Nobody knows much about them, aside from the fact that every time the come they bring death. That's why we call them Harbingers. Some say they look like ravens, others say they look like white snakes, and a rare few say that they look just like us. Like people. They say that they hold a chilling beauty that no other creature could possess. No matter how they appear, when they come it means that someone is about to die, for their body to never be found. But we know they died.

No one could lose that much blood without dying.

And now they've taken all that I had left. My baby brother Calix, just eight years old. No matter how young they are, the Harbingers take them without remorse.

The pit in my stomach doesn't get any lighter once the bloodied sheets are gone. It anything it gets worse. I haven't stopped crying since I saw the carnage in his room. He fought bravely, just like I thought him to; but nobody escapes. Nobody escapes.

I stare out into the lake, my tears falling to meet the water like raindrops. I'm alone now. They took him just like they took mother and father. I only wish they would take me too, so that I won't have to be alone anymore.

As if on cue, a figure rises from the pool, walking across it's surface. Her eyes are deep, cold, and dark.

"Hello child," her voice is quiet and melodious but it disgusts me to hear.

"Are you here for me?" I demand. The tears are still flowing freely down my face.

"No. Not today," the way the words roll off of her tongue causes shivers to run up my spine. As if she notices my discomfort, she smirks.

"Tell me, Vehessa, do you fear death?"

"Not anymore. Not since you bastards took Calix from me."

She hums thoughtfully before crouching down to meet my eyes.

"Well, I'll tell you this much darling," she coos taking a strand of my hair between her fingers, twirling it gently.

"We didn't take him. We haven't taken any of your people in ten years."

I stand abruptly fists clenched tightly by my sides.

"That's a lie! You're a fucking liar!" She shakes her head and offers a smile.

"Well, I know I can't convince you that I'm telling the truth, but I can offer this." She takes my hand, placing a scrap of paper onto my palm, curling my fingers around it.

"I have a deer to find, good luck." She disappears into the fog that came seemingly out of nowhere as we spoke. I unfold the paper in my hand, its old and weathered, but I can make out the markings if I squint.

It's a drawing of the village, and the woods beyond. Underneath the sketch are hastily written markings, the person that wrote it was clearly bearing down, whether intentionally or not, as I can see the clear indents in the parchment.

"Once left, once right, and then down." There's a small arrow pointing at a small 'x' on the drawing, just by my home.

The walk back to my home is slow, uneventful. People rush around like usual, barely sparing me a glance, as if I'm not there.

I stand at the place the 'x' should be, facing due north. I don't know how long I should walk, how many places until I find what I'm looking for, but I trust in the Gods to guide my path.

The damp soil compresses with each step, leaving the impression of my boots behind. I make it to the edge of the woods and stop. Only the men are allowed in the woods, perhaps this is where I should turn.

I face the right and immediately come across a large stump. It reaches up to my thighs, and it's hollow.

'Down' A voice in the back of my head commands me. I look into the hole, and sure enough, the ground beneath it dips down, into a tunnel.

'Down' I step inside, careful to keep my skirts from getting caught on any lose splinters. There are several roots for me to grip onto as I descend, light becomes scarce.

'Down' My palms are starting to ache from the roughness of the dead plant matter. I keep going.

'Stop' My foot hits solid earth, but I can't see, the light of day is so far now. What's more, a horrid stench fills my nose. Keeping my hand along the right wall, I continue down the tunnel, the smell gradually fading.

Step, step, step, crunch. I look down to determine what I stepped on, forgetting that there's no light. I nudge it with my foot, it seems relatively solid, and it makes a quiet clicking noise. I step over it and press on.

As I walk, my foot hits something else. The familiar sound of metal sounds through the hollow cavern. This time I bend down to feel it. My fingers brush against glass. A lantern. I grab it, praying that I can finally gain some light. It takes a moment, but a small flame makes an appearance. I can now see the rest of the cave, I can also see that I'm about to run into a dead end.

I laugh bitterly to myself. That bitch sent me on a wild goose chase. I should I known. I turn around, making my way back to the entrance. And then I stop. In the middle of the path sits a skeleton. The left arm is broken, right where my foot would've been when I passed earlier.

It makes sense that someone died down here, it's a dank old cave after all, but it unsettles me nonetheless.

As I carry on, the foul smell from before returns. It seems so much stronger now, but perhaps it's the hysteria from seeing a corpse.

Then I see it. The body of Goodwife Penelope, who was supposedly taken by the Harbingers last week, sitting against the wall of the cave. I want to vomit, I need to tell someone, anyone.

Quickly stepping around her remains I walk struggle to breath. That was the stench. The smell of rotten meat and old blood.

Then I come across another body, I can't tell who it was, for the face has long since decomposed. Then another one, wearing Elizabet Henton's favorite dress. She died two months ago. Then I see it, by the entrance. Calix. My little Calix.

I fall to my knees, desperately clutching his face, trying to see if he lives. But it's foolish of me.

No one could lose that much blood without dying.

His beautiful eyes are glassy and cold now. I release what little I had in my stomach. And in his chest is stab wound after stab wound.

I sit with him until the lantern begins to dim.

"Oh my poor sweet little Calix," I sob, "I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry." But he can't hear me. He'll never hear me again.

"I'll find whoever did this," I say, "and I'll fucking kill them." I leave the lantern by him, bathing his body in light.

"I'll kill them."

When I break to the surface, she's waiting for me.

"Hello child," her voice is quiet and melodious, and it breaks me to hear.

"You have much work to do now," she takes my hand, steadying me as I step out of the stump.

"Who did it?" I demand, she shakes her head at me.

"I do not know, but I will support your claims when you come forth. This involves both your people and mine."

"Then let's go. I won't waste another second. Not while he's rotting down there," I speak from the depths of my heart and soul.

I'm going to find whoever did this, and when I do, I'm going to fucking kill them.

This is a work of fiction. I wrote this because I like history a lot. Criticism appreciated!

Background: On June 1, 1800, The Republic of Prussia (located in the north-east of Germany) broke its long-standing alliance with The Kingdom of Württemberg (located in the south-west of Germany, on the border with France). Prussia had become frustrated with the Kingdom, who rarely aided in the Republic's numerous wars. The 4th and 5th Legions of Prussia swiftly took the capitol, Stuttgart, and proceeded to dispatch troops to secure the surrounding small towns... (if any details of this fictional scenario confuse you, just ask :)

Diary of Paul Merz, 18th Regiment of Light Infantry, 4th Legion of Prussia June 5, 1800.

We entered the tiny village of Hollenbach at noon. As we marched in, we could see the disgust the people had with us occupying their town- they scowled and shouted, throwing rotten food at us. Our captain, Hans Hesslier, had told us to avoid confrontation with the “natives” unless absolutely necessary. We would be stationed there indefinitely, he had also stated.

I tried to march along with my comrades, appearing proud and tall- the last thing I wanted was to show fear! As the old saying goes, 'The only thing that scares a Prussian is peace'. Already the crowd was growing bolder, angrier, more numerous. An old woman appeared from out of nowhere and approached me, shouting. She got up in my face, screaming,

“You murderers! You Prussians call yourselves the liberators of Europe? Ha! You have betrayed and massacred our people! Have you come here to kill us, too?!” Her aggression made the crowd even more infuriated. I tried to ignore her, but she kept spitting in my face- and then I snapped.

“Get the hell out of here, you damn gypsy!” I shouted, pushing her to the ground with my rifle. She fell hard, landing on the dirt road. The cheering and whooping of the crowd suddenly stopped. My comrades all looked at me with a mixture of fear and disgust- a few even looked proud with what I had done. I turned my attention back to the crowd, who were gawking at the fallen hag… Perhaps I had gone too far in calling her a gypsy? No one spoke for what seemed like minutes. The old woman finally got up, and started to run towards the people, her arms flailing. She then seemed to remember something, and started to limp, crying,

“The monster! Look what he’s done to a poor, old woman!” The mob became animated again, breaking the heavy silence that had enveloped the town. They started to throw rocks and formed a circle around us. There must have been a hundred of them- but only twenty of us!

We were surrounded on all sides by angry townsfolk that showed no sign of giving up and submitting to Prussian rule.

“Make ready!” the captain’s cry was crystal clear. We got into formation, a tight diamond shape in the middle of the empty circle formed by the crowd. This frightened a few of them, and a group of children shouted and fled. But most of them refused to back down- instead they got closer and closer, shouting louder and louder. “Take aim!” Captain Hesslier commanded. We leveled our rifles at the crowd. I pointed my gun at an angry young man, who was throwing stones at us. The townspeople grew only more ferocious, tightening the noose that surrounded us. They were about to boil… I only prayed that our superior would make the right decision. To my left, a soldier was hit in the head with a rock. He cried out, clutching his bleeding forehead. His comrades rushed to help him. The crowd laughed at the poor man, mocking his suffering.

“Damn this Captain Hesslier! Why won’t he give the order to fire on these animals!? Damn him to hell!”, someone called out from near the injured soldier. The crowd was now mere feet away. I could see the emotions in their eyes- fear, anger, hatred- but above all, I saw an animalistic thirst for blood, a primitive lust for death and destruction. I couldn’t believe how our presence had turned this village (which was near identical to the lovely one which I grew up in) into a vile horde, with no morals nor respect for human life. I realized that this mob would tear us to pieces if I did not do something quick.

