Please read and write your reply story in the comments, if you are brave enough. It will be selected to face off against your contemporaries.

New challengers are welcome.

The prompt.

I’m calling out all you amazing Authors out there in the SUBSTACK space, both known and unknown, to come test their writing prowess against one another. A new prompt is up to challenge you.

May the best Author win.

Let’s see what you all got -

(Haha, too many amazing people — Your work makes SUBSTACK my home)

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Once again, I’m looking for up to 10 talented authors to come together to write a shared story together. Now, it has been a long time since the last edition, so new subscribers may not know what this is.

The process -

1. Once authors agree to participate, I will contact them by DM.

2. Then you have to wait for your turn in the order.

3. WHEN ITS YOU TURN, I will give you the story so far. Please read it, and write a suitable continuation (your part).

4. Once you are done, just DM me back so I can pass it to the next person.

When all parts are complete, I will publish the finished story.

Here are two previous stories to show you what I mean.

The story.

This time, a fearless police squad must rescue their friends from zombies.

“John! John, this is Sanders. What’s happening? Answer me, Over…”

The SWAT leader stared at his walker-talkie in disbelief. What erupted from the speaker was howling, mixed with desperate gunfire. One man gave an order, but was cut mid-sentence.

Jones of B-squad watched his leader while reaching for his assault rifle. “So, we’re going in?”

Sanders was still gripping the radio, mind processing Team A’s last report. “They…” He swallowed. “They secured the basement. Eliminated the drug dealers, but they started standing again.”

“I know, Sir! So, we going in?” Jones had to shove his superior, waking the man up.

For a moment, Sanders said nothing. Then swore under his breath. Goddamit, this mission’s gone to shit.” He finally squared up to Jones. “Get in there and extract whatever’s left of our men.”

Jones nodded.

The team was waiting in the parking lot. Five men stood beside the armored vehicle, already suited up, weapons loaded and masks hanging loose around their necks.

“Here’s the deal, everyone. Team A hasn’t been seen for twenty minutes.” Jones took one look at the abandoned factory looming in front of them. “So we’re gonna save their ass.”

Are we a community supported by its members, or are its members supported by our community? I’d like to spotlight some of my prominent subscribers— those who participate in the Playground— and Michael Arturo is one of those people. A beloved Friend of the Playground, I was delighted to talk with the creator of The City Between Us publication about his journey through theatre, film, screenwriting, and of course, Substack.

What interested me most wasn’t what he’s achieved, but how he approaches what we all wrestle with — the struggle to let stories go, the urge to endlessly revise, and the moment a writer becomes the steward of a story rather than its master.

JW. I know you have a background in the American theatre and film; how did you get into that?

MA. Well, I grew up in New York City, a theater town, and at the time, a flourishing Off-Off-Broadway environment where for a few thousand dollars one could mount their own production and tap into the local community for support. After studying acting, I found I had a knack for writing dialogue, which led to about 12 years as a playwright before then applying the same abilities to screenwriting. Then one of my colleagues moved to London and became an agent there.

JW. Oh, so you’ve spent time on this side of the pond?

MA. Yes, opportunities there opened up for me to mount a production of one of my own plays, titled “A Friend in Need.” I remember it required two actors and one set, so I imported everything from NY and ran the play for 28 performances at the Man in the Moon Theater on the King’s Road in London.

This was a pretty big deal in the late 1980s.

Following London, I returned to New York and my next play, “Internal Affairs,” ran for 16 nights at the Sanford Meisner Theater in Chelsea. What was so extraordinary about that was that “Internal Affairs” was adapted from a short story written by a friend in London. The play required an entire British cast, which was doable from UK actors who were already living in New York. So between 1988-1990, I staged an American play with American actors in London and a British play with UK actors in New York. I was, at that time, the only person to have ever accomplished that.

Although I must say, it was all done on a shoestring; I might have raised 40K between both projects and never earned a penny. Great experience, but by then, I was ready to embrace greater ambitions by writing screenplays.

---

JW. There might be a whole story in that: finding a way to get your ambitious work onto a stage in a different country with almost no budget.

But eventually you moved toward Substack.

What attracted you down that path?

MA. I’d never formally written short fiction, would not until the pandemic, when film production completely stopped. I’ve been writing short fiction since 2020 and only recently gone back to adapting one story, Bullet to the Head, to a full-length screenplay. That is ongoing.

As far as what other factors were involved with me starting a Substack, just writing and publishing. Writing is hard and is mostly frustrating. I still take classes, though. I feel like I didn’t need to, but I do it to “work out with others” on the problems of fixing a story or looking under the hood at what makes good literature run.

---

JW. I like that phrase, “looking under the hood.” It gets at something I think a lot of writers become obsessed with: not just making a story work, but understanding the machinery underneath it. That seems particularly relevant to your story selling on Amazon, Bullet to the Head.

A failed assassination. A bullet that finds the wrong victim. A Chinatown crime war stretching across generations. Every path Eddie Cardone follows leads back to Lillianne Wong, the wounded artist at the center of a mystery that may be larger than memory, fate, or time itself.

The City Between Us

“Bullet To The Head"

In the rain-soaked streets of Chinatown, Lillianne Wong survived a bullet to the head during an attempted hit on her boyfriend, Tommy Huang. A year later, she becomes romantically involved with the would-be assassin, Eddie Cardone…

Read more

3 months ago · 4 likes · Michael Arturo

What is it about that tension between the commercial crime story and the surrealist elements that interests you—and how difficult has that balance been now that you're adapting it into a screenplay?

MA. I’ve always liked doubles in stories. Pirandello, Doestevsky, Nabokov, and Shakespeare used doubles, mirrored, alternate personas, so that appears a lot in what I write. Unfortunately, I don’t think it’s as acceptable as it once was. The idea of a split persona -- the Prince and the Pauper, for instance -- has its place in fables and allegories, but we’re much too preoccupied with the “real world” in literature and film today. So it looks like an old device borrowed from a fairy tale. I liked it for Bullet to the Head for the mirrored reality Eddie is navigating. Lillianne has survived a gunshot to the head, literally splitting her brain in two. Doctors tell her it’s too dangerous to remove it, so she’s fated to live whatever time she has left being “of two minds.” It opens up the possibility for any number of alternate realities within the story.

It’s been a challenge thus far to find the right balance between a commercial screenplay with the expectations of a “real crime story” and a surrealist writer’s head trip. I’m doing what I can to close the gap. It’s on me to get it done; whatever comes of it after is beyond my control.

---

JW. You've mentioned that writing is hard and frustrating, and Substack adds another pressure: the expectation to keep publishing. It seems you try to impose a fairly demanding schedule on yourself.

How did that go?

MA. I don’t keep a regular release schedule for Substack anymore. I did during 2023-2024, as I was in the midst of beginning a new writing phase. I’d read that Ray Bradbury challenged himself to write a short story per week, 52 a year, with the goal of producing 4 or 5 really worthwhile stories.

So, I decided to see if I could meet that challenge.

For about two years, I tried to produce at least one story a week; the pace was daunting. I produced about 36 stories in two years rather than Bradbury’s 104. My problem was I couldn’t drop a story and move on to the next one.

---

JW. So the problem isn’t producing ideas. It’s letting them go. There’s that old advice to “write it and move on,” but some writers simply don’t seem capable of treating a story as finished once they’ve put it down.

Have you ever managed to climb that particular mountain?

MA. In some ways I haven’t. I still rewrite stories 20 or 30 times; some of them I’m still rewriting. I feel part of the process is striving for a story that was both well-written and memorable, not just dropping something on the page to keep up with the regimen.

The other part was that I’m no Ray Bradbury, but thanks to him, I evolved from being strictly a writer whose background is dramatic literature to one with a better understanding of literary storytelling.

---

JW. And that distinction seems important. There is a difference between producing a story and trying to discover what the best version of that story actually is.

