Just a quick post I wanted to throw out there. I have been writing short stories since I was very young, and I enjoyed reading this sub a year back, only to find out that it has been unmoderated for some time. I will be keeping the rules, probably adding an AI rule as well, as I know that is controversial, and just generally trying to clean the sub up and spur some activity again.

Thanks for reading!

Whilst I was getting ready for the night, the ball rather, I had this strange feeling in my stomach. It was a looming feeling of foreboding. I could tell that the night was not going to end well simply by looking at the guest list, my arch nemesis was going to be there. While most people ,upon seeing that their arch nemesis was attending would choose to opt out, I had made the responsible decision to attend the night. I had made this decision because my arch nemesis happened to be the most dangerous man in the entire city, and I was the quote unquote hero.

As I fastened my tie around my neck and fold down my collar I thought of what the night might bring upon the wealthy folk of the city. Perhaps a feral animal would be realized in the middle of the dating, or maybe the drinks my be spiked, or mayhaps the guests will slowly disappear throughout the night discreetly; until it is just me and him left and I am forced to fight him against my will. Anyhow, all of this pondering has made the time pass rather fast and the beginning of the ball was rapidly approaching.

I made my departure in a rather lovely horse-drawn carriage. Upon arrival I had entered the room and heading straight towards the buffet of food on the far left wall the the ball room. I carried my plate of thinly sliced chicken and a small bowl of pudding, both the plate and bowl were is a similar style; a beautiful hand crafted ceramic piece that must have been worth at least one hundred dollars for one small set. I was walking toward my the entrance to a small side room, a room of sorts was typically used for eating as to not create messes on the most traveled floors, however upon entering the room I found that it was completely empty. I stood in the empty room and ate my small serving in solemn silence. When I had finished my meager rations I returned the plate to its designated place and walked around the room. This room in particular was used for dating, typically in partners; ladies in large hoop skirts with intricate lace, and men in delicate suits of neutral colors. Typically in the ballroom there would be a gentle lighthearted murmur among the crowd, but in this particular room it was utterly silent, aside from the music the band was playing.

I glanced around the room and was struck with the realization that each and every face in the crowd was stricken with fear. I then moved my eyes to up on the stage with the band, a few large instruments and a piano; but low and behold off to the side of the grand piano was my nemesis; standing pointing a gun into the crowd of disturbed people. I swiftly look around the walls and see it, the poster; it read dace competition, by entering the ballroom you have agreed to join a high-risk dance-off. Under the bold letters were some finer print and I connected the dots that it most likely said something relating to the weapon aspect of the "dance-off". He looked up and saw me, he slowly came off the raised band platform and made his way through the horrified crowd, make them jump and cry as they pass them and he even occasionally would bump into them just to instill a little bit of extra fear.

"Hey, what are you doing here?" he was talking to me like we were old friends meeting up for the first time if a few months.

"I came to dance and try to have some sort of a social life," my response was cold and not directed towards anyone in particular, although it was clear I was awnsering his question. I turned to walk away when I felt a cold hand on my shoulder pulling me back, and an even colder metallic piece on the back of my head. I stopped in my tracks, feeling my knees weaken and noticing the increasing pace of my breathing and heart rate.

"Dace," he exclaimed, with a low tone. I was dumbfounded "What do you mean?" I barely found the air to say those simple four words. Again he said "Dance," he was growing more angry and his hand tightened on my shoulder, "dance or die," He was moving the gun off my head and pushing me towards the crowd of terrified dancing people. Slowly I turned around and faced him, looking him in the eyes. I stopped right where he pushed me to and didn't move a muscle.

"What are you doing-" he raised his gun and aimed at me "-why aren't you dancing?" his voice was clearly angry and, his finger was twitching on the trigger. Still I stood there not moving until he dropped his gun. By that point most people in the room had actually completely stopped dancing to watch whaat was happening. The way he lowered his gun so abruptly made many people in the room jump, or let out a small stifled scream, or let out small whimpering cries, like a hungry puppy. In fact I think he startled himself with the suddenness of his movement, because he completely let the gun fall to the ground. It clanked against the hard tile floor, until it settled face towards me but sitting at the end of his feet. He kicked his gun towards me.

"Pick. It. Up." he was talking through his teeth and his jaw was clenched. Slowly I reached to the ground and picked up the gun, holding it loosely unsure of what to do next. "Now point it and shoot," there was sudden shock wave of silence that fell over the crowd. My grip tightened around the gun, and I pointed towards myself.

"No-" he was running towards me in a panicked way "-That's not what I meant!" he reached out his hand and tore the gun from my hand. I felt the gun starting the be ripped from my hand and I tried to squeeze the trigger, but he was too fast and by the time my hand had tightened enough, my hand was empty. The way he looked at me gave me shivers, I sank to the ground. I just sat there and stared at my hands for a while. He walked away and out the door, no one said a word. Nobody came near me, and nobody was relived when he walked out.

The forest was dark, but not just the normal kind that you see during the night, the darkness seemed foggy and unnatural. It's as if the very darkness obstructs your view, as if it was opaque like an actual object and has physical presence. It was as if it was alive, seeking to consume, rather than inanimate. Frantic footsteps echo through the forest, a man is trying to run away from a large silhouette flying overhead. It's wearing some type of armor covered in various deep scratches and a sword with cracks in it, both looks like it's made of gold and glowing a bright yellow. The man's breathing gets rapid as his footsteps gradually become less frequent, until he stumbles to the ground. On his back are white angelic wings, he tries to extend them but to no avail, he also has a glowing halo above his head that gets dimmer by the second.

"You can't get away for long, brother!" A voice boomed from above

The silhouette's shape appears to possess horns that have a slight purple glow, along with dark feathery wings that seem to be glowing neon purple and black. The silhouette soars overhead, and lands in front of the man.

"You're on your last legs, after all!" The silhouette spoke

The armored angel tried to push himself off the floor, it takes a while but he's standing on two legs again, visibly exhausted. He readies his sword and winds it back to strike at the mysterious shadow, but the dark figure took out a scythe and smacked the bright gold sword away. The man, now unarmed, steadied his balance.

"My dear sibling, please, you don't have to do this!" The winged man pleaded.

"Just because you're the embodiment of darkness doesn't make you a bad person! You don't have to bring endless darkness in the world, darkness is necessary for the world's balance but that-"

"SILENCE!" The shadow in the darkness cuts the man off. They steadily walk toward him, scythe in hand.

"You're a hypocrite, my brother! If you really cared for me at all you would have treated me better! You would've been there for me when they started calling me a monster!" the dark shape says.

"MY dearest sibling, please, had I have know you were in such pain I'd have done something about it and-"

"ENOUGH!" The shadowy figure interrupted. "I am so TIRED of being seen as a bad person, I am so SICK of not being heard! I am absolutely DONE with the isolation and ridicule, brother!" the figure gradually gets closer into the light.

The shadowy shape is revealed to be someone who looks similar to the man in armor, but with purple armor, has 5 spider-like eyes and has fangs sporting a toothy grin. The creature raises the purple scythe and prepares to bring it down onto the angel.

"You're way too kind, brother, it's a weakness. Always trying to help others instead of just helping yourself!" The monster cackles maniacally. "I mean, the only reason you're even losing this fight is because you used your body to shield those worthless townsfolk! How laughable!"

"No... I was just trying to save them I-"

"And now instead of a few villager, guess what brother? It'll be everyone, all because you were too kind to help yourself, enjoy the blood on your hands!" The monster said as the man begins to hold back his tears.

The figure swings the scythe at the man, but just barely managed to dodge it. He takes off his armor as fast as he can and put his hand to one of his more serious wounds. A bright light starts to glow from the palm of his hands, which dims and disappears after a short while. He removes his hand to find the wound still there.

"A laughable effort brother!" the being of darkness started. "But even I know that despite angel magic being the most potent kind of magic for healing in the world, it's effectiveness on other angels is essentially minimal!" The purple figure cackles uncontrollably once more.

The monster keeps cackling, their eyes have no pupils, and yet it seems to have a hint of insanity to them, as if they were pools of darkness that just kept growing and growing. While the creature cackles, the angel starts to glow a bright golden yellow. The horned creature suddenly stops cackling and stares in bewilderment.

The angelic warrior begins to float gradually off the ground, his wounds had completely disappeared, the soft glow became increasingly bright and blinding, the monster shields their eyes and jolts backwards, as if the light physically hurt their body as well as their eyes, it hisses in pain. The man's wings extend outward, and after being airborne for a while, gently drops to the floor, his wounds have disappeared.

"...What? How can this be!?" The dark being sputtered.

"While it's true that angels can't quite heal themselves well" The rejuvenated warrior started. "I'm the embodiment of light, my dear sibling, what kind of protector wouldn't be able to help everyone?" The man has a smirk on his face.

The creature of night stares in surprise, a slight hint of fear in its eyes. The Angel throws a punch and-

   The monster was blinded and rocketed backwards, their head felt fuzzy and they couldn't see. They felt different, the ground was soft and warm, nothing like that of a forest. The creature reaches for their face when they realize there's some kind of blanket obstructing their view. They quickly threw the blanket off of them, they're in a bedroom. The creature rushes to the mirror frantically to see their reflection, they're wearing a black vest and sweatpants, they started reaching for their back and tried to feel around for something, they didn't have wings anymore. The creature let out a sigh of relief.

"It was just a dream..." they whispered.

Suddenly the door swung open, and out comes a man with a white hoodie and pure white wings, his light brown skin dripping with sweat, the man seemingly out of breath begins to speak. "My sibling, there's some trouble down by the waterfall again and I-" he paused suddenly and saw the blanket on the floor, the bed messy and the fuzzy carpeting rustled.

"Uh, is there anything wrong? You look like you woke up on the wrong side of the bed, heh..."

The angel smiles weakly, the 5-eyed person just stared silently in response.

"Sorry, I uh... know you hate puns" the angel's smirk turned into a frown.

"You had the nightmare again, didn't you?" The angel's tone suddenly turned sullen.

"Uh... No?" The creature lied.

"Husk, you're lying. You're usually good at lying, the only thing that would get you this shaken up is that nightmare you've been having!" The angel continues.

The creature stared at the floor, then nodded silently.

  There are only two things you need to know about life... On the other hand, one can never really know what might be important to know in a lifetime.

When I was falling in love with my life I learned the first thing, never underestimate anyone, especially those you trust.

   " Honey, we need to leave." She was smiling like today was a happy day. Well maybe today was a happy day for her. She was finally getting rid of me for two entire months. "Are you packed"-she was looking in my room- "where is your bag" my mom was worried we were going to be late.

"My bag is right here." I was pointing to it. "I'm ready"- I was getting up to grab my bag- "let's go," I was talking in a slow drawn-out way.

My mom looked appalled "Are you"- she paused, holding back tears-"did you take something?" she looked horrified.

   I looked at her in a condescending way "I know YOU think that I'm crazy but How would I even get anything to take?" My voice picked up and had anger in it. "You keep track of everything that comes into this house, and you search my things every single day," my voice was raising, and my face was turning red with anger. 

  "I don't know what you're capable of," her voice had a hint of fear. She was grabbing my bag and unzipping it. She looked in the bag and then bag to me. "Why does your voice sound like your high right now then." she was looking at me.

"Probably because I have been up all night for like four days worrying about today!" I was yelling angry and scared from my mom. "Let's just go"-I stood up walking past her-"We are going to be late," I was almost whispering. She stood up and walked behind me following me to the car. I walked around to the passenger side and got in, my mother got in the driver's seat and started towards my final boss, the hospital. See for the last six months or so my mother has thought that I was crazy.

"Honey, let's go," she was standing outside of my door. Silently, I got up and followed her in through the big glass doors. She was checking me in, showing the lady at the desk the things in my bag and telling the lady why I was here. "She has been acting strange and the way she has been talking I think she got into drugs, she also has been talking to people that weren't there." she kept talking but I stopped listening, that strange behavior she talked about, my befriend just told me she was moving multiple states away. We have been over the so-called drugs and as for the hallucinations I had been practicing a speech I had for English.

   My mother tried to hug me before I went into the back. "Don't..." I dodged her hug and followed a nurse to the back, through large industrial doors.

The second thing I learned was only gods die. Now this may seem usual, but her me out. Humans, the ones that die you know, they worship this guy that died. They never realize that they die just like he did. And the ones that do think that humans die for no reason like their so-called god. Me, an entity that never dies, realizes that I am inferior to humans for they are blessed with being released from this terrible world.

First short story I've finished. Used a good ol' writing prompt from the subreddit. Very much a noob, so let me know what you think!

Firelight danced in the eyes of an old man as he trudged into a small clearing, grumbling under his breath. A long gray cloak rippled in the breeze as he strode, each step accompanied by a small thump of a much-too-tall walking stick. Speckled shades of crimson and tangerine swam in a sea of dark chocolate, or rather drowned. The firelight that reached those old eyes was bright and lively as a playful shout in the wind, unintelligible yet unmistakably welcoming. The laughter and joy one might expect to shine back through was swallowed by faces long forgotten, names no longer spoken, and of course painstakingly irritable back pain. 

Nonetheless he unloaded a bundle of dry wood on the grass, squatting down and delicately placing a few in a circular array. Leaving space for the flames to breathe, he fed it wine-soured bursts of air from time to time until the fire roared with fierce rage. Seemingly satisfied, the old man sat back and stretched, sighing deeply. With a long toke of a pipe, tension unfurled from his shoulders, from lean weathered arms and calloused fingers. Yet it lingered in his eyes. The firelight now sang a chorus of gleeful shouts, but was swallowed all the same. From the smile lines etched in his face one could guess there once was a twinkle there, a glimmer of hope or perhaps an inkling of love. Those eyes wandered beyond the roaring flame, to years past. To life and love another man carried long ago. 

A sudden rustling in the underbrush stirred the old man from contemplation, and he turned a long crooked nose upwards to inhale three times. Curiosity flashed across briefly,  followed by a slightly amused smile. He reached down into the folds of his cloak and rummaged for some time, then produced a small package wrapped in thick paper. With fingers much too nimble for ancient hands, he unraveled a corner and set two strips of thin raw meat on a stone by his side. Once the package was safely tucked away, he took a piece in each hand and casually plunged elbow deep into the coals. Without so much a wince he neatly covered the holes where his hands had been and began to whistle a low, solemn tune. 

Long after silence fell, he once again dove into the coals and laid the now charred meat strips in the grass nearby. There had been no sound outside the clearing since the first, or signs of any movement at all. Yet the old man knew when a pair of eyes lay upon him. He chuckled and strolled to the edge of the clearing, shimmied up a gnarled oak tree with his oversized stick clenched between teeth. Once settled comfortably on a thick branch, he pulled a flagon of wine from the endless bowels of his cloak and waited patiently. 

Soon after two slender figures emerged from the woods, sleek fur radiating against the firelight. The red wolves sniffed the air, eyes darting around the clearing, and once presumably alone stalked towards the seducing smell in the grass. They pranced around it skittishly, and the old man noticed their curious gaze turn cold. At this he raised an eyebrow slightly. They crept soft and low around the fire now, losing all interest in the best meal a wild animal could hope for. Then as one they turned to pierce the old man with sharp, intelligent eyes. He froze on the branch midway through braiding several leaf stems together. He returned the accusatory glare, and his dark brown eyes held no somber or playful light. They shone bright and fierce, a fire of their own. Underneath the defiant bravado a slow chill began to creep into his bones, an uneasy nausea building in the pit of his stomach. 

Sat frozen, the old man turned and strained his ears. This was no light brush against leaves of a small, clever creature. Instead a quiet thundering loomed closer with each step, distant yet distinct. A quick flurry of wings startled him, barely able to maintain his balance with a trembling arm. A wisp of bright blue caught the corner of his eye, and he turned to find a slim bird perched above on a nearby branch.  It puffed out a little white chest, stark against the night sky. However, the beady eyes looking down at him knowingly is what finally caused the old man to lose his nerve. He resolved to flee, lest a group of squash-brained little animals be forced to lose their lives. He had already poached what was needed for rations, and it seemed that he had stumbled upon the world's first cross-species cult. 

At least he was planning to flee before the bear. The great big beast lumbered into the clearing and nonchalantly laid by the fire. For a moment the old man believed he had simply taken too big a toke off his pipe. Yet the foxes remained transfixed, the bluebird above peering down scathingly. 

Heart now truly beating out of his chest, the old man weighed his options. Whether or not he had unknowingly become an animal whisperer, he was certainly too high to deal with this freakshow. Any sudden movement and he knew the bear would turn its great shaggy head on him as well, and no doubt scale the oak at twice his speed. Once upon a time he could have lost it easily, climbing and jumping from tree to tree, swinging off branches like a madman. But a frail human body has limits, no matter the deftness and grace of one's movements.

Of course, he had other tricks up his sleeve. But those were better left untouched. 

The final straw was a sharp snarl from the treeline, followed by a chorus of yelps and yaps. A cougar burst through at full speed, barely more than a golden blur. It darted towards the still roaring flames, turned on a heel, and jumped back and forth with the wagging tail of a domesticated dog. 

By this point the old man was at a loss. Seeing a mountain lion look playfully between a rugged brown bear and the unknown of a dark forest would crack any ordinary man down to his core. Add the eerie, expectant gazes of foxes and a bluebird, and that same man might very well end himself on the spot to be done with it all. Alas, while the old man was as shocked and disturbed by the scene coming together around him as any sane person would be, he was no ordinary man. 

In nearly sixty-four years of life, he had believed to have seen all the wonders and horrors Andreas had to offer. But no. At first he was spooked by a large shadow stretching across the wild grass beyond the treeline. That was until firelight reflected off the shadow in two small orbs floating nearly at a height of his own. When he saw the whites in them, realization dawned like the hand of god had struck him. His shock quickly gave way to fear, the truest of fears a man such as himself could experience.

As the looming monster stalked closer to the fire, the outline of it sent shivers down the old man’s spine. The shadow turned to rippling midnight fur. He could make out a snout the size of his forearm, legs larger than a tall man. It eyed the cougar with amusement and twisted gleaming teeth into a playful snarl of its own. Then its ears perked. Stood frozen it almost blended back to a shadow against the darkness of the far treeline. Each animal perked in turn and looked towards the beast. It turned a massive head to the stars and let out a howl that shook the endless night. After a moment of silence, a distant howl returned the call. Satisfied, the great shadow monster stalked toward the fire and curled into a ball. The foxes and cougar followed suit, and soon they all appeared to be a mismatched family of sorts settling in for the night. 

Still, the bird sat unmoving above the old man, staring down at him. Its beak made no movement, but he could see a hint of laughter in those eyes. Those damned eyes. 

“Hello there.” 

This time the old man did lose his balance, grabbing wildly at anything in reach. It was fruitless, and he fell hard on the soft ground below. Flat on his back, he choked for air as stars danced through hazy vision. A small plop fell beside him, and two eyes peered down curiously. Hard, icy green under the wildest frazzle of fire-tinged hair he had ever seen. 

The old man closed his eyes, gasping and choking until he managed to regain his breath and a sliver of composure. 'All a dream. A nightmare. Need to stop smoking Jespi’s harvest.' When he opened them, the eyes still peered down at him. The bluebird had perched atop the frenzy of red hair, chirping in a cadence he could’ve sworn was a chuckle. 

“Didn’t mean to startle ya,” the boy said casually. “You are in my forest, though.” The old man could make out freckles against pale skin as the haze faded from his sight, and a slight smirk tugged at the corner of the boy’s lips. No words came, no inkling of composed thought. Usually the old man had a tongue as sharp as steel, quick as lightning. Now it failed him. 

The boy reached out a hand, and the old man hesitantly took it, steading himself to a sitting position. His back had ached before, but now it shot hot bursts of magma up and down his spine. 

“Curious,” the boy mused to himself. “Haven’t been called on since we spooked the Treefellers away.” He lifted a grubby hand and stroked the bluebird gently. “What has he done, Copernicus? Other than being fool enough to wander this far in the Deepwood, of course.” 

The bluebird let out a series of clucks and chirps in response, and the friendly sparkle that shone in the boy’s eyes turned hard as stone. He glared down at the old man, turned his back and stormed toward the fire. The lounging assortment of fearsome beasts strewn about gave no acknowledgment to him as he bent down in front of the charred strips of meat the old man had left there. The animals seemed to bristle as the boy cursed something foul under his breath, shifting their heads towards him almost anxiously. 

The old man felt the bundle of raw meat inside his cloak grow heavy as cement. Sweat trickled down his wrinkled forehead despite the cool night air, and a lump of stone formed in his throat. He fidgeted the ivory ring on his left hand back and forth, dread building in his chest.

“Dea…” The soft whisper barely carried to the old man’s ears, but it was clear as day. He recalled the strangely intelligent eyes of the deer he had poached, and how it had taken a summoning from the Other to slay it. His full stomach grumbled, as if remembering the half-starved state it had been in at the time. 

All the stories of hunters finding no luck in the Deepwood were starting to make sense. How countless had never returned. Why the old man had no luck finding game for days, and when he had finally spotted the buck it had been impossible to track it through the forest. It had seemed as if the forest knew his intention, and was smothering his attempts at every turn. The forest had not taken into account, however, that the old man had outside help to call on. Hence why he had been able to strike the buck down from a gargantuan distance. He silently cursed himself for his arrogance. A few weeks of extra travel was worth avoiding Deepwood, as many had warned him before. 

