Though I’m not “competing” officially in ‘s Halls of Pandemonium challenge this month, I challenged myself to write something for any prompt that gives me a spark of inspiration. Today’s reminded me of a style I’ve done before: satirical comedic press release. So please enjoy this story based on the prompt:

Write a story or poem about the sinking of the Titanic, only this time, it wasn’t an iceberg…

Author’s Note: This is a work of satirical speculative fiction, only loosely based on real events.

That’s No Iceberg

BRITISH WRECK COMMISIONER’S INQUIRY RE: RMS TITANIC.

MAY 1912

Testimony partially redacted by Lord Mersey, Commissioner.1

“Frederick Fleet, survivor of the recent RMS Titanic shipwreck, claims that after he alerted the captain of the iceberg, he heard a strange groaning coming from the direction of the ice itself. He was unable to get a better look because the crow’s nest binoculars were locked away, and the key was not on board. Fleet further stated that a sailor on the rescue ship Carpathia told him, “Iceberg? That’s no iceberg!”. The sailor insisted that it must be a semi-frozen “kraken”. This, of course, is scientifically impossible, as krakens do not exist. Furthermore, known aquatic species like the Giant Squid are not known to swim near the surface, nor attack seafaring vessels. This portion of Fleet’s testimony should be redacted from the public record.”

____________________________________________________________________________

THE NEW YORK TIMES

April 18th, 1912

RMS Titantic survivor, newlywed Daisy Lawson, claims her husband, John, saved her by hoisting her onto a piece of floating debris, only to be dragged into the depths by a mysterious force.

“There was room for him! It was such a wide door,” Daisy lamented. “He told me he was being pulled under, that something had wrapped around his legs. I tried to pull him up, but he let go so that I would not be pulled in, too. Now all I can hear is the strange hum of whatever monster took him.”2

____________________________________________________________________________

These documents remained classified for 112 years, until…

MARCH 4th, 2026. WASHINGTON, D.C.

Joint Press Conference held by the British Foreign Secretary, Alfred Scott, and the U.S. Secretary of Defense, Dale Evans, regarding the reports of unusual, aggressive Cephalopod behavior in the North Atlantic, and its connection to recently declassified reports from RMS Titanic survivors.

SCOTT (UK): The British government prioritizes transparency to both our citizens and to the citizens of the world. We are working closely with NATO's Maritime Center for Security of Critical Undersea Infrastructure to get to the bottom of this issue. We did not withhold survivor accounts with willful deceit. It was simply to reduce public distress. Mr. Fleet and Mrs. Lawson were likely suffering from what we now call PTSD. Though their stories may seem to indicate a cover-up, I can assure you that was not the case. Especially not in 1912, when scientific research was much less sophisticated.

EVANS (US): I can confirm that the US government was unaware of the redacted portion of Mr. Fleet’s testimony until last week, when it was somehow leaked to the public. Mr. Scott immediately notified our government of the leak, and shortly after, the New York Times contacted us to present Mrs. Lawson’s report, which corroborated Mr. Fleet’s theory.

SCOTT: As damning as this seems, however, there is no plausible evidence that “frozen krakens” were anywhere near the Titanic at the time of its demise.

EVANS: Right. Thank you, Mr. Scott. We will now take questions. Please keep them brief. Yes, there in the front.

HERNANDEZ: Thank you, Secretary. Valerie Hernandez, Washington Post. Reports out of Nevada cite increased Navy and NSA activity near Area 51. Would this happen to have anything to do with the Titanic conspiracy? Could extraterrestrials be involved?

EVANS: Ms. Hernandez, even if that were the case, it’s not something I could speak of in a public press conference.

HERNANDEZ: So, you’re not ruling out the—

EVANS: Next!

LAWSON: Yes, this one’s for Mr. Scott. Um, yes, I’m Trevor Lawson, The Guardian’s Washington correspondent—and great-great-grandson of Daisy Lawson, in case you were wondering.

SCOTT: I wasn’t. Go on, then.

LAWSON: Right. Um, have your researchers confirmed the hypothesis that the melting of ice caps—related, of course, to climate change—has led to the resurfacing of these ancient squid in the North Atlantic?

SCOTT: …is that a serious question?

EVANS: I can assure you that the EPA is currently investing significant manpower and resources in researching this phenomenon.

LAWSON: And how much is this whole fiasco costing the American Taxpayer?

EVANS (US): …. No more than usual. Okay, we’ll take one last—

MILTON: Mr. Evans, if I may? Is it true that the “krakens” are actually animatronics planted by the Disney corporation for filming of the upcoming Pirates of the Caribbean sequel, featuring an aging Johnny Depp and a giant squid?

SCOTT: Evans, who is this lunatic?

EVANS: Wait… Perez Milton from BMZ? Who let you in here? Security, please escort the celebrity gossip “reporter” off the premises.

SCOTT: Ugh, Americans.

EVANS: All right, all right, folks. I think this brings our press conference to an end. Thank you again to Secretary Scott. Please rest assured, we are doing everything we can to address this issue. There is no reason for alarm. Thank you.

As it turns out, there was reason for alarm. Climate change continued to accelerate the melting of the ice caps. The giant squids in the North Atlantic were found to share no genetic material with any known cephalopod species. They turned out to be a rather ornery extraterrestrial species, thought to have landed on Earth shortly before the Snowball Earth glaciation, approximately 700 million years ago.

They are devouring most of the ocean’s aquatic life at an alarming rate, and researchers fear they may evolve the capability to survive on land. Furthermore, due to the temporary suspension of maritime activity, filming of Disney’s Pirates of the Caribbean: Old Jack’s Last Stand has been indefinitely postponed.

2

Daisy and John Lawson are fictional characters, and yes, I made a dig at the movie, Titanic.

---

I hope you all enjoyed this silly story! Have a great weekend.

<3
Hallie

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Ballad Man

The relief of an Irish goodbye and the refrain of Billy Joel’s “Piano Man” follow me out of the greasy dive bar. Though I love my motley crew of fellow amateur poets, going out for beers after open mic night has drained my social battery to zero.

The night’s humid. Strands of shaggy hair stick to my forehead, my clinical strength deodorant throwing in the towel after only a couple of minutes of mild exertion.

A long, slow blink summons the memory.

“You okay, Row?”

Maya’s soft voice, her gentle hand on my arm. I can still feel it now…

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just need the bathroom.”

Lies. I’m a no-good, dirty rotten liar.

But when the sensory overload hits, it hits hard. Almost as hard as I hit the ground just now, tripping over my unraveling shoelaces.

Footsteps approach from behind. Great, whoever it is probably thinks I’m drunk. I kneel to tie my shoe, keeping my head down as the passerby moves closer.

“Rowan?”

A hand on my shoulder. Warm and familiar.

“Maya?” I flinch, almost falling on my ass.

“I figured you’d hit your limit,” Maya says, a knowing twinkle in her amber eyes.

“Yeah,” I murmur, standing to my feet. “I, uh, have to be up early tomorrow.”

“It’s cool, I get it.” Maya nods, fiddling with one of her many bracelets. “I just wanted to ask--would you…like to come with me to the grand opening of Brews and Bards, that new D&D themed bar? Next Friday night.”

“Oh, right. Um—yeah. Why not?”

“Cool. I’ll text you the details later.”

“Cool.”

We stand there awkwardly for a moment, not making eye contact. If we weren’t in the middle of a concrete jungle, there’d probably be actual crickets chirping.

Finally, Maya speaks again.

“They need performers.”

“Oh, really?”

Her voice softens. “I think you should sign up to sing one of your ballads.”

“Oh, no, Maya,” I sputter, “I’m not ready—“

“Just think about it, okay?” Maya tilts her head, soft pink locks cascading over one shoulder. We manage to lock eyes, and heat flares up my neck.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll think about it.”

“Great.”

Another awkward pause.

Oh, crap. That wasn’t the right answer, was it? Is she offended?

All of a sudden, she’s up on her tiptoes. Then she leans in and plants a kiss on my cheek.

“Okay, well, see you later, Row,” Maya says with a sheepish grin before turning to run back toward the bar.

My brain short-circuits. All I can think to say is “Okay” as I watch her lithe frame disappear down the street, casting a dancing shadow across the beams from the streetlights. Heart racing, my fingers find my cheek, still warm from her soft lips.

What even was that? I mean, surely it’s obvious to everyone how taken I am with Maya. Maybe she feels the same way about me? Or, I could be reading into it. I’m notoriously bad at deciphering social cues--especially from gorgeous women.

Shoving my hands in my pockets, I continue my trudge toward home--my apartment above the local pawn shop. I’m buzzing with nervous energy. Maya asked me out, and she kissed me.

She kissed me.

But… she also asked me to perform one of my ballads. The thought makes my stomach churn. Going out with Maya to a D&D-themed bar grand opening is one thing. Singing, in public? I’d do anything for love, but can I really do that?

I turn down the alley beside the pawn shop, so lost in my ruminations that I’m all but felled by the cat darting out from behind the dumpster. The cat who belongs to my landlord--an eccentric Russian lady who owns the building.

“Guess you escaped again, huh?” I mutter. “Stupid cat.”

“Ah! You found her, Rowan! Good man!” Natasha—my landlord—comes running from the other end of the alley. She scoops the cat into her arms, nuzzling her face into its fur.

“Natasha? What are you still doing here? I thought the shop closed at nine.”

“I was just out looking for Boris.”

Why she named the cat Boris, I’ll never understand. From the look on Boris’s face, she doesn’t understand it, either.

“Okay, well, good night.” I step past them to access the outdoor stairwell leading to my apartment. Natasha stops me, her sharp brown eyes looking a little extra sharp.

“Oh, Rowan! I saw you on sidewalk talking to beautiful pink-haired lady.”

“Yeah, uh, that’s just my friend, Maya.”

“Do all your friends give you kiss goodbye?”

Dear God, she’s nosier than my grandma.

“Good night, Natasha,” I groan as I climb the rusting metal steps.

“Who knows? Maybe soon, you will not be sad single poet who sings to no one in your apartment!” She calls after me. “Oh! And I changed WiFi password. I left note with your mail.”

With that, the old loon takes her cat and hobbles off to the bus stop. It’s unsettling how Natasha knows so much about me, but I know next to nothing about her. When I’ve asked, she just brushes me off, saying, “I’m just old woman hiding from fate and keeping busy.”

At the top of the stairs, I find that the tiny mailbox welded to my door is overflowing. I shuffle through the stack of envelopes and papers as I walk into my tiny studio apartment. It’s nothing good. Student loan bills, an “important notice” about my non-existent car’s extended warranty, and—oh, a flyer advertising Brews and Bards.

Huh, the pictures really do make the place seem like something out of a D&D campaign. Front and center is a picture of the owners in full medieval costume. Above them, in papyrus-font letters, it says: “Don yer festive garb. Best outfit wins free beer for a month!”

Oh, shit, the grand opening is a costume party? Yeah, no thanks.

Rolling my eyes, I toss the pile of mail onto my thrifted dining table. Natasha’s note flutters to the floor. The paper is leathery and warm under my touch. Not your ordinary sticky note.

All it says is: “New password: B@ll@DmAn2!”

“Seriously, Natasha?” I guess I can’t complain too much. She doesn’t charge me extra for the WiFi.

I kick off my shoes, padding across the dingy carpet to my desk in the corner. Plopping down into my ergonomic office chair--the one piece of furniture in the place I splurged on--I relish the quiet for a moment. It’s dark, save for the moonlight streaming in through the window next to me, and the light of my laptop screen as I flip it open.

Laughter floats up from the street outside, feminine and tipsy. Visions of Maya fill my brain. Closing my eyes, I watch it all unfold like a classic rom-com: Maya and I at the tavern, dressed like we’re ready to pillage and plunder the nearby village. We share a few drinks, listen to the live music, and then dip out early to head back to my place…

Wait. No.

No way could I take Maya back to this sad excuse for city living. I have to use a fake background on my work Zoom calls so all the stuffy accountants don’t see the multiple code violations my abode harbors.

Before I can spiral further, “Piano Man” blasts from my laptop speakers. My eyes fly open, pulse skyrocketing.

What the hell? The only thing open on the screen is the Microsoft Word document containing the unfinished ballad I was writing for Maya. Did Spotify launch a new “jump scare users by starting music remotely” thing?

I go to pull up the app, but closing the Word file proves impossible. The screen is frozen, yet the song blares louder by the second. This is definitely not normal computer behavior. Has the AI overlord finally taken over world wide web?

“Stop panicking, Rowan,” I hiss to myself. “Just try turning it off and on again.”

I’m about to press and hold the power button when a system message pops up, prompting me to enter the new WiFi password.

“Sure, okay,” I mutter, thoroughly befuddled. Sweat drips off my nose onto the keyboard. When did it get so hot in here?

My ears ring, distracting me as I try to type the password. The first attempt is incorrect. Second attempt--also incorrect.

Gosh dang it, Billy!

The third time’s the charm. As soon as the WiFi connects, the music stops, replaced by a triumphant video-game-esque victory tune.

“Good work, Ballad Man!” A jovial voice rings from the laptop’s speaker. “Prepare to be downloaded.”

“Downloaded? What--”

The sentence hangs unfinished as my whole world goes black. I can’t feel my body, can’t cry for help. Whatever is happening, I’m just along for the ride.

The next thing I know, my ass hits a hard surface that definitely isn’t my office chair. The pungent aroma of body odor and cheap beer assaults my nostrils. Little spots dance in my vision as my brain tries to process my surroundings. I’m on some kind of makeshift stage, in a bar decked out with various antler decor and a massive stone fireplace on the back wall. Above me is a huge iron chandelier with real candles, flames flickering. Tables of tipsy patrons fill the space in front of me. It takes me a moment to realize: these people are all different races—as in D&D races.

Shit. Did I somehow sleep all week and mosey on over to Brews and Bards in a narcoleptic haze?

Panic courses through me as I look down at myself. All my limbs are intact, thankfully--but I’m dressed like an extra from Robin Hood: Men in Tights. Why can’t I remember how I got here?

“Sing us a song, you’re the ballad man!” The boisterous crowd croons.

Ballad Man? When did I pick that very unoriginal stage name? Or sign up to perform at all? This makes no sense.

“What’s the matter, lad?” says a deep voice on my right. “Cat got yer tongue?”

To say I’m shocked by what I see when I turn my head would be an understatement. There’s a giant harp, flanked by an even more giant dude cosplaying as an orc. His skin’s painted bright green, his tusks shockingly realistic. He must have spent a fortune on proesthetic make up.

“Ye gonna start yer ballad now, or what, bard?” he growls.

That’s it. I have to get out of here.

But as I shoot to my feet, something darts out from under the rickety stool I was sitting on--a tortoiseshell cat.

“Boris?” I gasp.

The cat leaps off the stage, darting and weaving through the crowd toward an open door in the back corner. Ah-ha, that’s my exit.

With an anxiety-induced surge of adrenaline, I jump down, knees wobbling as I hit the dirt floor. The orc harpist shouts something at me that I don’t quite make out. My head feels fuzzy.

Am I high?

Pushing through the delirium, I hug the side wall to avoid the other patrons, eyes trained on the door. But, because the universe has decided it’s “International Screw with Rowan Day”, I smack right into a busty serving wench. Her tray of beers goes flying, one splashing all over a female rogue at a nearby table.

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry,” I stammer.

“You should get up on stage, Ballad Man,” the rogue says, rising to stand. She dabs her beer-soaked tunic with a dingy napkin, and I can’t help but notice it—her braid, dyed soft pink.

My vision tunnels, the chaos of the tavern fading to white noise. The serving wench is behind me, grumbling as she cleans up my mess, but I barely register it. All I can focus on is—

“Maya?”

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “I was called that once, in another life.”

“W-what? Maya, I’m not playing. I don’t even remember coming here, or why I was on stage—“

My rambling is silenced with her finger on my lips.

“The unfinished ballad. You must sing it. That is how you get home.”

“Wait, what?”

“Shh.” Her finger moves from my mouth to trace my jaw. My legs turn to jelly as she leans forward to whisper in my ear, “Sing it. For her.”

She steps back, and the cacophony of sounds and smells pummels me. I move toward the stage, avoiding the puddle of spilled beer, ribs tightening with each step. The off-key refrain bounces once again off the tavern’s earthen walls.

“Sing us a song, you’re the ballad man!”

Sinking back onto the stool, I feel like some kind of celebrity—or maybe more of a court jester. I’ve never sung in front of a live studio audience, but they’re acting like it’s my bread and butter. Talk about pressure.

The orc plucks the harp strings, his meaty fingers surprisingly nimble. I breathe deep, imagine everyone in their underwear—no wait, that’s not helping. Frantically, I scan the room for not-Maya. When our eyes meet, she gives a small nod.

Warmth washes over me. The harpist clears his throat, plucking the opening bar over again.

Right. Here goes nothing. I close my eyes, find the words from deep within, and will my vocal cords to cooperate.

My voice shakes at first, but the words flow like water as I allow myself to get lost in the medley. It’s perfect, every note exactly as I’d planned. Kudos to Orc Harpist.

The last stanza lodges in my throat. I haven’t written this part yet. Sure, I have an idea, but coming up with something on the spot?

My eyes flutter open. The crowd waits for my final lines. Not-Maya smiles at me, mouthing something. I can’t quite make it out, but I think it’s “You already know it.”

I do? Yes, of course I do.

As I sing the final notes, the tavern’s dining room blurs at the edges. The crowd’s giving me a standing ovation, I think. I look for the rogue, but I can’t see the pink hair through the growing haze in front of me.

Weird. Now I can’t really see, hear, smell, or feel anything. My body goes numb, weightless.

My eyelids droop. I’m floating. Drifting…

My eyes shoot open, the echo of my ragged gasp hanging in the air. I’m back at my desk, my laptop still open. No more “Piano Man”, just eerie quiet.

Damn it, I must have fallen asleep.

I go to close out Microsoft Word, and my heart leaps into my throat. It’s there. The last stanza. The one I sang in the tavern—or at least, the one I dreamt that I sang

That’s all this was. Some crazy dream.

But then, why did it feel so real?

No, that’s ridiculous. I probably typed that last stanza while I was half asleep and then zonked out. Happens all the time. It has to be that, because the other highly improbably possibility is that my computer sucked me into some magical simulation, forcing me to face my stage fright.

“That’s it. I need sleep,” I declare to no one, slamming the laptop shut.

But the whispers of dread follow me as I crawl into bed. Curling up under my weighted blanket, I pivot my thoughts to Maya. She would look amazing in that rogue outfit. And she’d be so happy to hear the ballad I wrote for her.

“Okay, Maya, I’ll do it,” I murmur as my heavy eyelids close. “Just don’t make me wear tights.”

For your listening pleasure, enjoy this medieval rendition of Billy Joel’s “Piano Man” on harpsichord.

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Hope you all have a great weekend!

<3

Hallie

Here is my level 3 entry for ’s Power Up Image prompt this week. Two weeks ago, I wrote a utopian horror and this week I’m back to rom-com—with a sci-fi twist. Also, I loved that one of the image prompts was a Buc-ee’s because I was able to set this story in my home state of Georgia. So without further ado, please enjoy one of the most unhinged pieces of fiction I’ve ever written.

Meet-Cutes in the Time of Brisket and Wormholes

It’s hard to make friends when you reek of brisket and piss-poor social skills. Or when you’re a twenty-four-year-old working in a glorified convenience store, serving cranky roadtrippers and questioning your life choices.

I’m staring out across the near-empty expanse of branded paraphernalia and beef jerky, wondering which corporate bigwig cooked up the brilliant idea to Frankenstein a Walmart and a Quiktrip and give it a buck-toothed anthropomorphic beaver mascot, when—

“Excuse me? I have a question about the brisket.”

“A…question?” I blink stupidly at the pretty porcelain face smiling back at me under the fluorescent lights. She’s wearing some kind of sexy leather get-up, an iridescent midnight-blue helmet tucked under one arm.

Whew, Lordy. A gal like her does not simply waltz into Buc-EE’s store # 521, Calhoun, Georgia, at 11:34 PM on a Friday night to ask about brisket.

But if binge-watching Netflix taught me anything, stranger things can happen.

“Is the pork ethically sourced?” Ms. Mission Impossible tucks a strand of jet-black hair behind her ear, revealing an impressive number of piercings.

“I-I’m…n-not s-sure.”

She leans over the counter, squinting at my chest. It takes me entirely too long to realize that she’s looking for my nametag, not checking out my curves.

“Elizabeth Montgomery?” Her violet eyes shift up to my boring grey ones.

“Yeah…? And you are?” I ask, scanning her fit body for any sign of a badge or gun.

“We talk outside. Now, come on. We’re running out of time.”

I reach under the counter for the emergency button. Her gloved hand shoots over the hot metal sandwich warmer, her fingers wrapping around my freckled forearm.

“Don’t.” She hisses. “We leave. Now.”

“Listen, lady, I’m not one to go home with strangers.” I pull my arm back. “Besides, I’m not off til midnight.”

“Clock out early then,” she says like she’s the boss of me.

Damn it, if I ain’t a sucker for a powerful woman.

“Okay, fine,” I grumble, pulling off my apron and wadding it up under the counter. I shove my phone, wallet, and keys into my pockets, abandoning my brisket station duties in favor of bad decisions.

Martha at register three doesn’t even look up from her magazine as we breeze through the exit, her gravelly “Thanks for shopping at Buc-ee’s!” trailing us into the balmy night.

The bronze beaver statue silently judges me as I cross the parking lot with my new friend--er, possible kidnapper. But hey, beggars can’t be choosers.

We stop in front of a gorgeous black Ducati. Way nicer than the rusty old crotch rocket my ex and I used to ride. As I pause to ogle it, Mystery Gal shoves the helmet into my arms

“Put it on. It’s more important to protect your head than mine.”

“Hold up,” I sputter, “Who are you? Am I in some kinda trouble?”

She leans in so close that she’s practically breathing down my neck. “My name is Tasha Tanaka. You can call me Tosh. My family owns Tanaka Industries, where your and my grandfather worked together on quantum entanglement. We need your help.”

Quantum what-now?

“Listen, I don’t know nothing about my PawPaw’s research. He retired twenty years ago and passed on last summer--”

“I’ll explain more later. Just put on the damn helmet,” Tosh orders. “We need your brain intact.”

She pokes my forehead, and I choke down the embarrassing Pillsbury Dough Boy noise that shoots up my throat.

Once the helmet’s on, I hop on the bike, wrapping my arms around this beautiful stranger.

“You’ll need to hold on tighter than that,” Tosh says, revving the engine. “I don’t do speed limits.”

Lord help me, I’ve hit rock bottom. I’m so desperate that I’m riding off into the night with a gorgeous woman just ‘cause PawPaw’s old employer supposedly “needs my help.”

Somebody call Netflix, cause this is gonna be quite the show.

Atlanta’s skyscrapers jut against the starry night as Tosh darts and weaves between lanes, passing cars that probably cost ten times my annual income. The city’s bright lights and hopping nightlife remind me of just how barren my hometown is. Paw Paw must have stuck out like a sore thumb amongst all these city folk, driving to work in his ancient red pickup truck.

Tosh pulls a terrifying Hail Mary to duck into the HOV lane. I squeeze my thighs against the side of the Ducati and close my eyes. We’re pressed so close that I smell her woodsy, citrusy scent through the helmet. It’s nice. Like that fancy candle MawMaw got from the Bath & Body Works outlet a few years back.

Soon, we’re leaving downtown in the dust, serenaded by the roar of jet engines as we whoosh past Hartsfield-Jackson2. It occurs to me now that I’ve never been to the airport. Hell, I’ve never even been on a plane. I’ll bet my bottom dollar Tosh has. Tanaka Industries probably has a fancy private jet.

At the next exit, Tosh pulls into a dingy, industrial part of town. I dare to open my eyes at the stoplight. Some dude on the corner smoking a joint whistles.

“Piss off, asshat!” Tosh shouts, flipping him off.

Reason number 17 that I really like this gal--not that I’m keeping track.

Another turn and we’re on a dark, empty street. Suddenly, there ain’t nothing around, except a bunch of blurry, building-shaped blobs way out yonder.