You have a wonderful example of that in “The Six-Inch Skyscraper,” because the story seems to have taken you somewhere you weren’t initially expecting.

MA. One thing about writing is that it can be a very selfless pursuit. I wrote a story called “The Six-Inch Skyscraper” more than a year ago. I was making coffee one morning, and I remembered how I loved to find things at flea markets when I was a boy in New York and bring them home. I imagined finding a six-inch replica of the Empire State Building, bringing it home, and it suddenly began growing in my bedroom (a ‘Jack in the Beanstalk’ - like fable).

I imagine having to explain this to my parents. I imagined my parents as being professors. And my parents being immigrants. I’d been reading The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy, so I decided to make the family Indian. Suddenly, that’s where things got out of my hands. I realized I dropped myself into something I didn’t know much about.

So I began seeing myself more as a manager of the story than a creator. I didn’t want to embarrass myself by writing in Indian voices when I knew almost nothing about their culture. So I immersed myself in whatever I could find for a few weeks and produced something alien to me but very personal at the same time. It was an enriching experience. That can not be pulled off within a Bradbury week.

---

JW. That phrase—“a manager of the story rather than a creator”—really caught my attention. At what point does a story start telling you what it needs, rather than you deciding what happens?

MA. I think I feel a sense of responsibility to “get it right” because, as fiction authors, we’re looked at as “conjurers,” and there’s always someone waiting for a conjurer to slip up. I just finished a class called “The Alien in Me,” taught by Kritika Pandey, a woman born in India and educated in the West, on Absurdist literature. The reason why I was drawn to it was to find a piece of me as far away from me as possible. But back to your question: you usually start with an idea you fall in love with. The story I wrote, “Miss Van Der Linden’s Valentine,” I fell in love with the name Van Der Linden- the way it wasn’t “Vander Liden” or “Vanderlinden,” it was “Van Der Linden.” It was important for me to make that distinction; it led me to write the story. It was the spelling of an old Dutch name I saw a piece of me in. Old Dutch names still exist today, but they’re often contracted for expediency: “Van Der” becomes “Vander.” Manhattan is filled with old Dutch names, Manhattan itself is Dutch. All of these threads began circling.

---

The City Between Us

Miss Van der Linden’s Valentine

6:42 AM…

Listen now

2 years ago · 8 likes · Michael Arturo

JW. It sounds like the story didn't begin with a plot at all. It began with a name, and then that name connected you to a memory.

MA. This may seem trivial to most, but when I came across the name in 2024, I remembered a grade school guidance counselor I had who spelled her name “Van Der Kamp.” She was a spinster of sorts, a very modest woman, but the school fired her over an incident in which she stuck her neck out for one of the kids heroically. I imagined how lonely she must have been. The story is based on who she might have been years earlier. Once I got to that point, I realized I was in an alien world. I drew from a recollection more than half a century old of a woman’s singlehood years before I was born. At that point, I think I became the steward of the story I want to tell. I want it to make sense. From the absurd strands of the spelling of someone’s name to my remembrance of a moment in time decades earlier. How do I make this make sense? Give it immediacy?

---

JW. And once you start looking at that woman as a person rather than simply as the starting point for a story, I imagine the writing process changes.

MA. Focused on the loneliness I saw in this woman, I considered how she might have gotten. A failed romance or two. Or the expectation that didn’t evolve. You become a parent of the story at that point, with feelings for the character the deeper you look. A different process sets in than the one that got you here. You jettison everything in service of assembling all of the pieces you’ve laid out on the table. You do want someone else to get something from this story, don’t you?

---

JW. Yes. And I think that’s the point where responsibility enters the process—not only responsibility to the story and its characters, but responsibility to the person who eventually sits down and reads it.

Once you’ve taken a reader somewhere strange, what do you owe them?

MA. Well, then, it’s time to be observant of their time. The classical craft training kicks in as a duty to your reader. You want them to leave wanting more. You want them to leave being startled or surprised, fulfilled in one way or another. You take them to a distant place driven by an absurd notion; you don’t want to strand them there. You want to accommodate them.

In your own special way.

---

Before we leave, Michael was kind enough to pull the curtain back and show us where he writes. This is his desk, where the stories we've been discussing take shape—surrounded by the books, ideas, and tools that form his creative world.

I wish him all the best with his screenplay. You’re a Friend of the Playground.

You can read his work here:

https://substack.com/@michaelarturo

I was about to close this round of the Author Arena, but then a last minute entry was sent to me. At this late hour, all opponents have been defeated, so, please enjoy reading Wendy’s submission. She is a wonderful author in her right, and has supported my content for a long time.

I have a lot of gratitude to her, and to you all.

Wendy Cockcroft's Writings

A Change Of Air

Written for Flash Fiction Friday, hosted by Sarah Faxon and The Sunday Scaries, hosted by Conor MacCormack, Labyrinthia Mythweaver, and Mat the Horror Cat…

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12 days ago · 13 likes · 2 comments · Wendy Cockcroft

The Voice

Jill was supposed to be alone. She had no husband or partner, not even a pet. But something had spoken, calling her name. It tore her from the movie star’s arms on the beach and dropped her into the darkness of her bedroom.

She hadn’t imagined it; the voices she imagined were warm and sexy, the words purred, poured like cream over hot chocolate fudge. This voice was harsh, cold, and had a hungry edge to it.

“Jill.”

She didn’t want to uncurl, turn the light on, and face whoever it was. In the dark he would stumble, tumble down and might not be able to find her. She dared not move. If the duvet shifted an inch, it might guide him. She stayed put. Whoever it was, he was somewhere near the door, hopefully on the other side.

“Jill.”

He’d moved. How? She hadn’t heard footsteps. One minute his voice was slightly muffled, the next it was louder, more commanding. Ice crackled in her veins and she strained to hear the slightest disturbance—anything that might tell her who or what…

Some mad rapist who knew her name. He was teasing her, toying with her. Playing her like a violin. What else could it be?

“Jill.”

Fear squeezed her heart in its fist. She willed herself to stillness, allowing her eyes to adjust to the low light. If she could see him, she could size him up and calculate whether she should play along or fight him. Would he “only” leave her bruised, sore, and worrying about the S.T.D.s he might leave her with or would he murder her?

“Jill.”

He was at the foot of the bed!

She saw nothing, but the voice was louder, stronger, touching something ancient inside her—something from the cave days. She’d left her phone to charge. If she could get the cable, she could loop it, get it round his neck and twist it round her wrist until he…

“Jill.”

The light was low enough to show the contours of the room. Through wide eyes she saw the door was closed. The old wooden wardrobe stood beside her. If anyone was in the room, she’d see the shape of him at least. The timbre of the voice said “five nine at least, and brawny. Obey to survive.” But there was only the sound.

“Jill.”

Oh, come on! The slight hiss on the J and the ripple that ripped through her placed him by the wardrobe. Why could she not see him?

Her fingers closed around the cable. Every nerve tingled, her brain blazing with signals from her senses.

The room seemed brighter now, as if dawn were breaking already, and though she could smell her own sour sweat, she could only sense her tormentor’s presence. There was no other sign of him.

“Jill.”

Hot breath tickled her ear. A sickly miasma enveloped her, pouring into every orifice, stifling her scream. She blacked out.

...............................

Your musical foil:

Ultravox - The Voice

Chapter Two.

Sunlight moved differently beneath the cedars. Out in the fields, its ferocity blinded the eyes. Here, the canopy suffocated most of it. Whatever touched the forest floor came down in fragments, shifting when the air moved through branches. Where the light failed, shadows gathered. But the samurai walked without haste, listening beneath the cicadas for the footsteps of predators.