The boy turned on the old man, his naked lean body showing far too much muscle and wear than suited his age. His green eyes burned with such frothing anger that the old man began to shiver and sweat simultaneously. The foxes turned to glare at him too, then the cougar and the bear. The shadow beast remained curled, eyes fixed on the boy, bluebird still perched in its nest of fire. 

“Dea.” The boy said, clearly stunned. “My sweet Dea, who wandered the trees with a kind heart and a curious mind. Always looking to the stars and the sky, wishing to soar above the trees and seek lands beyond.” He talked mostly to himself, looking down at the ground while tears fell around his bare feet. “She told me of endless stretches of forests with laughing trees. Hills that rolled with grass in shades of lavender, whispering to each other of secrets held close by the wind.” He let out a shaky half laugh, half sob. Shaking his head, he continued to himself. “I told her. I had been in lands beyond. There are no seas of ice, no hills of lavender or forests of laughter.” 

He glared at the old man, “Only men like you, who come and take the world for yourselves, crushing it under an iron boot. You take and take, tearing down trees, building your ugly houses of mud and stone. What’s more, you tear each other apart. With steel and stone, until blood runs thick through clear rivers, drowning fish in their own water.” His eyes seemed to look straight through the old man, past his crumpled body, through the trees to lands beyond and days forgotten. “I’ve seen it with my own eyes. I lived in a palace of shining marble until they came and burned it to the ground. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers together sharply. “My proud father, my stern mother. My sweet, sweet sister. Dead.” 

The old man had been sitting in stunned silence, but now moved to speak.

“No. No. You have done enough. Listen.” He took a shaky breath and wiped the tears from his cheeks. “They came and burned my home to the ground, for what? I wondered for a long time, wandering aimlessly, surviving day to day off berries and nuts. I begged in small towns for scraps. Year after year, I starved and cried and wondered why.” 

He took an uncertain breath, paused for a moment and continued, “I asked every man, woman and child kind enough to give me stale bread and rotten fruit. They all hurried off, terrified of a small boy and his giant questions. Until an old man took me to his inn for the first good meal I’d had in ages. I cried and cried at this simple kindness, and he asked only one thing in return. My story.” 

At this, the boy sat down on the grass, some of the anger fading against memory of sorrow. “I rambled on and on for ages, spilling my heart out. I asked him why Quarphons hated my family enough to kill the lot of us, as I was sure it was them. The bloody sand devils had hated us for centuries, every child in Daerim knew this by the time they could walk.”

Inklings of the boy’s story and appearance had been itching in the back of the old man’s skull for some time, and now the pieces snapped together. Before he could think to stop himself, he blurted out, “You.. You’re the-”

“I am Perseus Woodrov, yes. Do not speak.” Perseus picked up a handful of grass and began to fiddle with them as he spoke, “Like I said, every man, child, and woman of Daerim knows the Santos family has wanted to reclaim their ‘stolen’ territory for centuries. But a piece did not fit together in my mind. The Kings of Wintus had long ago sworn to protect the royal family, my family.” The last piece he spat bitterly. 

“So I asked the old innkeeper why the Kings of Wintus had let us fall, why the Santos had finally taken vengeance after years of peace. He gave me a sad, wrinkled smile and said: 'Oh, child. Quarphost was the first Kingdom to fall, they did not harm your family. Wintus was staving off an invasion of their own by the time Daerim had fallen. No, child. My prince.' He leaned in and whispered, 'The Banes'.” A long silence stretched.

“And so I understood. The Banes had been driven from Andreas in the Age of Old, at humanity’s dawn. They had come in and slaughtered thousands upon thousands for a grudge as old as time itself.” 

The old man nodded slowly, for this was no new information to him. He was still in a state of relative shock, as everyone in Andreas knew Perseus Woodrov had been slaughtered alongside his family in the conquest of Daerim. Yet here he was, talking to birds and other wild things. 

“The old innkeeper, bless his heart, told me of a place I would be safe from human monstrosity. We rode on his wagon for days upon end, until we reached the Outgrove. We camped for three nights, walking deeper into the forest by day. He taught me to survive with nothing but my own two hands. When we reached the edge of Deepwood itself, in the very heart of Outgrove, he gave me a small handful of bright orange mushrooms and told me to eat them. I did, and we parted ways with somber smiles and warm hugs.

“I’m guessing you can make out what led me from that point in my life to this one,” Perseus said. The old man nodded slowly, wheels turning in his head. 

“I say all this to… Let you know I am no whining child, and I understand one must survive. You killed my beautiful Dea to ease your hunger, as is your nature. But..” Perseus paused and glared at the old man with such intensity he almost buckled underneath the weight of it. “Not here. Not in this place, the only one free of the curse we call humanity. I will not allow a man to come here and kill as he pleases, for survival or not. Leave.” 

Perseus stood with finality, turned away then looked back. “If you hunt again, I will know.”

“I-,” The old man started.

“No. If you speak again, I will set Grogon on you.” He glanced down at the old man's hand, at the ivory ring embedded with arcane symbols. “I know what you are. I know what you can do. Call upon the Other and you will die. Touch another living creature and you will die. Go now, and spread word to all folk who will lend you their ear. The next human who harms a leaf in this forest will die. The next who hunts an animal for sport or survival will awaken a wrath that will be felt in all corners of your evil civilization.” He spat the last word with such venom the old man peed himself a little.

And so, the old man resigned himself. If any other man had threatened him in such a way, they would fall before him like a fly swatted out of the sky. He knew Perseus would fall the same, and he could flatten every inch of this forest within a handful of days. But the old man was fond of the idea that some place in this cold world was still wild down to its very core.

He gathered his much-too-tall stick from the base of the dark oak tree, and began on his way.

This is a true story. It all happened three jobs, two pairs of boots, and one apartment ago on a plain Monday morning during the peak of rush hour commute.

This particular day presented the same sobering challenge to everyone across San Francisco: rain, feathery light and mulishly stubborn rain. Skipping the excuses, I disregarded the weather instead of dressing for it. My consequence was a soggy half hour bike ride punctuated by red lights and oil slick puddles that left me moody and dripping at the doors of the commuter rail station. I had arrived at the starting line of an hour-long train ride soaking wet.

There is one rapid transit line that connects San Francisco to the mountain of tech jobs waiting south in Silicon Valley. Trains leave every 20 minutes during rush hour destined for the same list of weigh points congested with opportunity, salaries, and promises of building a better future. These commuters exercise their laptops like Roy Rogers rode Trigger, into rugged American optimism framed with commercial appeal. I wouldn’t dare drip and shiver next to one of these respectable architects of the future without first making a punitive attempt to wring myself out.

But before I wrung, I had to dump. Ponds had collected in each of my cowboy boots. Working a sodden leather boot off a waterlogged sock while standing on one foot in the same condition is about as good as being lame. I must have made a pitiful sight under the awning of the 4th and King CalTrain station. I harbor confidence in this assessment, because above the civil noises of several hundred commuters rattling through a cement and glass hive cut an observation -

“I’m having a better day than you!”

It was a man’s voice, clear and convincing. My own stubborn pride smacked a smile on my face and lifted my head up to search the crowd for the source. My uncomfortable grin was pleading that the commentary steered more toward laughing with than laughing at. I found the author of the comment. He guided a cart neatly stacked with empty bottles and crushed cans still worth their refund fee. He didn’t break stride, moving easily through the congestion in the station. I would exist as an afterthought of an artifact in his rear-view mirror for only another second, if that. The crowd reshuffled and we were detached.

The rest of the day wrote nothing to memory. It could have been lovely or lucky or more likely sour and soggy. Fire hose to my head, I couldn’t tell you when the rain stopped. It might have been that minute or lunchtime or it might have continued until yesterday for all I recall. All the good and bad of that day got smeared, drowned, or eaten by another anxiety older or newer. The day was forgotten, except for the man and his comment. So desperate to keep turning over such few facts, I still wonder why his comment stuck. Lucid scrutiny dismisses him as the cause of his own memorability, sadly. I know nothing about him. So, his permanence in my mind must root in assumptions.

He tells himself the truth and listens. Consider the weather that day, he kept himself dry. That was more than I did, showing up distracted by my own slippery condition. Consider his collection of recycling, he recognized value in a resource many overlook and dismiss as a nuisance. That is an impressive amount of determination and paying attention. Consider his comment, he must know the damage of a bad day. And still, he has an enthusiasm for life. In some interpretations, he had drawn the short straw of life and decided he still wanted to play the whole game. He must have hope. I wonder what for. If I knew his hope, would I have turned back for a raincoat?

I hope he did have a better day than me. I hope he’s had a better day than me ever since.

Who is your favorite author(s) and what genre do they write in? (Even if it’s not short story :)

What makes them your favorite? What is something memorable about their writing (ex: style, characters, plot, etc.) that drew your attention?

.

Hello! I’m new here and I see there are just a few of us online, but no new posts in quite a while.

Just wondering if anyone is working on something new - short stories, chapter books, etc?

Anything you’d like to share or ask?

Are you here just reading, learning, looking for inspiration, etc?

I’d love to see this subreddit become active again. There are a lot of wonderful stories, great writers, and helpful critique!

I look forward to hopefully reading your stories! All the best, and blessings to you!

.

Culebra. Means ‘snake’ in Spanish if you didn’t know that already. Culebra, Island, Puerto Rico. Paradise. The home of many memories, and now a poisoned one. Must be the venom. I’m staring at her. The matriarch of our family. Alone, by her own free will, and to our demise. Wading in the crystal clear tropical waters, soaking in the sun, and bothering another family on vacation, not ours. I stand there in the cocaine-white sand, backpack searing into my Caribbean sun-drenched skin, straw hat and sunglasses as the only protection. Too bad they don’t do shit for the heart.

She’s about 100 feet away—meters for all the non-gringos out there—but it doesn’t matter; no metric can measure the distance our relationship will need to take.

My own mother, all the way over there, smiling from cheek to cheek; as if this poisoned family vacation never happened, as if she didn’t just have another mental breakdown, as if she didn’t just disown her kids in a luxurious, yet lonely, Airbnb villa, and as if she didn’t take a snake’s gulp of Don Q rum - Benson and Hedges cigarette in hand - telling my sister and I how our Dad is a borracho (drunk) alcoholic.

Oh the jealousy I had; I was green with envy, like the scales of a snake or the leaf of a palm tree. I wish my muscles could form that smile, and my vocal cords could say a cheery hello - but no. All I could work with was survivor’s guilt, and that never brings a smile to anyone’s face.

I kept standing there, looking at her from afar. I felt a slow, metaphysical slicing of my whole being down the middle, like a bloody opening with a fucked-up zipper, all my spiritual blood and disorganized guts spilling onto the floor of my misery. Don’t worry, this is just hyperbole; the cocaine-white sand was still pristine.

Again, I continued to stare. I already told her I couldn’t spend the rest of the day with her. I told her just 10 minutes before that too much had happened this week, and just this day, to endure her la-la land narcissism. I somehow, some way, managed to turn around and head back to the golf cart. Joanna, my equally traumatized yet blonde bombshell-looking sister, waited for me in the passenger seat, sunglasses on, hunched in her seat, and ready to get the holy fucking fuck on out of there.

The humidity was probably making her more anxious to get a move on. This thick, tropical air maintained its oppression even though the clouds began to produce a light helping of God’s tears - or piss given the shitty situation - in the form of a light rain.

Urine or not, we rode away in the cute golf cart rental, a dembow-ridden reggaeton beat blaring out the overhead speakers.

Hello! I don't take offense easily and I'm looking for a critique. I'm experimenting with narrative distance.
excerpt 1:
In the ruins, there is a girl.
The girl has lived in the ruins since before they were ruins, since back when the ruins could still be properly called a house.
The girl has lived in the ruins since back when she could still be properly called a girl. The lines between not-girl and not-house are blurring, not that theres anybody around to notice, and not that anybody alive would notice if they were around.
On the good days, and sometimes, dazedly, on the very bad days, the girl wanders through her ruins and lets herself pretend that her ruins are still a house, and that she is still a girl.
The crumbled stone walls do not mind. Stone does not think much about things that were, after all, nor does it think much about things that are or will be. On most days, the girl falls asleep with her cheek pressed to the cold, hard floor, like maybe the stones will tell her how they do it.
excerpt 2:
There is a witch in the mirror. The witch is not only in the mirror, of course. The witch in the mirror is a reflection of the witch who is leaning very close to the mirror, inspecting her rouged cheeks and looking distinctly un-witchy.
The witch avoids looking witchy, generally, but she also generally avoids looking like whatever she looks like now. That is to say, a sad, washed-up thing, grasping at her youth. The witch does not like to look like things that she is, as a rule.

I stared into its eyes. They seemed to look back at me - the tiny kernels of corn that shone with the reflection of the bathroom light - holding my gaze, as though they saw something in me that I’d never seen myself: some great unrecognised talent, perhaps, or just the will to be a better person; a contributing member of society.

Was that corn? It might have been nut. Either way, it looked like a pair of eyes.

Circling that area, the consistency was slightly flakier, slightly darker - forming a shape that resembled a beard and hair. And sure enough, exactly where a nose should be, a protrusion which, incredibly, came complete with the detail of nostrils.

All together it made a perfect little face.

It kind of looked like someone. Who was that? Bradley Cooper? Jared Leto? One of those much-fawned-over bearded Hollywood actors.

It was, otherwise, an unremarkable turd. Fairly smooth, perhaps about five inches long, it floated with one end slightly submerged, the other just poking up out of the water - like the Titanic as it started to sink. It gave the impression that the face was rising to greet you.

Later, dietary experts described it as an ideal stool, one that showed evidence of good nutritional gut health, which I was pleased to hear, if not a little surprised.

I took a photo on my phone. Now, I'm not typically the type of person who leans over the toilet bowl to take a picture after doing my business - a quick glancing check normally does the job - but this particular turd, well... anyone would have. It had a little face after all.

I loaded the photo in a WhatsApp message to Geoff in the flat next door. He was the type of person who leaned over the toilet bowl to take a picture after doing his business, but he was harmless really. Just a bit lonely, I guess. He usually came over for beers on a Friday night and, since my divorce, I didn't mind the company. He claimed to be a freelance journalist, working on a story involving a UFO conspiracy that when published was certain to tear open the very fabric of society.

“Let’s just say, I know some people,” he was always saying. Underneath the picture, I typed, "Recognise anyone?" and hit send.

I wiped. I remember being surprised by how few wipes were needed. Even after the first wipe, the tissue looked clean. Immaculate even.

I waved goodbye to the little face in the toilet, flushed, and went back into the kitchen to check on the pizza I had in the oven.

I was looking in at a charred frisbee when there was a banging at the door.

"Open up," came Geoff's voice. He was pushing the letterbox open with his fingers and had his mouth pressed to the slot. I’d barely opened the door when he pushed in past me, making a beeline for my bathroom.

"You better not have bloody flushed it." He said, rushing past, but stopped when he saw my face. "Well, surely you saw him too?"

"What, the little face?" I shrugged.

"The little face?" He let out a giddy snort of a laugh. "Be serious. C'mon, you know who that was."

"Who?" I asked.

“You don’t know?”

I shook my head.

"You really don't know?"

For a moment he stared at me, unblinking.

I feel like he was probably stalling for dramatic effect.

It was working.

"Him," he said, finally, his eyes wide. "He who sits at the right hand of the father. The lamb of God. The Messiah. Our Lord and Saviour."

He pulled his phone from the pocket of his dressing gown. Back then, Geoff was always in his dressing gown. He opened the picture I’d sent him, pinched to zoom in, and held it up for me to inspect.

"You've just shat the face of Jesus Christ."

I had been raised Catholic and even believed it all as a child, but it had all just sort of worn off over time. In over twenty years I’d only been in a church for the odd wedding or funeral. I certainly didn’t believe anymore, but deep down I knew Geoff was right and that the face I saw in my toilet bowl was the same one I knew from my old Children’s Illustrated Bible. In truth, I think I'd recognised it the moment I saw it but the thought was too large for me to connect all at once.

Even with the pixelation on Geoff’s phone, it was undeniable: the face was clear. It radiated a sense of calm. A general feeling of acceptance. I noticed details I hadn't seen before: the sharpness of the jawline, visible even beneath the suggestion of beard; the hair, a sweeping mane that could only belong to a carpenter from Galilee; and those corn/nut eyes, even in the photo they seemed to bore into you. “Look, scientists have explained this. They call it… para… something. It’s just our brains looking for a pattern,” I said. Geoff slipped his phone back into his dressing gown pocket. “Pareidolia. They call it pareidolia. When people see significant things in clouds or tea leaves or whatever. But, if this was just in the mind, why do we both know it’s Him?” He emphasised the word 'Him' so I knew it was with a capital letter.

"Nobody even knows what He looked like," I emphasised right back.

He frowned at me.

"Don't be stupid," he said. "Everybody knows what Jesus looked like."

"I thought it was Bradley Cooper," I said, but I knew he was right.

Geoff grinned at me. His eyes were even wider now and alive in his head like they were when he brought that little bag of coke over last New Year’s Eve after Jen had said she'd prefer we didn't spend it as a family. Geoff could be thoughtful like that.

"This is life-changing stuff. People are going to want to see this. We could sell tickets. I know some people. I could put you in touch with them… get you some representation. And maybe, if you were willing to give me exclusivity on the first article, I could do a nice write-up. I could mention your little stories. Get you some recognition. You’d be doing us both a favour. Win-win. What do you say?"

I had to admit his excitement was contagious but it was no use.

"It's gone. I flushed." I said with almost genuine regret. "Maybe it didn't make it round the u-bend," he said, undeterred. "If your plumbing’s anything like mine, sometimes you have to really pump the handle and I didn’t hear you pump."

He scurried over to the toilet bowl, which was still hissing and trickling as the cistern refilled.

I waited by the door. If it was there, I thought, it might be a bit odd, us both looking at it together, like some kind of fetish. The cistern’s trickle trailed off.

Slowly, but surely, Geoff lowered himself to the floor, until he was on his knees, and then he lowered his head into the bowl as though he were preparing to vomit, or perhaps pray.

"You won't find it by looking closer," I joked, suddenly aware I was breaking a serene kind of silence.

Geoff didn't reply.

The silence spoke for him.

So, I waited for a while as Geoff knelt with his head bowed in the toilet, and allowed him his moment.

Finally, he raised his head and turned to me. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, but he was smiling with the widest grin I’d ever seen on his typically miserable face. "It's a miracle," he said.

I stepped over to see for myself.

Somehow, the wad of toilet paper had disappeared, had slipped away in the flush, leaving the turd perfectly undisturbed, smiling gently up at us.

As it turned out, Geoff did know some people. He made a few phone calls, wrote down some numbers, made some more phone calls, and before long, the intercom buzzed.

“That’ll be her,” said Geoff, as I got up to answer the door. “Davina Davenport,” said the statuesque lady with impossible cheekbones dressed in a stylish burgundy trouser suit. “Hello... Patrick. I’m... Patrick.” I held out my hand and she pressed a business card into my palm. It confirmed her name in elegant embossed lettering. Beneath, in smaller font, it read: REPRESENTATION FOR THE SACRED AND THEOLOGICAL.

“So,” she said. “May I see the… object of interest?” “How about some tea first?” I suggested, but Geoff was already standing by the bathroom door like a hotel porter. “I'm Geoff," he said. "We spoke on the phone. Please, right this way.” Then he gave a little sniff and pulled a face. “I think it’s beginning to stew a little, Pat, have you got any Febreze?” “Don’t worry,” Davina said, offering a tight-mouthed smile. “Stigmata, possession, claims of reincarnation. I’ve seen it all. If what we’re dealing with here is divine, then it is a part of God’s plan and that is bigger than any of us. We must recognise how blessed we are just to be the smallest cog in his magnificent machine.”

Then, in four-inch heels, she strode towards the bathroom, where Geoff was waiting to show her my defecation. I went to boil the kettle.

It’s fair to say that Davina Davenport was impressed. After ten minutes, she emerged from the bathroom, visibly shaking, her striking figure now diminished as she held her heels in one hand. Her suit was wrinkled at the waist and knees. Her formerly pristine eye-make-up was now smeared across her face. When she tried to speak, her voice came in whimpers between broken breaths.

“I… think… I think I’ll take that tea now,” she finally managed. She kept apologising. “Forgive me. That was… unprofessional. I’ve witnessed more than a few miracles, but I have never experienced anything like... Look, I believe something connected us today. This... this must be shared with the world and I am in a unique position to help you do that.”

Whilst she had been in the bathroom, I’d taken the liberty of Googling Davina Davenport. Her resumé was unquestionable. Her name was linked with various relics, clerics and future saints. She represented the visionary Blind Boy of Chandigarh and got him on Oprah, where he predicted the next six presidents and was given a Tesla. There was a man in Mexico City, whose dog could walk on water, for whom Davina secured a lucrative book deal, with an even more lucrative film adaptation in the works. She was famous for turning mortals into saints and saints into rock stars. Frankly, I was ready to sign whatever Davina put in front of me.

“I think Patrick would appreciate your representation,” said Geoff. “But of course, we would need to discuss certain terms.” That sounded wise. I was glad I had Geoff in my corner.

"I wouldn’t have it any other way," said Davina. "But right now, time is of the essence. Every second we waste, the Simulacrum, is degrading."

“Simulacrum.” Geoff and I both whispered the word in unison as though it were the Amen to a prayer. "Yes, that's what we call this type of phenomenon in the industry,” she explained, “I’m reaching out to some people now.” Her phone was already dialling out.

Of course, we all know it as the Simulacrum now, but the newspapers had fun for a while testing various names in the headlines. The Holy Shit. The Sacred Stool. The Jesus Faeces. The Turd Revelation. For whatever reason 'Simulacrum' stuck.