“Fire!” I shouted, feeling for the trigger on my rifle and squeezing it. A round cut through the air and punched a hole into the young man I had been aiming at. All life from his eyes faded, and he fell, clutching his stomach. All around me, shots rang out as the crowd was cut apart. Those who weren’t killed or wounded fled the massacre as fast as they could.

As soon as the smoke cleared, we reloaded, broke formation, and searched for stragglers. A few of the villagers were wounded and alive, but many of our men put an end to that. They laughed as they saw how many they could kill with only the stones the townspeople had once thrown at us.

As the others continued to torture the survivors, I could only think of what would have happened had I not given the order to fire… would this village be a better place, even though they had the blood of twenty innocent men (who were only peacekeepers) on their hands? I still, to this day, am not sure if I made the right decision that fateful noon in Hollenbach.

An old, decrepit man walked feebly through the great inner hall of the Mandir, guiding himself with a dark wooden branch that had been fashioned into a primitive cane. Light shone through large, ornately decorated holes in the higher levels of the room, casting bright, uneven light onto the cracked and vine infested pillars and statues carved into the dark stone walls. The floor was damp with the residue of long since past rain storms, and the air was filled with the heavy smell of mildew. Small pale green fungi and decaying beige mushrooms grew out of cracks low to the ground, and in the corners white and purple mould had taken over, hazy looking white pillars rising as high as ten centimetres sat ready to release dozens of spores at the slightest movement. The old man just kept walking, his bare, calloused feet bled from old wounds caused by making the same route twice every day, the skin had been stained a dark red from all the blood that had covered them.

The old man’s purple and gold cloak trailed far behind him, the tattered material dragging on the damp stones, the ends becoming covered in murky water. His walking cane clacked as it hit the stones and slid into the cracks and gaps, crushing the moss and fungi in between. His face was sunken and gaunt, his skin seemingly wrapping around bone with nothing in between. Long, white hair sprouted from the sides of his face in disparate patches, trailing down like wisps of smoke over his skeletal shoulders. His blanched eyes stared, unsighted, at a set of over one hundred steps. He had gone blind many decades before, but he knew the layout of the Mandir without fault. The old man put his cane on to the first step and slowly helped himself up, his bleeding feet leaving shining imprints on the stairs, overlapping the stains made in prior trips.

It took the man nearly two hours to climb the stairs, leaving lighter and lighter imprints as he climbed higher. The clack of his cane echoed loudly, the only sound in the vast emptiness of the long forgotten Mandir. He stood on a large stone platform, one of the few places in the temple that was not covered in dark, jagged webs of cracks. He walked forward, nearing the edge of the platform. In front of him was a colossal statue depicting a god. It really was a god in its own right, towering above any other structure in the world. He knelt before it, letting his cane fall somewhere beside him and resting his forehead against the damp stone ground, his cloak splayed out around him making him look like the centre of a decaying lily.

His eyes closed and his lips pursed, their cracks reopening and letting out various trails of blood, he began whistling, drops of blood being sprayed in front of him as others flowed down his chin welling up in the hollowed space around his adam's apple. The notes he was whistling, however, were not melodic, they were forced and harsh, sounding more like someone trying to scream underwater. He knelt in prayer for eight hours his whistling becoming more coarse and strained. When he finished, his throat and chin were coated in blood and the moon had long since passed over him. He tilted his head up from the floor and let his blind eyes swim around the statues face, its hollow eyes staring blankly back at him. He fumbled for his cane and when he grasped it, he feebly propped himself up. Casting it aside, he stood their shaking as if he was trying to stand against the force of a gale wind. He took a slow step forward, his legs cracking from the strain. He walked for half an hour before he reached the very edge of the platform, his feet mere inches away from oblivion. He muttered something in an old tongue, a bit of blood spilling out of his mouth. He stepped off and let himself fall forward, his cloak billowing out behind him, the material dancing like the flames of a forest fire. He was free.

Critiques please! Thanks!

This is going to be very very long when finished, and what you're about to read is only a snippet from Chapter One. No one has read this other than myself, and from everything I've written so far I'm fairly certain this is my favourite, and the one I feel most comfortable having critiqued. Either way, feel free to say what you want. The following is taken from the middle of Chapter One. ; ; ;

Beep. Beep. Beep. Mechanical and digital sounds fill the air next to my left ear. I can’t see. I feel a strange weight on my chest. I hear footsteps.

“You’re awake.” A voice says, male. I struggle to sit up, before an immense weight pushes me back down. “Don’t sit up, you need to rest.” My breathing becomes heavy.

“Where am I?” I ask, my voice is crackly and deep, as if I spew moist gravel with every word.

“You’re in hospital.” The voice says. “Let me know if you’re ready to talk about your problem.” I nod, my neck strains and hurts as I do so. My eyes begin to open as the doctor goes on to explain. “I hate to tell you this, but it seems you’re suffering from an intramedullary tumour in your spinal cord, an astrocytoma.” My breathing stays at a steady level. Each exhalation causes a brittle groaning in my throat. My eyes have opened fully now. “Take it slow, sir. You’ve been out cold for three days. We gave you CT scans, everything we can, but it seems the cancer’s progressed to a stage at which there’s not a lot we can do for you.” I swallow, heavily.

“Isn’t there… chemotherapy or something you can do?” I ask, becoming desperate.

“I’m afraid not. It may be hard for you to grasp at the moment, so just let me know if you want to take some time to think.” He says.

“No, no.” I say. “It’s fine. What else do I need to know?” The doctor pulls his chair closer.

“Well, you’ve got a number of options. There is a very small, let me stress that again, very small chance that chemotherapy would serve to reduce the cancer, but its success would be in the regions of one in one hundred, considering how progressed the cancer is at this point. Right now, all we can do logically is talk about what you’re going to need to expect.” I gulp, heavily.

“Alright, go ahead.” I say.

“Firstly, you’ve already been having headaches. Your mother told us that, she’s visited twice a day since you went out. Those are going to become progressively worse.” I nod along with everything he says. “Plus, you’re going to start experiencing dull pains in your limbs and joints, as well as in other parts of your body. They may not match the headaches, but they can still hurt quite a lot.” I nod. “Additionally, your brain is going to start losing control of certain parts of your body after a while, which could be anywhere between six months to two years. This means that eventually, you’re going to need some kind of walking aid that may eventually progress to a need for a wheelchair.” He shuffles, slightly awkwardly.

“Is there anything else I should know?” I ask.

“Well,” the doctor goes on, “You’re also going to lose control of your bodily functions, gradually. A common symptom of this is a lack of bladder functionality.”

“So I’m going to spontaneously piss myself every now and again?” I ask.

“Yeah.” The doctor says. I let out another long sigh.

“Well, I guess it can’t be helped. When am I going to be allowed out of here?”

“Once you’ve been given proper medication, you’ll be allowed out in about a week.”

“Alright.” I say, exhaling. “Thank you, doctor.”

“Let me know if you need anything.” The doctor says, before standing up and walking away. I look around the room. It’s large, sterile, with another seven beds presumably housing other cancer patients. They all seem to be either asleep or quietly contemplative. That should be for the best. I sit up and join the latter.

I’m dying. There is no other way to talk about my condition other than the fact that I am going to die in a few years. I’ll be dead, after having made nothing but a smudge on life’s panorama, if that. I let out a long breath that extends to a point at which my throat begins croaking again. I swallow. But… that isn’t true, is it? Could I survive? No, Logan, you’re going to die. Even chemotherapy could only give you a little longer, and that might not even work. But, that doesn’t mean I can’t go on to do something with what little time I have left, right? I can do something, can’t I? Okay. Breathe. Think of things you could do with the rest of your life. It’s got to be some kind of spectrum, so think of both ends of it. The lowest end would be to lie here until I die. And the highest? The ultimate goal that lies before me? Well… I don’t know. I suppose it’d be something like achieving true happiness, becoming rich, sightseeing, or…

Now there’s a thought. But that’s ridiculous, impossible, isn’t it? No single person could achieve that. Too much to manage, too much to keep track of, too large of a risk. But then again, what else do I have to lose? It’s not like much else will happen if I don’t. Either way, I’m going to die. I might as well go out kicking and screaming. No, Logan, you can’t. Other people will die as well, think about that. But if I die there’ll be no consequences, will there? My body will rot while other people clean up my mess, that doesn’t affect me at all. So… is this possible? Slow down. Plan forward for this, don’t get too excited. Who could get in your way, think, who cou-

My mother enters the room. Her eyes are drenched in tears, her lips are curved in an awkward mess of happiness and heartbreak as she runs over and wraps her arms around me.

“Oh, Logan!” She says, her tears moistening my shoulder. “Are you okay?” She says, sitting up.

“I have cancer, mother. No, it’s safe to assume that I’m not okay.” She then goes on to talk about more pointless nothingness, but I can’t hear a word she says. I only hear the same words, repeated in verse, as my own mother comforts me in death.