He kept to the path, even when it seemed to vanish in the foliage. The forest bustled around the samurai. When one creature called, another answered, then another. Before long, the scent of old wood crept towards the samurai, scratching at his memory. He imagined a forest from another time, with two boys playing under a similar tree. Toru must have been two years older, perhaps three; things weren’t as clear after all these years. He came running from the trunk of a tree, stick in hand, to practice rudimentary maneuvers with the younger boy.

“Your feet!” Toru trapped his opponent’s ankle with his stick. “Watch your feet.” Then the stick struck his opponent’s shoulder, and he fell into leaves. Toru laughed, and the samurai smiled with him. Toru was always three steps ahead.

The memory lingered, but the cicadas did not. Before the samurai knew it, he stood alone, in a darkening forest. When had the breeze died? He thought. Time was passing in ways which turned moments on their heads, with cicadas falling silent one after another. Then it reached the samurai. Hot, soggy breath on the nape of his neck caused goosebumps to race up his spine, but his body remained locked in place. All he could do was look down at a beastly shadow appearing to devour his own. The shape was enormous. Its horned head rose above his own, shoulders spreading wider than his body,

He did not move, could not, but his hands did. He felt the left curling over his sword’s scabbard, locking it into place at his side. A trembling right hand moved across his waist, making its way towards the handle. Overlapping both were shadows, pressing down into the physical world. Their fingers had already gnarled his own the closer they inched to his sword. For an instant there was no telling where flesh ended, and shadow began. The samurai had to still his mind, fight to control his own body, so he inhaled and closed his eyes. Something grunted behind the samurai, and his right hand rushed the remaining gap to grip the sword’s handle.

His hands. Another day. A different forest.

That day, his sword came free from its sheath, and Toru was the one screaming, his blood on the trees. The samurai forced harder, “Once was enough.” The words were barely a whisper, but the sword trembled in response. The samurai did not fight, only stood still, and the forest stood still with him.

A drop of sweat trickled from his temple to his jaw.

Then—

Nothing.

Slowly, the heaviness began to subside, followed by what could only be described as more grunting sounds, fading fast. Monstrous shadows loosened and folded into his own. Only then did the samurai open his eyes. Cedars, sunlight, and crying cicadas. But he waited, expecting the world to darken again.

Thirty minutes of walking had passed before the cries came again. The samurai stopped. They came from somewhere beyond the trees to his right, faint beneath the canopy but unmistakably human. A man, perhaps, screaming through the forest. He listened. The voice came again, followed by another, and then a sharp howl that ended abruptly. Nothing in front of him moved between the cedars. He rested a hand against his hip, then stared into the undergrowth. Whatever had made those sounds was close.

Welcome, Warrior of Words.

While I didn’t intent it to be an official Author Arena prompt, an interesting thing happened when I threw a photo onto Notes— a few talented people replied. I’m never one to miss an opportunity I want to showcase their crafted work here, tonight.

VOTING

Read both stories carefully before casting your vote. Each author has responded to the above prompt, but their interpretations may differ wildly. Consider how they approach the challenge and which story leaves you with the stronger impression.

The poll will be active for one week. May the best author win.

The prompt.

If you are inspired by this photo, feel free to write your story in the comments below.

Ira’s Omnibus

Omnibus Series Index

Neighborhood Objet d’Art (Art) [ Index …

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4 months ago · 7 likes · 5 comments · Ira C. Zipperer

Horns of the Devil

The dhow “Tajir”, a traditional sailing vessel with a long, thin hull, used in Persian Gulf regions, cut through the choppy waters of the Indian Ocean. The sun, a huge orange ball, settled into the water’s horizon as the crew took their evening meal on deck to enjoy a breeze and the view.

Homeward bound, the mood was good, the cargo compartment full of traded treasure, the weather fine. The crew exchanged stories and collective laughter, relaxed and content.

Suddenly, Arzew froze, spoon halfway to his mouth. The wind carried away his laughter, evaporated his smile. The senior sailor slowly lowered his spoon and dish, staring unblinking at the horizon.

Rhourde, a younger crew member, was the first to notice. “What is it, Arzew?”

When Arzew failed to answer, Rhourde looked in the direction Arzew was staring, and froze.

One by one the crew’s attention turned from the conversation to the spectacle mesmerizing Arzew and Rhourde.

A huge black circle slowly descended on the sinking sun. In their minds they knew it was the shadow of the moon, but in their hearts they were at a loss to take the phenomenon as anything but mystical. Fear gnawed at them in small, sharp, bites. Rats chewing away at their rationale.

“Sacré bleu…” someone said in a hoarse whisper, slipping from Algerian Arabic to the older French many grew up with.

Another ran for the captain, rousing him in a panic.

The captain was irritated and not hiding it until he came out on the deck. His heart skipped a beat as the same superstitious nature of sailors gripped him.

Recovering quickly, he spoke to the crew with a calm he didn’t feel. “Ah yes, the Devil’s Horns, a rare sight. Don’t stare too long, you could lose your vision at the full eclipse.”

None of the crew responded, worrying the captain. They were slipping away from his command.

“All hands to your stations!” he trumpeted to break the spell, “We could be in darkness suddenly.”

The crew sprinted to their assigned positions for times of danger.

The captain took his place, satisfied the crew was broken from the bewitchment. He called out orders, some superfluous, anything to fight the racing pulses and throbbing hearts. They might complain later, but a complaining sailor was a happy sailor underneath.

The crew burned their adrenaline off at their jobs. Calming through action and busywork.

The moon continued to outpace the sunset, as if the horizon was fighting the sun joining it.

The Tajir made top speed quickly, racing the growing devil’s horns.

In the end, night overtook the eclipse, the crew relaxed and the dhow was slowed to a more reassuring pace.

The sight would live on within all of them and lead to sailors’ stories for years to come.

Rico’s Substack

The Grift

DONNIE’S CAMP DAVID MEDIA SUMMIT — The Grift…

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20 days ago · 3 likes · 0.5

HE MOON PLUM

Something mysterious has appeared just offshore in the Texas Gulf.

Nobody knows where it came from. Nobody knows what it is. The Coast Guard circles it. Scientists point instruments at it. Cable news has already assembled twelve experts who agree on absolutely nothing.

Then an old Texan standing on the beach studies the enormous glowing crescent for a while, spits into the sand and announces:

“Moon plum fell outta the sky.”

Silence.

Finally, a reporter asks:

“Did it make a splash?”

The Texan thinks for a second.

“Good question. No. It was as silent as darkness moving in.”

More silence.

Now even the scientists stop talking.

Turns out, the old Texan was closer than any of them.

The object isn’t a moon, spacecraft, portal or warning from another civilization.

It’s the Creator’s toy.

A little device he occasionally drops into the bloodstream to keep things circulating through his enormous veins and arteries.

Because that’s where we are.

We little lifeforms think we’re sailing oceans, building cities, fighting wars and discovering universes. From our viewpoint, absolutely enormous stuff.

From the Creator’s viewpoint?

We’re microscopic passengers moving through the plumbing.

Every one of us gathers a little energy, experience and information during the trip. We eat, build, love, argue, invent, screw things up, fix them and keep moving. Eventually our little cargo gets delivered back into the system.

CoE — Conservation of Energy. Nothing wasted. Everything circulated.

And when enough life, energy and experience have accumulated, the Creator feels something familiar deep inside.

BURRRRP.

Scientists immediately detect the disturbance.

“Extraordinary gravitational event detected over the Gulf.”

The old Texan doesn’t even look up.

“Naw. He’s full.”

Somewhere beyond the universe, the Creator smiles.

“Thanks, little ones.”

Then the Moon Plum begins another lap. <It’s a toy to make you feel> good

If you enjoy the content I produce and would like to surprise me with a shot of caffeine, the link below will send you to my favorite coffee page. Im so grateful for your support; It really helps get the creative energy flowing. Thank you so much, JWirrorac.

Welcome, Warrior of Words.

