have done? What they’ve been through? Sometimes just *living* in this world is resistance enough!” “And how am I meant to know any of that if you don’t tell me?” Madeline shouted. But the loudness couldn’t disguise the tremble in her voice. “*You* were the one being all secretive!” She took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure, before continuing at a more normal volume. “Look, I’m sorry I upset you. Can we just talk about this? If there are things I should know, I’d like to know them.” Billie looked up, meeting her gaze for a second before turning away. “I… I can’t right now. I’ll see you later Madeline.” She watched as they strode away, footsteps on the stone floor echoing off the walls. Her mouth opened and closed as she tried to call out, but the words wouldn’t come. And though she yearned to chase after them, her feet remained rooted to the sport. When they were gone, Madeline slumped back down onto the cushions. She brought her knees into her chest and hugged them tight as she let out a silent scream. But it did nothing to alleviate the pain inside. \ That night, as Madeline lay in bed, she stared at the walkie-talkie until there wasn’t enough light to stare anymore. She must have thought about reaching out and grabbing it more than a hundred times. But each time something stopped her. The look that had been in Billie’s eyes. That edge that had entered their voice. The way they’d walked away and left her there — alone with her grief. Still, she hoped the decision would be made for her. That she’d hear that familiar hiss of static followed by their voice. But it never came. She must have fallen asleep at some point because she woke the next day when the sun’s rays crept through the curtains and tickled at her eyelids. With that hollow ache still ever present in her chest, she forced herself to push past it. To take a deep breath, stretch, and climb out of bed. Once she’d managed that gargantuan task, she let her churning stomach lead her down to the kitchen. After a quick breakfast, she stepped out into the garden to wash, using as little water as she could. Every morning she missed her set-up at the library. Her water butts, her stove, her books. But thinking about that only served to splinter the shards of her heart even more. Then, with her only tasks for the day complete and no Billie to distract her, Madeline was at a loss. The idea of being alone with her thoughts was not an appealing one, so, for want of anything better to do, she decided to go looking for supplies. There were still houses in the area that she hadn’t searched yet and the hotplate Billie’s group had given her opened up some new possibilities for food. Her mind made up, Madeline grabbed her bag, tucked her book under her arm, and headed out the door. \ She returned home with a full bag and a full mind. The routine run, with no surprise incidents or encounters, had provided little distraction from her thoughts. She spent the rest of the day flitting from activity to activity, unable to settle. Working out in the garden only took her mind back to Billie. Reading triggered painful memories of Liam. None of her usual distractions worked. In the end, she went to bed early, hoping to speed the passage of time with sleep. Instead, she passed a frustrating night staring at the ceiling. She was sure she must have drifted in and out of sleep at some point, but she certainly didn’t feel rested. When dawn came around, she’d made up her mind. She couldn’t go on like this. The emptiness was starting to settle in, clawing out from the jagged hole in her chest. It was too much to bear. She reached out and picked up the walkie-talkie. But before she could press the button, there was a knock at the door. She froze, halfway to completing the motion. Shaking herself out of it, she dashed downstairs, stumbling on the stairs in her hurry. Without even pausing to check who was there, she swung the door wide open. Billie looked back at her, red eyes staring out of an ashed face. Their gaze flicked to the walkie-talkie Madeline still held in her hand and a pained expression flashed across their face. “I’m *so* sorry,” they whispered, voice cracking slightly. Madeline tried to swallow the lump in her throat — tried to blink back the tears. But it was in vain. She dived forward, throwing her arms around her friend. “No,” she said firmly. “I’m the one that should be sorry. You’ve done so much—” “Sshhh,” Billie murmured, reaching up to stroke her hair. “You don’t owe me anything.” “Maybe not. But I shouldn’t have—” “And I shouldn’t have either. Let’s leave it at that.” “So we’re okay?” Madeline asked, leaning back to get a look at their face. They dipped their chin, trying to hide the tears that streamed down their cheeks. It made her heart wrench to see them like this. But a small smile playing at their lips alleviated the pain slightly. With a sniff, they lifted their eyes to meet hers. “We’re okay,” they confirmed. “More than okay.” Madeline buried her face in the crook between their neck and their shoulder once again. “Good,” she mumbled. After another long moment holding tight to each other, Billie loosened their grip. Madeline looked up to see a frown furrowing their brow. “What is it?” she asked. “I don’t want to restart anything. But I just wanted to say: you were right.” “I was? That doesn’t sound likely,” she said with a playful smile. “No, I’m serious. I’ve thought about it a lot and you were right. About Joe and Liam. About where they are. And about what we should do.” “And what’s that?” “Rescue them.


# Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills, areas in which we excel, and ways we’d like to improve. This is our weekly thread to discuss all things writing and to get to know your fellow writers!! We will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion each week. Feel free to join in the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, and more. You do not have to answer all the questions, but please try to stay on topic! # This Week’s Roundtable Discussion Culture is a huge, but often underestimated part of world building. You have limited time and frankly page count. Proper culture building also takes a lot of effort, both to create and ofttimes to keep straight. For example, how does your fantastic Elvish language develop when you need more words? What happens when the government you painstakingly created suffers a partial breakdown? And then there’s all of the others, e.g.,: history, philosophy, religion, gender roles & sexuality, art & architecture, economic systems… * Which one(s) mean the most to you in your stories? * Does it differ by genre? * Is there any cultural element you’ve attempted that has been particularly hard or that you’re really proud of? * What advice would you give to others about getting the mix right? * And as a reader, which do you enjoy most? * New to r/ShortStories or joining in the Discussion for the first time? **Introduce yourself in the comments!** What do you like to write? * You can check out previous Roundtable discussions on our Wiki! You don't have to answer all the questions to join in the chat! *** # Reminders * **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** * **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussions in any form will not be tolerated. * **Please try to stay on-topic.


Hello and welcome everyone. This is the story of my life. A story of how a little boy became one of the greatest leaders in the multiverses. Get ready to read a legendary story with a lot of plot holes. To understand this story better you need to know an important thing. This story holds seven major power pillars called the seven realms. First is the power realm, second is love, third is desire, fourth is human, fifth is hell, sixth is heaven, and the final realm is the shadow realm. I am from the shadow realm. I was born into the royal family of this realm and I am the youngest. My father is the king of darkness dark Seigh. My big brother is Seigh junior or as we like to call him junior. I have a sister Nour and finally, there is me Shin. We are known as the dark family in the seven realms. An important background about the realms, they comprise infinite numbers of multiverses, not a universe multiverse. You see the multiverse is a very confusing topic even for us, we don’t know why they are there but they just are. A thing we have noticed is that in a multiverse the events are all similar. Meaning one universe is similar to the other in a multiverse. You probably got confused. To make you understand, imagine yourself in a universe from a multiverse, now every event that happened to you is similar to everything that happens inside that multiverse. I hope you understood because the story is going to start.  Well, this story begins with the announcement of the seven-realm contest. For a proper explanation, it is a battle between the seven realms prince and princesses. The worst thing is it was my turn to participate. Why is it worst you may ask, it is due to me being lazy to fight? I mean why I would have to fight? I am the fucking prince. But yet I involved myself in the battle. Looking around there were royals everywhere. Arya the princess of humans, Amy the princess of love, Arther the prince of heaven, Linlin the princess of desire, Diablo the prince of power, Clover the prince of hell and finally me the prince of shadow. This fight is going to be interesting. You might be thinking despite us being the most advanced civilization in the seven realms why do we fight? The answer is simple for peace. You see we fight to demonstrate our powers so other royals think we are strong and don’t engage in the fight. The first matchup we got was me vs. Diablo. “This will be over soon”, I thought to myself. I was wrong. Diablo was giving a decent fight. He lost at the end when I aged him a million times. That was very funny. The second and third battles were pretty smooth. I, Arya, Linlin, and clover got into finals. Linlin vs. Clover started the second phase. The fight was amazing. Both of them were displaying pretty amazing magic and powers. But Clover got the upper hand and won the battle. Me and Arya well it ended with me going to the hospital to see Arya after I obiblatrated her. For the finals, I had to fight with Clover and I won. Ya, I am not going to go into details about how I defeated him. Now the real fun begins. I had an idea of forming a crew for a long time so after the tournament ended, I announced I was forming a crew. I already had the first and second commanders. My butler Ace and Ean my shape-shifting pet. After I announced my crew, I started recruiting people. I made a base in the human realm and started taking down other crews. Before the next part of the story starts you will need a background. There are seven realms and in these realms, rulers have formed a council for justice. They command a force called CF. which stands for council force. There are two more forces in the realm led by the two most powerful rulers. First, is the RPF led by Nickalous don Earnes aka Fury. And the second is the Shadow Force led by my father. Now the crew I was talking about is not under any of these forces and therefore recognized as threats. So now I wanted to recruit some strong members for my crew. I had recruited some small fries and I think the council didn’t feel threatened by my crew because none of us had a bounty on us. I planned to break free Jack and Joker. Two of the most dangerous criminals and my friends. They were held in a secured prison. I being me just walked in there and took both of them out. How? You may ask. I simply teleported. The prison could stop teleportation but mine was different. Normal teleportation connects two points that the system can detect but I destroy my atoms and reform them in the place I want to go. Hence no one knew when I came and went. This way my crew was formed.