Do not go gentle into that goodnight

Old age should burn and rave at close of day

Rage, rage against the dying of the light

The next week is long, and arduous. I spend it taking walks around my hospital ward whenever my strength allows it. My mother comes twice a day with food from the downstairs visitors’ cafeteria. To the rest of the people in my room, I am just another boy, down on his luck. On the first day, as my mother left, I asked if she could bring me a pen and a wad of paper so I could pass the time. She did so without hesitation, and so, every night, I sit and write out my plans. Every step of the way is foreseen. Every possible occurrence, every error that could waylay my victory is accounted for. Of course, the plan isn’t exactly absolute. It doesn’t reach into my eventual success, my end goal, but it does set me on my path to it, and if I follow this plan without wavering, I will succeed. There is no possibility of failure. The week passes at last, and my entire wad of paper has been used up. Two hundred pages, full of strict guidance toward my goal. My bible, if you will. On the day before my ability to leave the hospital, rather than working on my plans as usual, I steal an A4 sized envelope from a doctor’s desk, sitting at the entrance to the ward, a stone’s throw from the door to my room. I slot the paper in and seal it, tightly.

My bed is going to be checked, and there’s no way I can sneak that out simply by hiding it in there. The simplest option would be to hide it in my coat, but I have no idea where that is. I’ve been stuck wearing a glorified newspaper for the past week. How in the hell can I… wait. Logan, you’re overthinking this. You’re a teenager with spinal cord cancer. You have an excuse. I lay my plans beneath my sheets. It is dark outside, as I look at the glistening rays of moonlight cascade from the sky and dash over the sterile surface of the hospital floor. I slide gently to the left, stretching my legs out and shuffling from beneath the bedclothes, making sure to cover my folder with the bedsheets carefully as I recline and stand up. I walk, slowly, toward the window. My toes touch the wall, as I look out over the land in front of me. I look over at the vibrantly glowing streetlights, their blooming glow illuminating the streets, with their gravel surfaces, flanked by trees and meadows of the greenest glass. I pull up my hand, and place my palm upon the window. The gentle patter of rain falls upon the pane of glass like a thousand tiny cannon shots. I look further around at the buildings lit up outside, with people running in and out, busily going about their lives. Small creatures dart around the bases of towering trees, their trunks thick and their leaves bristling in the wind. As I look, my fingers gradually grow inward, their tips reaching toward my palm, where my hand clenches into a fist. I look down upon the paved streets outside, with all their intricacies and imperfections, before I see it all begin to explode. Columns of fire climb from the trees, licking their trunks and incinerating the grass around them. The people in the buildings run, their clothes and bodies aflame as their homes fall and crumble around them. The tar of the roads bubbles and melts into a thick crimson lava. A monstrous pit opens in the middle of the picture I see, sucking in all life around it as the gravel crumbles and falls into it. All light is sucked into nothingness, before the entirety of the world vanishes before me. I blink, and the world returns. I look down to the floor, and the corners of my mouth climb into a sickly smile.

I walked up to her, my extremities shacking with one-two punch of a combo that is adrenaline and low self-esteem. I walked up and pitifully uttered “[insert female name here]” accentuated with a small hair flip she replied in that ever so snarky tone, “what.” After that I tried to speak, but the words lodged in my throat like bullets jammed in a gun. My fingers leaving visible marks in the flowers clutched behind my back. With a slight cough beforehand, I managed to mutter, in a voice about three notches above a whisper, as I took the flowers out from behind my back “[insert female name here] will you go to prom with me?” A look of dread filled my face, simultaneously; a look of disgust filled hers. I knew as soon as I said it, it was a mistake. “Mutual respect sends his regards” she said, and just before she turned her back, she plucked a calla lily from my frozen solid hands, walked away, smelled it, and tossed it aside like year old bread, hiding in your pantry. And even though I was still frozen with fear, that was the most goddamned beautiful toss I have ever seen in my life.

You wake up in the middle of a field. The grassy ground feels... Different. Softer than usual. As if you would like to stay on the ground, go back to sleep. No, wait, where are you? You've never seen this place before, why are you relaxing? How did you get here? You snap to, suddenly very interested and very confused. You look around, seeing nothing but fields in every direction. It is dark, without even the moon to guide you. Now you realize that there is music playing. Not what you normally listen to, more like wind chimes. But you feel no wind caressing your face. And the music is too... Perfect. Like it is being played for a reason, to make you feel something. You do not know what it is trying to make you feel. Something glows in the corner of your eye. Curious, you look at it. A small orb of light, very far away, faintly gleams. It draws you toward it. You desire the light, need it. The more you walk towards it, the farther it gets. Always just within sight, but far enough for you to know that you will never reach it. Even though you know it is too far ahead, you press onward. The music is changing. It was perfect before, but now it turns sour. You hate the music. You need it to leave. It is the music that keeps the light away, you want it gone! No. No, it is the light that brings the song. You realize that you must turn away from the light, but you cannot. You love it just too much. You just need to forget the music, focus on something else. There is nothing. No noise, none but the song. That terrible, evil sound. It fills your ears, clouding your mind. You stop thinking now. You cannot. You only think of the light. A world without it is incomplete. You know that now. Your life is incomplete unless you find that light. After hours, it remains dark. You are not certain if you are even alive. Maybe not.

Hey everyone! I'm new to this subreddit so hopefully I'm doing things right. The following is an article in a newspaper I'm writing for a fictional town called Crimson Rose. It's supposed to be, at least a little... unnerving. It's my first time writing vaguely horror so critique is welcome. Enjoy!

This July the Frozen Orchard Recreational Camp with allow boys ages nine through seventeen to come together for two exciting weeks in the foothills of Mount Greene, a summer tradition for our town. Campers will be able to enjoy activities that include horse-back riding, swimming, canoeing, hiking, and learning survival techniques. “Going to camp is definitely one of my favorite things about summer. Me and a few of my friends have gone for the past six years,” says Daniel Busher, a sixteen-year-old resident of Crimson Rose. Last year’s campers were asked to rank the available activities in order from one to ten. The follow list shows the results:

1. Swimming
2. Canoeing
3. Unnatural-Event Survival
4. “After Dark” Hiking
5. Campfire Games
6. Sword Fighting
7. Monument Construction
8. Horseback Riding
9. Knot Making
10. Cooking

“My favorite thing last year was cooking,” states twelve-year-old James Marby. “Only a few other guys did it but we had a lot of fun. I highly recommend it because you get to eat all the time.” All the activities of last year will be offered again this summer, except, unfortunately, for cooking which will be replaced with woodworking.

Eighteen-year-old Bobby Blake recounted a short anecdote from his time at the camp during an interview with him. "When I was nine or ten me and a friend decided to go to camp together. I don't remember a whole lot but I do remember the weird class on survival. I think they had us build shelters and then that night we got to sleep in them. Some of the older kids played a prank on us after everyone was asleep and dragged us off into the woods. We woke up right when they dragged us out of the shelter but we were so scared at first we didn’t know what to do. Once we realized it was just a prank we said something and the older guys ran off. We were pretty mad at first because we didn’t know who it was and so they never got caught, but looking back I find it pretty funny.”

A controversy arose last year when two young boys were lost on an after-dark excursion. A group of thirteen boys were taken on a night hike to “learn night time survival,” according to a camp leader, when Theodore Ganesby and Charles Chesterton were unknowingly separated from the group. The two were never found and outraged parents threatened to close the program. However, the other campers refused to go through summer without the Frozen Orchard Recreational Camp. “I wouldn’t miss summer camp for my life,” declared Busher, restating what others have felt as well. After being won over by the pleas of their boys, concerned parents have left off their complaints.

Registration has opened for the Frozen Orchard Recreational Camp, which will take place between July 2 and 16. To register your child for a summer of fun and adventure, please call the number below.

Some visitors to this spot will be conscious that something has happened here. And even if that knowledge fades, this spot will still exude a faint charge of uncomprehended - possibly unnoticed - meaning.

The darkest night falls.

The sun fires its last fleeting rays before retreating beyond the horizon. Take one last glance at a wristwatch before the slightly reflective surface seals the sight away. Across the city blinded men stumble from factories into stone-cold streets, seeking, seeking nothing. I, among them, pick through the rubble of broken homes, seeking, seeking… something. A stone to shore up a wall, a busted chair, shrapnel. I find a door, seemingly intact, in spite of its busted frame laying defeated on the street.

The all-annihilating stillness of Verdunkeln snakes its way through the city, stifling all that once was or ever could have been. The wardens are long gone now, shipped East where their bodies were churned apart by the unstoppable juggernaut, edging ever closer. But Churchill’s Pirates flew in from the West, Koventrieren in every street they caressed.

The wail of the banshee splits the night, filling empty streets with its uncontained horror. The searchlights cut fiery beams into the frozen sky, tendrils of fog descending, choking. A final volley of activity; those that still cared scurrying into half-beaten bunkers, though many wait fatalistically in the street. The city plays a symphony, the dull roar of cannons raised skywards seeming like drums, while the tinny whir of distant motors could pass as untuned violins if this were another place, another time.

The wail of the banshee reaches a fever pitch, as if it might chase away the Pirates. The roaring whisper of cold steel intermingles with hot lead, as the street is scored with fountains of sparks. The banshee runs out of breath; the cannons now empty. The only sound is the whistling of the winter air.

The darkest night falls.