After what feels like forever, the road dead-ends at a towering barbed wire fence. Huge floodlights flicker to life as Tosh pulls to a stop--just like in the movies. If this is Tanaka Industries, it looks more like a maximum security prison. I would know, on account of my Daddy getting himself locked up after trying to start his own Breaking Bad lab out of his trailer.

Tosh pulls out her phone and dials somebody. I’m still squeezing her, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

“Hey, I’ve got her. We’re at the south gate.”

She hangs up, blasting forward just as the gate slides open.

The parking lot inside is so full, you couldn’t swing a dead cat without hitting a Tesla. I reckon this many employees here past midnight ain’t a good sign.

Tosh pulls into a spot marked “Tanaka Industries Employee of the Month”, and kills the engine.

“Get off,” she orders.

“Are you really employee of the month?” I ask as I slide off the bike. I miss the warmth of her already.

“Leave the helmet on the handlebars,” Tosh says gruffly, marching toward the ginormous building like she’s late to her own funeral. My legs nearly give out as I try to catch up.

She pulls out a key card and holds it to the reader next to an automatic glass door with a futuristic-looking Tanaka Industries logo.

“I don’t mean to be a nosy Nellie,” I huff as I follow her inside. “But can ya give me a little hint as to what’s going on?”

She doesn’t answer. Just keeps powerwalking down the hallway, automatic lights clicking on with each stride. I jog to keep up, resisting the urge to ask the million questions bouncing around in my head.

At the end of the completely colorless hallway, Tosh stops abruptly in front of another metal door.

“Welcome to the shitshow,” she says, popping her key card against the reader without even looking at it. “Also known as the lab.”

The door slides open, and my mouth drops to the shiny tile floor. It’s like something out of a Marvel movie: Computers, flashing buttons, important-looking people running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Sadly, no Scarlett Johannsen, though.

“What in tarnation is going on here?” I ask.

“You’ll see.”

Tosh leads me onto some kind of observation deck with a huge glass window, panes thicker than Maw Maw’s gravy. A creepy blue light emanates from whatever’s below, a low hum rattling my back teeth. A guy in a lab coat with the same jet-black hair as Tosh moseys up to us. He eyes me up and down, pushing his black-rimmed glasses up his nose.

“Well, well. You must be Shelton’s granddaughter.”

“Elizabeth,” I force a smile, sticking out my sweaty hand to shake. “Nice to meet ya--”

“Sam Tanaka, lead lab technician,” he says, ignoring my gesture. Side-eyeing Tosh, he adds, “And Tosh’s older brother.”

Before I can ask my next question, there’s a loud thwack against the floor-to-ceiling plexiglass. I snap my head toward the sound, and nearly wet my pants when I see the giant, suction-cupped tentacle.

“What the hell?” I stagger backward on wobbly legs. Tosh grabs my shoulders to steady me, but it just makes me feel more ooey-gooey.

“This is Charlie,” Tosh says. “He’s why I had to drive up to your podunk town and get you.”

A second tentacle slaps the window.

Bless my heart. Is this real life?

“Someone throw down some more Taki’s!” Sam shouts. “He’s hungry!”

“You feed him Takis?” Is all I can think to say.

“Better that than interns,” Sam shrugs, pulling a pen from behind his ear and popping the end into his mouth. “Charlie almost squashed three before we could install the robotic arms to deliver his snackage.”

Oh, sweet Baby Jesus.

“You okay?” Tosh asks.

Okay? Does she think I’m okay after seeing this?

“Can ya just tell me what this...giant squid has to do with PawPaw?”

“He’s not a squid. He’s an alien,” Sam says, like that’s a totally normal thing. He turns on his heel, motioning toward an unmarked door. “This way.”

Man, what I wouldn’t give to be back at Buc-ee’s.

Tosh and I walk side by side, my slip-safe shoes squeaking against the smooth floor as we follow Sam into a control room of sorts. Real Star Trek-like.

The door slides shut behind us, the lights dimming. Sam saunters over to a huge screen showing Charlie’s cage, his two giant tentacles poking out of a glowing metal ring.

“What the devil am I looking at?” I ask.

“Charlie here is stuck in the wormhole generator that your grandfather designed,” Sam says gravely.

“The whatzzit now?”

“Your grandfather’s research was used to build the first-ever quantum wormhole generator,” Tosh explains. “It’s been under wraps for years.”

“And we’d like to keep it that way,” Sam adds. He walks over to one of several computers and starts typing away. A picture of an old, hand-drawn blueprint replaces the feed of Charlie’s cage on the big screen.

“When Shelton and my grandfather, Hiro, both retired, they left the schematics for the generator down to my father, who spent the last twenty years trying to build it,” Sam says, “When dad died a few months ago, my team took over to get it up and running. The idea was to eventually create a stable connection for interdimensional travel.”

“Turns out leaving the back door to the multiverse wide open backfired,” Tosh cuts in. “Hence, Charlie.”

“Thank you, Sis,” Sam hisses. “Anyway, if Charlie fully breaks through, he’ll destabilize the generator, which would likely rip a hole in the fabric of space that we can’t contain.”

“And then all of Charlie’s friends could come wreak havoc,” Tosh adds.

Sam glares at his sister, sweating like a whore in church. “Tosh, can you kindly shut up? I’m the expert here. You’re the errand girl.”

“Do you see what I have to put up with?” Tosh sighs, leaning dramatically against the desk behind her.

“I don’t understand what you need me for,” I say, “Can’t ya just shove Charlie back through with the robots and turn off the generator?”

“Tried that,” Sam says, rubbing the back of his neck. “They’re not strong enough. And we can’t just cut the power or nuke the generator without causing a whole host of other issues that would take far too long to explain.”

“That’s why we need you, Brisket Beth,” Tosh says, clapping my shoulder.

I’m so befuddled, I can’t even protest that crappy nickname.

“Shelton left us an emergency self-destruct protocol on an old flash drive,” says Sam. “But it’s password-protected. And the password is the answer to this riddle.”

Sam pulls up another picture—a note full of PawPaw’s chicken scratch.

My sleep-deprived brain finally catches the drift. “So you want me to solve it?”

Sam nods, zooming in on the photo. Underneath the riddle, it says: “If you geniuses cain’t figure out my riddle, find my granddaughter, Elizabeth. She’ll remember. She’s smart as a whip.”

Laughter bubbles up from my gut until I explode like Mentos in Diet Coke.

“What’s so funny?” Sam deadpans.

“First of all,” I say once I catch my breath. “This could have been an email. And second, you didn’t think to solve the riddle BEFORE opening the wormhole?”

“First of all,” Sam scowls, mocking me. “We would never risk sending top secret information via email. And second, we didn’t anticipate needing the emergency protocol.”

“Men,” Tosh snickers, “So stupid.”

Ignoring his sister’s taunt, Sam looks at me with big brown puppy dog eyes. “Can you please take a look before Charlie wriggles his way through to destroy our planet?” Sam begs.

“All right, all right,” I smile at him sweetly. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

Stepping up to the screen, my chest tightens at the sight of PawPaw’s handwritten letters. Lordy, here come the waterworks.

Pull yourself together, Elizabeth!

Taking a loud, sniffly breath, I read the lines out loud.

It takes me a second, ‘cause I’ve been awake for going on 16 hours—and still in shock about the alien in the other room—but it comes to me.

“This is an easy one,” I snicker, turning to Sam and Tosh. Leaning against the cold metal desk, I hold my tongue just long enough to make them squirm.

“Do tell,” Sam hisses through his teeth.

“‘Holler’”.

The Tanaka siblings blink at me like I’m the one with Taki-dusted tentacles.

“Holler?” Sam echoes.

“Yeah,” I sigh, losing myself to nostalgia. “Back when I was a kid, I’d spend all day playin’ with my cousins on MawMaw and PawPaw’s property. There was a little creek between two hills where we would play for hours, until MawMaw came hollerin’ for us to come get dinner.” I chuckle, wiping away my bittersweet tears. “I always thought it was funny how she was literally hollerin’ into a holler.”

“You mean, she ‘hollered’ into a hollow?” Sam asks. I can almost see the gears in his head turning.

“Yeah, hollerin’ into the holler,” I repeat. “The password is ‘holler’. H-O-L-L-E-R. Can I go now?”

“One second,” Sam says, turning back to his computer. Tosh and I exchange a knowing look as he types the word into the password box.

“My God, she’s right,” he says. “It worked! We have the emergency shutdown sequence!”

He turns and grabs Tosh and me into an incredibly awkward group hug. “Thanks, you two. Say goodbye to Charlie on your way out.”

“Whatever, Bro. I need to get Brisket Beth back to Buc-ee’s,” Tosh grins, making my insides all melty.

“Just ‘Beth’ is fine,” I say as I follow her back to the lab.

“Okay, Just Beth.” Tosh winks at me from over her shoulder.

Charlie’s tentacle thwacks against the observation window as we pass. I stop to wave at him, a part of me wondering if he just tried to pop over to Earth to make friends.

Same, Charlie, Same.

Tosh’s swishing hips consume my vision as we make our way back to the Ducati. She really is something. We may be total opposites. But you know what they say—opposites attract.

Back the bike, I struggle to buckle the helmet, my fingers suddenly unable to function.

“I got it,” Tosh says, flashing her movie star smile as she secures the strap underneath my chin.

“Ya know,” I say, feeling a little brave, “aside from the kidnappin’ and speedin’ down I-75 like a bat out of hell to save the world from Charlie the Space Squid, I had a fun time.”

Tosh cocks her head, black hair glowing under the obnoxiously bright lights. Her mouth quirks into a playful grin as she checks her wristwatch. “It’s only 1:15 AM. Want to hit up Waffle House on the way back? I could go for a peanut butter waffle.”

Oh, Mylanta. It’s a good thing she can’t see my face behind the helmet, ‘cause my cheeks are a blazin’.

“Yeah,” I mumble, nervously tracing a crack in the asphalt with my foot. “I’d be tickled pink to eat peanut butter waffles with you, Tosh.”

Something tells me this is the start of a great friendship—maybe more, now that the aliens can’t rip a hole in space or whatnot. I just hope Tosh can get used to the smell of brisket in the morning.

Before I hop on the bike, I look up at the sky, whispering under my breath:

“Thanks for helping me save the world, PawPaw. And—for being my wingman.”

This is my submission to ’s Power Up prompt for the week. It is a “level 3” story because I incorporated the elements of the hospital setting with family connection and mysterious basement, the character is the surgeon with a “haunted scalpel”, and the conflict is the oath.

Trigger warnings: adult language (as an intentional plot thread, I promise!), mild violence, death.

The Kiss of Peace

“This one won’t take.”

Sloane Paxton suppressed a shudder as she looked up at her surgical assistant. Spots danced in her vision. The intense glare of the operating room’s light had been particularly unbearable lately.

“Phoebe. My scalpel,” she said, ignoring the tremor in her usually steady hand as she held it out.

As soon as the steel hit her gloved skin, she felt the heat.

“It won’t take. Kid’s got three weeks, tops.”

“Shut up, you inanimate hunk of metal. I’m the surgeon,” Sloane hissed under her breath.

“Surgeon? Ha! Try murderer.”

Sloane closed her eyes, timing her breath to the monotone rhythm of the patient’s heart rate monitor. The past few weeks, her lucky scalpel had been… talking to her. Just her. No one else in the OR ever seemed to notice.

The first time it happened, she’d almost dropped the pointy side down into a patient’s temporal lobe. Sloane blamed a lack of sleep or the recent, unprecedented cases of implant failure. But it was becoming clearer by the day to the Pax Institute’s top neurosurgeon that something was not quite right with her.

“Dr. Paxton?” Phoebe’s voice sounded too far away. “Are you ready to begin?”

The taunts continued before Sloane could answer.

“Those patients down in the restricted wing? You’re the one who performed their surgeries. Your father’s pride and joy. He raised the perfect killer.”

Sloane drew a frustrated breath, then announced. “I’m ready”.

The vision struck just as she was about to make the first incision.

Blood splattered across dingy linoleum. A mother screaming. Sirens blaring. The restricted-access basement wing that she’d only seen in her recurring nightmares.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Sloane gasped.

“Jesus would be flipping tables down in that lab,” the scalpel laughed.

“Dr. Paxton?” Phoebe squeaked. “Is everything okay?”

“Ah, yes, I just…didn’t sleep well last night.” Sloane winced, straightening her shoulders. She gripped the scalpel forcefully, as if that could shut it up. “Let’s begin.”

Three weeks later…

Sloane stared at her desktop screen, chewing her bottom lip. The email from the board had not found her well.

She leaned back in her overpriced leather chair, swiveling slightly. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass windowpanes, sunlight glinted off the towering buildings of Solace Grove, mocking Sloane’s internal storm.

Telescreens in the city center broadcast coverage of the strange “episodes” affecting citizens over the past two months. Violent outbursts. Hallucinations. Mental breakdowns. Crime was on the rise for the first time in a decade and a half. Despite assurances from government and health officials that a cause would soon be determined, word on the street was that The Pax Institute was to blame.

Pax.

The kiss of peace.

That’s what Sloane’s grandfather, Harold Paxton, had envisioned years ago. A world free of suffering and strife. No more crime. No more war. One family holding the keys to eventual world peace.

Solace Grove was Harold’s flagship city. An entire population equipped with his proprietary Cognitive Equilibrium technology, literally rewiring their grey matter. Doctors and scientists all over the planet touted the benefits of the implants, such as increased productivity, reduced violence, and more harmonious societies.

Despite the growing number of patients admitted for long-term care—and the whispers among the staff about the new clinical trials in the basement—the CET surgeons were assured that there was nothing wrong with the implants. Per law, citizens ten and up would still be required to undergo the procedure.

“Seems a little shady, huh, Doc?”

“What the hell, Scalpel?” Sloane muttered. “We’re not even in the same room.”

The phone on her polished white desk rang. Sloane hadn’t realized how fast her heart rate had risen until she picked up the receiver.

“Dr. Paxton speaking.”

Her receptionist’s unsettlingly demure voice came through. “Dr. Paxton, your presence is requested in the boardroom. They said they sent an email this morning. They’re waiting for you.”

Shit.

“Oh, I must have lost track of time. I’ll be right there.”

Using her now-black computer screen as a makeshift mirror, Sloane smoothed her chestnut hair, which was neatly tied back from her pale face. As she gazed into her own hazel eyes, framed by lashes boasting a modest amount of mascara, she froze.

Were those…crow’s feet?

A snippet of The PAX Institute’s propaganda surfaced from her memory:

“CET has been proven to slow aging by reducing in stress-induced emotional dysregulation.”

The fine lines fanning from the outer corners of her eyes that hadn’t been there a week ago suggested otherwise.

“Slowed aging, my ass,” she said, immediately clapping a hand over her mouth. She really needed to get a grip on her language.

Staring down her muted reflection, Sloane hissed, “Stop. Cursing!”

She rose on shaky legs and donned her pristine white coat. Her receptionist looked up with apprehensive doe eyes as Pax’s star neurosurgeon barely managed to walk in a straight line out of the office.

“Have a nice meeting, Dr. Paxton.”

“Sure,” Sloane grumbled, employing zero pleasantries as she brushed past the girl’s desk.

Halfway to the conference room, Dr. Cho came running down the hall, his dark hair tousled from the exertion.

“Everything all right, Cho?” Sloane stepped out of his path.

“There’s been… another… incident,” he panted. “I have to get to the OR, stat.”

At Cho’s words, the overhead lights grew unbearably bright. The din of the hospital’s lower levels echoed from the open atrium, reaching a fever pitch in Sloane’s skull. She slumped against the wall, head in her hands.

“It’s only a matter of time before perfection fractures, Doc.”

A slurry of gruesome images followed the scalpel’s voice. More blood. More agonized screams. A boy holding a knife.

“NO!” Sloane whisper-shouted. “Please, no!”

An inhale through her nose, an exhale through her mouth. She repeated the pattern until her pulse slowed. The surroundings came back into focus as she pushed away from the wall. Another drag of the disinfectant-laden air, and she continued toward whatever bleak news awaited her in the boardroom.

“Nice of you to finally join us, Dr. Paxton,” Graham Paxton’s booming voice met Sloane at the threshold. Her own father apparently couldn’t be bothered to call her by her first name.

“Sit.” Graham motioned to the chair opposite him, each side of the conference table flanked with stoic board members whose gazes were uniformly trained on Sloane.

Opaque white shades lowered over the windowed walls with an automatic hum. Sloane swallowed the tepid pool of saliva under her tongue as she lowered into the leather chair. A telescreen lowered from the ceiling.

Graham pressed a button on his remote, his sharp grey eyes boring into Sloane like he was about to give the world’s most intimidating PowerPoint presentation.

Faces flashed across the screen, names redacted, all stamped with a big red [X] and the words “CET failure”.

Sloane’s stomach dropped. They were all familiar. Patients admitted for long-term monitoring in the last few weeks for things like stroke, blood clots, and “degenerative” symptoms.

“What’s going on?” She sputtered.

“These are the current casualties of sudden CET implant failure,” Graham said, without a hint of gravity. “Others experiencing symptoms are being held in the restricted wing, for their and the public’s safety.”

“Excuse me, what?” Sloane asked.

Ignoring her, Graham continued. “Some individuals with CET failure exhibit extreme violence. As we speak, Dr. Cho is operating on a twenty-year-old university student who was brought in with seven stab wounds, inflicted by her youngest brother.”

The screen switched to a news feed from thirty minutes ago.

Sloane froze.

The boy whose CET she’d implanted three weeks ago was being wrenched from his screaming mother’s arms. Blood was splattered across the kitchen cabinets. A Pax emergency technician jabbed a needle into the kid’s neck.

“Turn it off,” Sloane said.

“I know this is disturbing,” Graham said coolly, flipping off the telescreen.

Sloane blinked, clutching her chair’s armrests. Hot moisture pooled in the corners of her eyes—a sensation she hadn’t experienced since before her own implantation procedure fifteen years ago.

“Dad—er, Dr. Paxton,” she said, dabbing her eyes. “Do you expect me to keep performing the procedure after showing me this? Whatever happened to ‘Do No Harm?’”

“Listen, you’ve been under tremendous stress lately,” Graham said, almost tenderly. “We all have with this…new development. Based on reports from your fellow staff members, the board believes you could use a break from the OR. You will assist Dr. Anderson in the genetics lab until further notice.”

“You’re… demoting me?” Sloane gaped.

“Your case load will be split amongst the other surgeons on rotation,” Graham said, turning to the tall, slender woman on his left. “Dr. Anderson, she’s all yours.”

“I deserve an explanation.” Sloane slammed her hands onto the table, gazing pointedly at her father.

“The Pax Institute—and your family—are grateful for your contribution to this very important research.” Graham tented his fingers, the corners of his mouth perking upward.

Was he smiling at a time like this? Fuck him.

“Sloane,” Dr. Anderson rose, gathering her phone and clipboard as if this was just another Tuesday. “Please follow me to the lab. You will have your explanation soon enough.”

Dozens of hospital staff milled about on the main floor like even-keeled insects in grey scrubs. Had the lobby always looked this… bland? The lack of color had never really bothered Sloane, but now, it only served to stoke the flame of unease kindling in her gut.

“Dr. Anderson?” Sloane asked as they entered the elevator.

“Please, call me Fern,” the geneticist said.

“Okay, Fern. The lab is in the restricted wing, right? I don’t have clearance.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll take care of that.”

The sleek metal doors hissed closed. Fern placed her finger on the biometric scanner next to the Restricted Access floor button. After an affirmative ding, they descended into the bowels of the hospital.

Omnious silence hung heavy in the cab. Sloane knew all the tales whispered by tenured staff and doctors—how the basement labs were once filled to the brim with convicts the mayor agreed to send for Pax’s experiments. The same criminals Sloane had seen in her nightmares.

Darkness greeted them as the doors slid open, revealing a barren corridor lined with unmarked rooms. Fern motioned for Sloane to follow, motion-triggered lights flickering on as they stepped out of the elevator.

A series of thumps and the sound of muffled voices reverberated off the concrete floor. Goosebumps prickled up Sloane’s neck with each step. Fern moved with disturbing ease, her face masked with the signature CET-induced flat expression.

The corridor ended in front of a set of metal doors, unlocked via a scan of Fern’s retina. What lay beyond them was not a lab, but a triage bay outfitted with a row of stalls on either side. Nurses Sloane had never seen before buzzed around, sporting red armbands. Security guards with tranquilizer guns patrolled the room’s perimeter.

“Are these—” Sloane couldn’t finish the sentence.

“These are all the implant failure patients identified in the last forty-eight hours,” Fern explained. “Now, my office is in the genetics lab.”

Sloane’s mouth went dry as they passed the patients, her blood turning to ice in her veins. People of all ages, strapped to beds and heavily sedated, with tubes sticking out everywhere. None of them looked particularly threatening, as her father had implied. An elderly man at the end of the row was half awake, mumbling.

“‘All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream’”.

Sloane paused, facing the man. He smiled at her, his hazy eyes widening as he repeated the Poe line over and over.

“This… is insane,” Sloane said, guilt and pity forming a vice around her heart. “He could simply have dementia.”

“We cannot be sure,” Fern admitted. “But his symptom onset aligns strongly with the other CET failures.”

Sloane’s fists clenched almost involuntarily. A surge of anger she hadn’t felt since her “rebellious” teen years tore through her bones. “So, what? You’re keeping little old grandpas locked up like goddamned monsters?”

A tense hush fell over the room. Every gaze locked onto Sloane.

“Sloane,” Fern broke the silence, motioning toward the glass doors in front of them. “I promise this will all make sense shortly.”

“Right. Of course.”Sloane forced herself to soften, though her entire body fought against it.

“I told you!” The scalpel’s voice shouted in Sloane’s mind. “Murderers!”

Her feet felt like lead, each step heavier as she followed Fern through the genetics lab. The fluorescent-lit space was packed to the brim with Pax-branded scientific paraphernalia. Technicians on one end appeared to be examining strangely warped CET implants, while others peered through microscopes at samples of—brain matter?

Bile crept up Sloane’s throat. She averted her gaze to the floor.

She was ready to vomit by the time they entered Fern’s office. The genecist motioned to a chair in front of the desk.

“Please sit.” Fern motioned to the chair in front of her desk before taking her own seat and pulling a tablet from a drawer.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Fern Anderson,” an automated voice purred. Its timber—or lack thereof—was eerily similar to that of implanted humans.

Do I sound like that, too? The thought made Sloane even more nauseous.

“Take a look at these,” Fern passed the tablet to Sloane.

“What are these?” Sloane squinted. “Brain scans?”

“From failed implant patients,” Fern confirmed. “Note the sharp increase in neural activity in the amygdala, even more so than we would see in a non-implanted brain.”

“So, the implants are causing… disequilibrium?” Sloane asked.

“It’s not the implants.”

“Excuse me?”

“We’ve tested the devices from the deceased patients,” Fern explained. “Swipe to the next image.”

Sloane did. A 3D rendering of a broken double helix stared back at her.

“This,” Fern said, “is the SP-94 mutation. We’ve found it present in the DNA of all affected patients. We do not yet know what triggers it, or why it causes the body to fight the implant, but we do know it’s passed down via the maternal line.”

Sloane couldn’t breathe. For a moment, she thought she’d died and was watching from outside herself. Fern’s voice faded in and out until one sentence struck.

“…we named the mutation after you. Harold Paxton’s only granddaughter.”

Sloane gripped the slick edge of Fern’s desk, her manicured nails digging into the lacquered surface.

“Named after me?”

“As with all Pax Institute employees, you consented to genetic testing. Based on your maternal DNA profile, well…”

“Oh, God,” Sloane whispered, hands shaking so hard she almost dropped the tablet. The visions, the talking scalpel, the nightmares, and impulsive cursing…her CET was failing.

The morbid thought struck: At least Mom passed away long before this clusterfuck hit.

Placing the tablet back on the desk, she glared into Fern’s icy blue eyes. “So, when my father said I’m assisting with research, he meant I’m your newest lab rat.”