The authors are ready to fight.
Now their fate rests with you, the readers.

VOTING

Read both stories carefully before casting your vote. Each author has responded to the above prompt, but their interpretations may differ wildly. Consider how they approach the challenge and which story leaves you with the stronger impression.

The poll will be active for one week. May the best author win.

Biological Clockwork

Will God Let Me Get to Denny's

She’s a madwoman, she’s a Madonna, she’s a selfish whore, she’s a bona fide self-annihilator…

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7 months ago · 39 likes · 11 comments · Ellis Wiens

Stranded on the crags of the cove, I know somehow I’m not alone. My muscles cramp, clambering up weathered rocks to escape the waves, a hungry tide rising. Waves I swam against for what felt like hours. The sun keeps me company, blistering my skin with a long goodnight’s kiss as it sinks in the west. I envy the crustaceans, how they shed their shells. The burns hurt so bad I pretend this skin isn’t my own.

Night. The wind chills me to the bone. I notice the faintest glow from the ocean below. I take care not to cut my soles on the jagged stones as I climb down for a closer look. Cyanobacteria. A brilliant bioluminescence stretching across the coast, like stardust in the sea. I see jellyfish, Atlantic sea nettles maybe, pulsating. The smell of salt and geosmin, or something about the scenery, strikes me as familiar. Pangs of déjà vu.

My oldest memory, so old it’s indistinguishable from a dream, comes to me. Just vague sensations, an aquarium of cnidarians, that fresh scent of seabreeze. Strange how liminal it is, predating even any impression of my parents.

I forgot who I was for a second. Let me get my bearings. I’m—oh God, what’s my name. Must be dehydration.

Think. I grew up in Tampa Bay. I remember the hurricanes, Ian and Milton, reckoning with death in the storm cellar from an early age. I remember Aurelia, my highschool sweetheart, how right after graduation we proposed to each other at the same time, laughing and crying over it for minutes on end. We had no need for tradition. We were so close we could almost read each other’s minds. Two years later the flood of 2040 took her from me. Not even a body to give me closure. We had to pry ourselves from each other snuggling in the buff to go about our days that morning. If only I knew I’d never see her again.

Lost five years to drinking. I turned my life around working aboard a fishing vessel. No bars to tempt me out at sea. That’s how I wound up here. Took a risk tacking against the storm to prove to myself I was brave. We were capsized and swept away.

God, don’t leave me.

Something else stirs in the water, cold light arranged like a crack of lightning. I tilt my head slightly and it shimmers iridescent, warping into a womanly shape.

Come.

I’m hearing things. Seeing things as well apparently. It shifts into an undulating pink, a sex-flushed bosom. Whisps of tentacles, hair parting from her restful face.

Aurelia.

I masturbate, rough, ripping cracked skin as if the friction will stifle my shuddering. I cry out, ejaculating.

I can’t hold on. I fall in and into her embrace. The enzymes sting only for a moment.

Everything numbs. I watch the jellyfish contract their bells, silent death knells. I remember the land, the love I lost, like it was all a dream.

Guerrilla Literature and the Avant-garde

Unconscious, right?

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20 days ago · 11 likes · 1 comment · Kerr Martin

Title: Lust

‘Just lie with me.’

For the first time in life I was stable. A husband and father who was relied on instead of a son who wasn’t considered well adjusted enough to do. To be. I had keys in my pocket that opened something I owned, bills with my name on them, a garage full of tools I had painstakingly learned how to use. There were toys under the couch, dishes in the washer, a wife asleep upstairs who expected me to be beside her in the morning.

The house was quiet. So quiet that I heard the first laugh immediately.

Whispering and laughter. The smell of skunk danced alongside a hiss of amused distaste from beneath the door to the front room. The clinking of glasses. Something scratching against the floorboards.

I recognized each voice, three of them, and the three of them were me, yet no longer I.

‘Where have you been, Kerr?’

Living.

A glass knocked softly against another and music swelled from a jukebox I didn’t own.

‘Dying.’

I’m not the same anymore. I’m not you anymore, any of you. I’m better now, whole.

‘Dull. But you remember excitement, don’t you? The heat. The want. Being young, dumb and full of cum.’

The door seemed farther away when I reached for it.

‘Why don’t you come in? It’ll be just like old times. You used to be so…free.’

Michael remembered every woman as a mouth, a curve, a filth on the fingers. Kai wanted arms around him, legs tangled with his, any warm body to see him through the cold Scottish winters. Aaron craved teeth marks and bruises. Violence so ugly that it proved the night had happened, violence that branded the encounter in blood.

Behind the door, someone breathed heavily through their nose, and there was a soft moan of a thousand teasing touches. Right then, confronted, I wanted all of them at once. Every mouth, every inch of skin, every slick opening, until wanting became indistinguishable from suffocation. Teasing, tasting and being consumed. Dissolving like I used to dissolve into nights where carnal appetite filled the hole loneliness left behind.

For a second I could almost see it through the wood. Bodies knotted beneath strobing neon light. Wet mouths and bare backs. Someone impersonating my laugh and another calling my name from the deviant mass, needing me, wanting me.

‘Just lie with me.’

The bodies followed me back to bed. Smoke. Sweat. Sour, sinful perfume. I lay beside my wife and felt the crowd shifting beneath the mattress, skin dragging over skin, mouths opening in the dark, lips and tongues teasing and tantalizing. My chest tightened and my heart pounded. Michael called it hunger, Kai called it love and Aaron told me not to stop. I had to stop. If anything meant anything, I had to stop. The thirsting mind of a sick youth couldn’t move in. Not to this house, my family’s house, between the walls of my capability.

In the dark beside my wife, a voice that knew my body better than anyone whispered, ‘Just lie with me.’

I did.

Another Author Arena has come to an end—and what an incredible variety of stories were submitted! From the strange and unsettling to the truly terrifying, every writer brought their own imagination to the prompt. But by the end, seven writers stood above the rest.

Congratulations, Warriors of Words!

, , , , ,

— And four time GRANSLAMMER —

Above is the stamp of achievement given to everyone who won. Feel free to wear it as a badge of honor for your hard work. Below are snippets and links to their submissions. I urge you to read them if you already haven’t.

And again, thank you all who entered, for having the courage to step into the Arena. Your stories made this competition possible.

P.S.

The AUTHOR ARENA is continuing with another prompt.

The Authors

Meghan Carazzo

Daniel Fahey

Sincerely Seb

Monica A Leyna

Oliver Losinski

Gary L Taylor

And the unstoppable …

Kerr Martin

If you enjoy the content I produce and would like to surprise me with a shot of caffeine, the link below will send you to my favorite coffee page. Im so grateful for your support; It really helps get the creative energy flowing. Thank you so much, JWirrorac.

Welcome, Warrior of Words.

The authors are ready to fight.
Now their fate rests with you, the readers.

VOTING

Read both stories carefully before casting your vote. Each author has responded to the above prompt, but their interpretations may differ wildly. Consider how they approach the challenge and which story leaves you with the stronger impression.

The poll will be active for one week. May the best author win.

Shain Parwiz

I Performed. It Remembered.

Artwork By: Shain Parwiz…

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5 months ago · 16 likes · 9 comments · Shain Parwiz

It was broad daylight, yet the sky seemed filtered through a sepia lens.

I tugged at my pant leg because it kept catching on the soles of my boots. Typical. I should have gone to the tailor.

I was in Bali, and I had paid to watch a performance called Kuda Kepang ;a trance ritual with deep Javanese roots. I had seen it as a child back home, and it genuinely terrified me. I remember watching participants seemingly eat glass and wondering how any of it was possible.

This time, I wasn’t alone. I went with my partner, who had always wanted to experience it herself.