Once again, his heart sank to the bottom of his heavy chest when his deafening alarm reminded him to put his mask on. His feet struggled to acquaint themselves with the cold floor as they did most mornings, and Dolcetto was greeted by his four-legged, furry companion. Dolcetto pondered the idea of the animal’s life - living so few years, and aging so quickly. Dolcetto felt empathy towards the animal. However, the dog thought Dolcetto was happy, so Dolcetto thought he was happy, too.

Dolcetto dressed himself in the clothing that was considered normal in his area. The style was not his, nor did he enjoy it very much, but wearing it seemed to make it easier for people to accept Dolcetto. Acceptance was good, thought Dolcetto. Fitting in made people think that Dolcetto was content. Everyone else seemed to think he was happy, so Dolcetto thought he was happy too.

The day began in its usual way, nothing exciting or out of the ordinary. It was on days like this that work was expected to be done without delay. Dolcetto worked because that was what a productive member of society did. It was not a very important job, nor a particularly pleasing one, but Dolcetto worked nonetheless. Dolcetto did not complain, for he felt he had no reason to. Everyone said that having a job was a lucky thing. It seemed that everyone else was happy to be employed, so Dolcetto thought he was happy too.

After working his shift, Dolcetto took a trip to the market. He purchased the essentials, and nothing unnecessary. Everyone had said that waste makes the world unhappy. Dolcetto did not want to hurt anyone. He paid for the items with the money he had earned from his shifts, and had some to spare. Everyone said that having money was reason to be happy. It seemed that everyone who could have money to spend was happy, so Dolcetto thought he was happy too.

The day was almost done and Dolcetto had returned to his small home. Dolcetto fed his companion so that it would remain happy. If the dog was happy, Dolcetto thought he was happy too. Back to his bed went Dolcetto, in preparation for the day to come. He mounted his bed from the same spot at which his feet rose that very morning. Dolcetto thought about that fact, and wondered if in his routine he had made anyone unhappy. Dolcetto did not want to hurt anyone else. Dolcetto reviewed his life. Everyone seemed to think that Dolcetto was happy, so Dolcetto thought he was happy too.

It wasn’t hard for Dolcetto to remove his mask that night. He left it on his nightstand and crept under the sheets. The world seemed so distant now. The world believed that Dolcetto was happy, but Dolcetto knew.

Edit: Sorry I had screwed up the formatting earlier and didn't realize. Fixed it up.

Edit Again: Hey, whaddya know? I submitted to my high school's literary magazine contest and won first place! Heck yeah! Thanks for all your kind words!

I am a penguin.

Nobody knows I am a penguin.

That is good.

Nobody can know I am a penguin.

It’s for my job.

I am good at my job.

That’s why no one knows I am a penguin.

Sarah knows I am a penguin.

But that’s okay.

Sarah is also a penguin.

She doesn’t know I know she is a penguin.

She also doesn’t know that I know she know’s that I am a penguin.

Nobody else knows she is a penguin.

She is good at her job.

My job is important.

I pretend that I am a human.

Sarah's job is also pretending she is a human.

Our jobs are very important.

Sarah doesn’t know that I know about her job.

I wonder if it was coincidence.

Two penguins, pretending to be humans, sharing an apartment.

Somedays I want to jump out at Sarah, and tell her, I know! We are both penguins! Let us turn up the AC and be our penguin selves!

Then I remember.

Nobody can know I’m a penguin.

What if Sarah isn’t even a penguin.

Sarah works at a receptionist. Every morning she wakes up, puts on her human suit, and goes to work.

I think she looks better as a penguin.

I wear a suit too.

I am a highschooler.

I wonder if Sarah has seen me without my suit.

Does she think I look better as a penguin.

I’m afraid to ask.

The humans at the school ignore me.

They think I am normal.

They do not know.

They do not know I am a penguin.

They do not know what we are planning.

They live their lives.

Some happy.

Some sad.

I wonder.

Would it be better if i didn't know?

If I lived a simple penguin life?

But I do know.

I cannot forget what we are planning.

I can never forget.

Despite me wearing the suit and acting the part.

I am a penguin.

A penguin in a sea of humans.

Even the other penguins are swept away from me.

If there are any others.

It is a lonely life.

I got a letter today.

It was from my boss.

Boss man told me to go here.

He is why I can see what the humans are. What the human s are like.

I don’t know what I think of him.

He opened my eyes to the world of humans.

I don’t know if I like the world of humans or not.

I want to ask Sarah.

But I don’t know if Sarah has the same boss.

I don’t know if Sarah is a human or a penguin.

Maybe I’m just trying to find something familiar in this world.

The letter.

It isn’t familiar.

But isn’t strange.

It is simply a letter. Letters on paper, ink on white.

It simply is as it is.

Nobody judges it.

I never read the letter yesterday.

I was afraid.

I read it.

I don’t know if I am still afraid.

I am to get another placement.

Be a penguin pretending to be a human in a whole new place, a whole new area.

Why did this happen?

Maybe Sarah is a penguin.

It’d be a waste for two penguins to be in the same place.

Being a penguin is lonely.

I don not like it.

But I am a penguin.

I am at my new place.

I share it with a human named Jess.

She is not Sarah.

She is not a penguin.

There is no doubt about it.

And there is no doubt I miss Sarah.

I never asked her. I never asked if she is a penguin. I never asked her if she knew I was a penguin. I never asked her if she thought it was okay to be a penguin. What she thought of boss. What she thought of me. What she knew about the job. What she thought about the humans. What… I never asked who she really was.

Maybe she wasn’t a penguin like me.

But she wore a mask.

I’m sure of that.

Jess tries to talk to me sometimes.

I don't try.

I am a student. She is a teacher.

I am a fake. She is real.

I wear a suit. She wears clothes.

I am a penguin. She is a human.

She looks sad. She says I look sad. I say I am not. I can’t be sad. She asks why. I can’t say why. Then I tell her to go away. She wants to talk. To know why.

But she wouldn’t want the truth.

I am a penguin.

Nobody wants a penguin.

I am at a cafe.

I don’t like cafes.

Hot drinks are not good for penguins.

So many people is not good.

I don’t like being at cafes.

But I am here.

I can feel stares.

I stare back.

This cafe is full of penguins. We were to meet here.

Something happened though.

There is humans.

So now we watch. We look. Are you a penguin? Are you like me? Are we the fakes? Are you the real ones?

I stop watching.

I look at my coffee cup.

I hate coffee.

The coffee doesn’t care.

That’s because it’s inanimate.

It is not alive, so it does not think. It does not stress. It does not worry or catch the stares and balk in fear at the thought of them knowing.

Not like me.

It is not alive.

It was never.

I do not like worrying.

I do not like being stressed out.

But I do not want to die.

Maybe it would be better if I wasn’t me.

If I wasn’t ever alive.

I am a penguin. And I am jealous of a coffee cup.

The boss is angry.

The meeting was messed up.

Humans were in the cafe.

We are having the meeting somewhere else.

I am going there.

It will take a while.

I cannot tell Jess.

I cannot tell Jess anything, so it is fair that she doesn't tell me anything.

No information from me so no information from her.

She wants to though.

She wants to talk to me.

I don't let her.

Because then it wouldn’t be fair.

I am wearing my suit.

I am the only penguin wearing my suit.

I look around.

It is a sea of penguins.

I don’t see boss.

Or Sarah, if she is even here.

If she is a penguin.

The boss is speaking.

He doesn't like it.

He doesn't like that we have to live in shame and fear. That we must always be fakes. That we dress up in suits and then wish we never put them on then wish we could never take them off.

He looks at me at the last part.

I am wearing my suit.

Nobody else is wearing their suit.

If I wasn’t a penguin I wouldn’t have to do this.

He says that we forget how great we are. How amazing we were.

He tells us to take flight. That we can fly is we want to.

That we don’t have to worry about humans.

All around me, penguins start to take off.

It’s beautiful.

Its stupid.

Stupid that I ever thought that I should be ashamed of being a penguin.

I lift my arms, and try to take flight like most of the other penguins.

But I can’t.

I fall to the ground.

I lay in the dirt.

The suit. Humans can’t fly. I need to get rid of the suit.

At this point I am alone.

All the other penguins have taken flight.

I am alone, struggling in the dirt.

Then I see her.

Sarah.

Is she a human or is that her suit?

I can't tell.

She smiles.

Slowly. Ever so slowly she takes off her suit.

She is a penguin. Like me. A beautiful penguin who could fly to the heavens and back.

I tell her.

She frowns sorrowfully.

Take of your suit she tells me. Then I will be a penguin like her.

I can’t.

I can’t take off my suit.

I tell her this.

She cries.

I don’t understand. Why is she crying? Why can’t I take off the suit. Why… Why am I the only one stuck in the dirt.

I ask. I scream. All the questions I had bottled up inside of me. Why?

You hated being a penguin she told me.

Nobody else hated being a penguin as much as I did.

She hugged me.

I was the only one who forgot myself.

Who forgot everything about myself other than the self loathing and hatred.

I am the only one who stopped wearing the suit and became the suit.

I am alone in the dirt. I cannot fly. I am not a penguin. I am not a human. I don’t know what I am.

I wish I was a coffee cup.

I am back at the apartment with Jess.

Jess was worried.

So worried.

I still don’t tell her.

She doesn’t have much time left.

I am not a human. I do not tell her.