A ghost of a smile crossed the geneticist’s lips as she pressed the intercom.

“She’s ready. Come in.”

A nurse with a tray bearing a syringe and needle stepped into the office, flanked by two burly security guards. Sloane tried to stand, but rough hands pinned her down in the chair.

“No!” Sloane screamed. “I do not consent!”

“Your condition renders you a liability,” Fern said. “We cannot risk you operating. But your contributions to our research will be invaluable.”

Sloane’s vision went red. A surge of unnatural strength propelled her to her feet, the guards now struggling to hold her back.

“You have no idea what causes the failure, do you?” Sloane sneered. “You’re just trying to contain it. Cover it up.”

“Calm down, please, Ms. Paxton.”

“Why won’t you just admit something is wrong with your technology?” Sloane hissed.

Fern tilted her head, a sinister gleam in her icy blue eyes. “Were you not listening? There is no fault in our technology. It is a fault in the human genome. One that we plan to isolate and study in hopes of eradicating. And as you have consented to have your body donated to research, your brain will be a valuable part of preserving world peace.”

Sloane’s rage gave way to terror. “I consented to have my organs donated to science after I’m dead!”

“You will be very soon,” Fern said flatly. “The mutation not only causes increased amygdala activity. It triggers an autoimmune response. The body attacks the implant like a malignant tumor. There is no cure. It has to be excised.”

“W-what?” Sloane stammered, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Excising an implant can cause permanent brain damage. So, what? You’ll keep us mutant-brained people down here until we die so you can dissect us?”

“Who said they’ll wait until you’re dead?” The scalpel’s voice piped up again.

“Don’t worry, dear,” Fern said, nodding at the nurse. “You won’t feel a thing. Thank you for your dedication to the Pax Institute and the furthering of world peace.”

The reality of her own father’s betrayal, his willingness to throw her away like a piece of waste to protect his bottom line, was the last straw. Sloane tried to scream, but no sound came out. Her muscles collapsed until she was a heap on the floor. The guards knelt beside her, laying her flat and pinning her arms and legs.

She gazed up at her father’s partner in crime.

“What…about…the…oath?” Sloane gasped.

If Fern answered, Sloane never heard it.

First came the jab. Then the sting of the injected liquid shot down her neck. As her heavy eyelids gave way to oblivion, the scalpel heckled her one last time:

“Peace is a fickle mistress, huh, Doc?”

I hope you all enjoyed my attempt at horror writing. I had a lot of fun stretching myself and trying a genre I haven’t written much before. Don’t worry, I’ll be back to the rom-coms soon enough.

<3
Hallie

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Please enjoy this short fiction piece inspired by ’s March portal prompt. This is a fun spin-off tale featuring a “side character” some of you may recognize from my novel.

Author’s Note: As this story features Russian characters, you may notice a lack of articles ( “a” and “the”, namely) in the dialogue. This is an intentional stylistic choice and not a recurring typo!

The Matchmaker’s Guide to Magical Cats

A long, long time ago in the “Old Country”…

Unfinished stories haunted me wherever I went. Love stories, to be exact. Possibly because I was a product of an ill-fated affair myself, but that is a tale for another day.

The girls would find me in the forest by the river, carrying baskets full of soiled laundry and unrequited yearning. Some avoided me like a deadly plague. Others visited for tea, listening to my folktales as their washing dried.

That is how I met Daria.

The daughter of a blacksmith, she always turned the river water black with her father’s soot-stained clothes. One day, she came to my hut to borrow soap. As soon as her timid hazel eyes met mine, I knew. She was my next client.

Daria spent many afternoons with me, drinking tea and listening to my stories. Her favorite was my rendition of the Baba Yaga, in which a merchant’s daughter was held captive by the old hag until a handsome Prince came to the rescue. They lived happily ever after, of course.

Eventually, Daria told me about Yuri, the baker who reminded her of the prince. She bought his bread every day, but was too shy to utter more than a “thank you” to him. While he always threw free sweets into her basket, she feared he did not return her affection.

“Why do you say that, my dear?” I asked.

“What would such perfect man want with blacksmith’s daughter?” She huffed. “Besides, if he did want me, would he not make his feelings known?”

Centuries of self-control was the only thing that kept me from physically shaking some sense into her pretty blonde head.

“Sometimes menfolk just need… little push,” I smiled.

Thus, my plan was set into motion.

In previous stints, I’d successfully kept my methods proprietary—not that there were any other nomadic magical matchmakers galavanting around the Russian countryside. It was simple, really. Tea, a story, a nudge in the right direction (read: through a portal to another realm), and poof! They return as a happy couple.

Perhaps I should have known this particular village was full of naysayers. But who was I to question where fate led me?

**

The next day, I ventured into town for some shopping. Villagers kept their distance, turning up their noses at me. It could have been my ratty patchwork dress and holey boots, or that I stunk of wormwood and secrets. But I preferred to believe that people simply feared what they did not understand.

The bakery greeted me with the mouthwatering aromas of rye, honey, and ginger. Yuri was kneading dough, his slim, muscular forearms dusted with flour. When he looked up at me with bright green eyes and an impossibly warm smile, I knew exactly why Daria struggled to speak to him.

“Can I help you?”

“Ah, yes,” I smiled in return. “I am here on behalf of my friend, Daria, the blacksmith’s daughter.”

His handsome face darkened with suspicion, but he humored me nonetheless.

“I am matchmaker, from hut by the river,” I explained. “Daria is like granddaughter to me. I want good life for her. If you have feelings for her, you must do more than give her free bread. She cannot read minds, da?” (I conveniently left out the fact that she was also no brighter than a toadstool).

“I do wish to pursue Daria,” Yuri admitted. “But I am not skilled at romantic gestures.”

“That is why I am here. To help,” I beamed. “Come to my hut tomorrow afternoon. Four o’clock. Have tea with Daria and me.”

Yuri raised a bushy black brow. “Why should I trust you?”

“Relax. I have made countless happy matches. And, I will buy enough bread to make it worth your while.”

One terse silence and a baker’s dozen later, Yuri agreed to the date.

Daria walked into the shop just as I was leaving with my overflowing basket. Eyeing me with surprise, she asked, “Helene? What are you doing here?”

“I just met your baker,” I winked. “He has very nice forearms, da?”

**

Daria arrived at my hut the next day as usual. The table was set for three, right in front of the hand-painted mural of a scene from the Baba Yaga tale. If Daria had ever made the connection between the two, she’d never mentioned it. But today, she was suspicious.

“Helene,” she said as she sat down across from me. “There is extra cup. Did you invite someone else?”

A knock at the door answered her uncharacteristically astute inquiry.

“Our special guest is here!” I grinned, shuffling across the creaky floor, opening the door with a flourish. “Daria, look! Your baker!”

Daria’s pupils blew wide at the sight of Yuri holding a bouquet of wildflowers and a freshly baked loaf.

“Don’t just stand there, boy!” I urged him across the threshold. “Sit!”

Yuri’s gaze darted around with the trepidation of a lamb being led to slaughter. But as soon as he sat down next to Daria, he only had eyes for her.

“Has Daria told you her favorite tale?” I plopped into my own chair, opening my trusty storybook.

“What is going on?” Yuri asked, confused. “Are you our chaperone?”

“I will leave you alone shortly,” I said, licking my thumb to turn the page. “For now, shut up and listen.”

Yuri and Daria stared at me like I was the Baba Yaga.

“Relax,” I smiled. “Drink tea and enjoy story.”

The book’s pages glowed faintly under my touch as I began to read. Yuri took a sip of the pungent brew. Daria followed, crinkling her nose as she brought the chipped china to her lips.

“Helene,” she interrupted me mid-once-upon-a-time. “This tea tastes… different.”

“Oh, dear. I wonder if leaves are too old.” I set the book down, sniffing my own cup. “I will brew new pot. But first, I must get water. You two stay here, get to know each other.”

Ignoring their bewildered expressions, I grabbed the teapot and shuffled out the door, locking it behind me.

“Helene!” Daria cried. “Where—”

“Daria! The wall!” Yuri’s panicked voice cut her off. “It’s coming to life! Helene, what have you done?”

Hiding behind a gnarled tree trunk, I watched through the hut’s window as the magic took hold. Yuri was at the door, banging frantically. Behind him, on the table, the book’s pages fluttered of their own accord. Daria shrieked as vines from the mural wall slithered around her body, dragging her toward the portal.

Ah, yes. It’s all coming together. I thought with a cackle.

Yuri finally got wise, ceasing his panic to lunge after Daria. The vines took him, too. In a shimmering flash, they were gone.

Then, I waited.

**

I was back inside sipping my freshly brewed tea when the mural began to pulse awake, rattling the herb racks hanging overhead. A symphony of clinking tincture bottles and dishes signaled the lovers’ return. With one final shudder, walls contracting as if drawing a breath, the hut spat them out at my feet.

Daria was on her knees, dry-heaving, twigs poking from her braids. Yuri curled beside her in the fetal position. A gash marred his temple, but he was otherwise unscathed.

“My,” I gasped, feigning surprise. “What have you two been doing while I was gone?”

“What… have… we… been… doing?” Yuri seethed, his words punctuating each movement as he stumbled to his feet. “What did you do to us?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Your mural swallowed us and trapped us in the story!” Daria hissed.

“Now,” I tisked. “No need to fret. I must have accidentally given you two valerian root tea. It can give… strange visions.”

“That was no vision!” Yuri sneered with a look that could petrify. “It took three weeks to escape!”

“My, the tea certainly muddled your brains,” I said. “It has only been few minutes. But, I suppose time does fly when you’re having—”

“You witch!” Yuri growled. “We could have perished!”

“But did you?” I asked, gesturing at their now-linked hands. “No! You survived through power of true love. It is happy ending, da?”

“You are no ordinary matchmaker, are you?” Daria shuddered, eyes narrowing.

Perhaps she’s brighter than I thought.

“Just wait until village council hears of this,” Yuri said, pulling Daria into his arms as if to shield her from evil. “You and your cursed hut will burn!”

“No need for such drastic measures,” I said, rising to approach them. “Daria, you know—”

“Stay away from her!” Yuri bellowed, pulling her toward the door. He threw it open with the force of a man twice his size. “Goodbye, witch.”

With that, they ran like their hair was on fire.

“Wait!” I called, rushing after them.

They did not even deign to glance back.

Daria hastily gathered her clean laundry as Yuri decried my “sorcery” to the remaining washerwomen. Thankfully, none of them seemed terribly interested, though a few did cast suspicious glares my way. I waved demurely, as one does when hiding a secret identity.

No one will believe them, I thought as Yuri and Daria disappeared into the hazy sunset toward the village.

How long I leaned against my splintered doorframe, entertaining visions of the worst-case scenario, I did not know. Night creatures commenced their crooning, ushering away the last of the women, heaving their full baskets. Gossipy whispers floated behind them on the breeze, turning my ears red.

I knew what I had to do. Paint over the mural right away. Hide the evidence.

Exhaustion followed me inside. Remnants of magic clung in the air as I readied my paints and enchanted brushes. After spreading the supplies across the hut’s floor, I turned to retrieve my apron and came face-to-face with a tortoiseshell cat perched on the table, its amber eyes aglow in a most unsettling way.

Strange. Where had it come from?

“Shoo!” I waved. “Get out of my house!”

It didn’t move.

“All right, I will remove you myself.”

The beast shot a paw out to stop me, its claws piercing my sun-spotted flesh.

“Ow!” I cried. “You are mean one, da?”

Marching to the door, I held it open, nodding toward the twilight-swathed forest. “Time to go.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

I froze. Did it just speak to me?

“I did, you fool.”

My mouth hung open so long that a fly flew down my throat. Choking it down, I managed, “I do not know what you are, but you must go.”

“You do not know what I am? You created me for your Baba Yaga tale.”

My stomach clenched. That’s right. The magical cat.

Oh, this was bad.

“How…did you get out?” I stammered.

“Sometimes, the characters get away from you.”

Leave it to cat to be cryptic. I thought.

“No matter,” I muttered aloud. “I haven’t started painting yet. There is time to send you back through portal.”

“I do not wish to go back. And, I am only cryptic because my author is, too.”

“What?” It occurred to me then that the cat was talking into my mind—and reading it, too.

The cat continued. “Do you think I want to be trapped within the constraints of the story forever, like an insect in amber?”

“Ah, but you will be very happy insect.”

“I want to stay.”

“No,” I said, “it is against rules.”

“I am a magical cat. Rules do not apply to me.”

“What? How can you—”

Approaching footsteps on the wooded path interrupted our debate. Shadowy figures marched straight for my hut, torches bobbing against the dusk.

A mob. Led by Yuri.

In a flash of fur, the cat bolted past me, vanishing into the trees.

“Damn!” I hissed under my breath. There was no time to go after it, what with the men encroaching.

“Gentlemen,” I said, flashing a casual smile as a semi-circle of masculine rage formed around my stoop. “To what do I owe pleasure?”

Without the courtesy of a preamble, Yuri roared, “Burn the witch!”

Torch after torch was lobbed at my hut, fire catching unhindered on the thatched roof. Rough hands pushed me inside, the door pulling shut behind me. I turned to throw it open again, only to find a large boulder sealing the exit.

“Ach, they came prepared,” I muttered.

Crackling flames consumed the men’s hoots and hollers, along with my worry about the rogue magical creature. If my hut burned, so be it. But I couldn’t let my book and paints burn, too. How would I explain that to the powers that be?

Top priority: rescue my supplies, then find the cat.

Smoke bristled my nose hairs, singeing my throat on its way to my lungs. I pulled my headscarf down to cover my mouth as I gathered my book, paints, and brushes.

While the mob outside chanted, “Burn, witch, burn!”, I flung my bag over my shoulder and shoved my table aside. Little did they know that I had a secret escape hatch.

After a final, solemn look around my hut, I pulled up the trapdoor and dropped into the dank tunnel.

**

This was not my first escape into the dead of night with a rucksack of enchanted paraphernalia, but it was the first time my hut was burned to ash before I could close the portal. Fortunately, the fire would destroy the only evidence supporting Yuri’s claims. Unfortunately, the fairytale cat was now running amok in the real world.

Moss squelched beneath my feet as I hustled toward the cave that I’d discovered once when foraging for herbs. I pushed aside the vines hanging over the entrance, darkness enveloping me as I stepped into the musky space. At the back was a smooth wall, perfect for painting another portal for the cat.

If my superiors didn’t find it first.

Skeletal fingers of moonlight crept in through the foliage, barely enough to see by. I’d have to wait until morning to paint. I pulled my knit shawl tighter around my shoulders, hugging the rucksack close as I sat down against the cold stone. Staring into the night, I asked myself: how had everything gone so wrong?

Just as my heavy eyelids descended toward sleep, a billowing shadow eclipsed the cave’s opening.

“Early bedtime, Helene?”

An ominous voice, like three blended into one, wafted too close for comfort. It belonged to a tall, wispy figure, shrouded head to toe in a translucent black veil. Cradled in their spectral arms was the cat.

“Mor,” I rasped, my heart leaping into my throat. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“You have once again violated the terms of our contract, Helene.”

I scrambled to my feet, almost spilling the contents of the rucksack across the cave floor. “What? I did not!”

You’re a terrible liar, aren’t you? The cat’s snarky voice filled my skull.

“Indeed, she is.” Mor agreed.

“You can hear it, too?”

“Don’t act so surprised, Helene. You created this insufferable thing.”

“How was I to know it would be telepathic?” I threw up my hands.

Mor harrumphed. “Would you care to explain how the fictional feline escaped your story?”

“Sometimes,” I gulped, “characters get away from me.”

“So, not only have you tainted your reputation with yet another village, you cannot control your narratives,” Mor sighed, exhaling eons of frustration.

“Look, I brought my paints,” I said, motioning to the cat. “First thing tomorrow, I’ll send it back.”

I am not an “it”. I am a “she”. The cat growled.

“Fine,” I said, “I will send her back tomorrow.”

“Actually,” Mor uttered with a tone that churned my stomach. “That will not be necessary.”

Mor and I made a deal. The cat smirked.

“What?”

“She,” Mor said, thrusting the cat into my arms, “is to be your magical companion.”

“Excuse me?” I was thoroughly shocked. “A story world creature, living among mortals? Talk about violation of contract.”

“This is a necessary exception,” Mor said.

“What?” I groaned. “Why?”

“Because I’m tired of cleaning up your messes, Helene,” Mor sighed. “Yet, your father won’t allow me to cut your thread. So, when I detected the animal had breached the portal, I figured rather than destroy her, I’d put her to good use.”

All I could do was gape at the keeper of Fate.

“Congratulations, Helene, you’ve created your own governess,” Mor snickered. “Since the feline can communicate with us immortals, it is the perfect way to monitor you.”

“Wonderful,” I grumbled. To the wriggling cat in my arms, I hissed, “You weren’t even in original outline.”

“Call it a plot twist,” Mor said, turning to face the night. With a blasé glance over their shoulder, they added, “Oh, and Helene? Your current matchmaking methods are questionable, at best. If you don’t want to be burned on a stake, you’ll need to be more…ambiguous. Mortals will only get smarter and less superstitious as the years pass.”

With that, Mor dissipated in a plume of otherworldly smoke.

I stood gazing out of the mouth of the cave for far too long. Finally, the cat jumped down from my arms, curling up against the stone. I joined her, the sound of my crackling joints ricocheting off the cave walls.

“Are you happy?” I groaned. “Now that you’ve skirted interdimensional rules?”

I’m doing you a favor. You’re lonely, and here I am.

“You’re saying that you’re here because I needed pet?” I deadpanned.

The cat flicked its tail. You said it, not me.

“Indeed,” I yawned. “What should I call you?”

“My name is Mishka.”

“Nice to meet you, Mishka.” I gave her a tentative scratch behind her ear. “As you already know, my name is Helene.”

“Yes, you are Greek-born,” Mishka nodded. “Though, if I may, I’d prefer to call you by the Russian version.”

I was too weary to bother asking how she knew my birthplace. “Call me whatever you like. Now, be quiet and let me rest.”

“Very well. Good night, Yelena.”

Thank you for reading! This was such a fun tale to write and a great way to explore one of my fan-favorite characters. Stay tuned for updates on my journey to publishing my debut novel.

And if you haven’t already, please subscribe to receive more chaotic fiction directly to your inbox.

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Until next time,

Hallie Jules <3

I took some liberties with this one. This story takes place in a not-so-distant future, with our retired millennial dad hero (who lobbied to keep brain rot out of schools back in his heyday) experiencing recurrent nightmares. Was he ever actually a superhero? Who knows. But when inspiration strikes, you strike back, right?

So without further ado, I present “Return of the Rizzler”

“Siiiiiixxxxxxx Sevvvvvvvennnnnn…”

“Skibbbbbiiiiddddiiiii Ohhhhiiiioooooo…”

What? No. This isn’t right, Ted Kalwoski thinks as he peels himself off the cold, 1990’s era tile. His sticky eyelids open to a festering haze of foreboding. Droplets of dread cling to the cinder block walls, dripping like condensation on an IPA can left out in the sun.

He’s at his kids’ old school. Again.

But…how?

Sinister moans continue to slither their way into Ted’s ear canals. He plugs them with sweaty fingers, closes his eyes, and takes calming breaths—the kind he used to do with his wife, Sheila, at her Saturday morning yoga class.

As soon as the inhale starts, his olfactory nerves revolt. A putrid potpourri of preteen body odor, angst, and Takis curls his nose hairs.

Hmm, speaking of nose hairs, he should probably trim—

“What the sigmaaaaaa??”

Gosh dang it, they’ve sensed him.

Dragging footsteps echo from the other end of the school’s hallway. The “rotters”—people zombified by TikTok challenges and driveling garbage on YouTube and Netflix—close in, hungry for fresh meat.

“No. You’re supposed to be dead!” Ted shouts as he stands to his feet, nearly slipping in the fine layer of blood, guts, and unidentified cafeteria slop on the floor.

“Well, well, well. Bruh almost fell flat on his gyatt.”

The uncannily famous-sounding voice leaves Ted shivering in his New Balances.

“The Rizzler,” he hisses as the leader of the Rotter horde approaches. Instinctively, Ted reaches for the DeWalt nail gun in his Home Depot-orange utility belt that he conveniently happens to be wearing.

“The Amazing Dadbod, we meet again,” The Rizzler—who looks like Jack Black cosplaying as The Riddler—snickers.

“How?” Ted the Amazing Dadbod asks, taking another squelching step back. “I defeated the Brain Rotters decades ago. Remember? The Great Meme Reset of 2027?”

The Rizzler and his Rotters form a wall of decay in front of Ted, the latter droning unintelligible nonsense.

“You can’t get rid of us that easily, what with your petitions, laws, and your hippy-dippy bologna,” The Rizzler cackles maniacally, his autographed Mr. Beast bowler hat trembling atop his head. “The rot can’t stop, won’t stop.”

The Rotters utter a low “No cap, Fam” in agreement, forming an impenetrable wall of decayed flesh behind their leader.

Ted can’t believe his eyes. There’s Principal Ludwig, the cafeteria monitor, and the retired hippie guy who volunteers in the library. The entire student population of Prime Ridge Middle, their hollow-eyed heads lolling to one side, their victims' entrails dangling from rusted braces.

That’s when he sees her—Sheila. His son, Aiden, and daughter, Emilie, flank her sides.

Ted’s hypertension embraces its deadly era. He knows what he has to do. A nail through the eye. Or was it the brain stem? Oh, no—Brain stem is for The Walking Dead zombies. It’s hard to keep all the rules for the undead straight.

Ted gazes forlornly into his wife’s jaundiced peepers, then his children’s, aiming his gun with a shaky hand.

Wait, he thinks. This can’t be them. Hadn’t Aiden graduated from college nearly two decades ago? Wasn’t Emelie working for some winery in Paris? Weren’t Ted and Sheila themselves retired?

The wrongness intensifies with every beat of Ted’s plaque-lined heart. The horde closes in, knocking him on his gyatt for reals. All around him, the air shimmers with pixelated fog, like the place was constructed in Minecraft. Rotters’ groans assault his skull.

The Rizzler bends down to cackle in Ted’s profoundly sweaty face. “You can’t do it, can you, Old Man?”

Ted shakes his head, dropping the power tool. Rizzler kicks it out of reach with a wicked grin.

“Give it up, you cringe millennial-coded relic.”

Just when Ted thinks all is lost, the distant rumble of a drum machine and synth bassline wafts in on the heels of the villain’s taunts. The Rotters snarl and writhe, attempting to cover the holes where ear lobes once hung. Rizzler’s face contorts with each repetition of the annoyingly catchy beat.

“No!! No!!” He despairs as his Rotters dissipate one by one into tiny shards of broken code.

Ted stands, jabbing a meaty finger into Rizzler’s chest with a satisfied snicker.

“You’ve been Rick-rolled, Mother Trucker!”

A few moments later…

“My name is not ‘Mother Trucker’. I am the Caregiver Bot 4,000. How may I assist you today, Mr. Kawolski?”

Ted blinks away the dream from his cloudy eyes, coming face to face with one of Past Prime Assisted Living’s nurse droids. If he still had his nail gun, he’d shoot it in its sleek metal face.

“What are you doing here?” he growls.

“I detected your distress signal,” the bot chirps. “You were singing Rick Astley’s 1987 one-hit wonder, Never Gonna Give You Up, in your sleep again.”

Ted slumps in his ergonomic recliner with a groan. Caregiver Bot 4000 is never gonna give him up, apparently.

“Mr. Kawolski, can I—”

Ted grabs his trusty hardcover copy of “101 Fun Puns” off his side table and chucks it at the anthropomorphic hunk of AI slop.

“Get off my lawn, Mother Trucker!”

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Join me tomorrow evening at 8 PM EST for another episode of Prompt Response. It’s the hippest party on the ‘Stack. No cap, bruh.

Prompt Response with Jay & Andrew

Prompt Response is a Substack live podcast in which hosts Jay Wilcox and Andrew Thomas discuss writing techniques while also interacting with attendees to create (and respond to) writing prompts and facilitate micro group activities.

By Andrew Thomas

Without further ado, please enjoy my short story set three months before the events of A Court of Books and Coffee.