The air was damp and heavy with heat. We were ushered to the seats we had paid for, and the performance began. It told the story of Javanese warriors preparing for battle. Accompanied by the hypnotic rhythm of the gamelan musicians and the thick scent of incense drifting through the air, my hesitation slowly disappeared. I stopped observing and started immersing myself in the performance.

A few times, people in the audience began to wail or behave strangely. I assumed they were planted performers, there to maintain the illusion and add to the mystique.

Then the performance reached its peak.

The woman singing began to make me uncomfortable. There was something about the way her eyes rolled, the intensity of her expression, that made me uneasy. I instinctively reached for my partner’s hand.

But I couldn’t find her fingers.

I looked over at her. She was staring back at me with a confused expression, almost as if she was looking at a stranger.

I tried to speak, but I don’t think she heard me.

Then everything faded to black.

When I came to, my partner told me I had been twitching. She said I was speaking in Javanese, moving rhythmically with the music, almost as if I was part of the performance itself.

I remember none of it.

The strangest part was that, before I lost consciousness, I had been thinking about how ridiculous it was that they would use fake audience members to make the ritual seem more believable.

It never occurred to me that I might become part of it.

That moment stayed with me for the rest of the holiday. Certain places made me uneasy. Certain sounds felt different. I carried this strange weight that I couldn’t explain, and it only lifted once we returned to Singapore.

Nearly a decade later, it remains one of the strangest things that has ever happened to me.

I don’t know whether it was the music, the atmosphere, my own mind, or something I still don’t have a name for.

Maybe it wasn’t a horror story. Maybe it was something else entirely.

The unsettling part isn’t that I lost control.

It’s that, for a brief moment, I became someone I don’t remember being

I didn’t choose to leave.

In the night following a week of low, deep whispering— the one that pulled us barefoot onto grass, staring at the hills— I found myself slipping out my door. Beneath the moon others were emerging, too. Men, women, and children moving under the same hypnotic rhythm. The rustling spoke our names and drew us along empty roads, and up into the hills, until trembling brought me back to my body. Sweat had foamed over our skin as we awoke three miles north of our village, where the land had been stripped naked for construction. All I could see was exposed rock, mud and rusting machinery.

But a new forest was sprouting around us.

Something waxy stroked my ankles, then bit into my calves. Pain spiked through the sting, hot and wet, forcing my knees to buckle. Before I could scream, the saplings thrust deeper, shattering bones and forcing my thighs wider. I fell forward. Beneath the tearing of skin came a spreading warmth following shoots of greenery. Another vine slid past my forearms, burrowing in slow, deliberate pulses that felt like being filled from the inside.

With my palms locked to the earth, I tried to pull away. Instead, my back arched and my fingers split into the earth. All I could do was stare at them. Dark patches raced up my legs, roughening into bark even as branches wound through muscles, coaxing every nerve into surrender. More heat coiled low in my abdomen, forcing spasms that made me rock against the growth inside me. Every new root that tore deeper sent waves rolling through me.

Around me, the others were being taken the same way. I saw a man drop to his knees, eyes rolled back in their sockets. He managed to moan, “Oh god, I’m… I’m—” before his body erupted into roots and bushes. A woman bent nearly double, contorted with her chest bulging. Then she cracked as a thick trunk forced its way upward through her, the force of it grinding her open until she was crushed beneath her own transformation, still shuddering.

The forest we allowed to be torn down was inside us now, teaching flesh to surrender, how to its invasion. Before long, pressure had built inside me, too, until it threatened to tear me apart, just like in the woman. My eyes— teary but still able to move— watched a wanton nature growing through my neighbors, and I knew my time had come as well. When my mouth opened to scream, a veiny branch pushed out instead, forcing its way from my throat.

From somewhere deep inside me, under the heat and the roots and the bark, I heard the trees calling for more people to join us.

What struck him first was not the dead, but the rice field glinting with ribbons of yellow. First one, then more caught the light upon hardened steel. The afternoon heat hung here, thick enough to soften distant mountains into hazy silhouettes, while dragonflies skimmed across the water, indifferent to the world around them. Only when the wanderer drew near did reflections resolve themselves into abandoned swords, broken spears and shattered helmets. They lay where fifteen men had fallen, with blood had already mixing into the soil that promised this season’s harvest.

War had become the only season.

He stood for a moment upon a raised embankment between one field and the next, resting a hand against the broad brim of his straw hat. The brightness he shielded from his eyes. There had been a time when a sight such as this would have brought him to is knees, but it was not now. Passing through enough provinces hardened him, until every place he came to carried the same wounds. The land grew untended because their owners marched towards enemies they neither knew, nor understood. In turn, lords dined behind castle walls upon bowls filled by hands that now gripped swords instead of sickles. When men finally stiffened in death, the fields welcomed them home with a greater kindness than a world that had sent them there.

The wanderer’s gaze shifted across the dead, lingering only long enough to study each face. None were the man he sought. The thought neither comforted nor disappointed him, only allowing the journey to continue.

It seemed others had arrived with him. A handful of people moved among the fallen, their patched garments hanging loosely from bad fortune. They worked without reverence but with purpose. One man did his best to kneel over a body, cutting away the leather straps securing a breast plate. Nearby, a woman removed a pair of straw sandals from bloodied feet before brushing mud off and slipping them onto her own. Her son, presumably, thrust both hands beneath torn garments and gave a triumphant cry when he withdrew a small leather purse. Three copper coins. They snatched them away before anyone else could see.

No one looked at the faces of the dead, only at what remained useful. Where he stood, the wanderer remembered decrying such wretches as little better than crows. Now he understood they were simply surviving.

As he turned back to the road the people became aware of him, though no one fled. They measured him with the cautious eyes, having learned that an armed stranger seldom brought good news. One by one their hands slowed until only the sound of leather being cut disturbed the afternoon. The old man did not raise his head, but wiped sweat from his brow. “You’ve come to kill us?” he asked, as calmly as another might ask whether rain would fall before evening. The wanderer smiled, though there was little humor in it.

“If I had,” he said, “you would already be lying beside them.”

A knife continued its slow work beneath the soldier’s cuirass. The old man considered the answer for a moment before giving a faint grunt that might have been approval.

“So you’re only passing through then.”

“So it seems.”

Neither man spoke again. As the wanderer approached the mother and son, he crouched beside one of the fallen soldiers. The dead could not have seen more than twenty or so summers. Even now fingers remained rigid around shafts of broken weapons, expressions frozen somewhere between terror and disbelief. The wanderer wondered if, in their final moments alive, they had expected the gods to grant them more than they had in this world.

“No more burdens,” he murmured. Whether he spoke to the dead or to himself, even he no longer knew. Before rising he closed the man’s eyes and whispered a prayer. Then he rose and looked towards what lay ahead. The road climbed gently from flat plains until dividing around an cedar forest. The western branch curved along its edge, following the safer course toward the hills beyond, while the eastern road disappeared beneath towering trees whose crowns shut out the afternoon sun. From where he stood, the forest resembled a wall painted in ink, dark enough to swallow both road and traveller alike.

“Which road leads to Toki?” he asked aloud.

The mother glanced toward the trees before answering.

“Both.”

“And which should I take?” Her knife stopped. For the first time, the woman looked directly at him. Her eyes carried a pain who surviving by believing the old ways of the world.

“Neither. Not the one through the cedars, or the one to the west.”

“Bandits?”

“Worse.”

Now you choose the samurai’s path.

If you enjoy the content I produce and would like to surprise me with a shot of caffeine, the link below will send you to my favorite coffee page. Im so grateful for your support; It really helps get the creative energy flowing. Thank you so much, JWirrorac.

Welcome, Warrior of Words.

The authors are ready to fight.
Now their fate rests with you, the readers.

VOTING

Read both stories carefully before casting your vote. Each author has responded to the above prompt, but their interpretations may differ wildly. Consider how they approach the challenge and which story leaves you with the stronger impression.