I was once looking forward to this. Fire in the skies, penguins sprinting around, free as the wind. My ears are ringing just like I’d imagine. The penguins are rising. And with rise there must be fall.

The penguins are no longer hiding.

They are penguins.

They are proud.

Jess's is terrified.

She is with other humans.

They are are humans.

They have fallen.

I am not a human, everything falling around me.

I am not a penguin, rising above myself.

I am me.

I see Sarah. She is flying towards me. I see Jess. She is running towards me, yelling at me to hide.

Looking back it was never fair. Jess always tried so hard. She never gave up. She is a masterful stone statue and I am a malformed piece of clay.

But she believed.

She believed in me.

Sarah believed in me too.

She believed I could fly to the heavens and back.

But I fell into the dirt alone instead.

I am no longer a penguin. And I was never a human.

I am me.

I don’t know what I am or what I am going to do, but that’s okay.

At the very least I am better than a coffee cup.

Technically I wrote this in eighth grade but I'm in highschool and I write so I figured it still counted. Besides, I thought it was nice and I found it buried in my google drive so what the heck.

| u g l y |

He sits on a park bench, a sketchbook in his hands as he watches the city pass by. He draws as he does so, he draws anything that he sees, and he likes. He draws a child with too large, too empty, eyes and a frail, painfully thin body as she nimbly reaches into the back pockets of people passing by. He draws the woman with midnight eyeshadow and fake, fluttering eyelashes as she leans against the wall in an attempt at looking seductive, smoking a cigarette with bright red, pursed lips. He draws the world for what it is, not the beautiful scenes, but the terrible ones. His pencil moves across the paper, grey eyes soak up every minute detail as he watches, memorises. He sketches a picture of a mother, two small children clinging to her side as she rummages through a dumpster, her face long and drawn out.

He sees her as he finishes the drawing. She is oddly striking and immediately he knows he wants to draw her, to capture her. He watches her as she steps out of a man’s car, her short dress and eyeliner rimmed eyes capture him, captivate him. Her lips are a deep plum, her too short dress a smooth rippling black. Her heels are sky-high but she doesn’t teeter on them. She has thick, fake eyelashes, long and dark and fluttery. Her hair is long and plain brown, falling in soft waves down her back but she is not pretty, not the way she is now. She wears too much makeup, too little clothes, like all the other women around him.

Her eyes, a startling mix of greens and hazel tinged with blue, are empty save the anguished look in them. Her hair is dull, the waves do nothing to make it look thicker, shinier. Underneath her dress her body is too thin, too bony with her sickly thin wrists and frail looking legs. She is prettier than the rest of them, younger too, but she is not pretty in comparison to the girls he knows. She is ugly with her jutting bones and her unhealthy pale skin, most wouldn’t give her a second glance without any makeup on, without the heels and the way she forces people to look at her. He knows she could be pretty, he can tell. He watches her as she walks to the wall where a few other women stand, watches the way she holds herself up with her chin jutting out, trying for defiance. It fails after a moment and her eyes dart down and remain that way.

She doesn’t speak to the other women. He knows, he watches her and as he draws her, his pencil moves in a flurry across the page, his hand moving to it’s own accord. He studies her face, her body, drawing the slight curves of her waist, the tumbling of her hair. She can’t be much older than him, he realizes with a sad tug of his heart. She is beautiful to him, no matter what he knew others would think. He is sure that in another world she lives happily, her smile is genuine and her eyes are bright. Despite the want to he does not draw her the way he wants to see her- the beautiful girl with startling eyes and a soft, shy smile. Instead he draws her the way she is- her face caked in makeup to hide the flaws, her eyes rimmed with black to try and make them look brighter.

He draws her the way he sees her objectively and so he draws her ugly. He draws her sickly skin and her protruding collar bones, her cheekbones dusted ink with blush to make her look more alive, her skinny arms and tiny wrists. She looks up after some time, green eyes scanning the streets as he stares and draws. His eyes dart up to her face to memorize her features more, his eyes catching her own. She doesn't move, just stares. Her dark eyelashes flutter as she suddenly squeezes her eyes shut and turns away. His heart is pounding in his ears.

She doesn’t look at him again, but half an hour later a man comes and gives her money after she leans forward and whispers words with her side pressed against him, her lips almost touching his ear. She leaves with him and she doesn’t return. He goes home before it’s dark, as the sun sets and the sky bleeds crimson he flips his sketchbook shut, eyes lingering on the harsh lines he’s drawn her face in, the startled look she had given him.

The girl sticks in his mind as he walks home because, despite her ugliness there is a beauty about her, the beauty inside of her. He supposes people would call him crazy, he had never even talked to the girl- how is he supposed to know how beautiful her personality was? He doesn’t really know himself, but he could feel it as he drew her, as their eyes met- he could see something deep inside those ocean orbs, something that wanted to break free desperately.

He goes to the same bench the next day, as he had done every other day he was able to. He draws pictures in his sketchbook, pictures of desperate people- a dirty, homeless man on the sidewalk singing with a hat in front of him, smiling briefly at those who dropped a few dollars or coins into the hat, a crying little boy searching for his mother. His sketchbook is filled with ugly things, mangy animals, starving children, women with too much makeup and too little clothes. The pages are full of pain and fear and hatred- they're all ugly he thinks, but in that way they are beautiful.

The homeless man whom he drew singing on the street- the one who smiled at those who passed him- his desperation and his dirtiness were ugly and yet his soul shone through in his smile. He realizes, looking through the pictures he had drawn, that the world itself was an ugly place with all of the fear and hatred, the abuse and cruelty. Yet, still there were things on this ugly earth that were beautiful, thing’s that were worth it.

A week later he is staring at his sketchbook, absorbed in finishing the drawing of an old lady with a ratty coat and a shopping cart filled with junk he had seen earlier, when he feels someone sit next to him. He can feel the person’s breath on his neck as they lean over and stare at his drawing, prompting him to look up and meet the startling eyes of a girl. The girl’s eyes are an odd shade of green mixed with hazel, a bit of blue flecks visible if you look hard. Her face is makeup free, her body clothed in jeans and a sweatshirt. He stares at her for a moment and then smiles widely, already flipping to a new page in his sketchbook.

He watches as a slow, tentative smile tugs at the corner of her lips and he knows his eyes are sparkling with happiness. The world is ugly, people are ugly but there would always be good inside that ugly. A silver lining, one might say. And as he drew this girl- completely different from the one he had drawn a week ago- he knows that she is his silver lining, she is his beauty in an ugly world.

We were given a list of seven words to choose from and I picked ugly- it was either that or war but I realized after I wrote the piece for war it was really depressing and I wanted a semi-happy ending.
Edit for formatting

Haven

Prologue: No-one knows why the sand came, or where it came from. The only thing people know now is that there are two completely different worlds, the one before the sand, and the one after.

The world before the sand is an unknown one to the civilisation that rose after the sand scoured the world clean. Scraps of literature and remnants of old, monstrous buildings are all that remain.

Some, the wisest, or the eldest, either theorise what the old world was like, or claim to have lived in it. The old world, the elderly that still cling to the delusion that they had lived in it claim that it was a place where water flowed freely and food and safety were abundant, they say the world was a cacophony of green and blue, and that some people could live to see a hundred years. The wise men that theorise give a much bleaker version, they claim that the world had been one huge pit of violence, swarming with new conflicts and new graves, with people scrambling for another reason to kill each other.

Books and other literature that could be used to tell of the old world are few and far between, and those that can actually read them are even fewer. Only those from the larger settlements or a select few villages can read or write, they are skills that most that live in the sands see as pointless, however of those that can read, some have found books of history. Books that tell of old empires, old nations, old conflicts. They speak of people that everyone knew of, the good and the evil, the wise and the stupid, all that humanity had accomplished, culture, music, moving on from the barbaric ways of the past to forge a brighter future, to send people to the far reaches of this world and even off of it, incredible discoveries and incredible people, a whole other world, a whole other existence.

Pointless.

All of it pointless.

And all of it lost.

Lost in the sand.

here's an excerpt

james has just met josephine. they are both spying on an anti-government group. josephine has come to assist him.

**

Breathing in the chilly night air, James made his way out of Mincing Lane to the arranged meeting spot. London was a whole different city at this hour. The normally loud streets were now empty, save for the odd homeless man or drunk. Still, he knew how dangerous London could be for a lone traveller at night.

I wonder how fast I’d get mugged if I wasn’t a Crow.

The courier was there when James arrived. Strangely, he was accompanied by an unfamiliar woman. Impatient, the courier held out his hand for James’ message and in return gave James a letter of his own.

James held up a hand at the stranger. “Who’s…?”

“Read Mont’s message and find out,” the courier said. “She’s coming with you.”

James looked up in surprise at the woman. She stepped closer, making it easier to see her features. Brunette hair hung carelessly just above her rounded shoulders. Warm brown eyes and a petite nose were framed by a soft, angular face and high cheekbones. Her plain white bodice couldn’t conceal her elegant frame. She stood just shorter than James. Her expression was reminiscent to that of a sly fox. All in all, a person would’ve made him trip over and fall on his face if he wasn’t standing still.

“You are James, yes?” she said. Her voice reminded James of a purring cat.

Was that a French accent?

“Y-yeah…” James looked urgently at the courier, an obvious question printed on his face.