Never Trust a Delivery Guy

Mishka

Humans have long suspected that we cats are more intelligent than we let on. This is particularly true of my owner’s assistant manager, a savvy young woman with complicated feelings and highly-honed pattern recognition.

She’s catching on to me, I think. But her time has not yet come.

My owner tasks me with the most miserable things, including helping her with her “freelance” matchmaking. I simply cannot fathom how a socially awkward, single cat lady with a barely profitable bookshop got into the business of love stories…

But I digress.

Today, I have spent an inordinate amount of time on another one of my owner’s side quests. We still have weeks before the couple in question is ready. But Yelena insists she needs a little extra inspiration…

Ryan

It’s not every day that an overly-caffienated, morally grey cinophile of a delivery driver loiters in a quirky bookshop, waiting around for a signature from the owner for her extremely heavy box of hardcovers.

For Ryan Robertson, UPS man by day and geek by all other times, today is that day.

Perhaps it’s fate that while he waits, Ryan spots a collector’s edition of The Princess Bride, William Goldman’s tale of true love and high-stakes adventure just chilling by the cash register. And on the 38th anniversary of the cult classic film adaptation, no less.

Weird, accented muttering floats from the back room. Ryan’s never encountered anyone with such a lenient definition of “I’ll be right back. I need my special pen” as BookNook proprieter, Yelena Ivanova.

If the cute assistant manager, Callie, were here today, he’d have been in and out faster than you can say “Inconceivable” — or, in her case, “Thanks, Ryan. But I’m really not interested.”

Ryan drums his meaty fingers on the counter, eyes drifting back to the special edition hardcover.

It’s one of the best book-to-film adaptations of all time, he thinks, eyeing the shiny foil cover. It’s just like the one he lost a few years back—the one he paid a small fortune for on eBay, back when eBay was a thing. This could be the perfect replacement. He could maybe just…

Ryan peeks down the hallway. There’s no indication that Yelena is returning with her “special pen”.

But before he swipes the tome off the counter to go hide it in his brown metal box on wheels, Ryan has the urge to flip it open. Why? He’s not sure. But his poorly-conditioned heart skips as he sees the note, written in the cute, slightly crooked handwriting on the inside cover:

“To our very own Dread Pirate Goldman,

Thanks for always being the comic relief in our D&D campaigns and the only one of us who’s a homeowner. We are eternally grateful that you let us take over your living room each weekend for game night. Hope your thirty-first year of life brings you adventures beyond your wildest dreams.

Happy birthday!

Love,

Nic, Liza, and Cal.

P.S. (from Cal): I know you’re more of a “wait-for-the-movie” guy, but this edition has illustrations, and, for the love of God, you need something in your house that can be considered decorative.”

Ryan slams the book shut. Who the hell is “Dread Pirate Goldman”? Could he be why Callie seems uninterested in—

“Ow!” A sharp pain shoots through Ryan’s hand as the BookNook’s resident cat—who seemingly materialized out of thin air—chomps down on his thumb.

Mishka

“Mishka,” my owner’s voice scrapes across my walnut-shaped brain, “you clever girl! Now, bring me the book before the doofy delivery dude steals it. I have, how you say, references I must check.”

You might assume that communicating with someone via telepathy is “cool”. I can assure you, it’s not.

Not only has this woman ordered me to bite the germ-ridden flesh of a courier who reeks of stale cheese, but she now expects me to drag this cumbersome tome down the hall like a whiskered forklift?

The audacity.

Fueled by perfectly justifiable feline rage, I release the human’s thumb and sink my teeth into the edge of the book’s cover. My jaws are strong, but I’m only one cat.

Through a series of ungraceful maneuvers, I slide the book off the counter. It lands with a thud, along with me and my dignity.

“What in the name of Obi-Wan Kenobi?” The puttering porter bellows, still clutching his hand.

Then the bell above the shop rings.

“Ryan?” Comes the warm, familiar female voice.

“Callie!” The blubbering idiot straightens, suddenly the picture of practiced nonchalance. He leans against the counter, hiding his injured hand behind his back.

Ach, no! She is early! Yelena groans. I will not have time to peek a sneak at the book, da?

It’s better than grubby cheese fingers stealing the thing, right? I mentally shoot back.

Fine. Perhaps we will just have to watch the movie, da? Yelena sighs into my mind, just as Callie steps behind the counter.

“Mishka, what are you doing back—Wait,” she crouches low, scooping up the book splayed across the ancient hardwoods. “Did you nom on Nate’s book?”

Yelena, a little help?

Yelena

Yelena smooths her paisley headscarf, shuffling up to the front counter with her faux gold fountain pen and an expression that says, “I am up to no good.”

“What seems to be problem?” she asks, mischievous brown eyes darting between her auburn-haired assistant manager and the pudgy delivery guy.

“First of all, Yelena,” Callie says, fire dancing in her eyes. “I came to pick up the book I’d left here, and found Mishka snacking on it! Oh, and she apparently bit Ryan?”

“Eh,” Yelena shrugs, waving her hand. “Cats bite all the time.”

“Yelena!” Callie hisses. “We can’t have the cat attacking delivery guys.”

“Yes, yes,” Yelena brushes lint off her hunched shoulder. “I will talk with Mishka. But perhaps we should first talk with Ryan.” She shoots him an incriminating look. “You were thinking of stealing the book, da? Replacing your lost eBay copy?”

“What?” Ryan throws up his hands, “No! I wasn’t going to steal it! And how do you—”

“Ah, but you were snooping,” Yelena grins, “Reading the private note Callie wrote to Coffee guy.”

“You were what?” Callie’s steely gaze shifts to Ryan, clutching the book to her chest.

“I was just admiring the—” Ryan stops mid-sentence, face crinkling like his brain is buffering. “Wait. Dread Pirate Goldman. As in Nate Goldman, who owns Milo’s Brews? He’s your coffee guy? Is he why you keep turning me down?”

The air in the shop drops several degrees. Callie flushes, gaze shifting to her feet.

“He’s not my—I mean. Look, Ryan, I just don’t—”

Get rid of him, Mishka. Yelena orders her cat.

Before Callie melts of embarrassment, Mishka is at Ryan’s heels, hissing, nipping, and growling.

“Hey, what the hell?” He stumbles back.

“Cats are very good judge of character, da?” Yelena crosses her arms with a knowing wink. “And so is Callie. She doesn’t want to go on date with you.”

“Yelena?” Callie stammers, “What are you doing?”

“Get out of my shop, delivery dude,” Yelena repeats, skewering Ryan with her glare.

“Uh, okay,” Ryan sputters, pulling the electronic device from his pocket and extending it shakily toward Yelena. “But I still need a signature.”

Callie groans, rolling her eyes as she steps in front of her boss and signs it. “I definitely don’t get paid enough for this.”

“You have signature,” Yelena smirks, “Now, skedaddle.”

“D-don’t you w-want your p-packages?” Ryan stutters.

“Packages?” Yelena had honestly forgotten about the sprayed-edge copies of Fourth Wing that Callie insisted she order. “Ah, yes, you leave on porch, da? Callie can bring it inside.”

“Yelena!” Callie exclaims, “I’m NOT on the clock! And I’m running late for Nate’s birthday dinner!”

“And I am old, feeble woman,” Yelena says serenely.

The shop’s bell jingles again as Ryan retreats out BookNook’s front door like his pants are on fire. Sabrina Carpenter’s voice drifting from the shop’s speakers is the only thing adding levity to the tense silence between Yelena and her assistant manager.

“What was that?” Callie finally asks.

“Look, I saved Coffee Guy’s birthday present,” Yelena smiles.

A heavy thud reverberates through the old building as Ryan drops the cardboard box of dragon smut onto the porch. It’s followed by the screech of his truck’s tires as he peels out of the parking lot.

“Dear God, Yelena,” Callie huffs, opening the front door to lug the package over the threshold. “I take one day off, and you manage to get yourself into possibly illegal shenanigans.”

“Stop fussing, dear,” Yelena tsks, shooing her employee onto the porch. “I will put these away. Go have fun with Coffee Guy.”

“He’s not my—”

Yelena closes the shop’s door in Callie’s face, whirling to face her less-than-amused cat.

“What?” She grins, “Why you look at me like that? Everything is going according to plot!”

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Much love,

Jules

My dreams taste like sea salt, sweat, and youthful passion. They are as colorful as the honeyed hues of sunset stretching across the horizon. And in them, we lie tangled together lazily on the shore.

You can be like me, Mon Amour. Together, we can possess a power so great that they’ll never be able to contain us.

It was power I craved. But in the end, I was weak.

Now, I am a shell of what I once was. Pallid skin wraps my bones like ancient leather. Can it even be called skin anymore?

They call me the Keeper. I have been confined to this island of fester for centuries. My masters have cycled in and out — their immortal prejudices living on long after their bodies. I am suffered to live only because, like him, I cannot die. Therefore, I am useful.

Once a year, the High Priestess chooses a tribute to sate the thirst of the monster I guard. As a meager token of appreciation for my eternal security services, I am given just enough sustenance to maintain a small shred of my own sanity. The only time I can think clearly, the only time I am not rattling with paranoia, is in my dreams—those fleeting morsels of peace.

We could change the world, Pierre.

We could have, if I had not been such a fool.

If I had not given in to that naive feeling of invincibility coursing through my veins. We were younger men then. Too young to bind our lives together, no matter how badly our bodies craved each other. And still, we did.

Drink from me, Mon Amour.

Lust is a powerful bedfellow, you see. Stronger than love. He made me what I am—chained to him for life.

The dreams are all I have left. As I sleep the daylight hours away in my ramshackle lighthouse, I relive both the good and the bad. Of late, I am most haunted by the worst of them. That wretched night that our lives changed forever. When the angry mob of townspeople descended upon us, the smoky light of their torches illuminated our naked bodies. The bitter tang of regret as his blood went down my throat and dripped from my crooked teeth as I stood to plead for our lives.

And ultimately, we are both prisoners because of my own weakness. Such was the cost of our fleeting happiness. And the cost of freedom will be higher still.

But tonight, after all this time, best laid plans pay off.

********

The boat arrives at a quarter to midnight, the full moon’s light illuminating the ghostly figures aboard.

Tonight is the night, Mon Amour.

“Keeper!” Comes the voice of the High Priestess. Her torch illuminates sharp cheekbones and a hawkish nose beneath her crimson hood. “We have prepared the tribute.”

The tribute is chosen by chance every year. Typically, a young female. This one is plump, quaking, with full breasts and lips. She is someone’s daughter, sister, friend, perhaps even fiancée. But when the Priestess selects the tribute, there are no earthly obligations or connections that can save them.

The acolyte accompanying the Priestess holds the tribute by her bound wrists, dragging her forward until she is thrown at my feet. The scent of her fresh blood, seasoned with fear and grief, invigorates me as moonlight traces the bluish-green of the veins on her chest.

Control yourself. I think. Not yet.

“Keeper, your payment,” the Priestess produces a bottle from her bag.

She holds it out to me, and I nearly gag as I accept. The scent of this bottled blood is like curdled milk compared to the tribute’s tantalizing aroma. I set the bottle down at my post, secretly relishing that I will never need to drink their rotted offerings again after tonight.

“Are we ready to commence the ceremony?” The Priestess looks between her acolyte and me.

We nod. The tribute releases a throaty wail, which earns her a jab in the ribs. She promptly shuts her mouth.

The Priestess chants the ritual rites in the old tongue. When her monotonous droning is complete, she pulls a ring of keys from the chain around her waist, an ash wood stake swinging against her leg as she leads us down the musty corridor.

She unlocks the door to the stairwell, which leads down to the pit, and the sounds of my hungry lover—my carefully contained beast—ricochet off the darkened steps. I do not have access to him during most of the year, only on the night of the ritual.

The tribute almost falls to her death as she tries to navigate the spiraling stone steps. The acolyte groans with frustration. This tribute is relatively tame compared to most, however. It’s a rather refreshing break to have an easy go this time, especially with what I must do soon.

The growls and snarks and clanging of irons grow louder as we descend, signaling he is ready. I can smell his desperation from here. As we reach the bottom, the priestess hangs the torch from the wall bracket, illuminating the pit. It’s really more of an underground cell, littered with the bones of previous tributes, air eternally riddled with the stench of rot.

“Hello, Monster, I see you are hungry,” The priestess purrs, stepping up to the cell’s door.

He throws himself against the iron bars, panting like a rabid animal. A faint trickling sound comes from beside me, the stench of ammonia tickling my ancient nostrils.

The tribute has wet herself. Typical.

“Please, oh holy one, do not make me wait.” His voice is harrowing, sickening.

“Just one moment,” The Priestess smirks, “We must give our tribute time to say her final prayers.”

Tense silence falls over the room. The acolyte, the priestess, and the tribute bow their heads. I bow mine, too, but do not close my eyes. I must stay astute. My lover’s violet eyes, bloodshot and bulging, meet mine. I can hear the echoes in my head of what he told me last year, after the previous tribute:

The mortals know more than they say, Mon Amour. We are not the only ones. There are others across the sea. The priesthood will use us to build their army when the time comes. We must make sure that never happens. We must be the ones to build our own army. Next year, when they come to feed me, we will fight.

I was sure he’d gone mad. It was only once the dreams started that I finally agreed to his plan. I never asked him how he knew there were others like us. Some questions can only make things more complicated. None of that matters to me now. All that matters is our chance at freedom.

The process year after year has been simple: The priestess unlocks the cage, and I, for her and the acolyte’s safety, deliver the tribute. But this time, they’re in for a surprise.

Once the prayer is done, the acolyte brings me the sniveling wench. Metal clicks on metal as the priestess unlocks the cage. Iron hinges shriek.

I guide the tribute forward. My lover buzzes with bloodlust, jerking at his chains. I take my time, gliding past the edge of the door. It’s beautifully easy.

A wink. A nod.

He pounces on the girl as soon as I shove her across the threshold. The acolyte screams, staggering backward, slipping in the slush of urine and bone fragments. She pushes onto her hands and knees, attempting to crawl for the stairs. My strength is nothing like it used to be, but one good kick from my booted heel to her head and she’s out cold.

“Keeper?” The priestess cries, hands flying up in surrender once she realizes I’ve stolen her stake. “Wh-what are y-you doing?”

The tribute screams in the background as her life force is drained. It’s like music to my ancient ears. My own body alights with pride. Finally, the moment has come.

I charge for the priestess, stake held high. Her spine makes a painful impact with the iron bars behind her, her cries harmonizing with the dwindling whimpers of the tribute.

I do not stab her. Instead, my fangs sink into the tender flesh of the priestess’s neck. She writhes against me, smacking my back with her hand. Her blood fills my mouth, and it is the sweetest ambrosia—a coppery cocktail of fear and humiliation. Warmth cascades down my throat as it slickens the dry tissue, sparking life into my weakened bones.

I gulp and gulp until the slaps and kicks stop. Until the human beneath my fangs is no more than a withered, self-righteous husk. A shuddering sigh of pleasure courses through me. For the first time in eons, I feel alive.

“Lucas?” he calls to me. His voice sounds almost human again, his own ecstasy lacing its tenor. I turn to him, catch his eyes. He flashes me that familiar boyish smile, youthful charm returning to his gray skin. He almost looks like the nobleman’s son I once spent nights tangled up in the woods with—but he and I both know, we are no longer ourselves.

“Shall we share that one?” he nods to the acolyte, stringy strands of black hair falling across his forehead.

“I’ll let you have her, Mon Amour,” I smile, as genuinely as I can. “But first…”

I fetch the key ring from next to the dead priestess. Kneeling next to him, I slip the smaller key into the manacles around his ankles, then his wrists. Each one crashes to the stone floor with finality, like the final chimes of midnight.

“Mon Amour,” I breathe, taking his face in my hands. “Finally, we can be together.”

Our bloodstained lips meet. We crash together like ocean waves, bodies flush. After all this time, after all these years, he still tastes the same.

Naive. Lovesick. Gullible.

The perfect scapegoat.

He always has been.

With one final kiss, he chokes and sputters in my arms. His eyes widen with shock as his head falls back.

“Lucas?” He gasps, “Why? You said…you would…make it up—”

His words never finish as he shrivels into nothing more than ash and tattered fabric. The stake lodged into his ribcage lands on top of the remains.

“Oh, Pierre, Mon Amour,” I smile, “you always did forgive too easily.”

The acolyte stirs behind me. Hunger once again consumes my being. I do so love them scared.

Her blood is blander than the priestess’s. But it will have to do. My strength is returning, my skin softening with each swig of her young life. Pulling her cloak from her shoulders, I drape it over my own. It’s a little short, but it will have to do.

Belly full, I retrieve the torch from the wall and head for the stairs. Once outside, I pitch it at the base of the lighthouse, igniting its decrepit frame, before climbing aboard the priestess’s boat. My arms tingle with renewed strength as I row into the night.

Across the sea, there are more like me. More to conquer.

And best of all, now, I am free.

TW: This is somewhat autobiographical. Earlier this year, I was going through a severe depression, right before I joined Substack. While I tried to present it in the coziest way possible, please be aware that it’s a sensitive topic.

There once was a little chaos goblin with entire worlds inside her head. She’d invite others to visit, but few wanted to stay.

She’d write them stories that sat unread. It turns out her words were better left unsaid. She was too snarky, too honest, too dramatic, so they shoved her into a more palatable box.

On the outside, she appeared well-behaved. But inside her box, she drew on the walls and etched sonnets into her skin. And though she was close enough to socially acceptable, deep down, her spirit wore thin.

One fateful day, darkness crept into her picture-perfect cage.

No one will ever love the real you. You’re a dumpster fire, a hot mess, a mistake. Your stories are terrible. Cringe. A complete waste.

So she threatened to seal off her stories for good. Erase herself from memory. Melt into the abyss.

But just before she succumbed to Darkness’s embrace, a bright light drew her away. She followed it into a land of orange and white, a vast digital landscape where stories came to life.

Out of the blue, a Cozy Queen took her hand and said, “Come on, let’s play tag.”

So the chaos goblin hopped into the fray. She frolicked with fairies, flew with dragons, sailed with pirates, and ate pastries with vampires. Finally, she introduced her own characters, set the table for a mad little tea party. To her surprise, people gathered around to share snacks, fun facts, and punny jokes.

Before long, the Chaos Goblin had more friends than she’d ever imagined possible. Her stories found homes in the hearts of a few who always returned for more. Kindred spirits who bore witness to her rough edges without trying to sand them down.

Finally, she’d tasted a slice of belonging. It was the sweetest thing in the world.

But there was always one part of herself she kept hidden—so much so that she took it to her grave…

And in that very distant future, the Chaos Goblin met Death’s apprentice (though he’s since been promoted). They sat together on the edge of time, people watching.

“Hello again, mate,” Death said, “How goes the reading?”

She replied, “Good. I’ve almost finished reading your story.”

Death smiled, placing his hand on her hunched shoulder. “I was watching, you know. All those years ago. The night you almost left. But I’m so glad you stayed.”

The Chaos Goblin chuckled. “The stories wouldn’t let me go.”

“They can be quite persuasive.” Death nodded.

Quiet settled between them like a warm blanket. Death’s scythe began to glow, flashing through all the senses, but never landing on one.

“Even your scythe can’t figure me out,” Chaos Goblin snickered.

“What is it, do you think, keeping you here?” Death asked, as if he didn’t already know the answer.

“There is a secret I buried deep,” Chaos Goblin whispered, “Something few knew. But I’ve always wanted to set it free.”

Death grasped the scythe, which had been caught in a three-way tie.

SIGHT

SOUND

TOUCH

“You desire to be seen, heard, felt,” he mused, “But haven’t you already done that? Allowed yourself to be perceived? You’ve written countless stories, shared with thousands of souls.”

The goblin’s lips curled upward. Death knew, but Ever the gentleman, he was waiting for her to say it on her own.

“Do you want me to come back later?” he asked.

“No, no,” Chaos Goblin said, drawing a ghostly breath. “I’ve wasted enough time.”

Death selected all three senses. A kaleidoscope of colorful orbs coalesced in front of them, morphing into the Goblin’s trusty old laptop. The Notes page was already pulled up on that familiar orange site.

Death patted her back in encouragement. She clapped him back so hard his eternal bones rattled.

“Come on, we don’t have all of eternity,” he jested with a cough.

“Fine, fine,” the goblin cracked her knuckles and grazed her fingertips over the keys.

“Hello from beyond the grave, my friends. I’m glad to see you’re still enjoying my stories. But there is something I’ve been holding back. Something unspoken, keeping my soul tethered.”

She paused, hovering over the delete key.

“No,” Death gently nudged her away from it. “You can do this.”

She knew he was right. She could. And she would.

“So, my dear readers, if I am ever to leave this liminal Between, I must confess: You have long known me by one name. But it was never truly mine. So before I go, I wish to say…”

The goblin paused. This was the final stretch. The last push. The moment of truth.

Her temporarily corporal hands, tattooed with every word she’d ever shared (and some she hadn’t) typed her famous last words:

Hello, my REAL name is…”

Thank you for reading.

Some of you know my real name. Some don’t. But someday, I hope I can be brave. And feel safe enough. Hopefully, before I’m a ghost. haha.

For now, Merry Christmas (if you celebrate) and to all, a good night.

Love,

Hallie (J)

Please note, this is written in a semi-script format. I’m not a screenplay writer, so please bear with me. And enjoy this silly little flash fiction piece based on an unhinged Reddit comment I discovered deep in the internet.

Oh, Christmas He!

HOLLY BELL, NARRATOR:

POV: it’s Christmas 2024. You’re a desperate, single 29-year-old Executive Assistant in the big city writing a letter to Santa Claus that goes a little something like… clears throat:

“Dear Jolly Ol’ St. Nick,

I’m looking for a man in finance. Trust fund. 6’5”. Blue Eyes. Oh, and he needs to love Christmas as much as I do!

Love,

Holly Bell.”

It’s me. 2025 Holly, and I’ve found my man.

Chad Banks, heir to the fortune of the biggest Mall Santa conglomerate east of the Mississippi.

Okay, so he’s only 5’11 and 3/4” and his eyes are more like dishwater gray, but in this economy, I can’t be too picky. Just kidding! I’d choose him in the best of economies because he’s truly a sweetheart under his ultra-serious, big-city workaholic exterior.

Now, we’re driving to my hometown of Sugarplum Ridge, Vermont--the epitome of holiday cheer.

Chad’s on his phone. Like always.

Mall Santas have a lot of crises.

We pull into the driveway, and before I can turn off the engine, my mom, Ginger Mae Bell, bursts from the front door.

GINGER: Holly! My baby is home!!!

She gives me a bear hug as I step out of the car. My dad, Chester, walks up behind her, sporting his Columbia puffer vest and white New Balances. Chad exits the passenger side without even looking up from his screen. Dad claps him on the shoulder.

CHESTER: Hey, you must be Chad! Holly’s told us so much about you. Say, do ya like trains? I ordered the Polar Express 2000 from Tennenbaum Boutique. Maybe you and Holly can go pick it up?

Chad gives Dad a terrified nod. My mom scoops him into a hug, her overloaded Pandora charm bracelets jingling. Chad doesn’t reciprocate, just looks at me like he’s being initiated into a cult. Mom mouths over his shoulder:

GINGER: He’s a little…stiff, dear.

HOLLY: mouths back He grows on you.

THE BOUTIQUE:

Walking into the Tennenbaum Boutique feels like stepping into Santa’s Workshop—if he’d subcontracted the interior design to Cracker Barrel.

At the jingle of the bell over the door, the older woman behind the counter looks up, eyes twinkling.

MS. KRINGLE: ambiguous Eastern European accent. Holly Bell! I see you bring Chad home for Christmas.

HOLLY: tentative How did you…?

MS. KRINGLE: I come from long line of matchmakers. I know lot about love. Pause Oh, and your dad tell me.

HOLLY: Oh, right. Speaking of Dad, I came to pick up his new train set.

Ms. Kringle slams the box down on the evergreen-trimmed counter, startling her sleeping cat. On top of the Polar Express 2000 (now with bluetooth), she adds a sparkly golden pinecone ornament.