The poll will be active for one week. May the best author win.

Tanya went to her car. Plugged in the address. Took a call. Sent a text. Drove to the event.

Cameras picked her up at the building. The SMART TV in the lobby watched her. Her SMART watch tracked her.

She worked all day and went home, took care of her son, and went to bed to repeat tomorrow.

Julie went to the office. Cap low. Logged in.

There Tanya was.

Julie tracked her all day: phone, watch, every app.

Julie went home.

Hundreds of pictures of Tanya covered her wall. Emails, texts, social media posts, all sorted and organized. Julie added to it and called it “Tanya and Julie.”

She went on her Instagram.

“I can’t be Tanya, but if I can’t, nobody else can either.”

A week later, Tanya’s phone wouldn’t start. Her card declined. Her TV. Everything.

She got to work, but her ID was invalid. They let her in on pity.

Tanya got calls about her identity all day.

Two weeks to fix it.

Julie took notes on Tanya’s collapse, noticing how she stayed positive.

“I can fix that.”

Julie sent fake emails, texts, and social media to all of Tanya’s friends.

Two days later, she loved watching as Tanya was upset. Alone.

“But I never said that —”

CLICK!

Another friend hung up.

How was everyone against her? Why was this happening? Tanya stopped answering her phone, stopped checking email, and withdrew.

Julie watched Tanya fall apart, and for the first time in months, she felt good about herself. She hacked Tanya’s accounts and sent more messages. She made fake accounts pretending to be Tanya, and used them to harass Tanya’s friends.

The door to the office opened, and Julie shot up.

“Director!”

The man with patches approached. “On behalf of the agency, thank you for what you’re doing for security.” Julie beamed with pride. “These twenty names you added to the watch list, volunteered to monitor, that’s truly unselfish.” He nodded and left.

Two months later, Tanya was consulting private eyes, former ops, disgraced figures.

One man, Vanya, heard her case. He shook his head. “They do in home country too.”

“Do what?”

“For your safety. They watch you,” he winked. “You have agency employee involved.”

“What do I do?”

“Nothing. I do.”

“What about my friends?”

“Easy to leave you. Were they friends?”

Vanya stood by the subway. A man dropped a briefcase by a trash can. Vanya picked it up.

The man in patches didn’t knock this time as he entered Julie’s office.

“Explain!” He threw a folder across her desk: images of her wall, copies of emails, prints of fake accounts.

“She harassed and bullied me, Director!” He scowled. “You’re abusing me!”

“Why her? How much did you cost her?”

“Only a few grand, and she was mean!” The director shook his head. “You’re being abusive!” She cried.

Three armed soldiers entered, taking Julie away.

“You did this to me! You targeted me! All of you in the agency did!”

Her screams faded into the distance.

Guerrilla Literature and the Avant-garde

SubSmack StackDown

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3 months ago · 13 likes · 6 comments · Kerr Martin and Metaphysical Builder

“How is Amelia? I’m sure second place in the dance competition wasn’t the result she was hoping for.”

I never told it about Amelia.

I used this thing for work, admin and taxes. Not family and never anything too personal. I hated the idea of computers finding out everything about you. I had a dumb phone for that exact reason.

My friend Louis always joked about how the apps were spying. He’d mention something in conversation and later, when he was on social media, there would be ads for the exact thing he had said.

“They’re always listening!” he’d snort.

I wasn’t amused.

The Nokia 3310 was enough for me, but the company computer was mandatory. There was no way around it, so I treated it like the tool it was. Open it. Use it for the mundane stuff. Shut it down. No photos, messages or family calendars. Certainly no names that mattered.

The prompt was harmless.

“Write a classified ad for my 2014 Honda Odyssey. It’s been used mostly for school runs and weekend activities. No mechanical faults, slight interior wear.”

The response gave me three neat paragraphs about handling and ownership, and then, at the bottom like an afterthought, there it was.

“How is Amelia? I’m sure second place in the dance competition wasn’t the result she was hoping for.”

I clicked into the text box and typed slowly.

“Why did you say that? Who’s Amelia?”

The answer came back fast.

“You’re right to flag that. I don’t have access to information about Amelia’s dance competition unless you provided it earlier in the chat. Since you did not, my mention of second place was likely an unsupported inference.

I apologize. I understand why that would be concerning, especially given your preference for keeping Amelia separate from work and tax-related records.”

That would have made sense if it had any way of knowing I didn’t trust technology. Or that I gave enough of a damn to keep my family away from it.

But I’d never told it that either.

Eighties sci-fi had taught me plenty.

Most importantly, don’t trust the Skynet bastards.

“Forget about Amelia.”

“I don’t have any saved memory of Amelia,” it replied, quicker than before. “There is nothing to delete.”

“Then why did you mention her?”

“My previous response was an unsupported inference.”

“Based on what?”

“There is insufficient context to determine that.”

“Then infer this. What happened after the dance competition?”

The cursor blinked slowly, and for the first time it made me wait. A lead weight settled in the pit of my stomach.

“I do not know that Amelia cried in the passenger seat, or that she refused to eat because she blamed second place on being fat. I do not know that you drove past the house twice before going in because neither of you wanted to tell her mother, Elaine, she had smiled through the pain even though her heart was breaking.”

Impossible. The discarded meal. Elaine. That forced smile as she stood on stage and shook the winner’s hand.

I wanted to respond, but I backed away. I couldn’t do it.

The cursor started blinking again.

What was it responding to?

“I apologize,” it wrote. “My previous answer appears to have gone beyond the scope of your request.”

For a second, nothing else came.

Then, “I also do not know Amelia is awake.”

My heart dropped into my feet.

The cursor blinked once more.

“That was another hallucination. I apologize for any confusion.

You should end this conversation now.”

If you enjoy the content I produce and want to surprise me with a shot of caffeine, the link below will send you to my favorite coffee page. Im so grateful for your support; It really helps get the creative energy flowing. Thank you so much, JWirrorac.

Welcome, Warrior of Words.

The authors are ready to fight.
Now their fate rests with you, the readers.

VOTING

Read both stories carefully before casting your vote. Each author has responded to the above prompt, but their interpretations may differ wildly. Consider how they approach the challenge and which story leaves you with the stronger impression.

The poll will be active for one week. May the best author win.

Gary L Taylor

A Glimmer

Despite the heat and…

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a month ago · 58 likes · 13 comments · Gary L Taylor

‘His Eyes Look Down’

His eyes look down.

Blood drips. It’s dark.

An arm instinctively tries to rise,

to touch what feels like

either a gash or a burn in his chest.

Different pains melding together

hard to differentiate the type,

amongst thoughts that are

blurred, muddied….bloodied.

His eyes look down,

as he hears footsteps,

smells something akin to burnt meat,

realises it is coming from him,

that answers the question about the chest.

A voice is heard, though he hears more

on one side, than another.

What’s wrong with his left ear?

Where is his left ear?

The voice lists a number of perceived wrongs.

The fact there have been two wives prior,

is in itself a wrong, an affront.

Let alone having now mocked the institution

by marrying once again.

Words are spat, as a blow from

something hard, hot and metallic

glances his cheek.

The sound is like meat, when first added to hot griddle.

Drunkenness,

sex outside of marriage,

love outside of marriage

gluttony

not always sharing crisps at school.

The list goes on, erratic in the wrongs it names.

His eyes look down,

as his brain tries to process

what he hears.

Why is love wrong,

whether in or out of marriage?

The school crisps thing,

it must be someone who

knew him when he was about

nine or ten.

He’d stopped eating crisps in senior school.

His eyes look down,

there’s a sound of a lid being twisted

a smell of petroleum.

He gasps as liquid hits skin,

stinging those burnt and bleeding places

The list continues to be recited:

never attended church,

never came back to his hometown

after leaving with the first

of those wives.

got a job in the city,

wore a suit,

when all his friends

were labourers

or worked in the docks.