I looked up the word later. It refers to a representation or imitation of someone or something - often an unsatisfactory imitation, with diminished value. But then a French semiotician, Jean Baudrillard, said that in reality, the simulacrum is more real than the original thing it is copying since that thing no longer exists or maybe never did exist in the first place and because the original thing no longer exists or maybe never did exist the simulacrum is a sort of truth in its own right that takes the place of the original thing. I'm not sure I followed it all exactly, but something about it felt right.

Over the next hour, the intercom buzzed three more times. First, a photographer called Mario Testino arrived. Geoff said he was ‘pretty bloody famous’ and was surprised I’d never heard of him. He wore an expensive designer suit and had a face like an over-ripe plum. After allowing him some time to overcome his personal epiphanies, Davina put him to work photographing the simulacrum in its 'cradle.' She had started referring to the toilet as the 'cradle.'

Mario Testino set up various lights and snapped away at his subject, occasionally gushing, "Beautiful," as though he were shooting a fashion model.

I thought about suggesting to Davina that Mario Testino take some photos of me, but she seemed pretty focused and I figured there would be time for that later.

When I offered Mario Testino a cup of tea, he refused, pulled a bottle of Malbec from his camera bag, shuffled back over to the toilet and just stared into the bowl, muttering to himself in Spanish, taking occasional swigs straight from the bottle.

At the next buzz of the intercom, an old man with a down-turned mouth and a large briefcase stood in the doorway. He grumbled an introduction in what was maybe a Slavic accent that no one could quite make out. Davina clarified that this was the world-famous restoration artist who would be extracting the Simulacrum from the Cradle. “He unpicked the stitches from the 16th-century cloth sewn onto the Shroud of Turin. He exhumed the Holy Tongue of St Anthony of Padua.”

It seems she hadn't caught his name either. She just called him “Restoration Joe.”

Restoration Joe looked as though he’d seen it all, but when he saw the Simulacrum, even he couldn't maintain his composure. Crouching, with shaking hands, he took a measuring tape from his case and started taking dimensions of the inside of the toilet, but he struggled to hold it still. We could all hear the little metal attachment at the end of the tape tapping rapidly on the inside of the toilet like a loose screw.

He took a deep breath and grimaced - the air was pretty pungent now – but he seemed to relax. Perhaps something in the foul stench brought him back to earth. He finished taking his measurements with silent efficiency, then dipped back into his briefcase for more equipment. He first produced a towel which he spread out on the bathroom floor, then laid out the rest of his equipment on the towel. With quick hands, he used scissors to cut a section from a roll of felt based on his measurements. Using wires, he slipped the section of felt into the toilet water, first beside the Simulacrum, then delicately manoeuvred it beneath without ever making contact.

He’d be a master at Operation. All organs would be out in no time - zero buzzes.

Unfurling some rubber tubing, he submerged one end in the toilet water. When he started sucking on the other end of the tube, Geoff and I gave each other a look, but just before the toilet water reached his mouth, he pulled it and relocated it to the bath. The water continued to flow, slowly syphoning from the toilet into the bath and as it did, the Simulacrum slowly descended until it was resting on its little felt mattress. A glass butter-dish lid that seemed like it was made to fit was placed over the Simulacrum, securely encasing it like an artefact in a museum.

Assuming his work was complete, I was ready to give Restoration Joe a round of applause.

That’s when he fired up the angle grinder.

I’d forgotten about the angle grinder which had looked ominous next to the other equipment on the towel. The intercom buzzed again. I reluctantly accompanied Davina to the door, leaving the grinding sound behind us.
“Cardinal Chinn,” said the fat but severe-looking man, who happened to have several chins. He attempted a smile that looked practised. I introduced myself and Davina suggested I go make the Cardinal a cup of tea. As I went to the kitchen, I thought I heard my name in whispered conversation. I made another round of tea. The bathroom was now feeling pretty crowded and looked like a veritable nativity scene. Geoff stood beside Davina who held the glass-encased Simulacrum in her hands. The felt matting had been transferred onto a glass base to match the glass lid, confirming it as an oversized butter dish. The Simulacrum sat snugly within, looking out at us with love and acceptance. Cardinal Chinn, Restoration Joe and Mario Testino stood to one side like the Three Wise Men in a euphoric tableau of admiration, from which Mario occasionally snapped a photo. We were only missing some donkeys, sheep, and of course, the cradle, my toilet, which was now in tiny pieces in a pile on the floor next to the angle grinder.

What came next felt like whiplash. I experienced what I can only describe as a spiralling loss of control.

Cardinal Chinn had a kind of thermos box that someone might use for holding food or transporting organs. He raised the lid and Davina placed the Simulacrum inside, butter-dish and all.

I didn't think much of this. I assumed it was part of the preservation. I was more concerned about my toilet. I hadn't agreed to my toilet being destroyed and had all sorts of questions like, was destroying my toilet absolutely necessary? Who was going to replace my toilet? And, where was I supposed to go to the toilet in the meantime? “Relax,” said Davina.

And I did. Because I trusted her.

“We've all been part of a miracle here today,” she announced. “And this miracle needs to be shared with as many people as possible, especially now, when the world needs something to believe in.”

I tried to agree but she shushed me.

“The Simulacrum must be put on display in the Vatican for all to see.”

“I can't go to the Vatican, I've got work and it's my weekend to have Milly.”

“Yes, well, I've been talking with Cardinal Chinn and, for the sake of the Simulacrum, we feel it's better if we move forward without your involvement. We have somebody very exciting who has agreed to take credit for our little miracle, so you won’t have to. Perhaps you know him. He has quite the number of subscribers on YouTube.”

This famous YouTuber, now known by all as ‘Mother,’ due to his claim that he carried the Simulacrum to term, is the imposter who stole everything from me. I won't vindicate him any further by repeating his real name here. I've been advised he is quite litigious.

“So, no one will know it was me?” I struggled to comprehend exactly what she was saying.

“Geoff tells me you write stories. Think of it like having a pseudonym or ghost-writing. It doesn't matter if you get the credit, so long as people get to appreciate your work, right? So going forward, we'd like you to sign an NDA. For this, the Vatican is prepared to see you properly compensated.” Where was Geoff now? He was supposed to be in my corner. There he was, cosying up to Mario Testino. He looked over and I locked eyes with him for a brief second. His quickly averted gaze spelt guilt. He wasn't in my corner anymore.

“I thought you were supposed to be representing me? That thing belongs to me. I made it.” I said to Davina.

“The Simulacrum is legally considered to be an entity in itself. As such it warrants its own power of attorney, except for the case in point, in which the entity not having consciousness will have power of attorney assigned by the Vatican state. In other words, I represent the Simulacrum and it doesn't belong to anyone. Please understand the very generous sum being offered by the Vatican would be in appreciation of your silence, not as any kind of payment for the Simulacrum.”

“You said I was part of God's plan.”

“Perhaps. But this is my plan. “

I told them where they could shove their NDA - but they still took the Simulacrum and as I'm sure you all saw online, staged a video of the famous YouTuber discovering it in his own ‘cradle’ whilst doing a livestream comparing toilet paper brands. Davina Davenport’s fingerprints were all over that video.

Geoff was given the exclusivity he wanted. His article featured the first interview with the YouTube star. Even I had to admit, though not entirely true, it was a great piece of writing. He probed into the YouTuber’s beliefs and managed to sell the excitement of the discovery so well, I almost bought it. He detailed other simulacra throughout history. Davina might have christened the Simulacrum, but it was Geoff who first called it the Simulacrum in print. He started appearing on panel shows and then transitioned to hosting one of his own. He had made it. He could now discuss UFO conspiracies all he liked, promising his audience imminent revelations that never came.

I was happy for him. Mostly.

I didn’t blame Geoff for going along with the lie, but one thing did bother me. During the interview, the YouTuber mentioned that when he first saw it, he thought the Simulacrum was Bradley Cooper. Geoff must have supplied this little detail from my own admission. To me, that made him complicit. After the story went wide, as I'm sure you all saw in the media, the Simulacrum commenced an international tour, revealing itself to the masses in exhibition centres and stadiums in thirty-eight countries across six of the seven continents. As Davina had promised, the tour ended with the relic’s final installation in St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican. Perhaps you queued for hours to see it at one of its appearances. Perhaps you camped out for days in advance to stare into its corn/nut eyes at the earliest opportunity. Perhaps you’re one of the thousands who had ailments cured, wishes granted or marital problems resolved after being within two feet and a plexiglass screen of its presence.

Everywhere the Simulacrum went, Davina Davenport was there. These days she was eternally draped in hessian garb, her four-inch heels now simple sandals, as though her encounter had humbled her to a lifestyle of monastic piety. Even I had to admit, she looked better. Happier.

For a while, the Simulacrum was inescapable. They started selling 3D-printed replicas of my defecation in shops. It replaced the crucifix on pendants around millions of necks. Think pieces were written considering why Christ would reveal himself in this form. Paul Greengrass was said to have secured the film rights.

Naturally, some claimed it was a hoax, that the face had been sculpted. A myth-busting television show proved those claims unlikely after five of the world's top sculptors were invited to test their skills with a variety of freshly minted turds.

But you know all this.

And as far as people are aware that is where the story ends, with the Simulacrum still on display in St Peter's Basilica.

But I know otherwise.

I didn't end up having Milly that weekend. I called Jen and told her my toilet was broken, and she asked if I’d called the landlady, Carol, to get it fixed, and I told her I'd just get it fixed myself, then Jen asked if I wanted her to call the landlady, but I insisted that I’d get it sorted. Well, I guess Jen called the landlady because Carol came knocking on my door. When she saw the toilet in pieces, Carol lost her proverbial shit. I wanted to tell her I knew how it felt.

I received an eviction notice later that day.

When they first announced the Simulacrum, I did what I could to expose the truth. I posted on social media. Even with the photo I’d WhatsApp’d Geoff, my posts were ignored.

Still, I persevered.

I left comments. On anything Simulacrum-related or otherwise. I spent hours at a time arguing with anyone who would engage. It was all I could do.

Contacting mainstream media was no use. They wouldn’t listen to me.

Eventually, someone at work must have seen my posts. I was called into an office by a manager I'd never even seen before, who explained that they couldn't have someone at the company linked to this kind of behaviour.

I tried to tell him that it wasn't any kind of “behaviour” and that I was merely telling the truth that I was the one who had birthed the Simulacrum and that fuckwit YouTuber was quite literally a turd-burglar not in the outdated homophobic sense of the phrase but in the more literal sense that he actually stole my shit, my actual shit.

The manager told me that I was being let go.

“I'm sure you understand,” he said.

After a month in my sister's spare room, I suggested to Jen that maybe I could see Milly again.

“Maybe when you're in a better place… emotionally,” she said. “I’m sure you understand.”

And now I did understand. I understood that if I could only reunite with the Simulacrum everything would be fixed.

I managed to get hold of Geoff’s new address. The Porsche on his driveway made me feel less guilty about getting to the point.

“I need some money,” I said when he opened the door. For a moment I was worried this wasn't the Geoff I knew. His eyebrows had been shaped. His skin was radiant and moist. In lieu of his dressing gown, he wore a powder blue leisure suit.

“How much?” he said without hesitation, as though any amount wouldn’t be enough.

He invited me into his minimalist home and had his assistant make us coffee. When I told him my plan, he didn't hesitate: he had his assistant transfer some funds, book a return flight to Rome in my name, as well as a 3-night stay in a conveniently located, elegant but rustic hotel. All this knowing I intended to expose the lie - his lie. Perhaps he didn't expect me to go through with it, or perhaps he thought nobody would take me seriously, but I like to think he knew it was the right thing to do.

As I was leaving, he stopped me at the door.

“Before you go, I think you should know. It was me,” he said, “The Bradley Cooper thing. I added that to the interview.”

I went to hug him. He pulled back and made a face. “Sorry buddy, I would, but you don’t smell great.”

I’m sure it was true. I hadn't been showering or washing my clothes as often as I probably should have been.

Rome is a city full of basilicas, relics and ruins. It felt like there was at least one basilica on every street and a relic in every basilica. There was the Colosseum and the Pantheon and the legendary food. I vowed that when I’d done what I came here to do, I would get a pizza to replace the one I’d burnt that night it had all begun. Until then I couldn't let anything distract me from my crusade.

The hotel was indeed elegant but rustic. I took advantage of their laundry service, shaved for the first time in weeks and showered using three tiny shower gel bottles. I dressed in an Aloha shirt, a pair of sunglasses and a bucket hat. Looking and smelling like a normal tourist, I set out on my mission. My relic sat in one of Catholicism's holiest shrines, St. Peter’s Basilica; the same building that houses Veronica’s Veil, shards of the True Cross, the Lance of Longinus, and a host of varyingly preserved and decayed popes and saints. I queued for hours in a serpentine line between the colonnades of St Peter's Square, then passed through an airport-style security gate with an alarming lack of scrutiny. Just as I was thinking it was all a bit overboard for a big church, we were herded through the main entrance and my scepticism evaporated. There was something in the architecture that drew your eyes heavenward to the church’s barrel vault arches, which in turn invited you to its central dome and beyond, to the back facade where the dove of the holy spirit splayed its wings in a window of yellow alabaster. Childhood reverence kicked in and I removed my hat and sunglasses, which left me feeling exposed.

All around tourists, dwarfed by scale, fluttered about. It quickly became apparent that most were heading in the same general direction. The Simulacrum had been installed in the most central position directly in front of the high altar. Exactly where the crowd amassed.

“Scusi,” I muttered as I elbowed past the thicket of people. Admonishments were whispered, but they couldn't get too angry in this place.

At the front of the crowd, there were two girls in their twenties throwing up peace signs for a selfie. They had crouched a little to get the relic in shot over their shoulders, and there, in a brand-new glass display case, I saw it. The fake.

It wasn't just the colour, which was more like a greyish-taupe than the rich chestnut I’d produced. It was also, the plasticky sheen; the tool-like pattern in the beard and hair. There was no forgiveness in this Messiah’s eyes, which were neither corn nor nut.

That didn't stop the crowd from lapping it up.

And, as I slipped away, neither did I.

I'm not sure why I did what I did next.

Call it a hunch.

I bought a ticket to the Vatican Museums which concluded with an opportunity to view the Sistine Chapel. I let the motion of the crowd carry me through endless corridors and rooms, each more intricately decorated than the last, as my mind pondered the implications of what I’d just seen: where was the real Simulacrum? Who swapped it? Why? and when? Was it the fake Simulacrum that had gone on a world tour and sparked so many miraculous claims? Was this part of Davina’s plan, to deceive the world the way she’d deceived me?

I drifted into yet another room. A sign told me I was entering the Borgia apartments, which always neighboured the Papal residence. It explained that there was once a secret passage allowing the Holy Pontiff to escape to the suite for respite. As I read the sign, four words started glowing.

Papal. Residence. Secret. Passage.

The words pulsed burning hot in my mind and gave way to a deep throbbing ache.

It was like I had been activated - put into a trance - by a specific combination of trigger words.

Everything was automatic.

There are vague recollections of running my hands along walls, of pushing a loose board aside and slipping into some darker place. Somehow it all went unnoticed as though I were cloaked from the sight of others by some divine force. The throbbing in my head knew where to take me even in the dark until eventually another board slid aside and I came out into the light: an empty hallway frescoed as densely as any I’d seen that day. The pounding in my head told me exactly where I was supposed to be, but I hesitated when a laugh echoed from a set of open double doors to my left. It was a woman's laugh.

The closer I got, the more my head throbbed.

“Just a little further,” it seemed to say.

By the time I reached the doors I had already identified the voice of Davina, the famous YouTuber and Cardinal Chinn. Mario Testino was there too, speaking Spanish with someone whose voice I didn't know. It wasn't until I’d crouched low with bated breath and peeked around the doorframe that I recognised him: The Pope.

The five of them sat around a table happily gabbing away, wine sloshing in glasses. They were too wrapped up in their merriment and drunken reveries to notice me. I glanced around the rest of the room - surely the Simulacrum was nearby - and there near a drinks cabinet at the rear, staring directly back at me, was Restoration Joe. There was nothing I could do but hold his stare and remain still. He remained still too, perhaps contemplating whether he should sound the alarm. Finally, he smiled and gave a quick tilt of his head as though he were suggesting I should continue down the hallway. And so, with a nod back at him, that's what I did. I crept across the open doorway and continued down the hall. The pain in my head was screaming at me now and it took everything I had not to scream myself. Then peace returned. The hallway opened up into a gallery space. There in the centre of the room was the Simulacrum on a pedestal, still encased in the butter dish that Restoration Joe had used as part of the extraction.

A feeling of euphoric peace washed over me and, before I knew it, the glass lid was in my hand. An alarm was blaring somewhere. I barely had a chance to look upon my little creation before I heard the footsteps and turned to see Davina and her gang already mid-charge.

Everything went into slow motion.

I saw Davina and Mario and the YouTube star and the rage on their faces. I saw Cardinal Chinn assisting the Pope through the open doors. I saw everything the Simulacrum had brought these people: the fame, the money, the power - a holy trinity for modern times. I saw the fresh start it had brought Geoff. I saw the hope it had restored to the masses. I saw Jen and Milly holding hands with some other man who wasn't me, and Milly was calling him Daddy.

I saw all of this in an instant and knew what I had to do. As Davina, Mario and the YouTuber prepared to pounce, I gathered the Simulacrum in my hands and smeared it over my face; I felt it fill my pores. I massaged it like shampoo into my hair and rubbed it into my aloha shirt until it was a thing no more.

They all froze, dead in their tracks. They stared into my eyes.

Confetti and beads are strewn across the now visible floor as well as the tables and chairs. Loud clambering has long since turned into quiet conversation. The live jazz band in the corner plays the last few songs of the night before packing up and getting ready for the next. Drinks have stopped being served a little less than an hour ago and a regular is striking up a conversation with the barkeeper as they close up shop, trying to convince them to give them a shot for the road. You yourself are about halfway through your drink, taking small sips between small talk with the rest of the stragglers, trying to make the night last just a little longer. The others say their goodbyes, but you’ve got nowhere you need to be so you stay in your seat and wave farewell as the door closes behind them.

The jazz band puts away the last of their instruments and chat to one another as they walk through the back exit, followed closely by the regular who, in their drunken stupor, had mistaken it for the front door. One of the employees has started sweeping up the stray confetti and the bartender tells you it’s time to go. You finish the rest of your now watered-down drink and stand up from your seat, picking up your coat that had been hanging on the back of your chair before leaving.

​

*Authors note: this isn't supposed to be so much as a narrative, as simply trying to emulate a feeling or emotion.*

Adrian's enthusiasm for nature led him and his friends deep into the heart of a mysterious forest, where towering trees cast elongated shadows in the dying light. The air was thick with an unsettling silence that seemed to amplify the rustling leaves and distant hoots of unseen creatures.

As night fell, the group gathered around a crackling campfire, sharing laughter and stories. Little did they know, their carefree camaraderie would soon descend into a nightmare beyond their wildest fears.

On the first night, as the moon hung low in the sky, they noticed Mark was missing. Adrian assumed he had wandered off, perhaps exploring the surroundings. The friends called out into the darkness, but only the wind responded with eerie whispers. The morning light revealed a gruesome discovery – Mark's mangled remains lay sprawled near the campsite, a grotesque tableau that sent shivers down their spines.

Fear clung to the group like a shadow as they tried to rationalize the inexplicable tragedy. Determined to stay united, they pressed on, attributing Mark's death to some freak accident in the wilderness.

However, the forest seemed to tighten its grip each passing night. The group's numbers dwindled as one friend after another went missing, only to be discovered in horrifying conditions come morning. Desperation gnawed at their resolve, and Adrian found himself tormented by recurring nightmares.

In his dreams, a ghastly figure emerged from the shadows. Tall and emaciated, it bore empty black eyes that seemed to absorb the very essence of light. Its mouth, a grotesque spectacle, stretched impossibly wide, revealing rows upon rows of razor-sharp teeth.

The nightmares grew increasingly vivid, each one a horrifying spectacle of the figure tormenting his friends. The forest became a nightmarish stage where his companions suffered unspeakable horrors, their anguished screams echoing through the twisted labyrinth of his dreams.

Each morning, the remnants of his friends' nightmares lingered like a haunting fog. Adrian could feel the weight of their despair, their pleas for salvation etched into his mind. The dreams left him drained and terrified, dreading the approaching darkness that promised another night of terror.

As his friends perished one by one, their spectral forms appeared in Adrian's nightmares, beckoning him to rescue them from the malevolent force that held them captive. The black abyss swallowed them whole, their voices fading into anguished echoes.

In the final nightmare, the forest transformed into an inescapable void, and Adrian found himself alone. The figure approached, its skeletal frame gliding eerily towards him. Chains materialized, binding Adrian to the cold, unforgiving ground.

Terror gripped him as the figure whispered, "You are all mine, my sweetlings." The chains tightened, constricting his limbs. Adrian's screams echoed through the abyss as the figure, devoid of mercy, tore his arms from their sockets.

The darkness whispered its final, chilling declaration as the figure loomed over him, "You are mine." Adrian's world collapsed into a nightmare within a nightmare as the figure ripped his head from his trembling body.

With a gasp, Adrian awoke in his tent, drenched in cold sweat. The morning sun filtered through the trees, casting a pallor over the once-familiar surroundings. The weight of grief and fear clung to him as he realized the nightmare had transcended the realm of dreams.