MS. KRINGLE: Something special for finance bro. He need…little Christmas spirit.

She winks. The cat winks. My skin prickles. With a polite smile, I grab the box, the ornament, and Chad, and high-tail it out of there.

TRIMMING THE TREE

After that weird encounter, we’re back home to put up the tree. Mom, Dad, and I don our “Merry Christmas Ya Filthy Animal” sweaters, Manheim Steamroller blasting. Chad checks his phone every two minutes. God forbid he misses a work email.

GINGER: Holly, what’s this sparkly pinecone?

HOLLY: Oh, yeah, Ms. Kringle gave us that. Said it’s for Chad.

GINGER: Chad, honey, why don’t you put it on the tree, then?

CHAD: finally pocketing his phone, Oh, sure, Mrs. Bell.

He smiles his admittedly adorable smile and approaches the tree like it might bite him. I follow him, placing my hand on his arm as he reaches up to hook the ornament in a branch. He looks at me in a moment of genuine affection, cupping my cheek.

CHAD: whispering, Holly, I’m sorry I’ve been so distracted. I’m really glad I came here with you.

Then he kisses me softly. My parents swoon. And that, my friends, is the first glimpse of his soft side.

*MAGICAL TWINKLING CHRISTMAS SOUNDS ENSUE*

Chad starts glowing. Pine needles shoot from his knuckles. A branch grows from his elbow.

GINGER: looks into her snowman-shaped mug, Chester, how much Bailey’s did you put in my coffee?

CHESTER: What? Hold on, Ginger, I’m trying to connect blue— looks up and sees Chad literally sprouting new limbs—What in the name of Sam Hill??

CHAD: Holly…what the hell is happening? I’m turning into one of those trees from Lord of the Rings!

HOLLY: Oh my God, Chad, pauses you’ve seen The Two Towers?

CHAD: It was for a class. But that’s not important!

HOLLY: Right. We’ve got to get you back to Ms. Kringle and find out what’s up with that ornament.

GINGER: clearly tipsy, inspecting Chad closely Oh, dear, Holly. This is going to complicate your sex life.

CHAD, HOLLY, and CHESTER: EWWWW

I grab my keys and purse, dragging my tree-shifter boyfriend along before he can no longer walk.

THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT QUEST

Chad can barely fit through the door of the Tennenbaum Boutique by the time we get there. I storm up to the glitter-covered counter, slamming my hand down.

MS. KRINGLE: Holly, you’re back.

HOLLY: You have some ‘splaining to do. Gestures to Chad. Did you turn my boyfriend into a tree?

MS. KRINGLE: Maybe. Shrugs.

HOLLY: ARRRGGGH…listen, he hung the pinecone ornament, started glowing, and now he’s a walking car air freshener. How?

MS. KRINGLE: waves hand Magic.

CHAD: crosses his branches Magic me back then. How much money do you want? I’ll wire it right now.

MS. KRINGLE: Here is deal. You learn true meaning of Christmas by the Christmas Eve tree lighting, and you get happy ending as less, how you say, “douchy” finance bro. If you don’t, you stay tree forever.

HOLLY: How are we supposed to do that??

MS. KRINGLE: What do I look like, magical mentor figure?

CHAD and HOLLY: deadpan Yeah.

MS. KRINGLE: You have one week. Go around town, do holiday things. Should be easy now that Chad can’t use phone. Waves her hand toward the door. Now, skedaddle!

OBLIGATORY CHRISTMASY BONDING MONTAGE

HOLLY (narrating): After that, I did the only logical thing one does in these situations. I dug my old Red Flyer wagon out of storage, had Dad help me strap fully-transformed Chad down (in a Home Depot bucket full of water), and rolled him around town.

No one questioned why I was talking to a Christmas tree, nuzzling its branches in encouragement, and occasionally spritzing it with a spray bottle.

Cause, ya know, magic. Shrugs.

The week was a whirlwind. Decorating Christmas cookies (Chad was moral support), judging the town snowman-building contest (Chad was a tough critic), and going to the animal shelter to play with rescue dogs. It was great, until one peed on him.

Then Mom and I took Chad—loaded up with jingle bells—to go caroling at the retirement home. The elderly women loved him. One of them wrapped a scarf around what we figured was his neck. Another wanted a selfie. Myrtle said:

MYRTLE: Oh my, he reminds me of my dear old Frank.

I didn’t know how to respond to that.

Anyhoo, on Christmas Eve morning, we volunteered at the soup kitchen. Chad was the photo op, taking selfies with guests. One little girl came up to him and said:

LITTLE GIRL: You’re the prettiest Christmas Tree I ever sawed.

I swear Chad had dew on his needles after that.

THE GRAND FINALE

Fast-forward to tonight — the tree lighting.

The whole town gathers in the square.

Chad is parked next to my parents and me, still decked out in bells.

As the mayor comes up to make his speech, Ms. Kringle winks at us from the other side of the crowd.

MAYOR: …And that is why we light the tree every year. Because coming together as a community… that is the true meaning of Christmas.

CROWD CHEERS. LIGHT FLASHES. CHAD GLOWS GOLDEN. *MAGICAL NOISES*

As the crowd’s cheers die down, Chad stumbles off the wagon, totally human (and thankfully still clothed). I grab his hands, crying happy tears.

HOLLY: Oh my God, Chad. You’re back!!

CHAD: Spitting out excess pine needles, Holly, as a Christmas Tree, it wasn’t hard to see. Your love was the key that opened my…clears throat…eyes.

HOLLY: Oh, Chad, that’s so--wait, did you just steal that from Taylor Swift?

CHAD: grinning Hey, I’m a finance bro, not a poet.

I help him to stand, throw my arms around his neck, and give him a borderline PG-13 smooch. The crowd cheers again, totally unfazed that my boyfriend was literally just an evergreen.

MS. KRINGLE: Ah, good, you two have happy ending. My work here is done.

She snaps her fingers and disappears in the swirl of snowglobe glitter, cackling all the way.

CHAD: Uh, so she’s totally some kind of witch, right?

HOLLY: Yeah, a little on the ambiguous side, but definitely a witch.

I pull him close, breathe in the scent of his woodsy essence, and am glad that, for once, he’s more enchanted by me than his phone. What more could a gal ask for?

*STEREOTYPICAL SNOWY ROMANCE FADE OUT*

So, that, folks, is the story of how my boyfriend was turned into a tree by a questionable shop owner and learned the true meaning of Christmas. Oh, and he had to spend his holiday bonus on trauma therapy, but it’s a small price to pay for true love.

THE END

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Thanks for reading! Happy holidays to all who celebrate.

Light and Love

Hallie

PRESS CONFERENCE TRANSCRIPT

Christmas Eve Unicorn Incident

North Pole Briefing Room

December 26th, 2025

ABOMINABLE SNOWMAN (MODERATOR): Welcome, welcome, everyone. Please take your seats. Yes, they are gingerbread. No, you may not eat them. Don’t mind the glitter; maintenance is still cleaning the vents.

We are here today with Santa Claus and Evan McCallister, the Scottish representative from the Bureau of Mythical Creatures. They’re here to answer your questions about the ongoing reindeer strike, Santa’s subcontracting of Scotland’s Unicorn fleet to pull his sleigh, and the subsequent…magical mishaps.

So, without further ado, let’s get started. We’ll begin with the gnome in the front.

PIP PIPLIN: Hello. Pip Piplin with Better Gnomes and Gardens. My question is for Evan. Is it true that as a child, you defended your family residence from cat burglars by cleverly utilizing everyday household items?

EVAN: Er, Nae. I think yer thinking of the wee lad from that American movie. Kevin McCallister.

A.S.: Folks, please keep questions relevant to recent events. Thank you. Now, let’s hear from Jocelyn Jingleheart, The North Pole Gazette.

J.J.: Hi, hello. Mr. Claus, could you please elaborate on why the reindeer chose to unionize and on the demands you did not meet that led to their strike?

SANTA: Yes, well, the demands were becoming a significant strain on the North Pole’s budget. In addition to health and dental insurance, they wanted comprehensive antler coverage. They also lobbied for gluten-free oats, Fiji water, and free HBO Max subscriptions—the latter, I explained, is ineligible for their entertainment per diem because it’s on the naughty list.

But I assure you all that I am working with their representatives to reach an amenable solution.

A.S.: Thank you, Santa. Do we have another question? Yes, you in the Buddy the Elf outfit.

BARNEY ELFTON: Yes, actually the name’s Barney Elfton, with The Snowglobe. This one’s for Evan. Is it true you didn’t disclose that the unicorn’s droppings are basically glitter bombs, resulting in the unwanted sparklefication of innocent homes and businesses?

EVAN: shifts in his seat. It’s nae that I didnae disclose. It was all in the terms and conditions of the contract—

SANTA: —Which was longer than a CVS receipt and typed in fudging Papyrus font! You can’t blame these old eyes for missing important clauses, pun intended.

B. E.: So…you might say, you signed the contract without checking it twice?

A.S.: Heh, heh, um…let’s refrain from making judgments on Santa’s executive functioning. Now, on to our next question. Yes, you, in the Chewbacca onesie.

SASQUATCH: Abominable, it’s me—Sasquatch, from Real Urban Legends Magazine. You don’t remember?

A.S.: flushing Right, of course. Apologies, mate. The gumdrop lights are melting my snow. Must have gotten some in my eyes. Carry on.

SASQUATCH: I guess our time in Yukon meant nothing. Clears throat, Santa, are you aware of the reports from Area 51 of an unidentified flying sleigh sideswiping the Las Vegas sphere on Christmas Eve?

EVAN: If I may, I can answer that. Unicorns are easily distracted by colorful light shows. I’ve spoken with the US government about the incident, and we’re developing a cover story for the public.

A.S.: Excellent damage control, Evan. Now, I’ll take two more questions. Santa needs to take his ice bath and drink his protein hot chocolate.

Next up, let’s go with Tami Tinsel from The Tennenbaum Tea.

T.T.: tosses her sparkly green hair. Thank you. Okay, so reports are coming in from all over the globe that trails of “rainbow exhaust” in the atmosphere caused multiple issues for pilots and air traffic controllers. Do either of you, like, know what that’s about?

EVAN: Well, miss, the Unicorns tend to get a wee bit, er, gassy when they fly. It causes some colorful exhaust during--

SANTA: What he’s trying to say is that they fart rainbows.

T.T.: Oh, how whimsical! What is it that makes their toots so…colorful?

SANTA: Tell her, Evan. Tell her the truth about what Unicorns eat.

EVAN: Aye, well, their main staple is Skittles.

T.T.: Oh, okay. So does that explain their hyperactivity and distraction by shiny objects?

A.S.: Thank you, Tami. We’ll refrain from diagnosing the Unicorns behavioral issues here. Last question, from you in the back with the glasses. No, the other glasses. No, the slutty librarian glasses. Whispers to elf assistant Can we edit out that part later? Thanks.

SILVER FOX: Okay, for the record, I am not a slutty librarian. I am Silver Fox, from The Arctic Inquirer. Santa, are the rumors about the Reindeer Union’s labor lawyer true? Word on the street is that he’s some hotshot kid who passed the bar without ever actually going to school, and hacked into Harvard’s student database to give himself a diploma.

SANTA: No…strokes beard. But that does sound familiar…

EVAN: That’s the main character from the American TV show Suits. The one Princess Meghan was in, it was very entertaining. Awkward silence. What? I enjoy American entertainment.

A.S.: Okay, folks. That’s all for today. Can’t say this was an entirely productive venture, but at least we learned some fun facts about unicorns and Evan’s television habits. Thank you all for coming. Please take your complimentary “Holly and Hindsight” scented car freshener on your way out. Show your press badge at Starbucks in the lobby for 5% off your order of $30 or more. Oh, and do refrain from engaging with the Reindeer protesting in the parking garage. The HR elf’s Grandma has already been run over.

Speaking of which, before you go, if you’d like to register for Santa Claus’s North Pole Granny Elf Memorial Jingle Jog for the Cure, scan the QR codes on the back of your seats--Yes, they’re made of peppermint bark, and you can eat them after scanning.

Thank you so much for your time, Santa, Evan, and journalists. May your New Year be filled with light, love, and a lot less glitter. Good night!

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Thanks for reading! I hope you got a good laugh out of it.

I’m sharing a story I wrote based off a prompt from . The prompt was:
”Something bothers you about the woods behind your best friend’s house. You both go in there all the time, but lately it feels off. You don’t want to go in anymore. Your friend tells you you’re being weird, but you can’t shake the feeling, so you investigate. What is in those woods?”

THE FOREST TAKES ONE

Trigger warnings: Mentions of death

The forest hungers. Every Halloween, it craves a soul in pain. And every year, it takes one.

Until the year it tried to take me.

I’d come home from college that weekend in a fog. Mom was really sick. My boyfriend? Gone. My grades? In the trash. But my best friend, Beth, said I HAD to come to her annual Spooky Bash. She hosted it every year on her family’s farm in the rural mountain town where we’d grown up. The one I’d been trying to avoid.

Still, Beth can be very persuasive. I went, along with Brandon--my childhood crush, and one of my four roommates. He’d always been a loyal friend, but lately, he’d been extra friendly. And secretly, I didn’t mind it.

Once we got to the party, I hung back, preferring to be alone with my thoughts and mediocre pumpkin beer. I was staring into the bonfire when I heard it—the soothing voice calling from the woods, to me. To my burgeoning desire to disappear.

“Claire! Come to the forest, Claire. Disappear, and find peace.”

My head swam, not from the beer. The incessant sound bounced around my ears, that eerie voice. The call. The Forest.

To this day, I can’t explain how I got from the bonfire to the woods, as if a puppet pulled by invisible strings.

“Claire! Where are you going? It’s almost midnight!”

“Brandon?” Where did he come from? “Do you hear it, too?”

“Hear what?”

“The voice.”

Brandon inches closer, “How much have you had to drink, Claire? Let’s get you back.”

I turned on my heel and kept walking. Stubborn-ass Brandon followed me.

The pull grew stronger with every step. I’d heard the stories. People wandering into the forest at night, never to return. Standard Appalachian lore. But I didn’t care. I had to find the voice.

And I did, in the narrow mouth of a hillside cave. Energy buzzing from my teeth to my toenails, I stepped inside.

“Claire, what the hell?” Brandon rushed after me.

The sight stopped us in our tracks.

Blue light pooled in the cave’s center like a moonlit mirror. Entranced, I gazed into its surface, warmth flooding me. In it, I saw Mom, healthy. And me, valedictorian. Finally, a proposal--me nodding yes with joyful tears as a man slides a ring on my finger. I noticed a familiar watch on his wrist. Brown leather band, a family heirloom.

“Claire, what the fuck?” Brandon cries. “Don’t you see the bodies floating in there?”

“Bodies?” I saw no bodies—only everything I ever wanted. I reached for it.

Something reached back.

Fear found me for the first time tonight.

“Brandon!”

He grabbed my other hand, trying to counter against whatever force pulled me.

The visions of my future twisted, melting into a familiar face —hollowed and bruised, with twigs protruding from matted hair. Meagan Walters, from high school. She’d disappeared years ago.

“Hold on, Meagan. I’ll save you!”

When she spoke, her voice sounded wrong. Deep, guttural.

“The forest chooses you. Come. Find peace. Midnight draws near.”

“Meagan, it’s us. Claire and Brandon.”

“That’s not Meagan.” Brandon tugged me back hard.

“Let her go!” Meagan shrieked, “The forest only takes one!”

Then I saw them, the bodies. Women of all ages, sacrificed to the forest, suspended not in peace, but in death.

“The forest takes one”, “Join us”, “Midnight!”

“No, no, no.”

Brandon’s other arm looped around me.

A rhythmic Tick. Tick. Tick clashes against the unearthly chorus.

Brandon’s watch. The same one I’d seen in the vision. Realization clicked.

“MIDNIGHT!” The bodies swirl together, forming a single vortex of primal craving.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Claire,” Brandon urged, pulling me backward. “That thing is going to swallow you.”

“THE FOREST TAKES ONE.” It wailed.

I cocked my head, willing myself to pull my arm from its gaping maw.

“I’m not something to be taken,” I said.

It let out a shriveled cry at my resistance, the pull weakening with each steady beat of my heart.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I turned to face Brandon, his arms solid around me. I placed my hand on his cheek.

“What time is it?”

“What?” He glanced at the watch. “Midnight.”

“THE FOREST CHOOSES YOU, CLAIRE!”

I grin wickedly over my shoulder at the shimmering nightmare. “Oh, yeah? Well, I choose myself.”

I felt the wrath at my back, blue flames of rage. The women’s screams echoed against the ceiling of my skull, but I kept my eyes locked on Brandon.

Tick Tick Tick.

12:01.

The ground trembled. Wind roared. The phantom pool imploded. Cool, dark silence enveloped us.

“Claire,” Brandon breathed, “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” I smiled, “Let’s go home.”

To this day, when we visit for Halloween, I warn everyone: If the forest calls, don’t go in. It’s hungry, let it starve.

Some say I’m mental. Overcome with grief. Even Beth continues to brush off the horrors in her own backyard.

Every year, on October 31st, Brandon and I light a candle for all the forest’s victims.

And at midnight, I pray that whoever wandered to the cave this year heeded my warnings.

Because the forest still hungers.

Please, I whisper, Let it starve.

Thanks for reading! I hope you all have a safe Halloween.

• Hallie

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The first thing I noticed when I awoke was that I couldn’t feel a thing.

Not the sheets underneath me, though I seemed to be lying down. Not the warmth of Arden’s body next to me, nor the cool breeze from the bedroom window we always left open on crisp fall nights. I could see nothing but formless white — no floor, no ceiling, no windows or doors.

The second thing I noticed was the teacup somehow levitating in front of me. Its cracked ceramic surface was interwoven with almost-lifelike white flowers. Steam rose from within, curling in tiny shimmering spirals. I swore I heard them whisper, a sound both soothing and ominous.

I reached out for it and gasped. My arm was completely translucent, as if composed of shiny cellophane. My limbs felt weightless, untethered by bone or muscle. Bringing my hand to my chest, I was shocked to find my heartbeat conspicuously absent. At least I thought it was. I couldn’t feel where my fingers rested over my chest. I couldn’t feel the way I used to at all—like my sense of touch had been muted, reduced to vague pressure.

“What’s going on?”

At least some of my senses worked. I sat up, realizing that there was no furniture in this place, so I had simply been floating in midair.

The murmuring from the teacup grew louder. The tendrils of steam interwove, a tall figure emerging in the fog. Slowly, I began to make out the shape of limbs. They were made of green vines, peppered with the same flowers that had been painted on the teacup. This botanical being held the cup in its spindly hands. Its eyes were two pearlescent blooms, its lips simply a tangle of stems.

“Who are you?” I asked. “Where am I?”

“You are in The Between, Emerson Faye Knowles,” The sound of the creature’s voice was omnipresent, like a soft wind coming from everywhere and nowhere. “I’m Daisy, your guide on your journey to The Beyond.”

“The Beyond?” I repeated, “How do you know my name? Why am I see-through? What happened to my heartbeat?”

“The first step in your journey is to drink this,” Daisy smiled a wide, Cheshire cat smile, extending the cup toward me. The warm liquid smelled like autumn, my favorite season. The crisp aroma of cloves, cinnamon, and ginger were so intoxicating that I could almost overlook how unsettling it was that I could identify the smell, but not feel my own body.

“What in the actual fuck?” This had to be a dream. Or I’d been abducted by weird flower aliens.

“There’s no need for profanity,” Daisy’s mossy brows knit together, “We’ve been over this.”

“What are you talking about? I’ve never seen you before!”

“They really need to work out this short-term memory loss kink,” Daisy muttered, “Please take a look at the screen—”

“You need to tell me what the hell is going on!” I snapped, attempting to stand and shove Daisy out of the way, before remembering there was no actual floor to stand on.

I floated right through the strange, sentient houseplant, flailing like a newborn giraffe. I drifted forward until involuntarily settling in front of what appeared to be a huge window. Like myself, it wasn’t solid, its surface like a wavering mirage. Still, the image was crystal clear, piercing like a blade through my nonexistent gut.

There was Arden, the love of my life, kneeling in a cemetery, surrounded by autumnal foliage. Her unruly black curls were tossed up in a messy bun, her face and frame gaunt. It looked as if she hadn’t changed or showered in days, tears staining her tawny cheeks. It took me a moment to register the name on the headstone.

My name.

“No,” I roared, “This can’t be. This is a mistake. A dream. Wake up, Emerson! Wake up!”

“You really have been a tricky one,” Daisy sighed, “Creative spirits always display such resistance.”

Ignoring the comment, I watched helplessly as Arden knelt over my grave, her slight frame wracked with sobs. I ached to run my fingers through her matted curls, to kiss her full lips. I attempted to reach through the ‘screen’, but my palm was met with an impenetrable force field.

Then I heard her, reciting the lines like a prayer:

You whispered sweet nothings 
Like a forbidden incantation
You put me under your spell
Hypnotized me with sensation

I knew it instantly. “Love Potion No. 1”. The last poem in my manuscript. It was giving me such a hard time. My ode to Arden, it had to be perfect. My publisher’s deadline was as tight as my chest felt that day. The day that I…

The memories of my last moments hit me faster than the scenes could flash across the screen. There I was, slumped over my desk, my auburn hair splayed over the typewriter. Then there was Arden, trying desperately to rouse me. And finally, her agonized cries as EMTs tried to bring me back. A sharp, phantom pain jolted through my chest.

“Heart attack, induced by stress,” Daisy’s voice was clinical, but solemn. She shook her leafy head. “Another spirit taken before her time.”

“No, no,” I gasped as the screen cycled back to Arden, showing a time lapse of her once vibrant self deteriorating after my death. She looked like a ghost herself, no longer teaching her yoga classes or playing the piano in the evenings in our living room. She wasn’t eating, barely leaving the bed or the couch. As I watched her wither, I could have sworn I felt a hot tear roll down my cheek.

“How long have I been dead?” I turned sharply to Daisy. “How long has she been like this?”

“Six weeks.”

“Six weeks?” I cried. “I have to go back. Arden needs me. She’s wasting away! I need to finish my poem for her, give her the manuscript I wrote for her, say a proper goodbye—”

“You can’t go back, Emerson,” Daisy said. “We’ve been over this forty-two times. I suppose you still aren’t ready to cross over. We’ll try again later. I have other spirits to attend to.”

She reached her vine-fingers toward me, the teacup still hovering in midair. I floated backward, shocked.

“What are you doing?”

Daisy lowered her vines with a look of both annoyance and pity. “Each time you refuse to move on, I have to put you to rest until our next appointment. Unfortunately, when you wake, your memory gets scrambled. We have our team working on that little bug.”

“Appointment?” I repeated, “What is this? A waiting room for dead people?”

“The Between,” Daisy began, sounding like an infomercial. “Is not a ‘dead people’s waiting room.’ It is a holding space created by The Powers That Be to contain wandering spirits until they decide to move on. Since its inception, hauntings of the living have decreased ninety-seven percent.”

“So, I’m in ghost jail?” I deadpanned.

“Call it whatever you like,” Daisy threw up her vines, her patience wearing thin. “You will remain here until you choose to drink from the cup.”

“Look, I don’t want to haunt Arden forever, I just want to say a proper goodbye. Surely you can make an exception. Put in a request with ‘The Powers’?”

“Not this again,” Daisy let out a sigh that rustled her foliage. “I’ll relay your request, but the answer is always the same.”

Before I had a chance to question her, Daisy crossed her spindly legs, bringing her hands together in prayer. She floated like a lotus on an invisible pond as her strange, ancient syllables reverberated across The Between like distant thunder. After what felt like an excruciatingly long time, Daisy snapped out of it.

“Unsurprisingly,” she declared blankly, “The Powers have denied your request. Now, you can either drink the tea, or I will come back later.”

“Daisy, surely you can see from this supernatural slideshow you have playing that Arden is wasting away!” I cried. “I need, like, two minutes to tell her I’m okay and say goodbye, so we can both move on.”

“Enough, Emerson!”