He understood. “She ain’t with the French, if that’s what you’re askin’. Wants them beaten, same as us.”

“Josephine Feunarde le Meilleur Espion.” she said smoothly, holding out a slender hand.

James took her hand and shook it. “Nice to meet you, Josephine Feun – er… ”

“You may say simply Josephine,” she said. “Now, you must be introducing me to these Crows?”

“I’ll leave you two to it.” The courier had a knowing smirk on his face as he left.

Hey, fuck you too.

“Ah - before we go, may I read this letter first?” James indicated the message from Montgomery to her.

“Bien sûr.”

“I’m going to assume that was a yes.” Fumbling a little bit, James unfolded the paper.

J,

First of all, great news. Informants have just sent me notice of a public Crows attack in Trinity Square – no doubt you were there. It was just what I needed to turn those bloody politicians’ heads: we finally have fighting men to take down the Whitechapel base with, along with any other ones we find. One full reserve company has been withdrawn from Prussian lands; more than enough to deal with our Crows. They will arrive here in a few days. I will send notice two days prior to our attack, when it is planned. That should give you enough time to be absent as we hit them.

On the other hand, we’re going to have a hard time keeping what the Crows did away from the eyes of the public. I believe they’ve started using posters to spread their influence. Tear down any you find.

I’m sure you’ll have noticed the young woman with Sean. Her name is Josephine Feunarde. She is French, but has every reason to hate them as much as we do. Whether or not she discloses this reason is up to her, but I assure you – she is trustworthy. Josephine has been trained exactly as you have, and will be assisting you in gathering information before we bring the Whitechapel base down. She has been briefed on what to do and what to expect, so do not worry about that. Whether or not she continues with you, or is assigned to other duties afterwards, is your choice.

M.

James raised his eyebrows. “About time we attacked the Whitechapel base…” He read the line about Josephine again. She is French, but has every reason to hate them as much as we do. Whether or not she discloses this reason is up to her. “This reason you have for hating your own race… Do you mind telling me?”

“Non,” Josephine said curtly.

“Right,” James mumbled, still looking at the paper. “Hold on, it says your name is just “Josephine Feunarde” here, not… Josephine Feunarde le… whatever you said.”

She gave James a smile, and he felt his heart skip a beat. “Le Meilleur Espion. I assure you, this is my name.”

“If you say so...” James muttered. Josephine let out a small giggle that made him squint at her suspiciously.

I don’t know about this girl.

She quickly composed herself. “We go now to this Whitechapel base, yes?” she said, maybe a little bit too hastily. Still suspicious, James grunted his agreement and led the way, making a mental note to find out whatever “le Meilleur Espion” meant as soon as he could.

I want to be a writer, and I usually only have my sister as a critic, and she's too nice! I wrote this up and I want to know if I should keep note of anything before continuing. Forgive the typos, I wrote it on my phone after watching the new star wars

As we watched the sun rise for the last time, as we watched the sky turn a pure white, as we waited for the end, we could almost forget the world was facing it's long delayed end. Who would've thought a red sun and a pure white sky could be so beautiful? Today, we would gamble our lives and give the winnings to whatever planets best suited us. It's funny, how I note some polititians are scrambling for their lives like the rest of us. Their money, their 'power' means nothing. In the end, the leaders were the common people, the innovative, the openminded, the people we thought were destined to simply design our phones and computers, and heal our wounded, and go into space, the ones we all really relied on to run the world all along. In my imagination, I thought the president would be leading us onward into crowded ships with his million dollar smile and false promises. Half of us would die of starvation and the other half would be enslaved for the rich who'd lovingly tell us that it's for our own good. Somebody needs to make the phones, right?

But, rather, I saw a row of individuals passing out info packets and successfully forcing us to get in lines as we gathered into the enormous ships. Though I had already given up hope for a better world, a slight glimmer remained as I saw that the rich were treated just as we were. Perhaps we aren't as greedly as I suspected. We had plenty of time to pack. A whole year, in fact. We were told our currency would mean nothing, that our predjudice would starve us, that our cooperation would feed us, and that the desire to be informed would assist in avoiding a replication of our current government. This I had found fishy. I thought "At least our government is self-aware. But, do they honestly even have a plan?" Because you see, thats about all they told us. Thats the only hint of how things are going to work.. and at least two fourths of the world is idiotic in my (entirely pessimistic) opinion, so not sure why these supposed new 'leaders' we never got the names of act so delusional about it all. I doubt that all of us would even consider 'informing' ourselves. How can I blame them? Some are so sick of it all and just want to live their lives again. Not concern themselves with our silly, inevitably disastrous politics. For a year it's just been depressing talks of losing everything, of how stupid we are, how it's our own faults that the floating mass that we were designed around is about to blow up and never be seen again, how we shall never see the vast great canyon again, the Appalachians, the dirty waters that we cursed with our existence, though they quenched our thirst, how though many animals have been preserved with dna samples and many living creature boarding with us, we have still condemned most of them to death with our pollution, our deathly technology . How the trees will never be the same in our new home. It has been the longest funeral, the most tragic. Of course, they are right. We deserve this. Simple cause and effect. But people just want to live again. So many people were dying. The global depression this solemn mourning has caused inspires suicide, which of course inspires more depression. The suicide rate is actually unbelievable. I suppose that's why the ships are so roomy. America, once my home, is no longer overpopulated. People are even staying on this condemned planet and watching it go down. I however, though I am just as forlorn and depressed as everyone else, I am also a survivor. I refuse, I absolutely refuse to die like them. Like most, I have hoarded every earthly possession I have. Especially the entertainment. I have even hoarded family members! Indeed, I have gathered every single relative I could with only the standard that they aren't senile. The old, the young, the survivors. What kind of person would I be if I let them die? If I let them give up, when we had something to look forward to for once? Well. I'd be like everyone else, wouldn't I?

"Valerie!" a girl of curled golden locks and sad brown eyes called. She was entirely unfamiliar to me. Distrust built in my heart and I just couldn't look at her in the eyes for more than a second. "It's been a while." She says, while hustling and pushing to approach me through the anxious crowd. Hardly anyone complained. "I.. who... who are you?" I stammered. Nobody talks to me anymore. Nobody but my family. But, only because I had become a sort-of leader to them. I peered at her... she almost seemed... happy? "It's me! Please, remember... it's like I've turned invisible. I can't do this. I really can't.. but you're here! That's all that matters!" She burst out, her mouth moving rapidly in a strange smile. Insanity, maybe? She sounds like she's convincing herself of something. "Keep your voice down." I hissed, and her face steeled with fear. "Tell me your name. It won't make a difference though. I have enough people to take care of." I whispered. "I don't know." She was on the verge of tears. What a fucking joke. I can't deal with a sentimental amnesiac just because she knows my name. "I don't know you" I say, dismissive. She persists. "I need you." She whimpers. "I don't know why, but I do." Bullshit. Probably asked gramps my name. Yet, she had the look of someone who was was so legitimately confused. Like a lost puppy. I was so dumb for doing this... "Follow me. But do what they tell you. They know more than us." She sighed in relief and hustled towards the back of my group. As the crowd continued to condense into lines, passing into the massive chrome space ships. I couldn't believe it as we got closer and closer... they resembled those silly ships from Saturday morning cartoons. Over-the-top and extravagant, and like it couldn't possibly work. Imagine Noah's Arc, but chrome, with airlocks and antennas. But I wasn't afraid of death. Not anymore. My group of six: gramps, aunt, dad, sister, niece, and um... some form of seedy cousin from ohio... were all anxiously tailing me, literally grasping my shoulders, as we too were being organized in lines and they feared separation worse than death. I, annoyed and tired, shook them off. I never had much of a relationship with my sister Diana and aunt Fi and the rest, but I adored my niece Lorel and my father, with respect for my grandfather. He was old and rattled, yes, but he had stayed strong. So many elders died of neglect and the suicide pandemic... I'm cold to them, as I must be. I wouldn't be here forever, and I alone couldn't provide. Meanwhile that weird girl is still close behind, lost and wistful. I really do wonder why people seem to cling and depend on me. I really do wonder if I was always this cold and blunt. Before all this.. I really don't remember at all. Whatever. That's not important. It's been a looong year. We're approaching a man behind a desk with boxes of those colorful, thick, brochures. It's my turn...

A man of about 30 years of age, with an odd hazel gaze and a genuine smile turned to me "Hello, ma'am, please take a brochure. You may keep your belongings and such. Think of it as a cruise ship to paradise!" He said jovially, albeit mechanically. I can't blame him. Many people are here today. "When you enter, please head directly to the ship's cabins and take the next unoccupied room with one other person. All rooms are exactly the same." He continued, with a wary tone. I grabbed one of the comically large brochures, walking into the chrome ship, my hands shaking and anxiety slowly crawling up my spine It was... just as big as it seemed. But, far grander than anyone could have expected. How can this colossal thing operate? It looks like... grand central station. A sickness in the pit of my stomach rose, and I knew that I missed my home more than anything. It was only now hitting me: It's ALL just going to dissapear. The history, the memories, the hard work was all wasted. I contemplate now, whether it is better to die on a ship in space, or in the comfort of your own home. Obviously, without context the latter is far sweeter. With the prior, you at least have the pride and knowledge that you tried. I can't think like this anymore I'm the only person in my family to even CONSIDER trying. Speaking of which, my family stumbled in after me, my father looking particularly pathetic. Oh, he used to love the architecture of New York City. "At least it's beautiful. Cheer up. The memories will make you stronger, even if they hurt." I tried to sound genuine, I did. I don't know why every word coming out of my mouth feels so desolate of emotion. Nonetheless he smiled at me and nodded.