The forest, now eerily silent, seemed to absorb the horror that had unfolded within its depths. Adrian's trembling hands clutched at the remnants of his sanity as he grappled with the nightmarish reality that had consumed his friends and left him stranded in a waking nightmare with no escape.

This is my third time trying to post a story so this is technically not my first but is the first that (hopefully) is actually posted. Feedback and advice would be greatly appreciated as I hope to become an author someday soon

Only idiots wouldn’t know who he was. The more fearsome villain in the world was known for all he had accomplished. His most recent plan however, would ruin his perfectly crafted reputation in a way that it could not be fixed.

The world leader was a kind old man that was loved by all – even villains most insane henchmen loved him. Nothing would upset the world more than losing their beloved leader. Villain perched on the rooftop of the world leaders home. Careful research and tricks had gone into acquiring the world leaders schedule, which said that he would be going out on his morning walk very soon.

The grand door opened and a short, plump man stepped out. He made it all of three steps before Villains henchmen swooped down and shoved the man into a helicopter that flew away to an unknown location where the world leader would never be seen again.

Villain jumped down and turned to face the shocked staff watching from the door. “People of the world!” He said, “Today I have taken away your great leader. What will you do without him? You will be hopeless without him.” Villain was expecting them all to burst out in tears or yell at him. Instead, the three people standing in the doorway gave him a massive round of applause and cheered his name. “What’s going on? You all should be horrified right now!” “That man was terrible!” A woman with a slick bun called, “You are our hero! You saved us from that horrid man and his evil ways.” “The world will know of the good you have done here today.” A man cheered. “What! No! You’re supposed to be sad! I’m not a hero you should be scared of me right now!” Despite his attempts at regaining his reputation Villain was forced to stomp home a hero.

The moon hangs over head with not a cloud in sight. The stars shimmer in its light, reflecting its buety. The moon light shines down to the earth below, carrying with it something rather unusual. A person of some sorts. Their skin a glistening grey, their silver hair long and flowing, their eyes like bright stars and their cloths like a night robe. Their feet reach the soil of the earth below them as they make their approach to a lonesome home. 

 Restless in his bed, a man lays in contemplation. It had been many long, sleepless hours struggling to understand his own contemplations. Though that would be soon interrupted by a stray breeze. He sat up in his bed and turned to the window. His widened as he saw a figure sitting in his open window sill.

 "Who are you?!" The man said in an anxious tone.

 The figure looked to the man and smiled. "I'm the Moon, and I've come to see you."

 The man looked at the supposed moon person  with both anxiety and skepticism. "Why me? What do you want from?"

 The man was silent for a bit, awaiting an answer. The Moon responded with a soft smile. "I've noticed you're struggling to sleep, my friend. I can see you have a lot on your my mind."

 The man's eyes lower themselves as he turns his head away as if to hide from the truth in those words. Though he shortly looks back at the moon. "Yeah, I've been thinking a lot about some stuff, about the past, about my experiences. I wonder if any of it was real or just a dream. The longer I live, the more those memories begin to distort and fade. It scares me. I just want to know if any of it is real." The man lowers his head as these words weigh on him.

 The moon walks over to the man's bed and sits next to him in silence. It thinks and contemplates the man's words as it turns to him. "I see, I can feel the pain these thoughts bring you. But if I may say, I think that what you speak of is not something to fear. All human beings will eventually forget experiences, and their memories will change, distort, and fade away. But such is life. To miss something, to wish for those experiences to be real, is to admit that they were wonderful experiences. Experiences that, whether real or just a dream, were still experienced by you."

 "For what is life, but a series of lived experiences."

 The man looked up at the moon in awe of its words. Unable to speak in those moments as tears began to roll down his cheeks, joyful tears. The experiences of his life flooded into his mind. Some that felt so viserly real and others that felt as though they were long-lost dreams. Yet, in that moment, they were all real. They were real to him, for those were his experiences, his life.

 The Moon smiled its soft smile as it hugged the man. The man hugged him back in thanks as the Moon rose from the bed and grabbed the man's blanket, tucking him into his bed. The man with a smile drifted to sleep as if he had never struggled to do so in the first place. 

The light breeze ceases as the window is closed, and the moon light shines down to the earth as it carries the Moon back home amongst the glistening stars of the cloudless night. 

 "Goodnight, Lost Dreamer. Sleep well."

This is the first chapter of a novel I am working on. I'm curious what people think. There are nods to Tolkien. I've also been working on fleshing out a world with it's own units of measurement and currency rules. Thanks.

It was another hot day. It was going to be 427 flame today.

The smog hung heavily in the Lower City today casting oppressive shadows on the folk below. Somewhere far off, a whistle sounds to indicate the change of shifts in one of the numerous smoke spewing factories in this area of Ver’den. We find ourselves in one of the industrial hubs on the outskirts of the city. Despite the pollution, dozens of individuals are out and about. It’s not uncommon to see a human man down here, too poor to live in the upper city with the rest of the humans or hiding from something. The lower city was a good place to hide because the Metropolitan Guardians never really came down here. When they did it was usually for a purpose, they came in force and left bodies behind. You might also see your basic Goblinoids, mostly the dimly lumbering Bugbears but the occasional true-Goblin might skitter by too. The true-Goblins were mostly employed as engineers and were usually too good to consort with the common rabble of the Lower City. The vast majority of the workforce in the Lower City though were the Orcs. They made up 80% of the population in the Lower City and 90% of the workforce of the factories.

The Orcs used to be a great army of warriors. Over a thousand magetides ago, they followed the leadership of a mythic godlike being remembered as “The Dark Eye”. His name had been lost to history. He is remembered as a mythic quasi-deity and for some reason is the patron lord of jewelers. When he was defeated, the orcs had been moved into camps, reeducated, and moved into planned settlements throughout the realm of Veridell. They were expected to work eight rotations each jump, they had two rotations off. They only had to work five horns each rotation and their supervisors told them to be thankful for that too. That was only half of the rotation.

The factories in the Lower city made all manner of things that the folk in the Upper City took for granted. From runewagons that traveled the streets to the appliances that allowed them to enjoy an easier life. This particular factory produced levitaspires, a flying vehicle that supposedly used the power of harnessed magics to allow the vehicle to hover and move in any direction. It was a pod with five swords coming off the top that spun very fast and allowed it to leave the ground. If it wasn’t magic, it seemed like it was. One of the lowliest workers in the factory was named Grima, a 20 year old Orc girl. This was her first job, she had only started about a moon ago.

A thousand times each rotation, a part would be brought to Grima on a hook hanging from the conveyer belt on the ceiling with a woosh and she was expected to use a bolt-blaster to attach five bolts to the part; zzt, zzt, zzt, zzt, zzt. And then the part would be taken away again, wrrr. Grima’s whole day was: woosh, zzt, zzt, zzt, zzt, zzt, wrrr, woosh, zzt, zzt, zzt, zzt, zzt, wrrr, woosh, zzt, zzt, zzt, zzt, zzt, wrrr and it continued. She often considered using the bolt gun to put herself out of her misery, but she was afraid it would just hurt really bad and not kill her. It was a truly mind numbing experience. There was no one to talk to, nothing to distract her.

At the end of her five horn shift. She walked out of work with hundreds of other orcs, one bugbear, and their supervisor a half-human half-hobgoblin monstrosity named Mr. Grubb. Grima looked to the sky. When she had arrived the sun had been just below the horizon to the direction of the day watch and now the sun was just below the horizon off towards night keep. She shambled toward her home, not so far from the factory. She entered her door to her home, it was two small rooms, one had a nice hard bed, an older model mysti-viewer, and a grungy kitchenette with a single burner and a rusted sink. The second room had no door, it was a Waste Disposal Chamber with a rudimentary hole in the floor for waste and a shower, the water only came out one temperature, it was neither hot nor cold.

Grima turned on her mysti-viewer and sat on her bed. Oh awesome, Dragonclash was on! It was an awesome game. Her favorite team, the Ironscale Defenders, were playing. In Dragonclash, three teams were on a huge triangular field. Each of the teams have six players, all orcs. Five of them carry clubs to beat players on the other teams and shatter the opponent's eggs, the sixth player holds a fragile ceramic ball that is supposed to be a dragon egg. The goal is to get your dragon egg to the nest in the center of the field and defend it for the maximum time while trying to shatter the opponent's eggs and not have your egg shattered. If you can defend your egg for ten ticks, you score a point. Once all the eggs are broken the teams go back to their side of the triangle and try again. The game goes until a team scores 30 points, or both of their opposing teams players are unconscious. It’s harder than you think to render an orc unconscious with just a club. Games of Dragonclash were known to run for several rotations. There were no breaks and no time-outs. They played non-stop till one team was victorious. The Ironscale Defenders were up against the Bloodfire Berserkers and the Dreadwing Chieftains. The score was 4-3-0, Ironscale in the lead followed by the Dreadwings.

Grima watched it for a few horns till she was feeling tired. She was getting ready to bed down for the night, and turned off the light. She was laying in the darkness for a while, almost asleep when she heard a crash outside, like a trash bin falling over. Grima tried to ignore it but there was a suspicious issue in her brain that just wouldn't allow her to relax. Grima groaned, got up and went to the tiny dirty window in her home. Right outside, half concealed behind a tree was a fair skinned, thin man. He had a green cloak, a backpack, and pointed ears poking out from his shock white hair. Was that an elf? Grima had never seen one before! She had only heard of them. Three Metropolitan Guardian runewagons skidded to a halt nearby, and a dozen MGs jumped down each with a glowing thunder-stick in their hands. They meant business. They began to fan out. The elf was obviously terrified.

Grima opened her door and spoke for the first time in her whole rotation, “Hey, elf! Get inn’erre.” The elf looked at the beckoning orc with an obvious disdain, back to the MG, back to Grimma, made a face like he smelled something bad, and came into her house.

The sun dipped over the horizon casting a warm orange glow over the café I was staying in. Eyes fixated on a book I’m currently obsessed with, lost in a world of words, amidst a world without words.

As the last ray of light cast its final glow, darkness follows. Unaware that night has fallen, I quickly got up. I stole a gaze towards a serene lake, where the water reflected city lights like a thousand stars. And that was when I saw her, sitting on a bench by the lake.

It isn’t the first time I’ve ran into her. I’ve just been keeping my distance, trying to muster up the courage to approach her. But something always intervened, and we remained strangers.

Tonight, however, seemed like fate had other plans for us and broke the pattern. A gust of wind flew overhead trailing leaves at its wake, and a playful breeze carried her scarf away. As if instinctively, I lunge forward, catching the scarf before it touched the ground.

She was startled, but was thankful nonetheless to the stranger who had saved her scarf. Our eyes met, and I kid you not, it felt like time stopped. As if a grade schooler giving out a presentation, my heart raced faster than it ever had before. As I gaze upon her warm, hazel eyes, and as if she was trying to say something but her breath got caught in her throat as she met my gaze.

For that fleeting moment, it felt like it was only the two of us in the world, connected by an unspoken understanding. I could clearly hear our hearts beat in sync; a connection stronger than any words we could convey. And in this moment, I knew, fate has given me a chance, a chance I’ve been waiting for.

But as quickly as it had begun, as if struck by lightning, the moment had passed. She took her scarf from my outstretched hand and gave a warm smile, her lips parting as if to say something. Yet, the words never came. Instead, she nodded in gratitude, and I dumbfounded, nodded back. A silent agreement passing between the both of us.

With a final glance, we both turned and walked away towards the direction we usually take. Our paths had crossed once again, and this time, not even fate would be able to intervene. As we both disappear into the darkness of the night, I knew of an unspoken promise of a future yet to be written.

And so, in the end, their eyes met, but no words came out.

PS: My first time ever sharing my writing, I'm looking forward to sharing more from now!

Hii this is my first short story that I have felt is good enough to post anywhere, please make any suggestions you might have to improve my writing.

I watched as the first interstellar colony ships departed for Mars, carrying the hopes and dreams of our species to the distant red planet. Little did we know that our fledgling colonization efforts would soon be met with a threat unlike any we had ever imagined.

It began with a distress signal from a cargo ship enroute to Mars. We, the people of Earth, were shocked and bewildered as a menacing alien alliance claimed responsibility for the attack. We were thrust into a galactic conflict, yet we had no prior knowledge of extraterrestrial life. The alien alliance declared that we had crossed the border of their territory without permission, and for this, our planet was forfeit. We tried diplomacy, but our attempts fell on def ears. They wanted to fight, they longed for it.

Humanity's response was swift and resolute. We mobilized our war industry, putting every available resource into producing warships and planetary defenses. It was a race against time as we prepared to defend our world from a threat beyond our wildest imagination.

The day arrived when the forces of the alien alliance descended upon Earth. As their ships breached our atmosphere, our planetary defense shields activated, a marvel of human engineering. Massive volleys of missiles and rail gun projectiles were launched into the heavens, creating a blazing shield of defiance against the alien aggressors.

The ensuing space battle was a spectacle of cataclysmic proportions. Earth's defense ships engaged the alien fleet, a dance of light and fire amidst the vast cosmos. The sky above us became a theater of war, with explosions illuminating the darkness like stars gone awry. The din of battle echoed across our planet as we watched in awe and dread.

The alien alliance possessed formidable technology, and the fight was brutal. Human warships, and make shift fighters, piloted by courageous crews, traded barrages of plasma beams and energy projectiles with the alien invaders. Most of our ships armaments didn’t even scratch their armor. Earth's cities trembled as the shockwaves of nearby explosions rattled our buildings.

Yet, even as the odds seemed insurmountable, the indomitable will of Earth shone through. Our soldiers fought with unmatched determination. Civilians took refuge in underground bunkers, while volunteers joined the defense efforts. It was a testament to human resilience as we defended our home with a fervor that defied the despair that loomed on the horizon.

The battle raged on for months, and our planet bore the scars of war. But we held the line, even managing to push the alien alliance back from Earth's borders, forcing them to regroup and reconsider their assault. We had fought well considering, but supplies were running low really low, cities were in ruins, and earth could no longer produce enough energy to keep any shield generators operational. We did our best to cobble what few warships we had left back into operational capability. We even tried to use the enemy’s ships, but unfortunately they were genetically locked.

As we caught our breath and counted our losses, we decided to send an SOS signal into the vast unknown of space, a plea for help that echoed our desperation: "Help, we are humanity of planet Earth, besieged by the Alien Alliance, low on ammo, our cities in ruin and we are in need of aid, calling to anyone and everyone who might be able to help."

Days passed, and then weeks, as the alien alliance regrouped for another assault. We spotted reinforcements, their fleet doubling in size every day. Before we knew it we could feel the ground shake as orbital strikes resumed. Humanity's defense capabilities were on the brink of running out, and despair began to set in. We questioned if anyone would come to our aid in time to prevent our planet's fall. We asked ourselves if there even was anybody else out there. What few warships were left were launched back into space to do what little they could to buy time. We even reinstated the old ICBM’s from the 21st century, but not one of them reached the hulls of the enemy ships, all being shot down before getting close enough to harm them.

But then, just when hope seemed lost, a miracle occurred. We received e reply to our SOS, then another and another soon thousands of responses to our SOS signal started flooding in from every direction of the universe. To our astonishment, every response came from humans, many stating they would protect and save their cradle world this time around. The realization hit us like a tidal wave, and in that moment, we were overcome with a profound mixture of emotions.

For a brief, heart-stopping moment, we, the people of Earth, were left breathless, our eyes glistening with tears of disbelief and gratitude. In the darkest hour of our known existence, when we had been pushed to the brink, it was the outstretched hands of our fellow humans that reached across the cosmos to rescue us.

It was as if the universe itself had conspired to show us that we were never truly alone. The connections that had been lost in the mists of time, the shared history and heritage of a species that had scattered to the farthest reaches of the cosmos, all became stunningly clear in that single moment.

A surge of hope, like a brilliant supernova of joy and determination, swept through the hearts of every Earthling. We were not merely inhabitants of a single blue planet; we were part of a vast family of humanity, dispersed across galaxies but forever bound by our common origins. The unity of our species was no longer an abstract concept; it was a tangible force that had come to our aid when we needed it most.

Tears of relief and pride mingled with our cries of triumph as we watched the arrivals of the Human Federation's fleet, pirates, mercenaries, medical ships and even civilian haulers warp into the sky’s above. The war-torn skies above Earth were now filled with hope—a collage of ships representing every corner of the universe where humanity had found a home. They descended upon the alien alliance like a tempest, their arrival a testament to the unwavering resilience of Earth and dedication to each other. The massive battleships of the Human federations volley after volley of energy and anti material weapons tore through the reinforced hulls, the pirates shooting harpoons and boarding the enemy vessels taking them for their own, bolstering the defensive force. The mercenaries engaged is high speed fighter combat, out maneuvering and outgunning the aliens pilots. The medical ships came down to earth to help all those in need, witch was many, their medicines far beyond our understanding healing wounds instantly. And the civilians haulers? They were flying straight towards the enemy and last second would open the cargo doors and preform high G maneuvers to launch the rock and minerals in their holds to be turning into bullets smashing into the enemy fleet. After days of fighting, tens of thousands of alien crafts were floating lifelessly through the dark of space. The debris fields covered the sky’s and sparked at night with the brilliance of 1 million stars.

We embraced the knowledge that we were not alone, that humanity had never truly been isolated in the vast cosmos, just lost to the passing of time and tragedy. Earth was a part of a grand, interconnected story of human civilization that spanned the galaxies. With renewed determination, we looked up to the stars with tears in our eyes, ready to forge a future that extended far beyond the boundaries of our own blue planet. And as the final remnants of the alien alliance were swept away, we knew that our destiny was entwined with the endless expanse of the universe. We drank and we partied with our new found kin, and that is when we learned the revelation that Earth was in fact the cradle of humanity. Humanity had initially spread across the stars as a response to a catastrophe, evacuating all they could, even taking 2 of each animal to breed on whatever home they’d be able to find. This natural disaster that had pushed Earth back to the Stone Age a cataclysmic event had struck Earth over 100,000 years ago, erasing much of our technological and cultural heritage. The catastrophe had pushed our ancestors back to a primitive state, forcing them to relearn the basics of survival, agriculture, and civilization. Over the eons humanities past had been forgotten the stories of our past had been replaced with stories shared in order to be able to survive. Those who had managed to set up colonies in the greater universe stopped receiving transmissions from Earth and had assumed their home world, the beautiful blue planet they had loved so much had been lost to tree greats catastrophe

So when they received the SOS signal, they realized that Earth, humanity's original cradle, had not only survived but had rebuilt itself from the ashes. We the humans who had been unable to evacuate, we the ones left behind on Earth, had risen from adversity and rebuilt their planet and now needed help.. they knew what must be done.

This time, Humanity, an alliance that now spanned galaxies and represented the descendants of Earth, were not just eager to protect their cradle; they were determined to ensure that the story of Earth would not be snuffed out, no not again, and to ensure that it was one of unyielding resilience, of a planet and a species that could rise from the brink of annihilation, not once but twice.

With unity forged across the cosmos from the knowledge of their cradle worlds survival and excitement of Earth joining them hand in hand once again, the people of Earth and their cosmic brethren looked to the stars with a renewed sense of purpose, ready to explore the endless expanse of space, knowing that they carried with them the legacy of a species that had endured, and rebuilt, a true symbol of humanities unwavering spirit.