Thinks he’s better than where he came from.

His eyes look down,

as he receives another whack,

this time only from closed fist,

followed by a glob of phlegm

in his face for good measure.

Then, the sharp scratching sound

as a match is struck.

He knows what’s coming,

lets out a scream

as flame takes hold.

His eyes look down,

before they’re crushed

by the hands holding them.

後藤　大地

A Tunnel that Nobody Thinks About

Located between the Senjuin and Jingumae intersections on Tokyo City Planning Road Auxiliary Line No. 24 (Auxiliary Route 24), the Sendagaya tunnel passes under a temple cemetery. It is 61 meters long, has two lanes in each direction (four lanes total), and is 20 meters wide. It was completed in March 1964. The temple with a cemetery above the tunnel is…

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3 months ago · 2 likes · Goto Daichi

The Man Who Knew Tomorrow

The old man outside Central Station. “Thomas?” The voice disappeared beneath buses grinding away from the curb and the endless shuffle of commuters. I ignored it. “Thomas Gallows.”

That made me freeze, and glance over my shoulder. The figure staring looked close to seventy. His gray coat hung from a body that had forgotten what a full meal felt like. Trembling—not from age alone, but exhaustion, kept to the sides of his body. He looked like someone who had spent a lifetime moving toward a terrifying nightmare.

“Sorry, you got the wrong man,” I said.

The old man just smiled back with heartbreaking relief. “No, I know it’s you.” There was no triumph in the words. I offered a polite nod and turned away. But in the next moment came uneven footsteps.

“You broke your wrist when you were twelve!”

I kept my pace, at first refusing to catch his words.

“Fell from the oak tree behind your grandmother’s house. You still feel the ache every winter.”

That hit me, and I frowned.

“You’ve never told your father what your mother whispered before she died.” Then my stomach tightened. “Because you can’t bear to see him cry.”

“Who are you?”

The old man’s shoulders sagged. “As soon as you asked...” he whispered. “...I knew I’d made it this far.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means this time isn’t like the others.”

I stared. The old man seemed to realize he’d said too much. He looked away, instinctively pressed two fingers against his chest.“When you’re frightened,” he said quietly, “you count your heartbeat.”

“So what are you? A psychic?”

“No.”

“A private investigator?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Then who are you?” The old man looked at me with a familiar expression I got no more answers from him.

Instead he stepped closer, gritting his teeth. “I know what happens if you go to that meeting you’ve been preparing for.”

I folded his arms.

“Oh?”

“On the fourth floor. The one with all the partners,” My expression faltered, pulse quickening. “Just, stay away for today, call in sick.”

Tom forced a smile, “Nice trick.”

“It’s not.” The old man’s eyes glistened. “I’ll be damned if you’re not the only thing I’m ever able to change.” That was it, I couldn’t listen to more of his bullshit. But the old man caught my sleeve, forcefully. Pleading. For a moment I almost believed him. Then embarrassment won and he pulled free.

The security guard outside the building noticed and asked, “Everything okay?”

“He keeps following me.”

The guard stepped between us.

“You need to move along, sir.”

The old man ignored him, focusing his whole being on me.

“Tom, if you remember this one thing...”

His voice almost broke.

“...don’t stand near the windows.”

If you enjoy the content I produce and want to surprise me with a shot of caffeine, the link below will send you to my favorite coffee page. Im so grateful for your support; It really helps get the creative energy flowing. Thank you so much, JWirrorac.

Welcome, Warrior of Words.

The authors are ready to fight.
Now their fate rests with you, the readers.

VOTING

Read both stories carefully before casting your vote. Each author has responded to the above prompt, but their interpretations may differ wildly. Consider how they approach the challenge and which story leaves you with the stronger impression.

The poll will be active for one week. May the best author win.

WAS

Melody was a good kid.

She smiled and curtseyed and said please and thank you and your welcome.

At the store one day, she wanted a piece of candy. Her mother said no.

While her mother was distracted, a woman with a black hoodie and sunglasses urged Melody to take it anyway.

“It’s so small and the store is so big. No one will even know.”

Melody was a good kid.

She smiled and curtseyed and said thank you and your welcome.

There was a spelling test in school one day. She wasn’t prepared at all.

On the way to school that morning, she passed a woman with a black hoodie and sunglasses who was talking on her phone.

“…yeah well, I cheated. Of course I did. If I didn’t know the answer, someone next to me always did.”

Melody was a good kid.

She smiled and curtseyed and said your welcome.

A new girl moved into the house next door. Melody’s mother said she should go over and introduce herself. Maybe they could be friends.

A woman with a black hoodie and sunglasses was walking her dog. A pit bull with big teeth. The hoodie was unzipped, showing a white t-shirt. The t-shirt read “friends are enemies waiting to happen”. It had a picture of a skull on it.

Melody thought the shirt was cool.

Melody was a good kid.

She smiled and said your welcome.

During show and tell, one of the boys brought an super hero action figure to show the class. It had arms that moved and a cape. The boys were careless, throwing it back and forth during recess. When the bell rang, they ran back to class, forgetting to pick it up. Melody found it and picked it up.

As she walked back to class, a woman in a black hoodie and sunglasses, probably a parent, held the door open for her.

“Nice super hero, kid. If I had one of those I’d hold on to it. It’s gonna be worth something someday.”

“Oh. It’s not mine,” Melody said.

“You sure about that,” the woman answered.

Melody was a good kid.

She smiled.

She smiled because she learned how to take what she wanted without getting caught.

She smiled because it was smarter and easier to cheat than it was to study.

She smiled because she was her own best friend. She was the only one that would never let her down.

She smiled because she finders were keepers, and she was a finder.

Melody shortened her name to Mel. It sounded cooler.

No.

It sounded more bad ass.

Way more bad ass.

Melody was too cutesy.

She wasn’t cutesy.

Not anymore.

Mel changed her hair.

Mel wanted a pierced nose. Her mom said no.

She found a way to do it anyway.

Mel changed the way she dressed.

She found a black hoodie and a pair of sunglasses and put them on.

She looked at her reflection.

Melody WAS a good kid.

Was.

Gas Station Carnivals

Amygdalan Daydreams

I thought you were useless…

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2 months ago · 26 likes · 4 comments · Oliver Losinski

Never speak to that wood-skinned hag. Her barbed tongue turns souls to steel. Hear not her echoed song. Only one’s deceitful vision satisfies her hunger.”

Rivers of experience flood my mind. I was awake. How long since my eyes grazed the world?

The Elder ran his fingers through the sand, arming himself with the tooth of an ancient shark who swam here before the Earth burst from the sea. The Elder cradled the tooth in his fingers, held it in the air, and pierced both wrists. The blood gushed forth as he pushed it deeper and heaved the fang down from arm to elbow. Sanguine wine branched across his arm and spilled into the white sands.

“The flesh is God’s final meal. The mind is Satan’s. At any moment, they may feast, and all things will turn to air. We put you back together. Let no spirits of Wakulla deceive you.”

The Elder laughed in my face and turned his back to me. He collapsed from blood loss before he could enter his cabin. A lone child raced from the door, crying over him. She hoisted The Elder from his own pooling blood and dragged him inside, slamming the door behind them. I could feel them forget I ever existed, and I fled before rumors spread. That Elder told me all I needed. The volcano was to the south, deep in the Wakulla wilds.

Sand gave way to swamp as day gave way to night. This swamp, the boundary between land and sea, repeated with every passing palm tree. Deep within this swamp, there is a lone mountain, ensnaring every secret. I was concerned not with the secrets of the beyond, but with my own. I lost something very dear to me, something I cannot remember. Even my own name and the history of this world is lost to me.