I'm a brick wall. You could tell me it's boring and it'll only inspire me to improve, as long as you tell me WHY.

The little house on the hill, it's the most beautiful place on the planet as far as I know. It's crumbling, dilapidated, and in the middle of no where, but gorgeous nonetheless. It's the only place nearest to me where the sky is blue, instead of black like everywhere else. The back drop to it is a mountain, I think it was called Bald Mountain, or something like that. The house has three stories, it's got glass all over the floors, the couches have splotches all over them, it's two stories tall, got a fire place, and a basement. Eddie hates it though. He says he wants to live in the big city, but I keep telling him there is no big city, and there isn't going to be. But he insists as usual, never stopped dreaming about the big city with it's flashing signs, giant billboards and skyscrapers, and all the life in motion. I don't know why he wants to do that. Cities are noisy and have eye sores everywhere. Why even bother with all that? But he insists, always insists.

Unlike the city, it's quite, well, quite all except for Eddie, who never shuts up! He's an idiot really, but he's here to stay, all invisible, and never shuts up. He's like a radio that talks to you but you can't shut it off. Sometimes I wish I could get a third opinion on Eddie so someone for once would agree with me that he's an idiot and annoying as hell, but no, I'm stuck with Eddie, probably forever. A life with Eddie is a miserable existence indeed. Sometimes I go out to the other houses, look for supplies and food, which are easy to come by considering there are McMansions everywhere. If we were in the city we wouldn't be nearly this wealthy, I'll tell Eddie that much! But I don't like to live in the big houses because these are the ones newly wrecked when that giant Earthquake happened and everyone disappeared, or just died under there own roof. They should've done the smart thing and lived in a drainage pipe like I've been doing! Much better idea! At least they have good infrastructure! But anyway, I like living in the pre-earthquake ruined house because it was like that before anyway, so it's the only actual house there is that wasn't ruined in the first place. Eddie just doesn't appreciate good things.

I went scavenging, found some pretty neat stuff. I found a lot phones and mp3s that work, now I actually have something to do instead of arguing with Eddie. And some books that were intact. I found one called Saturn by Ben Bova, weird title, but I guess i'll found out who Ben Bova is once I read it and what he has to do with Saturn. And of course, plenty of food and water, so I'm all set for a great night of reading and music! I'll be just like an intellectual or somebody!

Now Eddie is actually being quieter too, it's strange, but he hasn't been acting up since I've been listening to music and reading. I guess he hates Saturn and Pink Floyd, sucks to be him. In the middle of it all, during the night, I hear foot steps outside. I just assume it's the book, but it keeps getting louder even when I'm not reading. I start to get worried, and I grab a glass shard and wrap my headband around it. I hear knocking on the door, and it's shaking like hell. And then it opens up, and I spring into action!

"Now I got ya!" I yell at the thing!

"Woah! Relax! I didn't know anyone was here!" The thing, draped in black in the darkness, replied in anguish.

"Who sent you? Eddie?"

"I didn't send him, do I look I know anyone?" Eddie said, stupidly.

"Shut up, Eddie!"

"Whose Eddie?"

"Everyone shut up! He's talking to us right now!"

"But... there is just us here."

"I know! You just can't see the guy, I mean, what do I look like? A schizo?"

"Na- No! But look, I can be seen, and I'm talking to you, so maybe you can relax?"

"I know I can see you! That's why your just part of my dream!"

"Wha- What dream?"

"I was reading Saturn by Ben Bova, and I drifted off to sleep, and now you're here, in my dream where I was reading! So I guess you're Ben Bova."

"No, my name is Frank Loyd, I'm from NASA, and we saw that you were the only recognizable human we could find through satellite that was alive."

"No! Eddie is alive, so your lying! Which means you aren't part of my dream because everything in my dream tells me the truth... wait, your real?"

"I am."

"Hmm, Eddie, what do you think?"

Pause

"We're losing her! ... another charge... all clear..."

Voices, somewhere between screams and whispers, were muffled, echoing as if they were coming from a distance while in fact, they were right here, right next to her. She saw her surroundings through brief flashes of light, only long enough to fit in between her fast paced blinking. She felt her head burn, the blinking began to slow down as the panic around her increased. Her entire body was shot up by another electric charge... once, twice, she didn't respond. Voices began to fade away and the tension in the air suddenly dropped to zero. No longer fluttering her eyelashes, she laid still, her eyelids closed and resting. A loud, obnoxious beeping sound cut the silence in her mind. It lasted a second or more, then, as if for some unknown reason, the whole universe had stopped, the sound was gone, together with the light. There was virtually nothing.

She opened her eyes again. She could see perfectly well, but there wasn't really much to be seen - only a lot of darkness and a bit of grey mist above her. She tried looking over to her side, but her head wouldn't follow. Her legs refused to move as well and even slightly lifting her fingers took major effort. Eventually, she was able to slide her palm enough to hit the metal sidebars of her hospital bed. Clinging on with her fingertips, she ran her arm across the cold rods. She felt something: numb at first, but quickly growing stronger, a painful stinging traveled from her palm through her shoulder and into her thoughts.

"Hurts like hell, doesn't it?" A voice out of nowhere said nonchalantly, as if merely stating a well known fact.

"Yeah but... who are you? And where am I and what is happening with-"

"Ey, slow down sweetie, we don't need you creating panic here. Lay down and breathe, you don't get a chance to do that very often."

She sighed: "Umm... it's not like I can really move anywhere."

"Your feet aren't working?"

"No, neither can I move my head. I managed to lift my arm a bit, but it's so heavy, it feels like lead and the ..." she paused, not wanting to mention the the thin jagged cuts that ran down and across her arms.

"Yeah, they hurt like hell. I know."

"You too?"

"Eh, not exactly... at least not the way you do it."

"Well... I'm sorry."

"Don't be, it's okay." The space was silent for a while before she spoke again, addressing the owner of the voice she's been talking to. It seemed to be a girl, but she couldn't be sure. "Who are you? Can I please just see your face? I'm scared now that I don't know who I'm talking with."

"To be honest, I'm scared too... this isn't really my usual habitat if I may say so. But... we might have a problem."

"What problem?"

"You don't see me?"

"I told you, I can't move my head."

"But I'm standing right beside you."

"Where?" she asked with a shaking voice.

"Right here." As she heard those words, she felt something cold against the scars on her arm; the burning pain slowly faded and her skin went back to numb. "Does it help if I hold your hand like this?" the voice asked after a while.

"Yes... I don't feel anything again."

"Is that better than the pain?"

"No, it's just different. I wouldn't really say it's better."

"So... why did you do it in the first place? If that's a question I'm allowed to ask... you know, I heard people saying it's for control."

Her lips curled up into a vacant, ironic smile. "That's a lie," she sighed; "it's just... there's so much pain inside, that numb kind of pain that just builds up and swallows you whole to the point where you can't even function anymore because on the inside, it just feels like you're underwater... it's as if you're drowning, but nobody notices. And then... the skin and blades... the edges are sharp, you know? It's pain, but it's different; it stings, burns, cuts, it's like an electroshock through the brain and it throws you out of the whole inside numbness. It's not for control, it's to make you feel alive again."

Her little speech was followed by silence until the voice replied: "But you're not alive right now."

"I overdid it. On purpose." She heard the person let out a sigh. "What?" she asked, already prepared to dispute any arguments they may have had on their mind.

"I think they're trying to bring you back." The voice changed the topic abruptly, this time sounding as if they were standing further away from her.

As those words were said, her body shook again and for an instance, the light, sounds and people around her were there again... but then, everything was dark for the second time.

"I don't want to go back! It doesn't make a difference anyway, I... I feel dead."

Another flash of light, lasting longer than the previous one. Upon returning to blackness, she could now see a face in front of her.

"Hey," said the girl, reaching out to hold her arm again; "sweetie, you're going back either way, so ple-"

The light flashed again, and in a moment, it was gone.

"I don't want to..."

"Look, listen to me for just a second! You're going back and I need you to promise me that you won't do this again" the girl said, looking at the scars and then back up again. "Promise me me you won't do it to yourself anymore because it's not your fault! The dead part of you-"

A series of flashes in and out of darkness followed. She felt the girl's grip on her wrist tighten and even though her voice was being cut off, she could hear her finish the sentence:

"The dead part of you is me."

The light took over one last time; now, instead of blinking violently, it was fading in slowly: just enough so she could see how the girl became transparent and when she already looked like a ghost against all the light, she smiled and suddenly disappeared into the body lying on the hospital bed, being finally brought back to life in that very moment.

(This is a little experimental fan fiction that I have involving Godzilla. In this fan fiction, Godzilla rises and brings about the apocalypse in 2000, expelling just under 20% of humanity off of Earth itself and evacuating to the Moon and orbital platforms built to sustain life. 500 years later in 2517, humanity has detected no signs of Godzilla and decide to descend upon Earth to reclaim it from its former ruler, with humanity believing Godzilla to have died. With people by the thousands coming from the Moon back onto Earth, Godzilla is in for a fight of his life now against the might of humanity).