An oppressive quiet settled between us. I gestured to the screen. Arden laid in our bed midday, staring at nothing while her yoga mat gathered dust in the corner. The next slide showed her thin hands hovering over the piano keys, unable to play. A final, foreboding image displayed her standing at the open medicine cabinet, staring at a bottle of pills.

“That’s not my Arden,” I whispered, “She’s fading before her time. Please, Daisy.”

“I do see it,” Daisy sighed, “But the plights of living are out of my scope.”

“She won’t be living much longer at this rate!”

Daisy bristled, her voice barely audible as she uttered the words: “Then you’ll be together soon enough.”

Rage burned through me. “How dare you?” I seethed, “You think I want my wife to die? You don’t get it. I love her. I want her to live. I want her to be happy, even if I can’t be a part of it, because that’s what love is!”

As she absorbed my declaration, I caught a tear forming like a bead of dew on Daisy’s petaled lashes. She dabbed her eyes, composing herself.

“I apologize, Emerson. That was unprofessional of me,” Daisy pushed the teacup forward, not quite meeting my gaze.

“Drink it,” Her voice was small, concentrated. “It will numb your suffering so you may retire to the Beyond in eternal peace.”

Something wasn’t adding up here. I’d never been one to accept things at face value. I wasn’t about to start now.

“How am I supposed to drink the tea if I’m a ghost?” I asked pointedly.

“Well,” Daisy began, eyes darting to the side, the white petals blinking slowly. “You’ll be granted temporary form, just long enough to drink and be guided into The Beyond.”

“Temporary form…” I mused, an idea sparking. “That means you could theoretically send me back to speak to Arden, right?”

Daisy tilted her head, raising a brow. “This is a new one from you.”

“So, is it possible?”

“Possible, yes. Permitted, no,” she said, crossing her vines.

“Do this for me, Daisy, and I’ll move on,” I begged, “you won’t have to deal with me anymore. And, you could prevent another spirit from arriving here before her time.”

I extended my spectral hand to shake on it. Daisy started to reciprocate the gesture, then paused, her plant-brow knotted with indecision.

“The Powers don’t take kindly to protocol breaches.”

“This isn’t a protocol breach. It’s a rescue mission,” I urged.

Daisy glanced one more time at the screen, at Arden swigging bourbon by my headstone, her frame even more skeletal than in the earlier clips.

“If I do this,” Daisy said slowly, vines trembling, “And it doesn’t work, if you can’t convince her to keep living…” Her voice trailed off. Steeling herself, she continued. “Are you sure this is the right choice?”

“I’m sure that it’s better than doing nothing.”

“Fine,” she sighed, ”Just this once. Only because I have compassion for all spirits, living or dead. But you must follow my instructions to the letter.”

“Aye, Captain,” I attempted a salute, which failed miserably.

“First, I’ll be with you the whole time,” Daisy’s tone was all business. “Second, granting spirits form takes massive energy. If I attempt to sustain it for too long, the Powers will sense it and come looking. I’ll help you guide Arden to your unfinished manuscript as a ghost first, saving your corporal form for the final moments, to say goodbye. Then you must move on.”

“Okay,” I nodded, “So, how will I guide her?”

“You’ll manipulate objects by directing your aura. It can be unpredictable. You’ll have to stay focused to conserve energy. If you expend too much too quickly, you’ll risk alerting The Powers,” Daisy said gravely, “And if The Powers notice we’re missing, I’ll have to pull the plug, regardless of how far you get with the ‘mission’.” She paused solemnly. “Do you accept my terms, Emerson?”

Here we were, a fledgling specter and her plant-based spirit guide, standing at a metaphysical crossroads.

“I accept.”

She took my ghost-hand in her vines, a sensation of warmth creeping up my gossamer skin as she began murmuring in that strange, indiscriminate language. The undefined boundaries of the Between slowly spiraled inward, sucking us in like a funnel cloud. It felt as if we were going down, then up, then all directions simultaneously. The sensation was unsettling, yet fascinating. Colors and shapes whirred by in vibrant fashion, the kaleidoscope fabric of reality itself.

Finally, we stopped, Daisy and I hovering over a familiar scene: My kitchen.

The digital wall calendar I’d splurged on after my last publishing advance showed the date: October fifteenth. Dust motes floated in the beams of early evening light, bathing the kitchen sink in an amber glow. The herbs in the windowsill garden drooped, brown and withered. My favorite coffee mug still sat on the drying rack where I’d left it on my last morning, next to the sink now piled full of dishes. The hand-me-down table in the breakfast nook overflowed with vases of flowers, cards, and piles of bills.

Arden stood at the island, mechanically chopping carrots and celery. My grandmother’s old stockpot sat on the stove, the savory aroma of my favorite chicken soup filling the room. Arden’s shoulders shook as tears rolled down her face in rapid succession, leaving tiny, wet stains on the cutting board.

“I need to get her to the study. How do I do that?” I asked Daisy.

“Lights are the easiest to manipulate,” Daisy began, “You could—”

A sharp hiss and Arden’s startled curse interrupted us. She dropped the knife with a clank on the granite countertop, watching the blood bead on her finger from the cut.

“Em, you were always the one who chopped the veggies,” Arden muttered, staring at the wound. “Why am I even trying to do this without you? I’m falling apart. I can’t even make myself food anymore. What’s the point?”

Her puffy eyes darted back to the knife as crimson blood trailed down to her wrist. She laid her hand face up on the counter, shakily lifting the knife with her other hand. I watched in horror as she slowly brought the tip of the blade to the sallow skin.

“No!” I cried, “Arden, no!”

She couldn’t hear me. Everything around me faded. All I saw was my wife with a blade hovering over her wrist, contemplating the worst.

By pure instinct, energy barreled through me. My gaze bored into the knife block next to the cutting board, staring it down until it toppled off the island, the remaining seven blades clattering to the hardwood floor.

Arden jumped, dropping the knife. “Holy shit,” she murmured, grasping a kitchen towel to her bleeding digit, her breath coming in short gasps. She stumbled backward, nearly crashing into the stove.

“Flicker the lights,” Daisy instructed calmly.

“I scared her!”

“You protected her,” Daisy’s voice was gentle, but firm. “But you can’t afford too many big moves. Stay focused. The lights. Make them flicker. Use them to guide her to the study—subtly.”

“Okay…” Turning my attention to the switch, a steady thread of energy flowed to it as I focused on the faded faceplate. The kitchen lights flickered multiple times.

“What?” Arden mumbled to herself, staggering to the table and shuffling frantically through the stack of mail. “Crap! Did I forget to pay the electric bill?”

I flickered the lights again. Arden dropped the bloody kitchen towel, turning in my direction. Next, I flipped the hallway light switch.

“Em? Are you…here?” She moved toward my ghostly light show as if in a trance.

The sunset’s glimmers cast long shadows through the study’s massive window, the one I’d stare out of for hours when I had writer’s block. My desk lamp, a fixture modeled after an antique lantern, sat on the same side as my manuscript hidden in the false bottom of a drawer. Arden stood in the doorway, eyes darting around the room, body shaking. I willed the lantern to flicker. Just once.

Arden finally inched closer, to stand behind the desk. Fingers trembling, she brushed them over the unfinished poem on the page still loaded in my typewriter.

“Oh, Em,” she whispered, “You were so close, weren’t you, Babe?”

I gave the lantern another flicker.

Arden spooked, eyes wide. She turned, panicked, to the built-in shelves behind the desk. Reaching through my invisible body, she pulled down a bottle of Woodford Reserve and knocked back a heavy swig.

“I’m seeing things,” She sputtered, slumping against the shelves. “Knives flying, lights flashing. Em, please tell me this is you.”

“I need you to open the drawer, Arden!” I hissed, flickering the lantern again. But Arden didn’t notice.

“Open it yourself,” Daisy suggested.

So I did, pulling it open with a wooden scrape. Arden turned sharply, staring at the drawer as if it might attack her. Downing some more bourbon, she sheepishly shut it. I opened it again.

“What the fuck?” she breathed, reaching a shaky hand into the drawer, removing my old volume of Emerson essays. As she went to shut it again, I rattled the false bottom hard enough to shake the desk—in a subtle way.

She dropped the book, falling back into my ergonomic office chair, still clutching the Woodford. “Em, if this is you, it’s not funny!”

“Use the typewriter,” Daisy said, “Direct your aura to the keys. But keep it brief!”

Arden snapped her head toward the sound of the keys clacking, a hand over her mouth.

“Arden - It’s Em.”

“Jesus!” She gasped.

“Drawer. False Bottom. LIFT IT!”

Arden blinked hard, rubbing her eyes. “What? Em, I don’t—”

“Lift, NOW!”

She finally moved to the drawer, hands shaking as she felt around for the hidden latch. Her eyes widened as she lifted the manuscript, entitled “Poems for Arden”.

“You sneaky witch,” Arden breathed.

“Can I manifest now?” I asked Daisy.

“Type a warning,” She said, “So you don’t startle her.”

“I’m here. Turn around.”

As Arden read the words, tears staining the typewritten pages, Daisy’s vines wrapped around me. I solidified into something almost human again. Arden swiveled slowly in the chair, as if swimming through honey.

“Em? How?”

She stood, reaching to cup my face, ocean blue eyes searching mine earnestly. I got shivers, like I did the very first time she touched me.

“I can’t stay long, Love,” I said, placing my hand over hers. She was so warm. So beautiful. So alive. “I just came to show you the poems I wrote for you, though the last one I still need to finish.”

“H-h-how did you come back?” Arden stammered.

“We don’t have much time,” Daisy reminded, “Say what you need to say.”

“I don’t have time to explain, Arden. Just trust me.”

“Okay, okay, I trust you, Em,” she smiled at me through her tears.

“I’m here to finish the poem for you,” I said, “Can you type it for me?”

“Yes, yes,” Arden set down the bourbon and the manuscript, positioning herself in front of the typewriter. “I’m ready.”

Choking back my own tears, I recited the words that I never got a chance to type.

No hope for this romantic
Love struck at the local bar
I would be cursed to love you
Until death do us part

Forever your willing victim 
Love potion, I drank every drop
Even though we are worlds apart
The enchantment never stops 

My phantom heart will wait
For the day you join me beyond
Until then, let my words carry you,
Empowering you to face the dawn

Arden choked down a sob as I finished, pulling the sheet from the typewriter and clutching it to her breast.

“Do you like it?” I asked.

She stood to face me, cheeks flushed. “Yes, Em. It’s perfect.”

Wrapping my arms around her, I relished in the sensation as Arden buried her face into my chest. If I’d been truly alive, my heart would have been fluttering wildly against my ribs.

“It’s almost time, Emerson,” Daisy said, “Say your goodbyes.”

“I have to go, Love,” I whispered into her hair.

“No!” The anguish in Arden’s voice nearly broke me. “How am I supposed to keep living without you?”

“One day at a time,” I said softly, “When you feel sad, read my poems. Make sure you eat. Drink your water. Take walks. Sit by my grave and talk to me whenever you can.”

“Em, I don’t know if I can,” Arden pulled back, eyes glossy with tears.

“What did you always used to say to me when I was being a stubborn, hyper-independent ass?” I grinned, running a finger through her curls. “‘Don’t be afraid to ask for help’.”

“Okay, okay,” Arden let out a sound that was halfway between a chuckle and a sob. “Thank you for this. Even if it’s just a bourbon and sleep-deprivation fueled hallucination, I’m glad I get to say goodbye.”

“I’m really here, Arden, and I need you to hear this.” I leaned my forehead against hers. “Don’t just survive. Live. Teach your yoga classes. Play piano. Smile. Laugh. And if you meet someone who makes you happy—“

“Oh, Em, I could never forget you,” she whispered.

“I’m not asking you to forget me,” I smiled, pulling away to place my hand on her chest. “I’m asking you to find a way to be happy.”

“Okay,” she inhaled sharply, the corners of her mouth creeping upward.

Cupping the back of her neck, I whispered against her lips: “Promise me you’ll live.”

“I promise.”

“We need to leave, Emerson,” Daisy’s panicked voice sounded behind us.

Bittersweet emotion gripped me as I sensed myself fading in and out of form.

“Em, what’s happening?” Arden eyed me anxiously. “Can’t you stay a little longer?”

“I can’t.” My voice shook. “I love you. Forever and always.”

Arden let out a strangled cry. “I love you, too. Forever and always.”

“Emerson!” Daisy called urgently.

“One more kiss?” I mouthed to her over my shoulder.

Daisy’s eyes softened. Her own energy surged—a final gift from my spirit guide.

My body solidified. Pulling Arden in, I pressed my lips to hers for the last time. She tasted like salty tears, bourbon, and a love that transcends death. The kiss lasted an eternity, and no time at all.

We came apart tenderly, gazes locked as I backed toward the corner. Toward Daisy. Toward the Between, and Beyond.

Arden smiled, lifting her hands to her lips to blow me a kiss. I blew one back, catching the spark of life rekindling in her eyes. Soon, I would become nothing but air and light and memory to her. But I wasn’t scared. I knew she would be okay.

“Goodbye, my Love,” I whispered as my body faded into oblivion. “I’ll be waiting for you on the other side.”

Thank you for reading!

Light and Love,

Hallie

Well, fuck. I think, squinting up at the search lights illuminating our spot. Where are all the adults? The ones who keep their cool in situations like this, and make the right choices? Because that is not me, and every decision I have made since I followed Dr. Mizrahi’s ghost to the restricted area earlier tonight feels like it has brought me closer to death.

Thoughts of Claire flash in my mind, and I hope she’s safe somewhere, not watching this clusterfuck. A wordless roar erupts from the intraterrestrial as it yanks its tentacle back to its hulking mass. My hand begins to burn, and I look around for something, anything, as I frantically try to wipe it clean of the sludge from the interspecies handshake.

Small blisters are beginning to form, and cyborgs are slamming to the ground around us, guns trained at both the intraterrestrials and our group. Panic seizes me, and I suck in a deep breath in an effort to calm myself.

Think, Shea, think.

“Uh, Miss Campbell, do you want me to keep recording?”

I throw an incredulous look over my shoulder at Pam, who still has her phone aimed in my direction. Why hasn’t she started to run? More importantly, how will we get out of this?

“YOU DARE TO AIM YOUR WEAPONS AT ME OR MY SUBJECTS?”

In my mind, I nicknamed the creature ‘Intra’, and if it hadn’t been before, Intra was furious now. It was already enormous, but it somehow seemed to grow even larger. And apparently those smaller creatures swarming us weren’t its babies, they were its subjects. Intra is some kind of monarch, or maybe it rules over its own children? It’s all so confusing.

Behind me, Richard and Pam huddle together, her phone still trained on the scene unfolding around us, as Newt stares with renewed interest at the war robots. I am dimly aware of the roaring of the helicopters retreating, replaced with the screech of metal being shredded and bullets rending the air. Purple blood spatters the road as the creatures swarm the cyborgs, leaving us alone as Intra speaks again. This was not what I signed up for when I went into the office last night.

I am a researcher, not an action hero.

“EVERY MILLION YEARS OR SO WE HAVE TO COME UP HERE AND WIPE YOU ALL FROM THE PLANET TO START OVER BECAUSE YOU DON’T LEARN. IT LOOKS LIKE THIS TIME IS NO BETTER. EVERYTHING IS STILL SOLVED WITH VIOLENCE. HAVE NONE OF YOU LEARNED HOW TO COEXIST YET?”

“If that’s true, then where is the evidence of our advancement? We’ve never found a single shred of evidence suggesting humans obtained advanced technology.” Newt scoffs, and I shoot him an imploring look.

It said ‘please for the love of all that’s holy don’t argue with the massive angry interterrestrial creature’, but when he rolls his eyes at me, I know he isn’t picking up what I’m putting down. One beady eye swivels toward us, and I step forward once more.

“What my fellow human here meant–” I glare at Newt, daring him to argue “–is that this explanation is hard to accept without proof, because humans have been researching the planet for centuries. And you did kill the first human you saw, so it doesn’t really seem like you were going to give us a chance to prove we are different.”

My voice comes out steadier than I feel as more of those beady eyes turn my way. Intra regards me for a moment, and I draw in a few deep breaths, wondering if they will be my last. If I overstepped the boundaries one too many times.

“I AM LISTENING.”

Bolstered by this, I continue. “We aren’t all like this. The average human doesn’t resort to violence to solve problems. We didn’t get out guns and start shooting at you, we talked to you. Like we would our neighbor, boss, roommate, or any other person when something isn’t working. I won’t lie to you and say there are no humans using violence, especially when you can see it with your own, er, eight eyes.”

I pause, not knowing if I should continue, or what else to say.

“You’re doing great, Shea!” Pam gives me a thumbs up, nodding enthusiastically. I swallow.

“I’m hoping by talking to you, you can see some people don’t resort to using force to solve problems. There are humans willing to talk it out with you. If you’ll let us.”

Hallie T

“Yeah,” Richard suddenly pipes up, “We’re all for intergalactic peace, man. I even have a ‘Coexist’ bumper sticker on my—“

“No one asked you, Richard!” Pam hisses, “Now shut it! I’m still streaming!”

“WHAT ARE THOSE METALLIC WARRIORS THAT YOU HAVE SICCED ON US, THEN?” Intra roars, “YOU CLAIM YOU ARE EVOLVED, YET YOUR LEADERS STILL SEND THE CALVARY TO SHOOT US DOWN!”

“In case you haven’t noticed, they also tried to shoot us down,” I argue, still trying to sort out the cognitive dissonance that is arguing with a creature who should only exist in a Marvel movie. “You see, Intra — can I call you Intra?”

“ACTUALLY, MY NAME IS ⬲⧭⧫⥴⧪⧬⥟↜↹, BUT YOU CAN CALL ME KAREN,” Intra bellows.

“Okay…Karen,” I continue, “Listen, Dr. Mizrahi tried to warn us that our government officials wanted to make contact with you at whatever cost. They were willing to sacrifice us all. But we aren’t like them! We want to save as many humans and…intraterrestrials…as possible.”

“REALLY?” Intra-Karen crosses two of her slimy purple tentacles, “I WANT TO SPEAK TO YOUR LEADER!”

I look back at Pam with hesitation. Richard turns around and vomits. Super helpful. I look pointedly at Newt, jerking my head toward Karen. “Get over here!” I mouth to him.

He jogs up next to me, pale as a ghost, still trying to clean his glasses. He bows clumsily in front of Karen, thankfully catching my drift. “Newt Flenderson, leader of Humans, at your service.”

“ARE YOU SURE HE IS YOUR LEADER?” Karen narrows all of her eight eyes.

“Oh, yeah, totally,” I lie. Newt gives a shaky thumbs-up.

“THEN, NEWT, CALL OFF THE ROBOT ATTACKS!”

Newt looks at Karen sheepishly, then gestures to the decapitated government robots that her subjects have clearly already decimated.

“I, Newt Cornelius Flenderson, Leader of Humans, command you government robots to cease and desist at once! Please.”

Karen nods her bulbous head at Newt, as if taking a bow.

“LEADER OF HUMANS,” Karen addresses him, “YOU HAVE PROVEN THAT, THOUGH YOU APPEAR PHYSICALLY WEAK AND FEEBLE, YOU ARE STRONG IN COMPASSION. THEREFORE, I AM READY TO MAKE A DEAL.”

“Great!” I say, “What’s the deal?”

“STEP ASIDE, PUNY HUMAN. I DESIRE TO SPEAK TO NEWT.”

Newt looks like he’s about to wet his pants. I swallow my growing existential dread and address Karen on his behalf.. “I am Newt’s…ambassador. He’s authorized me to handle complex interspecies negotiations.”

We collectively hold our breath as Karen’s beady eyes scan each and every one of us. Pam still holds her up her phone, live streaming for the world to see. There are no more robots, no more helicopters, no sirens. It would seem the government has completely chickened out, leaving it to our motley crew to clean up their mess. My thoughts meander back to that night a few weeks ago when Claire and I ordered Chinese. My fortune cookie said something about bearing the weight of the world on my shoulders. I never imagined that was a literal prediction of my future.

Just when I think I’m about to melt into a puddle of anxiety and sweat, Karen finally speaks.

“OKAY, I WILL SPEAK TO THE AMBASSADOR. WHAT SHOULD I CALL YOU?”

“Uh, Shea! Shea Campbell.”

“VERY WELL, SHEA CAMPBELL. HERE IS MY DEAL: RETURN MY OFFSPRING, ↞⍇↻↹⧪ (YOU CAN CALL HIM CHAD)’s, SEVERED TENTACLE, AND CEASE ALL DRILLING OPERATIONS IMMEDIATELY.”

“Um, yeah, sure,” I nod, “But what do we get out of this?”

“WE WILL SHARE OUR ANCIENT KNOWLEDGE OF COMPLEX GEOLOGICAL PHENOMENA SO YOU CAN PREDICT NATURAL DISASTERS MORE ACCURATELY. AND WE WON’T DECIMATE YOUR PLANET AND MAKE YOU START LIFE ALL OVER AGAIN. DEAL?”

Newt and I exchange bewildered glances before both turning to Karen with desperate compliance.

“Cool,” I say, extending a shaky, blistered hand. “Cool, cool, cool. We accept.”

“SHEA CAMPBELL,” Karen ignores my extended hand, lowering her terrifying eyes to my face. “YOU HAVE PROVEN THAT HUMANITY HAS EVOLVED.”

I am so glad Pamela is filming this, so I can show my judgmental parents how wrong they were about me.

“YOU,” Karen continues, “HAVE SHOWN IMMENSE EMPATHY AND COURAGE. YOU SHALL BE OUR OFFICIAL HUMAN LIAISON. PLEASE PREPARE TO MEET EVERY THIRD TUESDAY EVENING. AND HAVE YOUR PEOPLE RETURN MY SON’S TENTACLE ASAP, OR ELSE!”

“Oh, yes,” I gulp, “Of course!”

Behind me, Pam’s phone dings incessantly as the livestream continues to go viral across the globe.

“Uh, Shea?” Pam looks at me with her fake-lash framed eyes, “The government is watching our stream. They just issued a statement. They accept Karen’s terms.”

“Oh, great!” I smile, taking the deepest breath I’ve breathed all day.

Pam’s meticulously manicured brows furrow as she studies her screen. “Oh, and Newt?” she says, voice tentative.

“Yeah?”

“The president has resigned. The vice president also resigned. No one else wants the job. So, they’ve declared you the President of the United States.”

Newt gapes at Pam, then at me, then at Karen’s eight unblinking eyeballs. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again as if he’s a fish out of water. Finally, he finds his words.

“You know, Karen,” he said, “I’ve been hunting UFOs in a glorified transit van for seventeen years. My mother said I’d never amount to anything, and that I should get a real job. But, here I am, the leader of this great nation—All because I ran a red light just in time to witness your kind’s latest emergence from below our fruited plains.”

“Technically,” Richard pipes up, “We’re in Virginia, which is part of the Piedmont Uplands—”

“No one asked you, Richard!” Pam, Newt, and I say in unison. He promptly shuts his pie hole.

“Anyway,” Newt clears his throat, straightening his tan pleather trenchcoat. “Karen, as President of this great nation, I vow to lead with the same determination and passion that I have dedicated to finding the Sasquatch.”

“SASQUATCH?” Karen’s multiple eyes light up, “I KNOW HIM! HAND OVER CHAD’S TENTACLE AND I’LL ARRANGE AN INTRODUCTION.”

EPILOGUE: FIVE YEARS LATER

There hadn’t been one tremor in five years, and yet, the tension has never dissipated.

I was told I need a vacation because, in the words of my coworkers and loved ones, I appeared to be losing my mind. Verbally, I could deny the claims all I’d like, but my actions screamed the truth. My fingers itch for my phone. They twitch to check the high-tech radio Karen had provided me for direct correspondence. I’m always worrying, always anxious. I fear that if I let my eyes fall from a screen or refrain from listening to voice messages for even one moment, the world will end.

It almost did once. My paranoia is not completely without foundation.

The sand scratches my heel. I’ve never been a fan of water; always been too afraid of what I couldn’t see. But I will venture into the unknown for one being and one being only. I look out over the waves, calm and cobalt. The sun’s reflection blinds my eyes briefly, but I can still catch Claire easily drifting through the open blue.