The monotonous beep of a heart monitor flat-lining was a sound she heard reverberating through her head as she glanced at her phone.
"That's it, I'm calling it. Time of death 2145," she declared, pocketing her phone.
Looking up, Adriana Ross caught a glimpse of her reflection in the elevator door. She observed her distinguished figure, adorned in a long double-breasted overcoat, with a large black purse hanging from her right shoulder. Her usual brown eyes peered out from beneath her meticulously groomed bushy eyebrows, which had auburn highlights that shimmered under the fluorescent lights of the elevator. Leaning against the elevator wall, she offered herself a halfhearted smile and nod, akin to the gesture one might give to a stranger approaching them on the sidewalk.
A woman beside her chuckled as she applied lipstick by the elevator door.
"He still hasn't messaged you?" she asked, rubbing her lips together before placing the lipstick in the front pocket of her briefcase. She turned around to face Adriana and smacked her lips. "How long has it been? Five days since he spent the night?"
Adriana groaned and covered her face, feeling flushed with embarrassment.
She exclaimed, "My love life is dead. It's over. Put it in a box and set it adrift at sea." She sighed, retreating further into herself. "This is the sixth Tinder date that has ghosted me after sex. Might as well delete the app and buy seven cats."
Just then, the elevator dinged, and the doors opened, almost as if in agreement with her.
"Awe, hun, you are being dramatic," the other woman cooed, lovingly taking Adriana by the arm and guiding her out of the elevator. "Don't give up. The perfect man for you is just around the corner. I have a feeling."
As the two women stepped out of the elevator, they were immediately greeted by the humid scent of exhaust fumes and gasoline. The late hour emphasized the emptiness of the parking garage, with only a few scattered vehicles occupying the multi-level structure, serving as a reminder of the day's events. The concrete floors and walls exuded strength and resilience, while the subdued lighting above created a mysterious atmosphere that enveloped the entire area in darkness.
"That is easy for you to say. You could make Voldemort himself fall in love with you," Adriana's voice echoed through the seemingly empty parking garage as they walked.
She looked down at the woman. Maia Palmer had been her best friend since law school. Maia had an ethereal quality that set her apart from the crowd. With her long, wavy blonde hair, soft blue, and almond-shaped eyes, she possessed a captivating presence that drew others in.
Adriana reflected on that morning in court. During cross-examination, Maia had the defendant eating out of the palm of her hands. He was so taken by her that he would have confessed to the murder right then and there just to have the chance to take her out for dinner. Her commanding presence and magnetic charisma captivated not only the defendant but everyone in the courtroom. She effortlessly commanded attention and respect with her eloquent words and confident demeanor. It was a testament to Maia's captivating personality and ability to effortlessly draw others in with charm and intelligence.
"I don't even have to pay the strippers for your birthday party this weekend," Adriana teased Maia. "Just by showing them your picture, they all eagerly offered to do it for free."
The girls' laughter and heels clacking on the concrete echoed in the parking lot. However, their laughter abruptly ceased when they turned the corner to their section and saw a looming figure sitting on the hood of Maia's pick-up truck, hidden in the shadows.
The figure abruptly leaped from the car, stood upright, and took a slow stride toward the girls. It halted in front of them. Illuminated by the fluorescent light, the girls could now see that the figure was a man wearing a mask. He wore a black hoodie, white t-shirt, denim jeans, and black sneakers. Around his neck, he wore a gold chain, which added a touch of flair to his otherwise dark attire. His intense green eyes, visible through the mask, remained fixed on them, penetrating their souls.
Startled and feeling exposed under his piercing gaze, the girls clung tightly to each other as they stumbled backward.
"Hey now, there is no need to be afraid," the masked man said in a low, guttural voice, opening his arms wide. A glimmer of metal reflected in his hand, revealing a pocket knife. "As long as you do what I say," he added, shrugging and spinning the pocket knife.
Adriana could sense the faint smile playing at the corners of his lips, even though it was obscured by his mask. She stood tall to appear calm and composed. Maia mirrored Adriana's stance.
"There we go, now empty your purse onto the ground and take five steps back," he said, flicking his knife towards Adriana.
Adriana followed his instructions, holding Maia's hand as they retreated.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Adriana silently counted to herself, her footsteps resonating as she reached five. She watched him closely, noting his every action. Maia's grip tightened as he stooped down to sift through her belongings.
His hand hovered over each object until he found a small rectangular container. It was covered in vibrant artwork and adorned with the name of a long-forgotten musical group.
The thief glanced at her and mocked, "Why do you have one of these in your purse?"
Adriana was taken aback and took a few seconds to respond, allowing the question to echo in her mind. "Um, I, uh... It's a birthday gift," Adriana replied. Maia looked up at her, expressing a mix of gratitude and fear.
He stood up, his thumb catching on cellophane as he glided it across the CD.
"For her?" He nodded towards Maia.
Adriana looked at Maia, then back at him, and gave a quick, unsure nod.
He continued examining the back of the CD with his fingers before flipping it over. As he gazed at the front, his demeanor gradually transformed. His silhouette relaxed, his shoulders loosened, and he shifted his weight to his right side, appearing shorter. He glanced up at the others, then directed his gaze towards Maia. His gaze lingered on her as he took her in, and his eyes softened. Adriana again imagined the corners of his lips twitching ever so slightly into a smile.
"You like the 'Backwards B'?" he asked, his voice cracking as it shifted up an octave.
"Uh... yeah," Maia said, loosening her grip on Adriana's hand. "They are my favorite band."
"Wow. Not many people I meet even know who this band is anymore," he said, nodding in approval as he placed the knife in his back pocket to get a better look at the CD.
Adriana and Maia looked at him, eagerly anticipating what he would do next.
"Wait a minute," he suddenly said. "On the count of three, say your favorite song." He shifted the CD to one hand while counting with his other hand. "One. Two. Three."
"Juicy Booty (Hotboi Remix)," they said simultaneously.
They both nervously laughed, and he unconsciously shifted the point of his feet toward her. Maia took a few steps forward, dragging an unwilling Adriana.
What the fuck is happening? Adriana thought to herself, frozen in place, her mouth agape and her eyes darting between Maia and the masked man. Her mind wrestled with the sudden turn of events that were unfolding before her. The air around her felt heavy, as if time had temporarily stopped to give her a chance to absorb the surreal scene. A mix of disbelief, curiosity, and a hint of annoyance swirled within her as she attempted to comprehend the situation.
"Ok, but did you see that one music video..." Maia started to ask.
"Where he was inside the oven the whole time?" the unknown man exclaimed, finishing her sentence. Maia smiled up at him as he kicked his foot on the ground.
Is this real life? Adriana asked herself again. As they discussed their mutual love of the band, she took the opportunity to slowly bend down and put her belongings back in her purse.
The masked man handed the CD to Maia, their hands brushing against each other, creating a moment reminiscent of a romantic comedy.
"Alright, alright," he said, rubbing his hands together. "Instead of me stealing your stuff," Adriana imagined he paused, possibly because he was biting his lip. "How about I simply steal your number?" He shifted his body to the side and mimicked a finger gun motion.
Oh. My. God. Adriana thought as she threw her purse over her shoulders, crossed her arms, and shook her head.
"You know what?" Maia giggled, tucking her blonde hair behind her ear. "Why not?"
"What." Adriana's eyes darted at Maia in disbelief.
"Alright, bet," The masked man pulled out his flip phone and took down her number. "I will see you around, birthday girl."
The scent of Old Spice swirled around them as he shuffled past. When he reached the corner, he paused and hesitated. Suddenly, he turned back, glanced at Maia one last time, winked, and disappeared around the corner.
After the masked man disappeared around the corner, the girls stood frozen. Their eyes locked in a mixture of shock and disbelief. It wasn't until the last echo of his footsteps that they let the realization that they were safe sink in. Their bodies relaxed in a sudden release of tension, and laughter erupted deep within them. The adrenaline coursing through their veins found an outlet, and they couldn't help but laugh uncontrollably. Their laughter echoed through the empty parking garage, a cathartic release from the intensity of the encounter. They shared a moment of sheer relief and camaraderie, their smiles reaching from ear to ear as they allowed themselves to bask in the absurdity of the situation and the unexpected twist of events.
"I can't believe you gave him your real number," Adriana said between the laughter.
"What? He was cute!" Maia responded defensively.
"He was wearing a mask, Maia!" Adriana snorted. The sound of laughter continued to echo as Maia searched for her keys, and they started heading towards her truck.
Maia's old pick-up truck sat in the corner of the parking lot, its weathered exterior beckoning them to leave. The once vibrant paint had faded, revealing patches of rust that had spread across the body over time. Adriana walked up to the passenger side and looked through the windows. She could see the worn-out interior, with cracked leather seats and a faded dashboard that showed signs of wear and tear.
"Well, maybe he can steal you a new car for your birthday," Adriana suggested, swinging the door open and hopping into the truck. They sat there, exchanging smiles as the laughter subsided. After a brief pause, they shook off the remaining adrenaline and disbelief.
"At least the guys you attract just ghost you, right?" Maia jokes.
Adriana chuckles, "Yeah, maybe the universe is telling us that we should embrace being single for a while."
Adriana takes the CD that Maia placed on her lap, unwraps the case, and opens it. She inserts the CD into the player, and it starts playing Juicy Booty (Hotboi Remix). "This one's for you... birthday girl," she says in a deep voice, winking at her, imitating the masked man.
Maia rolled her eyes, shifted the gear into reverse, and drove out of the parking lot.

Eternal Waking
by John E. Poole

This is based on a true story, even though most of it never happened.
~
I can't remember where we went, but we were on our way back home. In the car with me were Burt, Tallboy, and Hope. We decided to stop at a nearby store to pick up some groceries. We pulled in and parked about six cars away from the entrance. We bundled up before making our way across the snowy parking lot.
We split up once we were inside. I grabbed a plastic basket and headed straight for the snack aisle. I procured several different styles of cookies and piled them up haphazardly in my basket. As I was rounding the bend to head for the beverage aisle, I saw that this store had a little built-in bakery. I stopped for a moment to look at the options they had on display. I saw two big glazed donuts on one shelf, the fluffy kind I always got when my father and I went shopping together. I grabbed a paper bag and a couple of wax sheets and claimed both donuts with a smile.
I went to the front of the store to pay for my selections. There was an empty check-out lane being manned by a young woman who looked kind but miserable. I began loading my groceries onto the moving platform but was soon distracted by Tallboy a few lanes over. He had a lot more stuff than I did, and it was already completely bagged up. He was hurrying toward the door. In fact, he was practically running. In my distraction, I kept foolishly grabbing items from the very bottom of my basket and knocking higher-up items out onto the floor.
After picking everything up and placing it all on the conveyor belt, I apologized absentmindedly and began reaching for my wallet. Tallboy was now idling in the small vestibule between the two sets of sliding doors at the exit, with several bags of groceries at his feet. I was thinking that he had been trying to steal his groceries, but no alarm was sounding and he didn't seem to be in a hurry anymore, so I shrugged it off. I watched the cashier scan the last of my snacks. I paid with cash and didn't even count the change I was given before shoving it into my pocket and grabbing my one bag. By the time I started making my way to the exit, Tallboy was gone.
When I got to the parking lot, I couldn't find Burt's car. I stood in the area I thought he had parked and looked around. The snow was coming down harder now, and the flakes were large and blinding. I started to panic. Had everyone left me? We were nowhere near home and my phone was dead, there's no way that they would have left me here. I began moving through the lanes of the parking lot, carefully yet frantically weaving between vehicles and trying to look in every direction at once.
I was a decent ways away before I realized that I had dropped my bag of groceries where I thought Burt's car had been. I calmed myself down a bit and began walking back to retrieve it, pretty much giving up on finding my friends. My mind was working one mile per minute, but nothing useful was coming out of it. My bag was gone when I returned to where I'd left it. Before I had the time to process this, I heard a nearby car horn. I turned and saw Burt's car, with everyone else already inside, sitting almost exactly where I had first looked for it. When I got in the car, Burt handed me my bag and began driving. I got a weird feeling that everyone was messing with me, but everyone was acting normal, so I dismissed it. It's possible that I just completely missed the car when I was looking for it.
We had to stop and get gas soon afterward. I went inside the gas station to buy cigarettes while Burt was pumping. There were a handful of people arguing at the station's front counter, and I couldn't tell the tone of the argument or even who was arguing with whom. I hung back and waited for my turn, glancing around at all the nearby products. There was a plastic cylinder filled with long skinny items that I took for jerky but turned out to be some sort of newfangled writing utensils. The discussion nearby seemed to be escalating, and I wondered to myself how much I really wanted to buy cigarettes right then and there.
That's when I woke up.
~
I had been dreaming all of this in the spare bedroom at my father's house. I used to stay in the basement, but this had ostensibly become my bedroom after the basement had flooded and most of my worldly possessions had been tarnished. I could tell that it was fairly early in the morning from the angle of the sunlight in the window, illuminating various piles of laundry and garbage. I rolled out of bed and decided I should probably clean up a little.
I began alternating between filling up a trash bag and hiding dirty clothes in my closet. By the time I was finished, I had a bag and a half of waste, plus a newly visible carpet. I left the half-bag in my room and carried the full one through the dining room and into the kitchen, where I noticed my dad was not in his usual spot at the kitchen table just yet. I exited the door on the other side of the kitchen that led to the garage.
There was a small landing outside the door. A few feet in front of me was the small staircase leading down into the garage. To my right was our tiny laundry room, and to my left was the darkness of the stairs leading down to the basement. I stood there for a decent while, surveying the shadows leading down to my former bedroom.
I thought about a dream I had once had, a few years before. I was standing on this same landing and looking down these stairs at my grandfather, who had died several years prior. You can't actually see into the basement from the stairs in real life, there's only a small landing that opens to the left. But in this dream, I could somehow see everything down there very clearly. My grandfather was moving all about the basement hurriedly, not only alive and well but also in some kind of frustrated panic. I turned toward the kitchen where my father was seated in his regular chair and I asked him what was happening. I got no response. But when I turned back toward the basement, my grandfather was suddenly right in front of me at the top of the staircase, jarringly motionless and glaring grimly down at me. The surprise of it had been enough to jerk me from my sleep.
That's when I had woken up.
I eventually turned my attention away from the dark stairs and moved forward and down the steps into the garage. There was a large garbage bin against the wall where all the long-ignored tools hung, but it was already filled beyond capacity. I knew there was something my dad wanted me to do with trash bags in this situation, but I couldn't remember for the life of me what it was. I marveled at just how long it must have been since the last time this happened. How could I have forgotten the proper procedure? After a few moments spent trying to scour my brain, I decided to just set the bag down next to the bin. It didn't feel right, but it was all I could think to do.
As I was heading back up toward the kitchen, I could hear my dad getting settled into his chair with his coffee and newspaper. My anxiety about not knowing what to do with my trash bag was elevated by my realization that it had maybe been way too long since I took out the garbage, and that I was not a very responsible son in general. I decided to detour into the basement before facing my father. The basement was much less creepy when you turned on the lights, but it was still somewhat disconcerting.
The room right at the bottom of the stairs (which had once been my bedroom) was about as big as a decently sized one-room apartment. It had always been prone to flooding, but it had usually been manageable. The last flood had been really bad though, and the room had never fully recovered. My old bed and two couches were still down here, though they were now skewed into awkward positions. I had trashed or moved out most of my things, but some remnants of my residency remained. A few books lay around among unwanted or ruined clothes. Posters still hung on the wall, rebelliously slanted and uneven. Beer cans were scattered around most of the room, punctuating the mess. I started to gather these empty cans into a cluster on a small coffee table nestled behind one of the couches, vaguely straightening up the room.
In the corner opposite the entrance to the basement was an open doorframe, leading to two other rooms which constituted the truly creepy part of the basement. When I was a child and this had been my grandparents' house, there had been a ping pong table and various other fun activities back in these two rooms. But both rooms had long since been abandoned to flooding, rot, mold, and likely insect infestation. I had hung a bedsheet over this doorframe when I made this basement my bedroom, and it had been almost enough to convince me that spiders and centipedes weren't crawling all over me every night as I slept.
The bedsheet was long gone now, and I could see the foreboding darkness of the neglected rooms. I caught myself staring timidly into the shadows. I stared into this same darkness many times before, imagining a ghostly figure suddenly emerging, picturing it so vividly in my mind that you would think I was trying to will it into happening. I never consciously turned my back to that darkness, certain that whatever evil resided there lived perpetually just outside of my sightline, forever waiting around any given corner with a merciless smile, hungrily anticipating the moment when I stopped looking for it. I began slowly backing away toward the stairs.
That's when I woke up.
~
This hadn't been the first dream of mine to take place in my deceased father's house. In fact, it was one of the more common locations for my dreams, even though I hadn't lived there in over a decade. My first thought upon waking was that it was no wonder I couldn't remember what to do with my trash bag in the dream. How had I not realized that I was dreaming right then and there?
My right eye was so crusty that I couldn't open it, so I went to the bathroom to wash my face. When I was done, my eye still felt a little weird and my vision was a bit messed up, and I worried that it might be a serious issue. I tried to shake the feeling off as I went out into the living room. My roommate Burt was there watching television. We greeted each other and I immediately began describing my dream to him.
"We were at this grocery store," I explained. "I think Tallboy was pulling some kind of scam to rip the store off or something, he was booking to the door real fast like he had something to hide."
Burt asked, "Was he using the self-checkout?"
"I don't think so, but it's hard to remember now. All I know is he was acting funny."
"That probably means that, deep down, you think Tallboy is a little sketchy."
"What? Come on, that's not true." I waved the suggestion off with one hand and rubbed my eye with the other. "Everybody acts funny in my dreams, even you."
"Wait, what did I do that was funny?"
"Well," I said, thinking back. "When I went outside, I couldn't find your car. But then a minute later, it was right where I had looked for it. It kinda felt like you were moving the car around on purpose just to mess with my head."
"Or maybe you just looked in the wrong spot."
"It was snowing pretty bad, so maybe that's possible," I admitted.
"Snowing, huh? Weird," he said. "It's pretty much always summer in my dreams."
"Lucky you." I rubbed at my eye again, and this time my vision did seem to clear up somewhat. "Anyways, I woke up but I was still in a dream. I was at my dad's house, and I had to take the trash out, and it never even occurred to me that it was a ridiculous situation and I might still be asleep."
Burt shrugged. "Dreams are weird like that, don't let it get to you. You may be dreaming still."
I chuckled and looked around the apartment. Something was wrong though. The grandfather clock wasn't where it usually was, and the windchimes from the back porch were hanging stoically from the dining room ceiling. I turned back toward Burt. "Did you move some stuff around in here?" Burt didn't answer, just looked flatly back at me. "It's fine if you did, I'm just feeling a little disoriented is all."
The more I looked around, the greater the sinking feeling grew inside of me. It finally dawned on me that we were not in our apartment. We were in my father's house. I was still dreaming. I was suddenly very fearful of my own brain. This dream had started with my vision impaired, and it felt like my mind had purposely done that to prevent me from realizing that I was still asleep. Just like in the grocery store's parking lot, my thoughts were racing with absolutely no substance to them. Every idea seemed to be a blurry picture of a nonsense word. Burt shrugged again and went back to watching TV.
I stood up and walked through the dining room into my dad's kitchen. The door leading to the garage was swung wide open. Directly ahead of that, where the garage should have been, was the basement stairs. The dark shadows seemed to creep up the walls towards me. I realized that if I looked away, they would somehow slink all the way across the kitchen and get me. I also had the strong sense that in any other direction I looked, my grandfather would be standing there with that same intense expression I had dreamt of just a few years before. I stood there practically frozen for quite some time.
That's when I woke up.
~
I lay shaken in my bed, looking around the room fearfully. I could not tell if I was still dreaming. Everything seemed familiar enough until I looked at the light fixture above me, which seemed to be made of blue glass and was littered with tiny bubbles and imperfections. This was not any light fixture I had ever seen before. I was definitely still asleep.
I tried my best to imagine my actual bedroom back in the real world. I was horrified to realize that I couldn't even picture it. I wanted to remember it very badly, as if maybe having a clear image of it in my mind would help me to wake up there next time. All I could picture was a small metal bookshelf that I owned, and this bookshelf seemed to multiply itself and fill the room that I was trying to imagine, the same way that a single line from a song will get stuck in your head when you can't remember any of the other words. My real room was definitely not filled with small metal bookshelves.
I realized the only thing I knew for certain was that my real bedroom did not match the bedroom in which I had just woken up. I briefly thought of trying to go back to sleep. Maybe that was the secret exit from this nightmare. But I decided that it wasn't worth the risk of backsliding deeper into a different layer of dreaming. I got out of the bed and exited the room. I was not entirely surprised to find that I was still in my father's house and Burt was still sitting on the couch. I stood watching him for a few moments, then I began to speak.
"I'm still in the dream, man."
He answered without looking over at me. "The one about the self-checkout?"
"Yeah," I said. "I mean no. Not really. It feels like I've woken up too many times for this to possibly be the same dream."
"That probably means that, deep down, you're a little sketchy," he replied.
A horrifying thought suddenly dawned on me. "What if I died in real life? What if this is what death really is, just transitioning from one dream to another forever and ever? Or maybe I'm in a coma somewhere." I had to sit down.
Burt looked over at me quizzically. "Wait, what did I do that was funny again?"
"I have to figure out some way out of this, Burt. There has to be a way." I remembered that as a child I had woken myself up from several nightmares by simply blinking rapidly. I tried to do it again but found that I could only close my eyes tightly. I couldn't blink.
I heard Burt distractedly mutter, "You're looking in the wrong spot."
"I know," I said wearily. "I have to get away from here. I kinda don't want to wake up in this house again."
I opened my eyes. Burt was standing by the front door, which was now open. I could see bright sunlight pouring in, and blue sky and green grass beyond that. "It's pretty much always summer in my dreams," he said, looking out.
"Thanks," I told him.
I got up and started walking out of the house. As I left, Burt said to me, "Dreams are weird like this. Don't let it get to you." I wasn't sure if I would be able to heed his advice.
Outside looked familiar enough. It was indeed my father's old neighborhood, with a row of houses on my side of the street and a large forest leading down to a ravine on the opposite side. I started walking down the sidewalk to the right, toward the center of town. I tried to remember if this was east or west and of course, I could not. (As it turns out, this would have technically been southwest.)
I didn't feel like I was getting anywhere, so I picked my pace up to a jog. Cars went by sporadically on the road beside me. I had no idea where I was going. Maybe getting far away from that house would break the cycle. Maybe if I went far enough, I would reach the location of my actual apartment, which would help me to wake up there next. All I knew was that I wanted this all to end. I wanted the simple relief of knowing I was in reality again. I vaguely realized that my jog had become a full-blown run at some point.
That's when I woke up.
~
I did wake up in the exact same room again, but it turns out that it only made me feel a sort of confounded amusement. I immediately got up and left the room to go update Burt in the living room.
When I got there, I found three Burts instead of one. My father's house had a large L-shaped couch in the living room, and two Burts sat on the long end while the third Burt sat alone on the short side. They all wore the same outfit, a plain gray T-shirt and white running shorts with an orange stripe down the side. They were all watching something on TV, and they were all Burt. I sat in the chair across from the couch. None of this seemed particularly jarring.
"It didn't work," I told them. "I guess I didn't really have a plan at all, but anyways it didn't work. I'm still in the dream. Do you know that there's three of you?"
The Burts looked around briefly as if counting. Burt One, at the far end of the long side of the couch and closest to me, spoke first. "Yeah, there's three. But it's all me, don't worry too much about it. It's fine."
Next to Burt One, Burt Two chuckled and said, "Talk about a self-checkout!"
Burt Three said nothing and turned his attention back to the TV.
"I'm not sure what to do," I said. "I feel like I might accidentally make it worse somehow. Is it maybe okay if I hang out with you guys and just kinda wait for this to end?"
"Sure, that's fine," said Burt One. "I mean, it's fine with me. But I wonder if it's really fine with you. Don't you think you should deal with what's going on in the basement? Seems to be a lot of bad vibes down there, man."
Burt Two seemed surprised to hear this. "Well, that probably means, deep down, the basement is pretty sketchy. 'Deep down' figuratively, not because it's a basement."
Burt Three shook his head and mouthed the word 'figuratively', but continued to silently stare at the the television. I got the sense that Burt Three was different from the other two somehow, and not just because of his quiet nature. His expression was mostly blank, they all had that in common, but he seemed sad somehow.
"I'm afraid to go downstairs," I admitted. "Not in real life, of course. But this is a dream, there could be anything lurking down there." I actively stopped myself from trying to picture the possibilities. I looked over at the television. It was just a blur of colors and lights. I realized that, unlike my last dream, it was night outside. I could somehow tell this just from looking at the TV.
"Wait," realized Burt Two. He turned to Burt One. "What did you do that was funny?"
"Remember? I parked the car in a weird spot."
"Oh." Burt Two considered this for a moment. "I don't think I was there for that one."
They both turned back to me. "You said it yourself," Burt One told me. "This is a dream. So if there was ever a moment when you should feel safe walking into a dangerous place, it should be now."
I hadn't considered this mindset. Perhaps I could convince myself and accept that this was all in my head and that there was no real danger. "You're right," I said. "All three of you. Maybe facing the thing I've been avoiding is the key to solving this whole riddle."
Burt One and Burt Two suddenly spoke in unison: "Or maybe you just looked in the wrong spot." Burt Three either sighed or scoffed or laughed at this, I couldn't tell which.
I got up and turned to go through the kitchen and into the basement. As I was about to cross the threshold, I turned back to the Burts. I asked the room, "Will you come with me?"
Burt One was now sitting where Burt Two had been and fixated on the television. (I don't know how I knew that it was Burt One, but I did.) Burt Two had moved to the front door and was looking through the peephole into the pitch-black night. Every few seconds he would repeat the same thing: "Snowing, huh? Weird." Burt Three was nowhere to be seen. I could tell without receiving an actual answer that nobody was coming with me.
I stifled up what courage I had managed to amass and continued through the kitchen. I walked with the same determination with which I had run down the sidewalk in my last dream. I opened the door to the landing and gave a small sigh of relief when I realized all the lights were on already. I walked down the basement steps.
I turned at the bottom to face my former bedroom and was confronted by dozens of small metal bookshelves just like the one I could vaguely remember from my actual bedroom. They were everywhere, creating a labyrinth of empty bookshelves that wound all around the room and eventually let out in the doorway on the opposite side, the one that led to the scary part of the basement. Except I could see a beam of sunlight shining into those back rooms from one of the windows set near the ceiling. I got the feeling that there was nothing to be afraid of in there, at least not right now.
I declined to solve the maze of bookshelves and just walked directly toward the doorway, distractedly kicking and pushing the shelves out of my path. As I approached my destination, my leg got caught on one of these little metal obstacles and I tripped forward. My hands barely saved me from falling flat on my face and I lay sprawled there, my legs still tangled in the offending bookshelf. As I looked up, I saw a pair of bare feet in front of me, standing in the dusty and dingy doorway. Above that, I saw a pair of white running shorts with an orange stripe down the side. Above that was a plain gray T-shirt. Above that was the face of my father. He looked mildly down at me and said, "You may be dreaming still."
That's when I woke up.
~
I found that I was still in the basement when I awoke, but now it looked relatively close to how it looked when it was my room. Still dreaming. At this point, I had pretty much given up on finding reality ever again. I got up and moved toward the stairs to leave. I could feel the presence of something slinking out of the back rooms behind me. Without turning back, I hollered out, "Not now," and made my way upstairs.
Coming through the kitchen and into the living room, I found that there were zero Burts in this version of the dream. I was alone in the house.
I thought about a dream I had once had, a few years before. I had been completely broke at the time and I found myself in a bar with a beer in front of me. I realized I had no idea where I was or how I had gotten there. I had thought to myself, I shouldn't be here. I can't pay for this. What was I doing before this? This line of thinking then led me to realize that I was most certainly asleep, and I had decided that I should try to take advantage of that knowledge somehow. The bar had been very crowded, so I had squeezed my way out through the faceless masses and onto the equally cramped patio. I tried to make someone's head explode with my mind. I wasn't sure why that had been the first thing I thought of to try, I am not a violent person. Maybe that had just been the most outlandish and unordinary thing I could think of at the time. I had picked out a victim and tried to imagine their skull just suddenly bursting, but what ended up happening instead was that they vanished entirely, with the mild popping sound of air filling a suddenly vacant space.
That's when I had woken up.
I sat in my dead father's living room and pondered this. It never fully made sense to me that there should be a disconnect between what I imagine in a dream and what actually happens. It's all coming from my brain anyway, so I would think that imagining something should bring it into existence fairly easily, but that wasn't how it seemed to go. How was it that a dream could surprise me? How could a person in my dream ever say or do anything other than what I would imagine them to say or do? It all spoke to some unknowable part of the brain, some dark back room deep down in my mind that hid itself from my day-to-day thoughts. The idea gave me chills, but I decided I wanted to test my mind once more. It's not often that I realize I'm in a dream, after all.
I went outside. It was a sunny day once again. I decided I would try to fly. It shouldn't have been too difficult. I just had to imagine myself floating up into the air and take it from there, but I couldn't make it work right. The best I could manage was jumping abnormally high and then floating slowly back down to the ground. I felt like I was trying to swim with weights attached to my ankles. It was frustrating. If I was going to be trapped in this dream forever, I should have been able to fly at least.
I decided to try something else. There was a large tree nearby and I figured I would climb up to the top of it, something I probably couldn't do in real life because the tree went straight up and had no limbs. I hugged the base of the tree and began to shimmy my way up. I began to feel very silly almost at once, but I was making progress. My face gently scraped the bark of the tree as I ascended, but it was more irritating than painful. Small twigs protruded from the trunk, too small to grab onto but big enough to deter my slow slide up the tree. Nonetheless, I kept climbing.
I wasn't sure what I hoped to accomplish. Maybe I just wanted the feeling of reaching a goal, as arbitrary as it might be. Maybe I was looking for an exit. I couldn't tell how far I was from the top or the bottom, I just kept shimmying upward. Bits and pieces of twigs and bark were sprinkling all around me as I went. I couldn't see anything but the tree and the sky around it. The house was gone, the neighborhood was gone, and this tree was the only thing I was certain was there.
I thought about my father. I had avoided seeing him in his chair in the kitchen several dreams prior, and I couldn't help regretting it. It may have just been a dream version of him concocted from my memories, but would that have mattered? At least I would have gotten to see him again and spend a few moments with him. In a lot of ways, I would consider that to be the most palpable form of life after death: appearing in someone's dream. It wouldn't just be someone who looked like my father, not just a video recording or photograph of him; it would be him. He could make new memories and have new experiences, even if the version of him that I had once known was long gone. No matter how high I climbed up the tree, I couldn't get away from these thoughts. I couldn't get away from myself. I couldn't get away from the dream.
That's when I woke up.
~
I took a quick inventory of my surroundings. Bedside table, carpet, ceiling fan, small metal bookshelf, tall plastic dresser. It's amazing how quick and easy it becomes to confirm I'm awake once it finally happens. Why then is it always so difficult in the midst of a dream? The uncertainty alone should be the biggest tip-off.
I thought about getting up to see if Burt was awake and telling him about the dream I had just experienced. He was several important characters in it, after all. I decided against it. I felt like I had already explained the dream to him so many times already. I thought about Tallboy. I thought about my father. I thought about his house, which had long since been torn down and rebuilt. I thought about fluffy glazed donuts.
That's when I fell back asleep.
~
Later on, Burt and I were at a pizza place getting lunch. There were several people in line in front of us.
I was trying to explain the dream to him before the details began fading from my memory. "I just kept waking up over and over again, it was kinda terrifying. And aside from the opening sequence at the grocery store, I was always at my dad's house."
"I've never been there in real life," he reminded me.
"Well, it's completely different now anyway. I drove past it just the other day and it's unrecognizable. But it is a common location in my dreams. I just wonder why there were three of you at one point."
"Maybe there were three of me the whole time, and we were only together in the same place for that one little section of the dream."
"Or maybe versions of you accumulated as I got deeper into the layers of dreaming."
"Layers of dreaming," he chuckled. "You sound like you're in a movie."
"You weren't there," I said. "It felt so real. It felt like I would be trapped there forever." I considered for a moment, then added, "Actually, it probably lasted less than ten minutes overall."
"Sure, but who knows how time works in dreams though?"
As we got closer to the front of the line, I saw that there was some kind of school field trip happening at this pizza shop. Several small children were being shown around the prep stations and grills. I didn't think much of it at the time, except to be thankful that we never had to show kids around the pizza place where I used to work.
I placed my order and continued describing my dream as we moved to a nearby table to wait for our food. I told Burt about the grocery store, but not about anyone's sketchy behavior. I told him I tried to fly, but not that I tried to climb a tree. (It still felt a little silly.) I told him about avoiding my father, but I didn't mention seeing him in the basement later. I wanted to describe it like it was just some silly dream I had, trying to avoid presenting it as the borderline existential crisis that it truly was.
After I laid it all out, Burt responded, "Well, at any rate, I hope I was a helpful dream guide. All three of me."
"You were plenty helpful, my friend. I think you even might have been affecting the weather, but I'm not sure."
"It's pretty much always summer in my dreams," he said.
"So I've heard."
A waiter brought me a styrofoam container with my two slices of pizza inside. When I opened it, I saw a slice of pepperoni and a slice of cheese. The pepperoni was a decent size, but the slice of cheese pizza looked like a joke. It was about the size of a potato chip. I looked up to ask the waiter why I had been given such a tiny slice, but the waiter was gone and I didn't feel like pressing the issue.
We made our way outside with the food. Standing outside the shop, I took a big bite of my normal-sized slice. As I chewed, Burt said, "Dreams are weird like that, don't let it get to you." I felt a peculiar sense of déjà vu. "You may be dreaming still," he said. I looked around at all of the buildings nearby. They were all remarkably tall and seemed to be entirely composed of tinted windows. The street we were on seemed to zig-zag between them. I realized I had no idea where we were or how we had gotten there.
I looked at Burt. He looked back at me with a mildly apologetic face. "Fuck," I said.
This is when I wake up.
THE END