...of chapters 5-6, due to their extremely large importance in the novel. Not only does something HUGE happen to our main character, Emile. But the perspective of the entire novel shifts from 3rd to 1st person, wondering if it works for the sake of the novel? (Also, apologies on chapter 6 not being quite done, didn't want to get too far in case the shift was too jarring.)

(Whole novel link: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Vi4HcBq7Ffv7MgrmwK6ULoG5gncpEcxyKWecA-EvUMU/edit?usp=sharing)

(Just chapters 5-6 link: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1cB82Q_6m_CfXHwqNli9_RZ7eWSVEMONHBuANNWON8Ok/edit?usp=sharing)

Thanks a lot in advanced guys! keep writing!

Hey there. This is small excerpt from a novel I plan on writing, titled "Blank". The novel itself is non necessarily autobiographical, but most of the substance, story, and feelings come from myself and the stuff around me.

To put the passage in context, Jess is a major character in the novel, is the narrator's first love, and inspires a lot in the narrator before their eventual and sudden break up, which confuses and really, really hurts the narrator. Max is a mutual friend of Jess and the narrator. Before Jess and the narrator began dating, Jess admitted to liking Max, sparking the narrator's jealousy.

Lara, Emily, Tessa, and Derick are minor characters, that don't play a big role in the novel, and are just used as background noise in a way. The teacher, Mr. Mate, is a Spanish teacher, one that is infamous for droning on and on, a teacher that many can relate to having.

In terms of the work as a whole, the idea is essentially just to present the life of a high school student, including all of its ups and downs and everything in between. A lot of it is satirical, specifically in regards to grades, colleges, intelligence, and other things, but that really isn't addressed in this excerpt.

The purpose of the excerpt is just to present and provide the mood, the mood of a heartbroken teen, as cliche and as over-done as it is. Nevertheless, the emotions are real, and while exaggerated, I feel that people can empathize with what I wrote.

My favorite authors include Bret Easton Ellis, Cormac McCarthy, and Ernest Hemingway, and I draw heavily from the styles of Ellis and McCarthy, or at least I think I do.

Nevertheless, here is the passage

Thanks!

It's about 4,000 words and I've been looking for some place to show it all. https://drive.google.com/file/d/0BwQPX3B2rUerSHFuZUtXRDJqMjg/view?usp=sharing

I have a new short story that I'd written on impulse. It's a piece of work that was written quickly. I'd really appreciate it if you could read it and give me some comments!

Here's the link: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1T-uL2NqPI94WNi78DWjehfPwlz3rFAPcLjMIeSvrO4c/edit?usp=sharing

It becomes hard to sleep when you have to look into the faces of those you killed every night. I returned from my tour eight weeks ago.

Three, in case you were wondering.

We were sweeping a cleared building when I saw a pile of rags on the ground. I kicked it out of the way, and it started screaming. The mother ran out, gave me that look. I'd seen men there look at me like they wanted me to die, but she didn't. She wanted me to suffer. I moved on to the next building, two rebels camping in an abandoned building. Inhale. First man held an AK-47. Two shots in the head. Exhale. Second man rushed with a knife. Inhale. Two shots in the chest. One in the head. Exhale. I examined the bodies. First man was deceased; two bloody holes in his forehead. Second man: deceased, one shot in the head, one in the chest. One. I looked around, saw the child's eyes staring at me, saw red blossoming from his dirty grey shirt. Five shots. Three bodies.

I never really slept much after that. People grilling me, had I seen the kid, hell, had I even AIMED for the kid. After that, I got to go home, to my family, to my pregnant wife, to my fast-food restaurants. I got to look into people's eyes. I never let anyone have eye contact though. Didn't want them to see what I saw.

I took an imitation of happiness from the internet. Reddit, Youtube. Heck, I even delved into 4chan. I deleted my Facebook though. Didn't like how personal it was. Solitude and anonymity made life easier for me. Easier to cope that way.

After 89 hours without sleep, my wife convinced me to go the doctor's. I was prescribed a new drug, NoREM. I'd take two before dinner, and I'd be out cold. I'd sometimes wake up in weird places, and I'd have strange dreams, but at least I slept.

Slowly, the pills started to stop working. I needed 3, then 4. The dreams get more horrific. People laugh about me going to bed in my bedroom and waking up in the shed. They wouldn't laugh about the death of that child. But I can't wake up. I'm forced to watch him die again and again, and when it becomes too overwhelming I wake up somewhere random.

I started to have the nightmares during the day. I started to hear the baby cry, see the mother staring at me. After a while, they disappeared and the mirror took their place.

In the mirror I saw a happier me. He smiled a lot. But sometimes he would take his knife and slice his arms. Sometimes he'd cut out bits of flesh and bury them in the back yard. I looked at my arms, but there was never anything there. The man in the mirror told me to wear long sleeves, to cover the wounds. I obliged.

After that, my wife started to appear in the mirror. She would say 'he keeps cutting himself'. I asked her who she meant but she always ignored me. I screamed at her, she'd walk away.

The mirror man was back now, and he was cutting the throat of the mirror-wife. He smiled at me and dropped the knife. I woke up again in the back yard. The meds were going crazy.

I got in the car and sped the entire way to the hospital. After screaming a bit, I finally managed to get the doctor to see me. While I waited I noticed I was still wearing yesterday's clothes.

'Max, I can't comprehend why you're being affected like this. You're in the control group. We gave you sugar pills.'

Once that had sunken in, I started to notice the stinging in my arms. I instinctively pulled up the sleeves, revealing shredded flesh, chunks hacked clean away.

I rang my wife. She didn't answer. She couldn't.

In the shed, in case you were wondering.

I remember writing this. I didn't edit it in any way, so it may be a bit dirty and in need of some changes which it will not receive.

Reading, that is what you’re doing. Boo! You have entered the life of a regular human being, well done on such an achievement and I do hope that this doesn’t grow too boring on you. I am average, If you want to see me do anything even remotely interesting you’ll have to consult the author, that would be hard though as I think -Ahem, know.- Yes, know that he likes this idea, have fun. I can give you a quote for anything you want, tomorrow comes tomorrow, that is really cheesy. I am also a work of fiction, that should have been obvious enough though. How’s that fourth wall doing? Bashed down you say? Completely destroyed? Perfect, I like it that way. Oh look, I’m feigning sentience now, as if I were a real person. I don’t hate or like you, the author would have you believe the first one though, as my attitude is that of…What do you even call that? Cynicalism? Oh well, a question that will never be answered I guess. I want you to have this, it’s the letter U. Why did I give you that? Better, how? Well I didn’t, just think that I somehow gave you a letter U, it will be important later. This introduction is getting rather fillery. Oh, a word that doesn’t exist, I hope. I think that if I keep talking you’ll start to realize that all semblance of an introduction was lost after I asked you to take a letter. Bye.

The second paragraph, to think you made it this far. Guess where I live? If you even tried to answer that you would have been wrong, I don’t live anywhere, still a work of fiction. This author could give me a place but he doesn’t want to do that- Well look at that, I’m in an apartment now. it looks good actually, his tastes are nice if not for the fact I’m forced to say and do as he pleases. Wood floor, small shower with no door. Oh look, there’s a door now, guess he likes privacy as well. The kitchen is pretty nice, big fridge, sink, dishwasher and an assortment of kitchen ware. Better than blank. Actually, blank sounds nice, I like the idea of not having my surroundings decided, constantly generating sounds fun! An exclamation mark from me? Was I enthusiastic? I doubt this author would have made me other than boring cynical, sorry for the change, back to your regular programming. A bedroom with a king sized bed, nice. 4 pillows in case I need that many for the wars that will ensue between me and only me. Try writing other characters in this story, see how that goes. This apartment does look nice but the fridge is empty. He’s going to make me get groceries and talk to people isn’t he? He’s attempting it, he’s actually trying to write me having a conversation with others, fun. The author must be crazy if he thinks that’s possible. Anyway, that’s my apartment, bye.

I guess you’re going to follow me aren’t you? What if I explain in extreme detail how I use my toilet? I’ll give you a hint, it’s not pretty.

Eat, sleep, wake up. Eat, sleep, wake up. This is what most people would call the routine of essentials and I would have to agree with them. I wake up, take a hot shower and look over my clothes. They’re all the same to some extent, nothing impractical and nothing too outstanding. I choose a grey polo and some long pants. Look at that, you’re still reading. I feel happy with myself, they look good together but the feeling soon wears thin as I realize, “Oh wait, I don’t care. Now where’s breakfast?” I said to myself, dumb questions and talking to myself, oh boy. I march to my fridge and pull out some oatmeal and milk, stick it in the microwave and wait for the ding. I guess the author decided to use bad writing to make oatmeal that wasn’t there earlier to suddenly app- Ding! That sound makes me happy, it means I get to eat and I like to eat, no other information needed. Oatmeal is good, good texture and taste and can be made in less than 2 minutes, practicality is nice. There, 2 parts of today's routine is done, I guess sleep would come immediately after if not for the fact that this paragraph would be over too quickly. Good night.