I smile. For a moment, I am at peace.

My fingers sink into the grains around me. I pick them up and let them slip between my digits. They land and form a hill as though they’d never been disturbed. They return to their normalcy, their ordinary. I don’t wish for ordinary, but I envy their complacency.

Ordinary had turned out to be a lie for us. A terrible lie.

But from it came good. Newt had proven to be a noble leader, though all attempts to interact with extraterrestrial species outside our little blue globe have been met with silence. We’ve made great improvements for life on Earth. Extreme weather patterns have been reduced to nothing with the information Karen has provided us. With Pamela becoming a head navigator at one of the highest international meteorological stations on the globe, I expected nothing less. And the developments hadn’t stopped there. Upon retrieving his tentacle, Chad initiated a movement to bring humans and Earth’s eldest creatures together through a multitude of interactive experiences. Richard, comparable to the sand’s contentment, has continued his janitorial duties, but in the White House.

I haven’t seen or felt Dr. Mizrahi’s ghost since that day. I’ve convinced myself she’s moved on, her unfinished business resolved after we got the warning out to the masses, after we revealed the true evil nature of her passing.

And I coordinate meetings. I take notes of correspondence. I mark calendars for important events. I’ve switched from one administrative career to another.

I watch Claire, searching for the missing piece I’m aching for. It doesn’t seem possible to be stuck after all that’s happened. I know ghosts are real. I know intradimensional creatures have prevailed on this planet since its genesis. I know so much. Maybe I know too much.

I look up at the sky. It’s a clear blue, but I’m searching for a shooting star. That is my greatest hurdle: I am endlessly hunting the next high, the next chase, the next rush. Immediately, I’m filled with nausea at my restlessness. Who could find this work mundane? Who could groan when the most incredible discoveries are being unearthed, literally, every day, and they’re a part of it?

My antsy demeanour oozes selfishness.

I let a long, melancholy sigh tumble out of my lungs. I breathe as the clouds above me sway. I need to tell myself this is good enough. I need to remind myself how fortunate I am.

I inhale as the clouds drift.

I exhale as the clouds sigh back.

I inhale as the clouds pulse—

I blink. I pry my eyes open until they are the size of saucers. I watch, frozen, petrified, horrified. I watch in utter dismay as the cloud above me billows, undulating like a lung.

My arms tremble. My fingers clench into the sand.

“Shea?” Claire asks from somewhere in front of me, “What are you looking at?”

I’m shaking because I’m terrified.

I’m smiling because a new adventure has just entered my horizon.

The End

Thank you SO much for reading! I think I speak for everyone in this fiction crew when I say we appreciate your support. If you enjoyed Level Five, please share and consider subscribing to all the amazing authors. Also, if you’re interested in participating in future story tags, follow along with me to be the first to know when another one starts.

Love,

Hallie

I get out, and my legs are rubber, the world tilting off balance. I brace myself against the hood of our Jeep as a man in a black leather trenchcoat approaches. “Newt Flenderson,” he says, extending a hand. “I’m here with Craft Catchers.”

Behind him, three others pile out of the van, all clad in the same shining black. Two men, one woman. They squint up at the sky, at the soot and storm clouds, and just then the earth rumbles once more–a quake that climbs my spine, sends me staggering. I feel the big ones in my jaw. Like I’m constantly biting down, bracing myself.

“Are you okay?” this guy–Newt–asks.

“We need to get out of here!” I yell. My voice is hoarse. “There’s not much time!”

Newt doesn’t seem to know what to do with this information, and when he speaks, it’s like he’s reciting a script. “We have reports of a UFO sighting out here. Have you seen anything?”

Pamela gets out behind me, swearing as another quake hits. The suspension of our Jeep shudders, creaks. I can feel its bounce in the soles of my shoes, like I’m standing on an overtightened trampoline.

“No sign of anything yet!” one of the craft catchers calls. He’s angled his binoculars straight up into the sky.

“Very well, Dominic,” Newt replies. He points upward. “Keep an eye on that quadrant. I thought I saw something go behind a cloud.”

I watch Newt, and I can’t help but think of Dr. Mizrahi–the way she railed against sensationalist science, the clickbaitification of modern inquiry. She used to fold her arms whenever she encountered a hard problem, as if containing and isolating herself so she could observe it from a distance.

“They’re not coming from the sky!” I yell.

The ufologists don’t seem to hear. Alarms echo all around, storefronts shattered.

I bend, helping Richard to his feet. Pamela’s leaning against the Jeep, nursing a fresh head wound of unknown provenance. “They’re not coming from the sky!”

Newt Flenderson gestures again to the clouds, mouth moving. I can’t hear. My ears pulse with blood, ringing. I feel hands on my shoulder–heavy, either Richard or Pamela bracing themselves against me as another quake shudders along the ceiling of my skull.

I catch my breath. “They’re coming from the gr–”

Just then, the crack behind us bursts open.

“Holy shit!” Pamela yells as she points her phone towards the widening fissure rapidly approaching.

“What the fu—“ Richard’s words are lost as an earsplitting shriek pierces the air and a purple tentacle slithers from the seismic darkness — like it’s searching for something. Small pink suckers line the underside, leaving craters on the pavement in their wake.

Pamela’s shaking hand pans toward me. “Miss Campbell,” her tone is sharp as her eyes flare. I’m speechless — this is too much. “Shea, you’re alive! Say something.” She looks from my face to her phone and mouths ‘You’ve got this’.

Clearing my throat, “Uhh, what you see behind me are extra terrestrials.”

“Those are aliens!” Newt yells, running toward his van. He throws the doors wide open. I can see an array of scanners, radars, and screens lining the van’s interior. All of them frantically flashing as various alarms beep.

The tentacle continues to wriggle slowly toward us, rocks crunching under its weight. Smacking pops echo as each sucker grips and releases the earth.

Newt’s crew of Craft Catchers stares in horror as a second, then a third, tentacle emerges.

“The quakes,” my mouth has gone dry. “The quakes are causing these extra-terrestrials to attack. We don’t know why.” Screams erupt as a tentacle lashes out, wrapping tightly around Dominic. “Everyone needs to evacuate.” My warning is punctuated by a fleshy pop, and Pamela turns her head quickly to the side and vomits.

“Dominic!” Newt yells.

“We need to go!” I yell at everyone and no one in particular. “Now.” I urge.

Pamela hands her phone to Richard, “don’t you dare stop streaming!” Then she throws her Jeep into drive.

Another eardrum shattering shriek explodes, rattling each of our bones, and then BAM! a tentacle the size of a semi truck slap-chops the ground right in front of our car.

“OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, WE’RE GONNA DIE, THIS IS HOW I GO, NOT WITH DIGNITY BUT AS SQUID SNACKS!” Pamela screams. But Pamla, bless her, channels her inner Fast & Furious stunt driver. She threw that car into a three point turn and weaved between the calamari appendages.

Richard and I were in the backseat, unbuckled, faces plastered to the back window. Richard, bless him, was rigid. And, thankfully, still holding the phone up in silent shock as the alien surfaced.

A giant purple and pink creature that looked very similar to an octopus, except with the eight eyes of a spider, rose from the depths of the earth, and then—because apparently nightmares come in bulk— underneath crawled out thousands of octopus-spider-alien babies. All of them came squirting out of the ground like panicked baby spiders abandoning ship after someone smooshed their mom.

“SICK!” Pamala again. Apparently, she was the only one in the vehicle capable of forming actual words instead of panicked screams.

And right before we were in the clear, a tentacle rose, grabbed the car, and lifted us up right to its eyeballs.

“HELLO?” The alien seemed to be screaming while one eye scanned the inside of the car. “TERRIBLY SORRY…OUR HIBERNATION WENT A BIT LONGER THAN EXPECTED. YOU KNOW HOW IT IS. IT SEEMS YOU HUMANS HAVE EVOLVED WAY PAST YOUR DUE TIME, AND NOW YOUR WHOLE INFRASTRUCTURE WILL BE RUINED. AGAIN … SO SORRY.” A small tear ran down the alien’s eye.

It was all so utterly confusing, and while I was crushing my own ears shut as the alien spoke (or rather yelled), something tapped me on the shoulder. It was one of Pamala’s outrageously flamboyant shirts, one of the ones she insists on hoarding in the backseat.

If I hadn’t seen an animated outfit once already today–or fucking aliens for that matter–I might have screamed.

“Damn, sweet unicorn shirt, Pam.”

“Right? Can you believe I thrifted it? Only spent–”

I really wish I knew how much she spent but now Pamela is screaming and Richard has passed out. I turn wildly, expecting to see the alien reaching over to eat me but he–it?--is just sitting there, blinking at us. What is she so…

“Ohhhhhh, the shirt!” I exclaim. “Don’t worry, it’s just Doctor…you know what, don’t worry about it.” I turn to the shirt and stare at the neck of it. “Ok, what–” I blink and adjust my gaze upward about six inches to where her ghostly head must be. Is this what it’s like to look at the webcam in a Vavoom meeting. “What is it this time, Doctor?”

The arm of the shirt starts jerking. What the heck is she trying to tell me? This would be a lot easier if it weren’t short sleeved.

Seeming to read my mind, the ghost of Dr. Mizrahi leans forward, towards Richards…crotch? I look up at the neck-ish area again, confused. The shirt dips even further towards…

“The phone! He dropped it when he passed out!” I carefully retrieve it without touching anything untoward, then hold it screen first toward the shirt. “Ok, what?”

The shirt makes a swiping motion. What?

“It’s trying to tell us something,” Pamela says. Dang, she recovered quickly.

“Well, I know that–”

“No, like, exit BaaBaa and pull up messenger, or something.”

“Ohhh….” I close Baabaa but… “Pamela, your apps are a mess.”

“Hand it here.”

I do, and she has her notes app open right away, the keyboard up on the screen. No sooner does she turn it to the unicorn shirt and words begin to appear.

“They…are…not…”

“If this is some ‘Drink your Ovaltine’ shit I’m gonna flip,” Pam interjects.

“Shhhh!! It says ‘They are not aliens’?” I look just above the unicorn shirt. “Ok? Extraterrestrials then? Is that formal enough?”

Words start to appear again but Pamela drops the phone and I don’t blame her. We are both hunched forward in our seats, shoving the heels of our hands into our ears. I do believe the alien, or extra terrestrial or whatever, is laughing.

“YOU THINK WE ARE EXTRATERRESTRIALS? DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT ‘EXTRA’ MEANS?”

I jerk my thumb at the still floating unicorn shirt. “I mean, to be honest…”

Pamela looks at me, wounded, but the alien–or whatever–starts laughing again.

“AT LEAST HAVE THE DECENCY TO CALL US INTRATERRESTRIAL.”

Pam and I look at each other, dumbfounded, but I’m distracted by Newt, who we had completely forgotten about. He is standing in front of our car, wiping bits of Dominic off his glasses. “Even the aliens are woke?”

“Don’t call them that!” Pamela and I yell in unison.

“WOKE, YOU SAY? INDEED. WOKEN UP FROM OUR PEACE VIOLENTLY BY THE INSATIABLE GREED OF HUMANS!”

“Wow, didn’t know aliens can time travel, too. You sound like you’re from the 1800s”, blurts out Newt.

“WE ARE NOT ALIENS, YOU MORON!”

“Ah, being called a moron sounds more contemporary. Sorry, my bad. You are not a time-traveling alien. Got it!”

I signal Pam to start live-streaming on BaaBaa once again because it sounds like our guests from the underworld have an important story to tell us.

“Who are you all then? What disturbed your peace? We want to help you and all of us humans too. Please work together with us so that we can all go back to being at peace,” I gather courage to request the tentacled giant in front of me.

“OH SWEET CHILD! YOU WANT TO GO BACK TO BEING AT PEACE? HUMANS WERE NEVER AT PEACE - NEVER! WHICH IS WHAT DROVE THEM MAD TO COME DISTURB OUR PEACE INSTEAD WHILE THEY SHOULD HAVE WORKED ON THEMSELVES TO BE BETTER PEOPLE.”

It strikes a chord with Pam, and she yells, “That makes so much sense! We are never at peace which is why I distract myself with baby hippo videos and BaaBaa all the time. Which I’m live-streaming all this on, by the way. It be good like that sometimes”

Richard and Newt start nodding like they can relate to Pam too. However, I don’t think our guests are in any mood to listen to these silly stories of ours. I start talking to the giant once again. “I am truly sorry that humans spoiled your life for their greed. It’s true that some people are scumbags, but please trust me when I say that most of us are relatively good people. We don’t want you to suffer, or anyone to suffer, for that matter. Please cooperate and help us solve both our problems, which are caused by just a few greedy humans”

“HMM... BUT THOSE JUST FEW SEEM TO HAVE MOST OF THE POWER. HOW CAN YOU HELP US AGAINST THEM?”

Am I about to sell out the parts of humanity I don’t like to a subterranean race of tentacle monsters?

My mind races as I gaze upon the megalithic creature, all oozing eyes, pulsing suckers and writhing tentacles. The many-fanged mouths with rings and rings of teeth leading deeper into a cavernous maw.

First things first. Don’t get eaten.

“We are just bait!” Okay, maybe not the best start to plan, “Don’t get eaten”. “My friends and colleagues were murdered in cold blood by our leaders in an attempt to cover up your existence! They threw away our lives for their own selfish gain!”

Pam gives me a thumbs up. The live stream has achieved a critical mass, flowing out in tendrils across the world.

“Well fuck ‘em I say!” Eloquence was never my strong point. “Those few in power need us to carry out their operations, need us to make their food, their wealth, their comforts. We will take this from them! We know where they live, where they hide, the bunkers they crawl to like roaches!”

I take a deep breath. “And we’re gonna sell them out to you! You’re going to make your giant fucking sinkholes right beneath them and let them rest with their piles of gold.”

“WE’RE DOING A LOT OF THE HEAVY LIFTING THEN?”

I nod. “And we’ll be in partnership afterwards. All the surface fruit you could want. Global geothermal energy networks, free to access and use. An end to the acidification of the oceans, the collapse of the ecosystems, the boreholes dug into your domain. And a return of the tentacle specimen they took!”

I reach out a hand. “Together, hand in tentacle, we’ll bring about a new age!”

I sound like a megalomaniacal villain, but I can’t think of any other way through this.

A small, supple tentacle reaches out from the beast. I really hope it’s not going to snatch me into that gullet.

“AN ACCORD THEN.” Purplish-pink slime coats my hand as it grasps my fingers.

“GIVE US TARGETS. GIVE US RETRIBUTION.”

And it might have gone quite simply from there, but we’d just live broadcast our location and intent to the world’s elite. A scream rose up as dozens of unmarked troop transport helicopters arrived.

But the soldiers weren’t human. Not entirely.

“Cyborgs!” Newt screamed.

Man, what a cliffhanger! Don’t worry, you’ll only have to wait twenty-four hours to find out what comes next. Make sure to go check out the publications of all the other talented writers who contributed.

Love,

Hallie

Hallie T

2032 - United States Geological Survey Headquarters

It’s three in the morning when I realize I’m not alone.

I try to focus on the seismic activity reports on the screen in front of me. Something makes the hair on my arms stand up. My hands shake over the keyboard.

“Come on, Shea,” I rub my eyes. “It’s just the tremors again.”

We blame everything on the tremors these days - increased seismic activity due to climate change related tectonic shifts. At least, that’s the government’s official statement.

As a night shift monitor, I’ve been studying the unusual seismic data for years. Since the first Quake created a massive crater near the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, they’ve been happening more regularly in unusual patterns that make no geological sense.

I’m chugging my lukewarm coffee when I hear footsteps.

It’s impossible. I’m alone. The only one on shift.

There’s a tap on my shoulder, a rush of cold air against my neck. My heart nearly stops.

Like a scared teenager in a horror movie, I slowly swivel in my chair. Nothing’s there.

My phone buzzes with a text from my partner, Claire. “Can’t sleep. You okay over there?”

Before I can answer, I glance up at my screen to find it’s gone black, switched off.

“What?” I go to press the power button when I catch a glance of something that wasn’t there before. Hanging off the back of the monitoring center’s door, clear in the screen’s reflection, a uniform.

Holding my breath, I walk to the door, examining the mud-stained khaki field jacket with matching torn pants. A pair of boots sits on the floor. The badge clipped to the jacket shows the name and picture of Dr. Elona Mizrahi, the lead seismologist who died suddenly after the most recent Quake. I remember the rumors floating around the office about what actually happened to her.

“How?” I whisper.

Then the jacket’s arm moves.

I stumble backwards as the jacket unhooks itself from the door. The entire uniform walks forward as if inhabited by an invisible body. It steps toward me, beckoning with its sleeve, then turns and walks through the closed door.

Swallowing my disbelief, I grab my phone off my desk. Opening the door, I chase the uniform striding down the darkened hallway, sleeves swinging in a natural rhythm. I question my sanity as we approach the elevator to the restricted archives. The uniform drops a key card from its empty sleeve. Dr. Mizrahi’s card.

Picking it up, I tap it on the card reader. Somehow, it still works.

The elevator opens and the uniform goes in with me, even though I’m sure it could have just floated through the metal.

Once on the sterile restricted floor, the uniform guides me to a door marked as LEVEL FIVE CLEARANCE REQUIRED. It points to the card reader. Dr. Elona’s card works again, the door sliding open with a mechanical groan.

Once inside, I survey the room, gasping at a large tank to the right that contains a chunk of - tentacle?

The uniform, unphased, marches over to one of the computers and somehow types in Dr. Mizrahi’s credentials. Eyes still glued to the giant severed tentacle, I feel a tap on my shoulder.

“Right,” I mumble. The uniform hovers as I sit down in front of the screen, scanning the files it pulled up for me.

The first one is “Project Krakken - Subterranean Contact”. Photos of massive creatures with writhing tentacles fill the screen, stamped with coordinates matching all known Quake locations. Next, personnel files marked TERMINATED pop up, showing Dr. Mizrahi and her entire team. My stomach drops. They weren’t simply fired. They were killed.

Dr Mizrahi’s final report opens of its own accord.

“The creatures respond to drilling operations. ‘Quakes’ are actually their attempts to surface, responding to our drilling. The government refuses to stop. They want contact, using civilian populations as bait.”

Suddenly, a classified communication flashes across the screen. Coordinates. The downtown district, ten miles away, where my partner and I live.

A chill runs down my spine as I read the next alert.

“Drilling at 0600 hours. Expect extraterrestrial response within twelve hours.”

With trembling hands, I pull out my phone and snap photos of everything: the tentacle in the tank, Dr. Mizrahi’s report, the alert.

Just as I take the last photo, the screen flickers and dies. Behind me, the uniform crumples to the floor.

“Wait, no!” I kneel beside the wrinkled clothes. “What am I supposed to do?”

But I already know. I have to alert the public. Picking up the jacket that once belonged to a soul much braver than I, I whisper:

“Thank you. I hope I can make you proud.”

I run to the elevator, clutching Dr. Mizrahi’s jacket. My watch shows four AM. I have two hours before drilling commences.

As the elevator rises, I call emergency services. When the operator answers, the words tumble out:

“You need to evacuate downtown before six PM tonight -”

“Ma’am, is this a prank?”

The line goes dead. Of course it would.

“Damn it!” I groan. I text Claire. “Get out of town, now. I love you.”

Back to my desk at the monitoring center, my thumb hovers over the pictures on my phone: blurry images of severed tentacles and classified reports. I have proof that the Quakes aren’t simply a natural phenomena, yet I feel terrified to blow the whistle.

Dr. Mizrahi died for this, I remind myself. I owe it to her to get the word out.

Pulling up the number for the local news station, I take a deep breath as a subtle tremor shudders through the building. Dialing the number, I wait for someone to pick up the phone.

I have less than fourteen hours to convince someone - anyone - that monsters are real.

I pace back and forth as the phone rings. Once. Twice. Three times.

“C’mon, someone pick up…”

Another ring.

“Thank you for calling Station 13’s tip line. We are currently unavailable to answer the phone, but please leave your name, number, and a brief message after the tone, and a member of our team will return your call. We appreciate our community.”

My heart plummets into my stomach.

Beep

“Uh-yes. Hi. This is Shea Campbell. I work at the Geological Survey Headquarters. The Quakes are part of a giant government conspiracy. It’s–it’s aliens. Giant aliens. Meet me Downtown on the corner of 1st and Main with cameras in two hours.”

I shove the phone into the pocket of my brown flannel slacks and rush back to the elevator. I rapidly press the button for the lobby.

I need to come up with a different plan. Emergency services were no help, and who knows if the news station will believe me either…

The elevator doors open into the main lobby. The late-night janitor, Richard, is mopping the white marble floors, singing along to the music blaring out of his ear buds. “Pink pony club nananana West Hollywood…”

I give him a polite nod as I rush past him—he returns a worried look. Gosh, I must look as crazy as I feel.

“Hahaha!” An excited squeal of laughter echoes throughout the lobby, “Hey! Miss Campbell! Come here! You have to see this!” Pamela, the late-night receptionist, is holding her bedazzled phone over the counter.

I run over to her, slapping my palms onto the black granite countertop.

“Look! It’s a baby hippo,” she exclaims, completely ignoring my frantic state.

“Pamela, we don’t have time for baby hippos!” I rake both hands through my auburn hair. “There are aliens out there, and the government is covering it up! And emergency services didn’t believe me, and the news didn’t even answer my call. The whole city is in danger and there’s nothing I can do about it!” The words tumble out of me faster than I have ever spoken in my life, leaving me gasping for air.

“What on earth are you even talking about?” Pamela doesn’t even blink as she crunches on a Flaming Hot Cheeto.

I reach back into my pocket and pull out my phone. “Look!”

She takes the phone from my shaking hand.

“Oh, shit.” Her face falls as her too-long- acrylic-tipped finger swipes across the screen. Color drains from her complexion, making her freckles stand out darkly against her rosy cheeks. “This is real? How did you even find this?”

Shit. What am I supposed to say to that? I can’t exactly tell her the ghost of Dr. Mizrahi led me to Level 5 and revealed this all to me. “Uhm… an old co-worker tipped me off…”

“Do you have BaaBaa?” she says as she pulls her black leather purse from her desk drawer, licking cheeto dust off her pale fingertips.

“What’s BaaBaa?” I watch as she rounds to the front desk.

“Ugh, Shea, you’re so boomer-coded. Never mind. I have like 2,000 Sheep on my profile anyway. Here’s your phone back.” She struts towards the front doors, “Let’s go. You too, Richard!”

“Go where?”

Pamela turns back and looks down her nose at me in true Gen Z fashion. “You know, for a scientist or government agent, or whatever the hell you are, you’re not very smart.”

My face knits together.

“WE ARE GONNA SAVE THE WORLD BY LIVE STREAMING THIS ON BAABAA. NOW ARE YOU GONNA COME OR NOT?!”

“Right.”

I quickly catch up to her as Richard drops his mop, falling in line with us. We push through the heavy double doors and walk out of Headquarters.

“Why are you holding that jacket?” Pamela asks as we step out into the dark street. Tendrils of early-morning sunlight cast a white-cold hue in the eastern sky, just visible through the dominoed skyscrapers.

“This? Oh…” I glance down at the grubby jacket clutched in my left-hand. I loosen my sweaty fingers. “I, um, got cold at my desk. Found it hanging on a peg.”

“Right,” says Pamela. Luckily she sounds like she’s lost interest. I’d hate to have to explain a haunted jacket to her.

Richard trails behind us, humming.

My phone vibrates in my other hand. My partner’s face fills the screen.

“Claire!” I say. “Are you on your way out of town?”

“Not until you tell me what’s going on.” She sniffs like she’s been crying. “What happened tonight?”

“I–” My phone vibrates again as another call comes in. BLOCKED NUMBER.

“Claire, I have to go. Please, trust me! Pack a bag and drive out of town. Go to Debra’s! I’ll meet you there as soon as I can. I love you!”

I switch to the incoming call before she has a chance to respond.