The last bus for route 8 pulls away as the two of us sit on the sticky red bench, a foot-wide chasm between us. It will be a long walk home this evening. Florida’s extended golden hour washes over the campus, highlights the oil slick left behind in a puddle where the bus has been, spills over her paisley dress and into her hair. The keys and books and papers in the bag on her lap create a quiet orchestra as she shuffles and shifts. Cicadas in the nearby arboretum summon a droning backdrop. This loudest silence is broken only by the rhythmic “kttthkhk kttthkhk kttthkhk” of a passing skateboarder.

“But you can’t have seen that on the internet, Rose. It’s impossible.”

Her head is tilted down as if she was lost deep in the oil slick but her eyes were unfocused, grasping for a response that would elicit some recognition from me.

“I didn’t see it on the internet but I…I got it from the internet. The data is out there, you know, and it’s all around and not all of it’s secured so I was able…”

She continues, but the droning of cicadas grows louder, blocks out her explanation for how she can intercept conversations between people, strangers and friends alike. This will be the first time I remember thinking that her brain is soup. The seconds drag into infinity, each withering and dying and being reborn to suffer as the next. She talks. Cicadas drone.

“Kttthkhk kttthkhk kttthkhk”

Samsara

As a final, desperate act of rebellion a happy memory belligerently pushes its way through my mind. We are in St. Petersburg together at the Salvador Dali museum. We have just left the reflection garden and the desk attendant is yelling at me for taking a toy fingertrap from a basket on the counter.

“They’re only for children.” She doesn’t seem to see the absurdity.

“Kttthkhk kttthkhk kttthkhk”

“Does that make sense?” Infinity crashes around me. I am back on the bench. It does not make sense. The connective fibers in her brain have begun to disconnect, snaking away from each other and into each other until there is only a thick, incoherent soup. For now, it is only soup sometimes; most hours of most days it’s still a working 19 year old human brain. In a few years her brain will be soup most of the time. Doctors in state hospitals and prisons will give her pills to reconstitute the soupy mess into something more solid. It works a little. Maybe one day it will work a lot.

“Rose, I just don’t understand.” This is a lie. The situation isn’t really all that complicated. Rose plucks conversations and news from the internet without the need of a computer or phone and everything she hears this way she knows to be gospel. Her brain is soup. It’s simple.

“That’s not really even how the internet works, at least as far as I understand it.” I have already been trained to hedge my doubts with her when she is in a less than lucid state. “Isn’t the internet mostly connected by wires?”

Her eyes light up with excitement at my engagement.

“It’s like Wi-Fi! There’s data all around us all the time. I even feel like most people can pick up on it but only a little so they ignore it. I really don’t think it’s all that…”

My body is working on its own soup, only mine is deep in my stomach. It is a mixture of swamp gas and dread. Frogs and alligator hatchlings reside there. Currently they are making a cacophonous racket. I want to throw them all up; my sympathetic nervous response is screaming for me to become as light as possible and flee. I want to mix my stomach swamp soup with the oily puddle, creating an entirely new dish.

“Kttthkhk kttthkhk kttthkhk”

“But that’s how I know that Tyler wants me to go see him.” She has come back around to the point. She has a rendezvous with someone from school she hasn’t seen in 2 years.

“So you’ve been talking to him?” I ask.

“Well, not like on Facebook or anything but yeah. I’ve been getting his messages all around and he’s saying he wants to see me in Broward.” When I look this man up later he hasn’t lived in Florida for nearly a year.

I haven’t the slightest idea why she’s seeking my approval for this trip. We’ve been broken up a few months now, what do I care who she makes trip out to fuck. Of course, in her framing that’s not what this is about. He has a business proposal for her, she says, something about mitochondrial age reversal technology. He apparently wants her to work on marketing and design. It’s going to be huge. Later I would learn this man was an undergrad business major.

Reality matches the consistency of our brains. When your brain is soup the world is an ever shifting mass of possibilities; parallel realities that simultaneously exist while invalidating each other. Years later, facing 15 to life, Rose will become obsessive about mitochondrial age reversal technology. When she gets out she’ll be able to go back to her 20s, finish college, play intramural lacrosse, live in London, go to a university in Vienna, move back to the States and start a coffee shop, learn to code, inherit her grandparents’ land in Tennessee, renovate that house, finish learning guitar, become a successful poet, become a country singer, learn to live off the grid, find love and have lots of children and a big family. No time lost.

A dove lands in the puddle by our feet. Chicken noodle soup. Doves have soupy brains but are okay with them. They don’t need to worry about things like linear time or forgetting to turn the stove off before bed. They eat street trash and avoid racoons and hawks. Maybe people’s problem is that the world as it is only has room for solid foods. Bosses and schools and governments want citizens with solid, easy to digest brains, brains with healthy folds and clear boundaries. You need a brain like lasagna to live in today’s world. There’s just not much room on the table for soup, especially one likely to burn your mouth and upset your stomach.

No response comes to me. I want something to reassure her that despite her increasing paranoia, her more frequent delusions and auditory hallucinations, that everything is going to be okay. I want to tell her that she is following an errant signal in her head leading her to disappointment and embarrassment. That she’s become increasingly ill over the past months and that it’s time to trust others and seek help. That if she doesn’t, before she is 21 she will be unable to finish school, lose her housing, alienate her friends and family, develop addictions and become quasi-homeless; that she will attack a man and lose her freedom and her future if she doesn’t seek help right now. But these are words from the future, forged in the fires of time and compassion and regret. In the present I say nothing because these things are only a primordial ooze of feelings, too primitive to have evolved the words to fit them.

Rose has always been patient with me in my extended periods of thought. She assumes I am thinking when in reality I am stuck. The silence develops and spreads slowly, like the film on a cold broth left undisturbed too long. We sit on that red bench for a long time. The golden light begins to fade under the dull bricks of the classroom buildings. I had a film studies professor my freshman year who told his class the entire campus looked like a mental institution from the 70s, with its precise brick buildings and orderly sidewalks and lawns. If that were true Rose would be exactly where she needs to be. The evening breeze picks up. It has been a hot, humid day and the wind saps the heat from the sweat still on my arms and back. I feel the shiver coming, try to brace against it, and fail.

“Kttthkhk kttthkhk kttthkhk”

Rose scootches close, fills the gap between us, and leans against my shoulder. She leans her head and I smell the oils in her hair.

“You’re cold,” she says.

“It’s fine. I’ll warm up when I start moving.”

“My Jeep is on campus, just over in lot C,” she leaves a space for an empty response. “Let’s go back to the apartment.” We don’t live together but sharing the same complex makes situations like this common enough.

“Okay."

The Sun casts its blinding rays on the golden hills of the desert.The wind howling through the few dried up branches of whatever plant was brave enough to surface. The sand starts to shift and swirl until everything falls silent.

Everything except for a pair of dark leather shoes walking across the coarse sand. A man dressed in a black suit and bowler cap, walks across the vast terrain. A droplet of sweat traces the wrinkles in his face and promptly rests upon his cheek.The sun continues its tyranny and attacks the man with its blistering heat, but the man feels nothing.

He feels neither the heat, nor the sand that has escaped to his socks. He doesn’t feel his suit sticking to him like a second skin, or the gentle wind trying desperately to keep the man from passing out.

For a fleeting moment the man realized that he did in fact feel something. tiredness. The man felt tired, but from what? Was it from the terrible terrain, or was he tired of seeing the same things over and over again, or maybe he was just tired of walking this never ending journey alone. A journey without reason, a journey without a goal.

The man stood still for what felt like eternity. Until he snapped his boney fingers and disappeared in the wind, still pondering on his question. The only trace he left behind was the sand twirling in a spiral, before resting neatly on the ground. Forever alone next to millions.

You awake an hour after you went to bed, but this isn’t surprising. You assumed as much. It was why you drank the Nyquil three hours earlier. You hoped the sedative would be strong enough to let you sleep through the night, but you know it never is. It was the same thing last month, and the month before that, and before that. You always tell yourself it’ll different. This month you’ll do it, but you never do. You’d have a better chance of breathing underwater than succeeding.

You’re still anxious from the day’s events. It’ll be alright, you tell yourself. Tomorrow is the day. I just need to hold on. You check the clock and see it’s 1:00 a.m. Your body begins to shake restlessly as your mind starts racing. Why me? you wonder. What have I done to deserve this? If only you had a genie. A genie would solve everything. You would make it so you would never suffer like this again. Yes, you know what your wish would be, and what a splendid wish it is. You smile just from the thought. How confident you would be, unafraid and unabashed. The life of the party. Imagine what you could do with such a gift. Then reality returns. It strikes you with a vengeance, sudden and ferocious, like a swarm of angry bees protecting their nest.

Your happiness vanishes as quickly as it came, replaced with a deep foreboding. You’re alone, and you’ve been alone for years. Nobody can understand you. Nobody knows what you know. How could they? You push your thoughts away as your legs begin to jerk back and forth, moving on their own as if they belonged to somebody else. You begin to sweat and quickly throw the blankets off yourself. The cool air in the room is magical, other-worldly. Maybe now you can get comfortable and finally get some sleep. The sooner you fall asleep the sooner you wake up and the closer to 8:00 it is. Sleep—such a simple concept, yet so hard to achieve. So many people take it for granted—but not you. Not anymore.

You know you can’t do it. You’re an insomniac. You’ve been an insomniac for quite some time. It is why you self-medicate on Nyquil and other over-the-counter medications, but even those have lost their effect. Just let me sleep, you plead. Please God. Just let me sleep.

Your legs are still dancing but they seemed to calm down some. A chill runs down your body and you shudder involuntarily. When did it get so cold in the room? You grab the blankets and are about to throw them back when you stop yourself. You’re still sweating, the back of your neck is cold and clammy. Throwing the blankets back on won’t help. You know this like you know the back of your hand, but the room has gotten so cold that you have no choice and you eventually relent. Your thoughts begin to drift to your family, and a tear falls down your cheek.

“I’m sorry, mom,” you whisper to the empty room. “I’m so sorry.”

You continue to lay in the dark, crying softly to yourself as your body fluctuates from hot to cold. You glance at your clock every few minutes, trying to will it to speed up. You just want 8:00 to arrive. Once it does your problems will be over. You will be saved. You just need to sleep. The shadows of the night loom above you, but they aren’t really there. You know this. You know they are phantasms. The room isn’t dark—your thoughts are. You made the shadows, and you let them consume you. Just let me sleep, you pray. Please God. I’ll do anything. I’ll change who I am. Just help me. Let me get through night. I promise I’ll be good. I’ll change. You’ll see.

The night continues on. You hold on as the minutes drag. Your body changes from hot to cold. Your thoughts race from happiness to hopeful, to anxiety and downright despair. What time is it? You look and see it’s Six A.M. “Thank god!” you exclaim with a sigh of relief. You didn’t sleep much, but that’s alright. You’ll sleep tonight. You’re still two hours early, but you don’t mind. A long shower and time will fly by. You exit your bed and head to the bathroom, washing your face before studying yourself in the mirror. Your eyes are bloodshot, black bags hanging below them like dark sentinels. Your hair is messy and you haven’t brushed your teeth in two days. You reach for the brush but stop short. You just don’t have the energy. It’s incredible, you think, how truly dead to the world you are. Your body continues to fidget and you struggle to calm yourself. You’ll brush your teeth after the shower. You should have more energy by then. You check the clock and see it’s 6:05. Getting closer!

Soon the shower is running and you step inside, letting the hot water wash over you. It seems to help, and you find yourself relaxing. You don’t bother to wash yourself, just let the hot water pour down your body, watching as it circles the drain. You wonder what time it is. Why isn’t there a clock in here? The shower ends and you step out to dry yourself. It definitely helped, and you find you have more energy. You even brush your teeth. 6:30.

You spend the next hour making coffee and trying to stay active. Exercise seemed to help in the past, but you couldn’t do any even if you tried. You put your earbuds in and listen to an audiobook, but it’s just background noise. You’re not actually listening. Time is once again dragging by, moving slower than you thought possible. You watch the clock until 7:30 then you head for your car, you don’t care if you’re early. You’ll wait in the parking lot if you have to. You’ve done it before. You pull up and park near the front door, reading the same sign like you do every month. Pharmacy Hours: Monday – Friday: 8 a.m. – 9 p.m. Saturday: 11 a.m. – 8 p.m. Sunday: Closed.

You sip on your coffee while you watch the store like a hawk, waiting for one of the employees to unlock the door. Your hand is shaking now, but you know it’s not from the caffeine. Finally, you see a figure approach and insert a key into the lock. She flips a sign on the door from closed to open and turns back around. You sprint out of your car and rush inside, not caring that you kept your car running. The pharmacist smiles at you as you approach. He recognizes you. Can he see your demons? you wonder. Does he know how you suffer? Does he care?

“Picking up my prescription,” you tell the nice pharmacy tech. She smiles at you and you tell her your name.

“And how is your morning?”

“Fine,” you say, your tone anything but.

“I hope it doesn’t rain today. It’s such an overcast sky.”

You stare incredulously at her, and for a moment you want to scream, JUST GIVE ME MY DAMN PILLS! But you hold it back and pretend. You’re good at pretending, you’ve been doing it for years. “I’m in a hurry,” you finally say.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She glances at her computer. “Looks like one prescription. Oxycontin. Is that correct?”

“Y-yes,” you stammer, as you begin to sweat again. Hurry up.

A pharmacist approaches you, different from the man you’re used to seeing. She’s giving you a particular look and you don’t like it. She’s not looking at you, but inside you, like she knows. “Do you have any questions?” she asks.

“No. I’ve been here before.”

“Then you know that you should take the medicine as prescribed by your doctor? If you take too many you’ll run out early and may suffer withdrawals.”

Yes, I know it, you stupid—you hold back your retort and reply in a phlegmatic tone, “Yes. I understand. Thank you.” You need to pretend. You can’t let her see the real you. Nobody knows the real you, and if they ever met you they would be out of your life within seconds. You’ve accepted this. You’ve gone to a place where others can’t follow. Where you are, there is no help, only pain and suffering.

The new pharmacist studies you a minute longer before nodding and stepping away. You hand over your credit card, your whole arm shaking in anticipation. A sudden fear grips you and you know your card is going to be declined; or maybe your doctor has cut back your dose; or maybe the pharmacy will erupt in a giant ball of flames from a gas leak. Something will go wrong. You just know it.

“Please hurry,” you plead, surprised that the words left your lips. You didn’t mean to say it out loud. The pharmacy tech looks up at you, a dubious expression in her eyes.

You stare at each other for what seems like an eternity, all the while waiting for something bad to happen. But God is good today, and the pharmacy tech hands you your receipt. With a smile she says, “There you go! Enjoy the rest of your day!”

You don’t respond, but instead, grab the bag and nearly sprint out of the store. You reach your car and immediately tear open the bag. You have a small struggle with the child-safety cap before finally opening it and reaching in for the blue bill. You briefly glance at the label and read, swallow one tablet twice a day for pain, before you throw it in your mouth and swallow hungrily.

“One in the morning, and one at night,” your doctor told you. Oh how you wish you had a genie. Just one wish and your life would be great. You would change everything. You would wish for an endless supply of pills. Enough to last five lifetimes. If only. . . .

Your body begins to relax, even though the pill hasn’t been digested, but you know it’s coming. You know you’ll be fine. You’re okay now. Life is good. Life is great. Tonight you’ll sleep. You won’t be in pain anymore. You’re free. And this month will be different. You won’t run out early again. You’ll make sure to save some. The last three months have been utter hell and you learned from it. This month will be different. You’ll control yourself. You know you can. You’ll follow the doctor’s orders. You think about it for quite some time before realizing it’s okay. What’s one more? You’ll just have to skip a day later in the month. This way you won’t run out again. Yeah, that’ll work. You’ll be fine if you do one more. Just one more though, and then you need to stop for the day. You smile, and pop another pill.

EDIT: Hopefully I removed text box that was somehow in it

Space Shoes (thriller)

Captain Mal of the space ship Serenity had a problem. Several problems actually, if he gave himself time to think about it. Pieces would fly off when entering or exiting the atmosphere, malfunctioning heating systems, and the worst of all- Anti-gravity failures. With most of these things he didn’t see a problem, however, it’s a horrible fate to be sitting on a toilet when gravity just stops working. So a rule was created, to wear the space boots inside at all times. He claimed it was because of falling from unsafe heights, but the crew had heard him swear that day. This rule wasn’t enforced at first, as the captain was a military man and expected his orders to be followed, even if his side had lost. But when he eventually noticed that most his crew hadn’t spent a single day in the army he had to find strange ways to encourage them to this rule-keeping. When next Serenity found herself at a ship yard, he got the engineers to ensure that only those wearing the shoes of Serenity would find themselves held to the ground by the artificial gravity. It was a massive waste of resources. These shoes were created before the time of artificial gravity, and as such held magnets that could be switched on and off to simulate gravity on the metal ships of the sky.

The crew of the Serenity was beholden to no one kind of job, and as such they had at one time been bodyguards and at other times been spies. Today, however, they were to be jailers, hired by a unified government that no one on Serenity respected including the prisoner. He was no strawberry thief, but his exact crimes were kept rudely unknown to the crew and worse, their captain. Mal knew this wouldn’t be an easy job. Certainly, the prison cell they had brought into the ship was high-end and secure in the cargo hold, the prisoner would be unable to escape. There was something strange about this whole job, Mal knew it. If the crimes committed were so bad as to constitute a very pricey portable cell, why was it on a ship once used for fishing? Before the jailers left, Mal gave strict and loud instructions to his crew about not interacting with the prisoner. 20 minutes into the flight, and even the cockpit was empty as everyone gathered to hear the story behind the prisoner. He never encouraged this behavior and had to remind himself that he is no longer a commander. He let his curiosity be sated by sitting quietly and letting everyone ask the questions they want to ask. Looking at him Mal would have imagined a new generation thug that bit off more than he could chew, but the longer he talked, the more Mal realized that he was in the presence of mayhem. Mayhem that was interrupted twice in the middle of a monologue due to a loss of gravity.

Fighting in a long war had taught Mal one thing, to never enjoy the killing. To use the focus and commitment that the joy of survival can bring, but never to harbor an appreciation for the act itself. He saw in front of him today the results of that enjoyment, a man so callous, so proud, about the people he murdered as if the words “innocent” and “victim” had never existed in the dictionary. He spoke of partner, Vizla- a man just as ruthless, if not more. As the crew heard the stories stone-faced, the real problems began in the darkness. A smaller ship, the Betelgeuse had finally caught up to Serenity.

Serenity had a crew of 4. The captain Malcolm Reynolds, Zoe Washbourne his loyal first mate, Hoban ‘Wash’ Washbourne the pilot of serenity, and most importantly, its very heart – Kaylee Fry the mechanic. Kaylee was the most innocent person the crew had ever seen, she was always kind and almost waiting to help the next person in need. Her one true love was the engine and it had gotten her and Serenity through some truly horrifying situations. When she had first sat in front of the cell, it was with an excitement and curiosity that only children show. By the end of his story she was glad she was sitting down. She could feel the strength of her knees fail as the cold sweat trickled down her horrified face. Kailee never took part in the scuffles that the veterans in the ship did, but now more than ever she hoped to find courage behind the trigger of a gun. She got up and left to go straight to the armory. She planned on staying there until the man had been dropped off to the jail. The Betelguese turned off all of its high-powered systems. The man inside - Spike would use the little caps attached to his ship to steer the craft in the right direction. Each cap was connected through pipes to a point on the exterior of the ship. When the cap was opened, each pipe would let out a certain amount of waste gas, Spike had done this a one or two times before. He was sweating in his suit, the water collecting in unmentionable areas. The ship made it’s way to Serenity’s main sensor, which at the moment took the Betelguese to be a small asteroid. The pilot would have to run to the cockpit whenever any emergency alarm rang out. He exited the ship. and with his weapon hit it several times. By this point the pilot would be trying to ascertain what knocked out the sensor, Spike used this time to enter into the ship, knowing the sensors he tripped would serve only to separate the crew further. Firefly class ships like serenity were a favorite of smugglers. It’s many nooks and crannies served the perfect foil to most unaware toll guards. He would hide in them as he made his way to the cockpit. Alarms rang out through the ship. They stopped soon after only to be followed by the pilots panicked voice “Captain, I think someone boarded our ship through a floating rock” Wash then hastily clarified “Mal, do something, someone’s entered our ship!”. There was a protocol for times like these, Kaylee ran for the engine room, she would lock it from inside until it was safe to leave. Zoe would run for the armory, while Mal was to join Wash in the cockpit. Mal was the last to leave, when he reached the door, and looked at the captive one last time. He saw a smile slither back into the apathy that had persisted throughout his retellings of the depravity he had committed. Mal stayed put. Spike left his crevice, only two turns and he would have made it to the cockpit, but he ran into Kaylee first. Spike wasn’t ugly, so it couldn’t have been his face that made her scream. It was his hand that stopped her though. His other hand had held a knife, and it was that that was poking into her throat. Her overalls had two pockets in the front, and one of them held a gun. She took a step back with every step he took front, and not once, not even to correct the direction they were headed towards, did her break eye contact. He didn’t blink, his eyes weren’t wide open. They were focused. As the sweat made its way down her head so did a hand. He moved his hand past her mouth and onto the switch that would open the door to the cockpit, Her’s entered her pocket. His body brushed against hers and he knew. He flicked the switch and whispered into her ear - “You shouldn’t have reached for it”. the door opened behind him, and he shoved his hand into her mouth, grabbing her tongue. He stabbed her stomach through her hand and grabbed his gun. Wash once more regretted his lack of reliance on guns. He bit his lip, looking at Kaylee’s present state awoke an anger in him he hadn’t previously known. One step in her direction however, and he found the barrel of a Glock pointed at his head. Spike slowly walked towards him, while fishing out a rope out of his bag. He tied Wash’s hands close to the railing that propped up Kaylee, He knew the risks of letting them live, but if he ran, he could make it there with just enough time. He ran towards the cargo hold, the only place in the ship big enough to hold a cell. He approached the metal bridge that connected the escape pod to the heart of Serenity. As he peeked out and down from the door, he saw Mal with a gun pointed at the prisoner. He took a few steps back, and jumped down the bridge. Or at least he tried. Falling was quite difficult when there was no gravity to aid the fall. The crew of Serenity hadn’t much noticed the difference, and Zoe used this moment to shoot Spike’s hand. Mal jolted straight up at the sound of a gun. He saw a stranger floating above him. Now Spike had two guns pointed towards him. Even in his motion he knew the guns were pointed straight to his head. He raised his hand above his head and said quite calmly “Don’t shoot, I surrender.” . Spike let out a sigh, a breath he didn’t even know he had been holding. Zoe walked to the center of the bridge. Her gun was still trained on the ever descending infiltrator, but her finger was off the trigger. She brought out a communicator out of the back pocket: “How’s everybody doing? over” “Kaylee’s been stabbed. but …” “I’ll be fine Zoe, the wound isn’t too deep I think” Zoe’s finger hovered over the trigger once again. Mal walked to Spike, and with his gun only a centimeter away from him he asked “Give me one good reason to not empty my magazine into you” “If I die, they’ll send more mercenaries. They will only enter the ship once it’s been rigged to explode.” Mal thought to himself, it didn’t matter if it had been the government that had sent him or the prisoner’s men. Serenity may not make it out of here intact if either side showed up. Mal picked out his communicator. “Wash!” “Yeah?” “how far’s the nearest doctor?” “We’d have to turn this ship around, but about an hour if we go to the backwater planet instead of where we got that animal in our hold” “How far to closest government hospital?” “uhm… forty minutes ahead, give or take.” Mal raised his head to Spike again “You know how to contact Vizla?” Spike’s face betrayed his feelings. It was too late to hide the fear that name garnered “yes.” Good. Tell him what you’re about to see.” The gravity turned back on. With a weight in every step, Mal stood right in front of the cell. Spike screamed “wait!” But it didn’t matter. Mal pulled the trigger.

Once upon a time, deep in the heart of a dense forest, there stood a mighty fir tree. It had lived a long and prosperous life, weathering many storms, and providing shelter to countless animals and creatures throughout the years. But one day, a powerful gust of wind blew through the forest, and the tree could no longer withstand the force. It fell to the ground, its branches breaking and scattering in all directions.

At first, the tree lay there, feeling defeated and broken. But as the days passed, something miraculous began to happen. The forest animals began to gather around the fallen tree, using it as a resting place and a meeting spot. Birds perched on its branches, squirrels chattered in its hollows, and deer lay down beside it to rest.

And then, one day, a woman entered the forest. She was seeking a spot to meditate, but she was tired and weary from her journey. As she walked through the forest, she saw the fallen fir tree and felt drawn to it. She approached it cautiously, and to her surprise, she found that the tree had become an ideal seat, covered in cushy moss, and its branches providing armrests.

The woman sat down on the tree, it brought her exceeding comfort from its cushion and peaceful splendor. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, letting her mind quiet and still. And as she meditated, she felt a sense of peace and tranquility wash over her. The forest animals gathered around her, sensing her calm energy, and they too felt a sense of peace.

From that day on, the fallen fir tree became a beloved spot for meditation in the forest. People from all over wanted to find this legendary meditation tree seat, to sit on its trunk, to feel the warmth of the sun and the coolness of the breeze, and to connect with the natural world around them. But only a chosen few could locate it and enjoy its profound peace, as it bestowed supernatural gifts that lore speaks of, and the animals chatter about this too. So you see, the tree, once broken and defeated, had found a new purpose, giving rest and healing to all who came to it.

Good morning, all!

Today marks the end of the editing and beta/ARC phases for the Inkfort Publishing Derby - and the start of the sales phase! We are very happy to announce that it’s launch day!

We were thrilled to have 25 stories finish and reach publishing - and you might see a few more filter in over the next few days! Writing, polishing, and publishing a story in just a few months is a huge accomplishment, and all of the authors should be extremely proud of what you’ve accomplished here.

For the authors - the Derby will remain anonymous until the end of the sales phase, which closes the night of October 28 at midnight PST. No spilling the beans yet! If you’d like to share the Derby with your friends, family, or existing readers, please share the complete list of books so that you can stay anonymous.

And without further ado, it’s time to show what everyone has made!

Check out the 2022 Publishing Derby books here!

Ever since I was a kid I have hated the dark. Though I think my real problem was with shadows. Hanging clothes and floor lamps disguised as dark figures haunt the corners of my room. So I would turn on the light, rationalise my thoughts and fall back asleep. Because that’s all they were; senseless, paranoid thoughts created by memories of horror movies and scary stories. But four days ago I saw something real. Someone under my piano, hiding in the dark of my room. I was so close to sleep I could feel my mind fogging up, until something shifted in the corner of my eye. It didn’t move the way things usually move in the dark, like when you turn your head and think you see someone rushing past the doorway.

A figure crawled out from under the shelter of the piano. Head tilted with glazed over eyes. The figure was dark and about as tall as a five year old child. It was the shade of black that swallows every ounce of light with the waxy, uneven surface of a half-melted candle. I reached for the light switch instinctively. I prayed that whatever was standing 4 metres away from me wouldn’t try to kill me in the time it took for my eyes to adjust. Nothing had changed. Nothing had moved.

I fell back asleep three hours later when anxiety finally exhausted my mind. In the morning I wrote the whole thing off as a sleep induced hallucination, but I didn’t exactly believe it. I sleepwalked through the following 24 hours until the night came again. My mind was restless, tears pricked my eyes from staring at the empty space below the piano. It was 1:30, my unblinking eyes began to close and it returned. I was paralysed, watching it repeat the movements from the night before. Except this time, when it stood it was a foot taller. I paid frozen, panicked attention to its thin frame, it’s boney hands. Black liquid slowly dripped from its fingertips and onto the carpet. Again, when the light turned on, it disappeared and I stayed awake with the light on.

The next morning I stared in the mirror at my bloodshot eyes and cried. I needed this feeling to leave. I needed sleep. Throughout the day I felt eyes everywhere, the sight of shadows sent me into a panic.

But it was in my head. It had to be. I am not the kind of person to wear tin foil hats and hunt for ghosts, so I refused to believe that this was anything more than a monster under the bed.
I got home and sleep began to call me but as I walked into the bedroom my heart dropped. There was something on the floor. Two clusters of black dots blemished the carpet, each collection less than a metre apart. The stains looked like ink the same inky black that dripped from my tormentors hands.

I did not sleep. Not for a second. I laid on the couch wrapped in blankets with a knife held under my pillow, flinching at the slightest noise or flicker. The morning felt like night. All sense of time was disrupted, I could feel my sanity slipping from my grasp. I got up from my couch, the knife clutched tightly in my hands. I walked to the room and the knife fell to the floor. I could feel blood pooling around me. The blood was seeping from my butchered foot and into the cracks of the floorboards. But my gaze was fixated on the walls. At the black dripping letters written across the plaster. “Why are you hiding?” The white hot pain spreading up my legs was numbed by the rampant thoughts in my mind. I crawled from the carpet to the floorboards of my living room. Travelling in and out of consciousness. I grabbed my phone from the table and saw a second message on the screen. “I can see you.” I couldn’t take it. I collapsed on the floor after dialling the emergency service number. A trail of blood tracking my movements.

I woke up a day later in a hospital room. I told them what happened, I told them about the figure in the dark and asked them about the writing in the walls. They chalked it up to pain meds and delusions but I know what I saw. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to sleep.

“Don’t worry Rose! We’re almost there!” A hoarse voice calls out to me, they sound close, but I can’t tell. I can feel the cold wind blow against my skin, bite at my flesh; even underneath all this cloth I’m wearing, even with this stupid fabric scarf and coat I’m wearing. I’m still cold! Everything is dark, all I see is pitch black, the essence of color as my eyes are closed, from my exhaustion; I and my friends have been on the road, running for 4 days! In the snow, with nothing! We ran out of food and everything else, even medicine! “Stop thinking so much! We’ll be fine” Why is he lying to me? I know that we won’t be okay! We’ve been on the road for 4 days, in the fucking cold! With no food, water, or anything; except the clothes on our backs! We’re gonna die out here! And we won’t find a doctor! I’m going to die! “Okay! Jon shut your damn mouth!” What? I feel Jon suddenly stop his movements for a moment, what the hell is going on!? Why did they stop walking?!“ Stop with the Sugarcoating! There’s no use lying to her! She has the flu! And she’s been sick for four days! We don’t have any medicine! Any food,, or water! Rose is gonna die!” “No, she won’t! Don’t be negative!” In this world, you have to be! “Negative!? I’m not being negative I’m being real, she’s going to die, then she’s going to turn, And then she’s going to sink her teeth into our necks and eat the shit out of us!” God, shut up!

He’s right. It’s cold as hell out here, I’m sweating like a pig, I was coughing up blood yesterday and now I can barely breathe. How will I even manage to survive out here any longer!? “No, she won’t! She’ll be fine, we just have to get her a doctor!” My friend comes to my defense, then the guys continue walking, even with me being on Jon’s back, with him carrying me; he still has the strength of a Boran cattle. “We have been walking for hours Jonny! I’m tired, she’s tired! And she’s getting weaker.. It’s only a matter of time before..” Would he shut the hell up!? “Shut up!” I hear yelling and fighting, then I feel myself drop and the back of my head smashed against the cold ground. Ow! “Fuck!” Waves of pain, and agony shoot through my veins, my head feels like mush and it hurts! So, so bad! I grasp the energy to open my eyes, to see these two freaking idiots fighting like children! They have to stop, “We’re not just going to give up on her dude!” They’re yelling like ravenous animals, “Guys..” I try to catch their attention; however, they’re too focused on each other. “Jesus! Just listen to me, she is dying already! That medicine didn’t do shit, all it did was make her worse!” Moans, the moaning of these damn zombies.