“Hello?” Static on the line. “Hello? Anyone there?” Nothing. But, wait, is there a background sound? A faint thudding? I press the phone closer to my ear, just as a truck roars by, drowning out everything in the vicinity. “Hello?” I try again. The line goes dead.

I hurry to catch up with Pamela as she rounds the side of HQ and heads into the dark mouth of the underground parking lot.

“Where are we going?” I pant, sweat licking my spine in my thick clothing.

“We might as well take my car!” Pamela calls over her shoulder as she pulls a ring of jangling keys out of her pocket.

We cross the almost-empty parking lot, the artificial light blaring into my pupils. Pamela’s heading for the only vehicle in sight, and it chirrups as she unlocks it.

Looks like my return bus ticket will go unused this afternoon. I think. And then, What a ridiculous thing to worry about.

I climb into the passenger seat, and Richard clambers into the back, bobbing his head, still lost to his earbuds. I drop Dr Mizrahi’s jacket into the footwell, just as a tremor rips through the lot. The car shudders, and I scream, grabbing the dash.

“Get the hell out of here, now!” I shout. We all buckle up. Pamela fires up the engine, knocks the car into drive, and we shoot towards the exit and the brightening skies beyond.

Downtown isn’t far, and Pamela’s driving makes the journey far shorter. She weaves through the traffic of early birds and sleepy night owls with ease. I don’t know how she’s capable of it. My stomach’s in my throat. My heart is pounding so loud I worry it’ll pop right out of my chest.

I look up, batting away a trip down memory lane with Claire. I can’t act like it’s already over.

“Pamela, red—”

“Are you kidding me?!” she barks, and I wince.

“Sorry! You’re right, just blow it!”

Between Pamela’s driving, my quaking, and Richard’s unstoppable bopping, it was easy for me to momentarily forget about the tremors. But as we pass 9^th Street’s green sign, I notice the car is vibrating in a way it shouldn’t.

“Is the tremor still happening?”

Pamela doesn’t answer, too busy aggressively communicating with a fellow driver that their 30 miles an hour trek is not urgent enough for this morning’s circumstances. I glance at the side mirror, a yellow morning aiding the wonky streetlights of the city. And that’s when I see it.

I lean forward with such eagerness, I smack my forehead into the window, but I’m too terrified to care.

There’s a crack in the tarmac. There’s a growing crack in the tarmac.

“It’s following us!”

I grab the wheel, which is a panic-induced, terrible idea. I avoid city driving on my best day, and Pamela is clearly a secret race car driver in her downtime. The jeep swishes to and fro on the thinning road, and mine and Pamela’s yelling is a perfect harmony of terror and frustration: the very tune required to pull Richard out of his melodic hypnosis.

“What’s going on?!”

Richard joins our screeching when Pamela’s beautiful jeep slams right into a massive white van, causing a sufficient dent in her hood, but an impact not strong enough to cause the airbags to go off. I blink multiple times at the van, my vision slowly unblurring with each flutter of my lashes. A news outlet?

Pamela groans, “Looks like the news outlet got your message.”

Suddenly, Richard’s head is between us, one earbud having been plucked from his right ear, “That isn’t the news.”

There’s a long, painful pause as we all attempt to read the van’s contorted namesake.

Craft Catchers: You Saw ‘Em, and We Believe You

“Oh no,” I swallow thickly, “Ufologists.”

I hope you have enjoyed Part One of Level Five. Stay tuned this week for the next two installments! And make sure to check out the co-authors’ publications.

Cheers,

Hallie

I’m honestly not great at writing “cozy” stories. Even this one could be interpreted as less than cozy. But when I read this prompt this morning from , I was hit with inspiration. So here it is.

Prompt: Your item won’t work unless you’re telling a story.

The Magic’s in the Mixer

Since the dawn of time (and kitchens), there has never been a sadness that cannot be cured by baked goods.

At least, that’s what I tell myself as I struggle with my mom’s old aquamarine-colored stand mixer. It’s been a year since it’s been used. A whole year since she and I baked our last batch of snickerdoodles together. But it would seem there will be no soft, gooey cookies for my grieving soul today—not unless I can find my hand mixer.

“These were her favorite,” I mutter to no one in particular. A tear rolls down my cheek and plops into the metal bowl where the butter and sugar sit, waiting to be beat. I give the old Kitchenaid a hefty whack. “Why won’t you just work?”

Squeezing my teary eyes shut in defeat, I rest my head against the cabinet above me. The smell of butter and cinnamon take me back to the days when Mom had just gotten this thing — before its shiny surface became permanently matted in caked-on flour dust and grubby children’s fingerprints. We should have been baking together today, for her birthday. But here I am, alone, unable to get this damn appliance to do the one thing it’s made to do.

An ugly, gurgle sniffling sound fills the room as I choke back my tears, willing myself to look for the hand mixer. Turning, I bump straight into my husband, Luke’s, chest. I hadn’t even heard him walk into the kitchen.

“You making snickerdoodles?” He whispers into my hair, squeezing me tightly.

Breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne, I curl my fingers into the pilled fabric of his favorite old t-shirt. I wish I could somehow just melt into him, like the butter sitting in the mixing bowl.

“Nicole? You okay?”

“Yeah,” I mumble, “It’s just…the mixer won’t work.”

“Remember what Grandma used to say?” My eleven-year-old, Dylan’s, voice wafts through the kitchen as he approaches us. “You just gotta hold your mouth right.”

“Your Grandma was a wise woman,” Luke smiles at our son, gently letting me go. “I need to go change the oil in the car. But if you still can’t get it to work after I’m done, I’ll take a look.”

He kisses me softly, and my heart flutters. Suddenly, I’m transported back to when we were teenagers, when my mom caught us smooching on the back deck.

We pull away from each other to find Dylan making gagging noises. I can’t help but chuckle as I wipe my eyes.

As Luke’s footsteps echo down the hall toward the garage, I take a deep breath and flip the switch on the mixer again. Nothing. Leaning against the counter, I stare down at the weathered pages of my Mom’s old Betty Crocker cookbook. It’s full of ink-smeared notes she’d penned in the margins about how her versions of the recipes were better.

“You know, your Grandma was incapable of following a recipe without adding her own special touch,” I smiled, running my finger along the faded image of perfectly golden brown cookies.

“Are there any more pop-tarts?” Dylan asks, apparently uninterested in my nostalgia as he stares into the open pantry next to me.

“Use your eyeballs, they’re right in front of you!”

Dylan huffs, finally locating the bright blue box. “Grandma used to say that,” he grins, ripping open the crinkly foil package and taking a huge bite of the processed breakfast pastry.

“She was the neighborhood sweetheart,” I smile, “She had a petty streak, though. I remember when the HOA president came over to inform her that the garden gnomes in the front yard had to go because they didn’t fit the ‘look’ for the street. Grandma moved the gnomes, but she was so bitter about it that she wrote an ‘apology’ note and left it with a plate of snickerdoodles on the president’s doorstep—only, they were baked with ground cumin instead of cinnamon!”

I’m so lost in the memory, I almost don’t hear the whirr of the mixer coming to life.

“Mom, look!” Dylan cries “It’s working!”

I whirl around, only to find the mixer still again. I flip the switch on and off again. Nothing.

“While you were talking about Grandma, it started! I swear it did,” Dylan’s mouth is agape, a trail of pop-tart crumbs sticking to his chin. “Tell another story.”

“Well, there was that time when I was just a little younger than you, and I discovered the truth about Santa’s cookies,” as I speak, the mixer churns to life, creaming the butter and sugar together in a steady rhythm. I try to maintain my cool, though I’m internally questioning my sanity. Surely I had just flipped the switch, hadn’t I?

“Keep going, Mom, before it turns off again!”

“Okay,” I take a shaky breath and continue, “We always left cookies out for Santa on Christmas Eve. And in the morning, they were gone. But one year, I got wise. I snuck downstairs and watched from the stairs. Sure enough, I saw Grandma and Grandpa sitting by the fire after I’d gone to bed, munching on the cookies.”

“Wait, Mom,” Dylan feigns a shocked expression. “You mean, Santa’s not real?”

“You goober!” I toss a small handful of flour at him. He walks up and smears his gooey pop-tart fingers on my sleeve.

“Ugh, you’re so gross!” I ruffle his hair, leaving streaks of white flour in it. I turn the mixer off (as I apparently had flipped the switch earlier), motioning to the remaining ingredients I’ve carefully laid out on the counter.

“You want to help me finish these, bud?”

“Sure!”

“Just wash your hands first!”

We finish prepping the cookie dough, talking over the sound of the ancient Kitchenaid chugging along. Dylan laughs about the time he tried to teach Grandma how to play Minecraft. I told him how she used to be able to get him to stop crying immediately by singing “I Can’t Help Myself” by the Four Tops. We both try to emulate her exact mannerisms as we crack the eggs and measure the vanilla. She had a particular flair in the way she dusted the tops of the cookies with cinnamon before placing them in the oven that I still can’t quite master.

As I’m closing the oven door, I glance over to catch Dylan, eyes closed, a smudge of dough clinging to the bridge of his nose.

“You okay, Bud?”

“Oh, yeah,” he flutters open his blue eyes, smiling at me with his crooked teeth. “I was just making a wish.”

“What did you wish for?” I ask as I set the timer.

“For you and I to bake snickerdoodles every year on Grandma’s birthday,” he whispers, throwing his lanky preteen arms around me.

I stand there, holding my baby boy who looks more and more like his father every day. But there’s a good bit of his Grandma in him—in his lopsided grin, quick wit, and his love of fun facts. It’s those little quirks I realize were passed down to him through me. Those little pieces of my mother’s spirit live on in us, along with our love of baked goods.

“Group hug!” Luke’s voice breaks my haze as his grease-smudged arms encircle Dylan and me.

“God, you’re basically a motor-oil covered ninja!” My voice comes out muffled as Luke squeezes us. “I didn’t even hear you walk in!”

“I see you got the mixer working,” Luke says as he finally lets us go. He takes a peek into the oven, taking a big whiff of the cookies.

“Yeah,” Dylan pipes up, “We just started telling stories about Grandma and it worked! Like magic!”

“Magic, huh?” Luke tucks a strand of my brown hair behind my ear. He leans in and whispers, “One of the kitchen breakers was tripped. I flipped it back. You’re welcome.”

I playfully smack his rear end with the old checkered dish rag as he turns to leave. “I gotta get back to work. Let me know when the cookies are done.”

“Wait, what did he say?” Dylan asks, watching his father saunter off to the garage.

“It was mushy-gushy stuff, you wouldn’t want to know,” I tease as I pull the mixing bowl from its stand. “Here, help me clean this all up.”

“Ooh, can I lick the beater? Grandma always let me!”

“Okay, okay.” I disconnect the metal attachment, sticky with sweet, unbaked goodness. I watch as Dylan licks it clean, wishing I could stay in this moment forever.

I wipe away more tears as I scrub the mixing bowl. One day, very soon, he’ll realize that the world isn’t all Minecraft and snickerdoodles. That sometimes, what you think is magic is really just a tripped breaker.

“Nonsense!”

I drop the mixing bowl with a clank into the sink. Was that…Mom?

“Mom, you okay?” Dylan asks, eyeing me with concern as he hands me the beater.

I nod, turning back to the dirty dishes. Then I hear it again, that honeyed southern drawl echoing against my skull. For a moment, I almost think I can see her face reflecting off the metal mixing bowl, winking at me.

“Come on, Sweetie. We both know it wasn’t the breaker.”

Thank you for reading! I wrote this story quickly today, and I challenged myself to just post it, even though it’s not perfect. Thank you all so much for reading. Now I’m hungry for snickerdoodles!

Light and Love,

Hallie

So, in my true fashion, I am processing the audacity of such a statement with a satirical retelling of how I met my husband and how I “stole” his heart.

The following is the (dramatized) true story of how a sixteen-year-old girl stole her best friend's lab partner's heart from the Big Man Upstairs.

It was a blustery January day in the first era of out Mother, Taylor Swift, at a Christian high school. As most love stories do, this one began when The Girl met Boy.

The Girl was known at this school as a flirt. A rebel with a Jezebel spirit. This was mostly based on the fact she was moderately attractive, had stitching on the back pockets of her jeans, and the audacity to have breasts.

This particular morning, the Girl’s best friend was assigned the Boy as a lab partner. It was such a monumental event in their conspicuously pious school. What had that teacher been thinking, assigning two students of the opposite sex to a project together? Scandalous.

“A boy?” The Girl gaped at her friend. “That’s practically unheard of around here! How?”

Her best friend shrugged, natural golden curls bouncing like a halo around her face. The Girl tried to flounce her own crunchy curls, with no such luck. Because, unlike her best friend’s, the Girl’s curls had been painstakingly forced into position by an entire bottle of hairspray and thoughts and prayers.

“Oh, hey, there he is!” The friend gestured to a lanky dirty blonde guy, waving him over.

She introduced Boy to Girl. He gave a timid wave accompanied by a barely audible “Hi.”

One look into his painfully shy blue eyes, and the Girl knew.

He’s the one, she thought, I'm going to steal his heart!

So, for the rest of the semester, the Girl plotted and schemed on how she was going to seduce this adorably awkward nerd. It wasn’t very difficult, as it turned out. She made him burnt CDs of lyrically cryptic alternative rock songs, and spent a lot of time messaging him on AIM about Star Wars and other such fandoms. Until one day, he invited her to the mall (this was back when the mall was the place for teenagers to “hang”, you see).

The Girl was delighted. Her plan had worked! He had finally asked her out. Of course she agreed to meet him there.

They walked around in awkward silence for. And walked. They must have walked every inch of that mall.

The Girl thought, about three hours in, At some point, I have to just go for it.

That’s when the Boy stopped her, under the escalator, right in front of the Great American Cookie kiosk. He looked down at the grimy, outdated tile floor and said in that small, shaky voice.

“I have to ask you something.”

This was it. This was her chance.

“Sure, Boy, what is it?” The Girl batted her eyelashes, ready to rip his heart out in front of a bunch of suburbanites who just wanted a tasty treat.

Then the Boy did something unexpected. With one look into the Girl's sinfully smoldering gaze, he plunged his hand into his chest and ripped out his own beating—

“Mom! Mom! MOM!”

One second, folks.

“What??”

“Mom, look. Look. You’re not looking!”

“Yes, I am. What am I looking at?”

“It’s my new skin on Roblox. Now my avatar has a banana suit!”

“Wow, that’s amazing. Hey, I’ll give you an extra thirty minutes of screen time if you let me finish typing this story for my internet friends.”

And, we’re back.

You see, this one is a cautionary tale. The Girl learned the very important life lesson: When you seduce a nerdy gamer into giving you his heart, you may find yourself bound to him for life. One thing leads to another (as it so often does), and you spawn three more nerds, just like him.

Suddenly, over the course of eleven Taylor eras, your life’s soundtrack goes from the contraband Avril Lavigne CD you hid under your mattress, to Jack Black singing about lava chicken (Evidently, it’s tasty as hell).

Thankfully, for the Girl, this tale came with an eventual happy ending. She gets to spend her life with that nerdy boy from school. They travel with their spawn, watch Star Wars, and quote The Princess Bride more than the average couple. And when the Girl stress-buys fifteen books at once, the Boy just says “I guess I should put up more shelves.”

So, my dear readers that’s the story about how the Big Man Upstairs didn’t give a f*&$ about who the Girl (yours truly) fell in love with—or if she had stitching on her back pockets, for that matter.

And, icing on the cake—my nerd turned out to be a really, really good kisser.

Was that TMI? Sorry, not sorry. I know the books y’all read.

Cheers,

Hallie

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Narrated by

Why is The Rum Gone? A Tale of Dragons and Pirates

Have you heard the one about the fearsome dragon who hoarded rum and got into a nasty marital dispute while chasing a pirate ship?

No?

Well, hoist your sails and suspend your disbelief because you're about to embark on a swashbuckling adventure. Fair warning, the pirates are terrible. Utterly insufferable. The kind who correct your grammar mid-threat. But so are the dragons.

So without further ado, here is the story of the dragon who wanted to know, “Why is the rum gone?”

********

Blazerick Infernicus III was the realm's most formidable dragon, with blood-red scales, razor-sharp talons, and a wingspan the length of a small island. He relished in life's simple pleasures: burninating entire villages of peasants and hoarding all their possessions in his cave. Perhaps his most prized pilfered collection was an array of fine spirits.

Rum, to be exact. Bottle after bottle of the smoothest rum in all the land.

One dismal morning, as Blazerick stared at the empty cave wall that once housed his carefully curated stash, he asked a most pressing question:

“Why is the rum gone?”

His thunderous voice sent sizzling cracks across the cave's ancient stone floor. It was this literal burning question that led him to his present scenario: hunting down the second-most mediocre pirate ship to ever scour the seven seas.

The Beige Pebble was manned by a motley crew of philosophers, poets, and professors whose subpar skills forced them to resort to a life of piracy. As Blazerick flew through the stormy summer skies chasing said vessel, another pressing question bounced around his draconian brain.

Why on dragons-scorched earth would these bipedal imbeciles be sailing off with his rum?

Umber clouds formed the backdrop of Blazerick's vengeance as his scarred wings thrashed against the horizon. Once he'd caught up to the ship, he hovered over the inky ocean surface, inhaling lungfuls of salty air. It prickled his throat as he coiled back, jaws opening to release a weak trail of flames through the air above the Pebble. It wasn't close enough to ignite the vessel—that would've been downright stupid of him, what with his rum collection on board. No, just enough to singe the tops of the pirates’ heads and make them shake in their boots.

“It's Blazerick! The blasted dragon followed us!”

The cries of the bumbling buccaneers echoed in Blazerick's ears. Lowering his massive head to eye level with The Beige Pebble's stern, he chortled as the pirates hit the deck like floundering fish, begging for mercy.

“What are you incompetent fools doing with my rum?” Blazerick bellowed. “Return it, lest I burninate you and your dinky ship to cinders!”

“Excuse me, O terrible fiery one,” a pale, lanky pirate squeaked, “'Burninate' is not a proper word. I believe you either mean 'burn' or 'incinerate'... It would behoove you to choose one or the other. For maximum impact, I'd suggest 'incinerate'—”

“Hold on, Jimmy,” a philosopher pirate piped up, “If a dragon incinerates trees in a forest, and no one is there to hear it, did they really—”

“Silence!” Blazerick hissed, steam curling from his nostrils. “If you prefer NOT being piles of ash tossed into Davy Jones's locker, it would behoove you to tell me why you've stolen my rum!”

“Stolen?” Scoffed an incredulous pirate with a wooden stump for a leg. “What do you take us for? Common street urchins? We were hired, honest to goodness!”

Enraged at this revelation, Blazerick shot out a massive claw and plucked up the stocky one-legged man.

“Tell me,” he snarled, dangling the petrified pirate in front of his enormous snout, “WHO hired you to steal my rum collection?”

The pirate's face paled, pointing a trembling finger toward the distant skies behind them.

“'Twas... her…”

Blazerick craned his neck to find a dazzling female dragon emerging from the mist. She flew toward him with murder in her emerald eyes, her iridescent scales sparkling and shimmering despite the lack of sunlight.

“Debbie?” Blazerick's own coal-black eyes widened as she positioned herself opposite of himself, hovering over the ship's bow.

“BLAZERICK INFERNICUS THE THIRD! PUT THAT PIRATE DOWN THIS INSTANT!”

Blazerick was afraid of nothing and no one in this world, except Debbie. So he followed her command, dropping the man on the ship's deck with an unceremonious thud.

“You could have been a little gentler with that!” The pirate groaned, wincing as he tried to pick himself up.

“Wait, Bob. I need to examine you for broken ribs or a concussion,” a pirate with a weathered medical bag rushed over, kneeling down to poke and prod.

Blazerick, still utterly bewildered, turned back to the Pebble's crew. “My WIFE hired you?”

“Don't speak of me as if I'm not right here!” Debbie snapped.

The remaining pirates huddled together on the deck, trembling as they found themselves caught in the crosshairs of the dragons' marital dispute.

“Debbie, you do nothing but bring me down!” Blazerick grumbled, inexplicably now unafraid of incurring Debbie's wrath.

A collective gasp echoed across the Pebble's deck. If this story had not been set in a non-descript medieval fantasy world, the pirates would have been waiting in the comments with their popcorn.

“Blazerick, I'm not bringing you down,” Debbie countered, “I'm merely forcing you to grow up. You're about to be a father!” Debbie crossed her forelegs across her chest.

“Don't patronize me, woman,” Blazerick hissed, his tail thrashing dangerously close to the ship's mast. “We are dragons! We burninate, we pilfer, we hoard. I'm only setting an example for our wee spawn.”

“You couldn't have picked a more respectable item to collect, then? The beverage of swashbuckling scallywags? You should be ashamed,” Debbie scoffed.

“I'll have you know, we are actually quite cultured,” a proud pirate interrupted, puffing out his chest.

“Mind your own business, you pungent peasant!” Both dragons roared in unison.

“We're pirates. By definition, we're much wealthier than peasants—”

“Do you ever cease your mindless drivel?” Blazerick creased his brow in annoyance.

“Blazerick, my dear. Let these irritating humans go in peace,” Debbie implored with calculated sweetness. “I've paid them handsomely with your bejeweled paperweight collection. Let them do their job.”

Blazerick's eye twitched. “Not the paperweights.”

“And the artisanal cheese collection,” Debbie smiled, casually examining her long black talons.

“What were you thinking, you insufferable female?” Blazerick screeched. He pointed a craggy claw at the spectating sailors. “You will return my collections at once, lest I resort to more… unfavorable measures.”

“Don't listen to him,” Debbie cut in, “You've been paid handsomely. Be off into the cloud-covered sunset.”

“Pay no mind to this wench! The deal is off,” Blazerick thundered.

“Oh, Blazerick, be reasonable.” If dragons had eyelashes, I'd imagine Debbie was batting hers at her enraged husband right about now.

“Don't go seducing me with your magnificent beauty,” hissed Blazerick, “Do you really expect me to let you get away with this? Why?”

Before Debbie could retort, a bespectacled pirate—a former psychologist whose expertise was questionable at best—offered his ill-timed colloquialism. “You know, us humans have a saying. 'Happy wife, happy life.'”

Blazerick dipped his snout low and huffed scalding steam at the pirate. “I ought to burninate you right now for your—”

A former prosecutor pirate cleared his throat, either bravely or stupidly stepping between the two. “Perhaps we consider mediation? Surely two reasonable dragons can find a reasonable compromise regarding the fate of the recreational beverages?”

“How about this for mediation?” Debbie sighed dramatically. “Blazerick, if you agree not to burninate the mortals, you can keep the top-shelf vintage bottles.”

“It's all or nothing, Sweetheart.” Blazerick kept his steely gaze on the sweaty pirate cowering in front of his cavernous nostrils. “Give back all the rum, or these pirates will not live to sail another day.”

“And your rum would go up in flames,” Debbie reminded. “You'd best accept my compromise.”

“I want all the bottles, and I'll let them go. They can keep the cheese.”

“And the paperweights?” Bob, now fully recovered from his freefall, piped up.

“Fine, the paperweights, too,” Blazerick grumbled.

“You can keep one-hundred bottles,” Debbie counter-offered.

“One-hundred seventy-five.”

“Seventy-five, they must be over a century old, and only displayed on special occasions.”

“Wait, what?” Blazerick stammered, “What exactly constitutes a special occasion?”

As the two dragons became completely absorbed in their increasingly complex negotiations, The Beige Pebble quietly sailed away with the paperweights, artisanal cheeses, and rum—right under their scaly noses.

You see, our dueling duo fell victim to one of the classic dragon blunders, the most famous of which is “Never torch a village downwind of your own cave.” But only slightly less well-known is this: “Never take your eyes off a ship full of pirates when rum is on the line.”

The End

Thank you so much for reading and humoring me with this silly story. If there was a particular line that made you chuckle, feel free to let me know in the comments.

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Also, toss some love for Andrew’s voice acting and check out his publication:

The Desk in the Lantern Room

On the desk are The Keeper's Logbook, a chronicle of significant life events, and a typewriter with a stack of fictional stories next to it.

By Andrew Thomas

Have a lovely week,

Hallie