They’re getting closer. I can hear them, “Hey! It wasn’t just me okay!? You agreed, you went along with it too!” Jon yells back into his face, his voice catching a crap ton of attention from these walkers, are they fucking idiots!? “Yeah! Because I thought it would save her life! But instead, we stole and wasted medicine for nothing! We’ve been running for 4 days! For nothing! Because she’s gonna die anyway!” “Oh fuck it!” I groan, grabbing my pistol from my holster, aiming it at these billions of walkers, currently walking at a fast pace towards the three of us. “Guys! Stop arguing like dumbass girls and pay attention!” No! No! “Shit! No!” Just when this ugly motherfucker is close to biting my friend’s neck. I aim at its head, shooting him dead in the brain. How am I sick but I still manage to save him!? “Oh shit! Why are they going so fast it’s snowing out!?” I feel strong arms grab mine, picking me up. "Come on Mateo!” Why is he just standing there!? Trying to kill all these damn walkers!? “Come on man! Let’s go!” Would he come on already!? I can’t lose anyone else. “In a minute!” There’s one shot... And then another, then another until he gives up. “Alright fine! Let’s go…”

They run and run, while my arms are hanging on to Jon’s shoulders, my face smothered in between his warm, but tattered; soft jacket that we found in an old, abandoned shed. "And here we are again.. running!" Shut the hell up! “Matt! We don’t wanna hear it!” So we continue running... Hoping to find something. “I... I told you guys to stop f-fighting! You didn’t even want to listen to me!” My head is pounding like crazy, it hurts…and my hands feel like they’re tingling. What the heck? "Shut up Rose! God, I don’t really wanna hear your voice right now!” I don’t give a crap! “Screw you! I just saved your life asshole! A thank you would be nice!” I could’ve let him die with all that crap he was talking about me! Although he’s right.. Still. He stays quiet for a while and just keeps walking along the white, snowy trails, the cold specs of flakes melting against our skin, our cold breathes fanning against each other’s faces, it’s light out and I’m sure that it’s the morning, as I hear birds chirping, loud noises of those damn walkers chewing, of their rotten teeth tearing and biting into clean flesh, eating limbs arms, and organs, their hands pulling out the livers and intestines of those poor kids, poor little girls. I feel sick to my stomach watching this. I know we see this every day, we pass up on seeing people get eaten alive by these things. It’s the new normal. It’s how the world is now, but.. Kids? God. It feels different and horrible to see stuff like that. Apparently, it isn’t just me because I feel a sudden stop again as Jon and my fellow friend Mateo stop walking, we stand far back into these woods just watching, “Poor little girl. Just imagine how much pain she had to go through!” Jon sighs, shaking his head, disappointed in what this world has come to.

“Yeah, well... That’s not us. So.. Come on!” There’s a dejected look on this bastard’s face, Does he not have any emotions!? He doesn’t even have a freaking heart! “Ok! Right. Come on!” We continue walking until we find a broken bus near bushes and trees. It looks abandoned and old, but considering our circumstances; we should take our chances and stay here, “Alright! I’ll go and check the place, you guys stay here!” What no!? Don’t leave me with him! He’s awfully mad at me right now! Jonny here feels so warm, I need warmth because I’m freaking freezing out here! My teeth hurt as they clank together, chattering from the nippiness of this weather. I feel cold and hot at the same time, and I feel like I’ve run a marathon even though I haven’t even done anything all day. I've just been carried by Jon at that. “No! I’m cold..” I wrap my arms around his shoulders; grabbing onto his neck. I’m so, so cold. “No, I’ll be right back, okay?” He shoots me a bright, wide smile before handing me off to Mateo. "Stay here!” With that, he walks into this old shit bucket, with his gun gripped tightly in his dark hands; ready for whatever is to come, great! Now I’m stuck alone with the impetuous guy who hates my guts right now! “Well.. I’m not gonna carry you around; you know how to walk!” He tries to put me down, but I clench onto his torn sweater. “Come on Matt! I’m cold. Don’t be an ass!” He’s being such a dick and I know why, I deserve it; but we had to do what we did, or else we all would have died back there 3 days ago! “Fuck you..” He basically drops me on purpose into the snow causing me to bang the back of my head against this huge ass tree bark! Ow, this asshole!

The same feeling I felt before in my head, comes rushing back. “Ouch! What the hell is wrong with you!?” I know what I did was wrong, and it was! But he would have done the same thing if he had to pick! “I’m an ass!? You’re the reason Jesus is dead! He’s gone!” We had no other choice but to leave him behind! Mateo’s hurting right now! I know that. But doing all this extra shit right now is not. Going to bring his brother back. Jesus’s gone, it sucks but it is what it is!

“You didn’t even hesitate to leave him in that damn store..” He leans against a tree, across from me with his bulky arms crossed; his eyebrows scrunching up; causing his face to make a strained expression, he’s so enraged. Why is he bringing this up again!? “Listen, I know what I did was wrong! But I’m sorry! Okay, we had to leave him behind! It was either him or us. “No, you didn’t! You knew you could have done something! We all could have stayed there and helped him, then he wouldn’t be gone!” We continue to argue; not caring about the noises we’re making with our loud voices, the hoarseness in his throat; that thick voice of his gets louder, sending chills down my spine, there’s a glint of anger in his chocolate-colored eyes, something cold behind them. He doesn’t understand! I didn’t have time to think of something! All we could do was run, we were overcrowded by zombies and we didn’t have enough time! “I didn’t have a choice, Matt! We did what we had to do!” I wasn’t the only one thinking of doing that either, Jonathan agreed to; along with Jesus, he’s the one who was telling us to leave without him before I even said anything! He was already ready to risk his life! I watch as the 15-year-old clenches his fists, raising his voice and yelling at me. “There’s always a fucking choice Rose! There always is!” I can tell that he’s trying so hard not to let any tears or emotion slip from his body, but he’s falling he’s failing badly. Because his voice starts to break and now he can’t even look at me, but he’s not crying, not yet. “What the hell makes you guys think that you can be god!? That you can decide when a person lives or not!? The only family who I’ve had and you fucking killed him! You got him killed! Both of you..” I’m about to speak but he keeps going and going! “Me, Jonathan, and Jesus, we stole all that medicine from sick kids there! Our sick people died because of you, and you kill my brother? My only family! That’s the way you repay me!? That’s the thanks I get?” Self-centered, conceited bitch “I didn’t ask you to do that! Okay, you and Jonathan did that all by yourself! Look you can be pissed at me for what happened to Jesus! Because I deserve it! But as far as you being a little bitch and blaming me for all those people who died back there!? That wasn’t my fault! Okay; that’s on you!” I’m so tired of him blaming me for everything! He’s been on my ass ever since we first started running! I’m goddamn sick of it! There’s an eerie silence again before he scoffs at me, shaking his head; clicking his tongue. “You know what... You’re such a fucking cold... Heartless..” He tries to stop himself from finishing by biting his tongue, but then he changes his mind and speaks anyway.

“You’re a bitch! You’re selfish and you don’t care about anyone but yourself! You literally got my brother killed, the guy who I’ve grown up with for years! The guy who’s raised me! He stuck by me through thick and thin, and now he’s gone!” I know that, this hurts me too! You’re not the only one going through this! “Do you have any idea what you’ve fucking done to me!? Do you have any idea how much I hate you right now!? How much I want to scream at you and call you all the most fucked up names in the book!? But I can’t! So for the sake of your feelings, I’ll just say that I hate you! Because I do, I hate you so fucking much right now, and… I hope this illness. I hope it kills you because all those kids back in Wolford didn’t deserve to die! But you do. You deserve nothing more but pain! And death and..God, I hope you die! I want you to die..” Oh shit! “Ah! Shit, Guys get the fuck in here!” What the hell’s going on!? “Jonathan!” What’s wrong!? Since Mateo’s a jerk, he runs into this bus without me; leaving me behind! “H-Hey! Jonathan!” Please don’t be bit! I feel my eyes start to sting, with tears threatening to spill.

What’s wrong with him!? With every single bit of energy that I have left in my body, I use it to bend my knees; trying to stand up and run into the bus, but then I immediately fall to my knees. I’m so.. God damn weak! I try to get up again but I can’t. I’m so tired and I can barely see! Where’s Jonathan!? What’s happening? Why did things just get so quiet!? “Jonathan!? Matt what’s wrong with him!?” Did he just get bit? “Stop asking questions and get your ass in here!” I can’t you freaking dunce! I try so hard to stand up and I succeed even with all the blood rushing to my head, me feeling hot and faint; I rush into the bed, falling onto one of the seats, “Jonathan are you ok!? Are y-you bit!?!” What was that noise!? W-Why was he yelling!? “No! It’s just uh..” There’s blood everywhere, blood on these floors as we see zombies, little girls and little boys, they’ve been slaughtered, and beaten to the head. Oh my god; what is up with all these kids!? “I had to kill... Kill them!” This is so.. Fucked up, how are we going to rest here if they’re walker guts and blood everywhere!? We could get infected or sick! “Guys. I don’t really wanna stare at the ripped-open stomachs of adolescents! So, let’s stop fucking around, and let’s go!” Wait, I thought we were chilling here! Just catching some sleep before we start walking again!? “No!” Jonathan looks pissed, angry, and upset. “We are going to take a break and rest here, we haven’t stopped or gotten any rest! Rosalie needs sleep, once she gets that then we’ll keep moving!” Thank god! I feel like complete and utter shit right now, I feel dizzy, my nose is clogged; like I can’t breathe and I’m so, so tired! I glance back at those rotting, disgusting corpses; blocking out the loudness of Mateo’s rough, overpowering voice, I ignore all the names that he’s calling me; all the yelling and screaming that’s going on right now; I tone all of it out and just stare at those poor kids. “Don’t think that I didn’t hear you out there! I heard you saying all that fucked up shit to her, about you wanting her to die and her deserving every ounce of pain! Yes, what she did was wrong! Jesus is dead! Okay; he’s gone! And you’ll never get to see him again, but you’re not the only one hurting! He was my family too!” Supposedly Jonathan, Mateo, and Jesus have all grown up together, Jonny and Matt have been friends long before, walkers even existed; before all this shit started happening, I came around a couple of months after the outbreak first ⁸started. “God! Would you stop kissing her ass!? What she did was wrong! What you did was wrong, how could you agree with her!? To leave him!? To let him get torn apart to shreds!? What the fuck is wrong with you!?” Matt’s yelling again, in Jonny’s face, god does this dude not have any self-awareness!? He has to shut up! “Hey! Matt shut the fuck up! You can be mad all you want! But don’t get us killed because of it!” He’s going to cause attraction to us, I’m not ready to die yet! I’m only 15! “Okay! Both of you just please shut up! Especially you Rosalie, god I’m tired of this crap! Bro, we’re staying here until Rose gets to rest, and then we’ll go! That’s final!” Thank you, thank you. I’m so, so tired, the smell of this bus is revolting as it fills my nostrils, causing me to pant, It’s so cold outside, I can’t breathe and I can barely even walk! I lean against the torn, messed-up seat, resting my head on the soft cushion, feeling a tingling sensation in my fingers once again, first it starts at the tips of my digits; spreading out my entire body, and now my head hurts, really bad, and I can’t see. “Guys! Uh.. something’s wrong!” “Yeah! You’re still alive that’s what’s wrong!” Snarky ass bastard! "Shut up man!" Jonathan defends me, Objects are blurry in front of my eyes, I can’t see Jonathan, I c- can’t see Mateo! Why can’t I see anything, this feeling of panic fills my body. What’s going on!? "Oh shit! Rose." The last thing that I feel is me, dropping to the ground and that's it.,

I have no memory of anything else before I hear their voices cursing in my ear. “Hey! Wake the hell up..” Ugh; that was Mateo’s voice! “Wake up!” I feel a sharp sting against the side of my face! And my head is pounding like crazy. “Hey, dude! You don’t have to be so dang rough with her! She’s already awake!”

Yeah! I am, I just don’t want to open my eyes right now, I’m so; so tired and I feel like I’m burning up! “Fuck off Matt!” I open my eyes, to see Jonathan’s face there. In front of me; my head is rested on his lap and he’s caressing my hair, while Mateo is feeling my forehead, with a worried look on his face; which I'm sure is fake.

“Holy shit! You’re hot!” Aww, he just called me sexy! “Thanks! You’re not so bad yourself but screw you!” Compliments aren't going to make shit any better! For a moment, things go silent, and I can see Matt’s face go blank, as he rips his hand away from me and rolls his eyes. “No! Dumbass, I mean you’re hot, as in you have a fever!” Oh! I just embarrassed myself, I was trying to shoot my shot and I failed. “Ughh! I want to go now, I can rest someplace else!” I look over back at those dead kids, those zombies, and see that they’ve been covered up, a soft jacket has been thrown over their corpses, to hide their faces. “You’re right! Come on!” I feel one of the guys pick me up again, throwing me over their shoulder; so that my arms are dangling.”I don’t really see why we can’t just leave her behind!? She’s dead weight!” Ouch! That felt like a dagger being thrown into my chest! And that hurts. “God! Matteo, stop your bitching and whining! You can do that when we get Rosalie to a doctor!” “Right because it’s always what she or you wants right!? You wanted to steal all that medicine from thousands of our people so there’s that! Then when this bitch suggested for us to leave Jesus behind! Then that's what we do!? Because whatever she says goes right!? She gets whatever she wants!" Shut up! Shut up! Shut the hell up! "Matteo! Stop whining, Jesus Christ! She was wrong and I was wrong for it! There's not a day that goes by where I don't regret it! But you seriously need to stop it your crying! You're nagging like a little girl, shut up!" Jonny yells in his best friend's face, continuing to walk, to wherever the hell it is that we're going to.

When the Miracle Maker set her miracle of the day into motion, it was with an open hand and a smile on her face. This wasn’t the cheery grin of one helping a friend, even if that’s what she was trying for. Rather, it was the saccharine smile of a saleswoman who was about to sweet talk a customer into making the worst purchase of his life.

“And,” the customer teetered, “you’re sure this formula will make me irresistible to Ella this time?”

“Without a doubt, sir,” she lied, “Then she’ll be twice as likely to say yes!”

The customer’s mouth curled into what the Miracle Maker thought looked like two curved slugs pressed together in an embrace.

“Then yes, madam! I’ll take it!”

“Wonderful, here it is!” The Miracle Maker crowed, patting him on the back as she pressed the green glass vial into one of his hands and smoothly slid his cash from the other. Satisfied, he spun on his heel and left the musty little shop.

The Miracle Maker smiled and leaned back in her chair; she’d soon have another satisfied customer! 

The Miracle Shop really wasn’t much to look at. It sat on a corner between two busy streets, made of rotting wood and dust. The storefront was just small enough that barely anybody noticed it, and just ugly enough that those who did frowned a little and dismissed it as having nothing of worth inside. This, of course, was their mistake. Although this man had gotten scammed, the miracles the Miracle Maker performed were very real.

"Is he gone yet?" demanded a voice from the closet.

“I would hope so,” the Miracle Maker sighed,

“because if not, he’d have heard you.”

“Excellent.” A tall, spindly man stepped out of the closet wearing a suit in a shade the Miracle Maker decided must appear most often on toads.

“So,” the Miracle Maker leaned over her desk, “I ensured the other man’s romantic advance on Ella fails, and here’s the actual potion. Do you have the money?”

“Yes, I have the full sum here. And not one penny more for you, witch.” 

“Wonderful, here it is!” The Miracle Maker crowed.

“Finally!” The tall man stooped to leave the shop, chuckling, “It would take a real… miracle… for Ella to deny me with this!”

Later on, both men would be shocked and angered to discover that their potions had little to no aphrodisiacal effects. They would be even more shocked to discover the lethal effects of their potions, giving the Miracle Maker all the time in the world to pay her girlfriend a visit and inform her that the two slimy men who had been harassing her would no longer be a bother. Satisfied with her miracle, the Miracle Maker turned her sign to close.

I’m watching him now. It’s dark outside and I can glance at the window in front of me and see his reflection in the glass.

I wanted to watch him closely but the Friday night crowd in this upscale DC bar is growing in size, and noise level and I had little choice but sit a distance away with my back to him. I had worked my way past him and I can see he’s now seated with another man, younger but similar. Careful not to draw attention to myself I sat in the only open table. The bar is dark and I can see their faces and silhouettes back lit from the neon lights and TVs over the bar. I’m careful to not let them see me watching. They are leaning into each other speaking in hushed tones, hands nervously touching their mouth and face and their eyes darting back and forth as they talk, as if anyone seeing them will know their secrets.

The waitress comes by and I order a Coors, which they don’t have, “we have Coors Light”, she bubbles. When did every waitress become twenty-five? I grimace and order a bourbon on the rocks and an appetizer. I cut her off before she starts reciting the litany of brands and grunt “Makers”. I give her my card and ask her to check me out; I want to be ready to leave – when he does. Now, under the disguise of a regular customer I turn my chair around slightly and put my feet up on the other chair at the table and focus on the TV and the game. I can see them and I can watch the street. The Knicks are playing someone on the multiple TVs and it’s early in the second quarter. The pure definition of useless information is a second quarter score in the NBA – it just doesn’t matter. I can now see them out of the corner of my eye and I sneak more than a glance, hoping they don’t notice. They’re drinking coffee and are silent for now.

Mid twenties dark skin, dark hair and black eyes; well built and athletic and I would guess Middle Eastern, but I don’t really know. That type of identification isn’t my strength. A two day growth on “him” and a beard on the other; short cropped hair and drab clothes makes them stand out in this bar filled with business men and women who have come here after work. The men still in their suits and Allen Edmonds shoes and the women in stylish dresses, and 5 inch heels they wish men didn’t like so much – but we do. There was something unique about “him” when I first saw him earlier today, but watching him now next to the other man, I’m not sure I could tell them apart if I saw them on the street together. Same look, same build, same mannerisms. It’s uncanny, they must be related. I think of them as “brothers” but I don’t get the sense these guys are equals, “he” is clearly the alpha male. He dominates the space they both occupy. They’ve stopped talking as the waitress refills their coffee and he unconsciously sneaks a glance at the front door then his watch. Watching. Waiting.

I saw her cross the street, a pretty girl with long dark hair, wearing a white sweater, tight jeans and boots with heels, young. Little make-up and simple hoop earrings. The kind of girl, guys would watch cross the street. I imagined her as a Georgetown student, maybe pre-law or political science. When she entered the bar I expected someone was waiting for her, just not them. She scanned the crowd and when she saw them I sensed her stiffen a little as she waited for him to motion her over with a twitch of his finger. She moved through the crowd trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, saying “No thank you” to several guys well on their way to a hangover, who wanted her to join their table. Polite but firm, I’m guessing she has heard that song before. She sat down and I can only see the back of her head, she sits straight nods her greeting slightly and pushes her hair behind her ears. I don’t think she knows them…the men talk to her quietly and wait.

I would have missed it if I hadn’t just looked over there nonchalantly, but there it was. She was palming a folded piece of paper and she slowly pushed it across the table to them. She sat still as they read it. The noise in the bar was getting louder, but I remember reading about a phenomenon called “the cocktail party effect” where one can focus one's attention on a single conversation in a noisy room while filtering out a range of other noises. I tried to tune into their conversation and I could hear them speak, barely. Heatedly, and not in English. The girl sat still and the men acted like she wasn’t there, she was invisible to them and they talked around her like she wasn’t an important piece of what was happening. I was fixated on their table, forgetting the basketball game and my “cover” as a customer. When I snapped out of it I realized I had made eye contact and “he” was starring right at me. I froze for a second then motioned for the waitress to bring me another bourbon, like that was the reason for looking in that direction. She wasn’t there and I worry that he knows that. I turned to the TV my breathing quickened.

My heart is beating out of my chest and I’m suddenly very scared. What the hell am I doing? I’m not a spy, I don’t work for the CIA, I don’t know what I’m doing here. I’m a middle aged guy here on a business trip – a frigging, boring business trip like I have been on a dozen time before. I don’t like being alone, I don’t like eating alone and I don’t “sightsee”. So, when I do go out to a mall or restaurant I find someone I imagine as a “bad guy” and I follow them for awhile. I play “spy”. I read the genre, spy novels, cop books, murder mysteries and I pretend. Dear God I pretend!

Earlier when I saw him leaving the Metro Station I pegged him as a “dangerous element” and started to follow him; after all I was bored with shopping and what harm is there in this game. Using all my “spy craft” dutifully learned from Robert Ludlum novels I soon was in a rhythm as he walked down the opposite side of the street, with me in secret pursuit. I noticed however that he was alert, not watching his cell phone like everyone else around him, and he would occasionally glance over his shoulder. Three times in one block he stopped in an alcove of a store and stood there facing the street – standing stone still watching the reflections in the store glass across the street. At the end of the block, he suddenly stopped, turned around and walked rapidly back the way he came for a 100 yards watching the reactions of anyone who might have been following him. He was looking for a tail! I think this guy is a “pro”. A “pro” what – I don’t yet know. But when he slipped into the bar, I couldn’t just let him go; I stepped in as well.

My mind is racing. Have I made all this up? Is this really something? Or am I just a dumb shit business man with an overactive imagination and a “spy” fantasy? Before I can answer myself, there’s movement at the table. She leaves first. Quickly and with purpose. The same group of guys and several others now drunker than before ask her to stay and have a drink. She works her way to the door and she doesn’t even hesitate or address their advances. She disappears into the night and is gone. The two men stand and I purposely look away. I see them in the reflection of the window walk to the door and duck out as several more Friday night patrons flow into the bar. I turn and watch them leave and finally turn my chair around facing the glass. My mind slowly clears and the fog of my fantasy fades away. What a silly evening I think to myself, but better than sitting in my room watching bad television. I’m close to my hotel and I’m walking tonight, so I order and pay for another bourbon and nurse it for a while, watching the crowd on the street and the circus that is a busy Friday night in this upscale DC neighborhood. I’m feeling better.

As I step into the night air it starts to rain and a car comes around the corner slowly its headlights briefly lighting the storefront across the street. If I was still paying attention, I would have seen him. He is standing there. Watching. Waiting.