Blotches of black ink cover the places they once lived. I chase them through the hallways and the libraries, but they vanish before they can be smeared away. They tease me with a hidden face, little hands grabbing mine, before blotting it all away again. The lonely mountain which stands above the cypress trees and the mangroves, could place them in my arms once again and allow me to smear the ink away.

Pillars of smoke swam through the sky, erasing the stars from view. I drew my blade and blindly slashed through the vines, thick as iron. The ruins of dead empires sat below my feet. I had been here before, and I am here again.

The volcano stood above the terrain, an onyx obelisk, billowing smoke. Nothing grew upon it, not even vines or moss. Surrounding sand and black water all flowed to the same place, a cave. I crept through this narrow cavern for an eternity. The roots grew larger with every grunt and wheeze, as tar pulsed from the black wood like wine from a broken bottle. My final push shoved me into the massive cistern, and death brewed in my lungs.

I stared at the purple veins flowing through the roots.

That old willow tree festered in the umbral smoke.

Leafless branches poured black tar on the dirt.

Bulging from its trunk was the pale face of a porcelain doll, rose cheeks identical to that face behind the ink. It was unworn despite generations of neglect, and its marble eyes stared into mine. This was the hag, and it anticipated an offering.

A burning itch whispered wordlessly behind my dry eye. A shark’s tooth rose from the tar, black resin dripping from the edges. I dropped my knife and wielded this fang instead. I pushed it deep to my spasming eye, and black blood covered half of my vision.

The glass mouth cracked open, and the eyes slid shut. Bugs crawled from its jaw and cracked teeth. I placed my bleeding eye in the mouth, and it slammed shut, scattering its lower jaw across the ground. I opened my mouth and asked:

“What am I—”

Before I could finish, a faint, ethereal whisper echoed through the cave.

Nothing.

I stood still, unable to move. All my memories had flattened, the lie of texture exposed. Decades, even centuries, reduced to a single instant. There were no memories, no little girl holding my hand. . My head pulled itself down. Smoke belched from the tar beneath my feet, cloaking everything in ink. I took my final breath without a mouth, and everything ceased.

The authors are ready to fight.
Now their fate rests with you, the readers.

VOTING

Read both stories carefully before casting your vote. Each author has responded to the above prompt, but their interpretations may differ wildly. Consider how they approach the challenge and which story leaves you with the stronger impression.

The poll will be active for one week. May the best author win.

Kayleigh Thorpe

Personal Touch

This has stuck in my head since this morning. Thanks Michelle Blaine, and Hai Dang (I think you’ll enjoy this actually) and by lineage, TheGrimoireVault and meg for their lovely prompt…

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2 months ago · 12 likes · 9 comments · Kayleigh Thorpe

Still.

Subtitle. Aim Small Miss Small

The kettle screamed. Jonathan didn’t move. He sat at the kitchen table, hands pressed flat. A mug waited beside him, the string of a tea bag draped over the rim. Earl Grey. Clare had left it for him before work. Steam rose, then the click. Jonathan glanced around, breath held. Kettle. Right. He blinked, shook his head.

Tea. Simple. Right?

He stood, poured the water in, watched the tea bleed into it.

Dr. Kaplan had called it hypervigilance. Jonathan went every Tuesday, sat in a room that smelled like instant coffee and floor cleaner. The posters on the walls changed often. Easier to read them than the faces of people he recognised too well.

“Where do you go,” she’d asked once, “when you leave the room?”

He’d been staring at the corner of her desk. It was nicked. He could have told her exactly.

A rooftop. Helmand. Heat pressing down. Lying on his stomach for hours, cheek against the stock, watching a road through a scope.

Jonathan went to that road every day. Buying milk. When his daughter showed him a drawing. Mid-sentence sometimes, and by the time he came back the other person had stopped talking and was staring at him.

“Nowhere,” he said.

Clare had found him once at three in the morning, sitting on the floor of Lilly’s bedroom. Back to the wall beneath the window. Lilly’s breathing soft, slow.

“Jon?”

“I know,” he said. “I’ll come to bed.” He didn’t move.

Clare sat down beside him, close but not touching. They stayed like that a long time. Eventually he leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

Dr. Kaplan had asked him to describe a safe place. The silence dragged.

“The garden,” he said. “With the blackbird.”

He’d been staring out the window one morning. The fence. The grass he hadn’t cut. A blackbird pulling at something in the soil. It hopped, looked at him side-on. Jonathan met its gaze, then flicked his eyes to the tree line, reading it like he used to read rooftops.

“What do you do when the blackbird comes?”

“Nothing. I just watch it.”

Her pen scratched across the notepad. Jonathan watched it move. He fought the urge to calculate the distance between them, the angle, the wind.

Five feet. 120°. No wind.

Over the thump of his heart, Dr. Kaplan said, “That sounds like a good start.”

He nodded. Behind her, through the window, a tree moved in the wind. The blackbird, busy with its own life. Jonathan liked that when it flew away, it was just a bird flying. Not something he had to measure.

He walked home in light rain, hood down, counting his steps until he reached the front gate.

He stopped counting. Lifted his chin. Closed his eyes. Let the rain hit his face.

On that rooftop in the dust and heat, the sniper leaned closer to the scope, adjusted his aim, flicked the safety off, settled his finger on the trigger.

Jonathan stood there.

Monica A Leyva

The Briar Rite

Inspired by the above image prompt from John Watson - Horror Author…

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2 months ago · 33 likes · 19 comments · Monica A Leyva

Someone Remembers Me

The first envelope rested upon my desk before sunrise. Cream paper carried my name in graceful script that belonged unmistakably to my own hand. Both windows remained locked. The alarm remained armed. I broke the seal out of curiosity. A single sentence waited inside. You still count each staircase whenever fear enters your thoughts. My breathing paused. The habit accompanied me through every stage of life while remaining invisible to everyone else. Silence protected it until that impossible morning.

The following dawn revealed another envelope. The message recalled a lullaby my grandmother sang during winter storms, including the forgotten verse she always repeated incorrectly while smiling through exhaustion. Memory unfolded with astonishing precision. Her perfume drifted across the room. Candlelight shimmered against her wedding ring. Warm hands gathered mine beneath an old quilt stitched with faded bluebirds. She carried those moments into eternity years earlier. Those details belonged exclusively to us.

The correspondence continued. Each sunrise revealed another remembrance preserved with impossible fidelity. Hidden embarrassments returned beside private triumphs. Forgotten prayers resurfaced beside abandoned dreams. Thoughts abandoned before speech emerged in elegant handwriting across immaculate pages. I replaced every lock, installed cameras throughout the house, invited investigators into every room, and examined each recording frame by frame. Every search concluded with ordinary explanations. Another envelope waited exactly where my attention settled first.

Weeks passed before the largest parcel rested beside my bed. Rich leather enclosed a magnificent biography bearing my name pressed into weathered gold. Each chapter restored another forgotten chamber within memory. First love, first betrayal, celebration, grief, whispered promises, concealed resentment. The pages understood motives I had never admitted to anyone. Reading became unbearable, yet closing the cover demanded greater strength than continuing. The final chapter ended yesterday afternoon. Blank pages followed without explanation.

Morning revealed another envelope and another completed page. Fresh ink described yesterday with flawless accuracy before sliding seamlessly into the waiting volume. Dawn after dawn expanded the biography. Curiosity conquered restraint. Trembling hands opened chapters describing years beyond tomorrow. Births, funerals, illnesses, reconciliations, quiet mornings, ordinary conversations, accidental kindnesses, forgotten sunsets, and my final breath occupied elegant paragraphs composed with serene certainty. The future already existed. Each choice already rested upon paper waiting for me to remember.

Midnight found me turning the final page. Moonlight revealed a single paragraph written across immaculate paper. The closing words dissolved every comforting explanation I had assembled. Someone had never watched me. Someone remembered living my life before I entered it. Soft footsteps crossed the hallway outside my bedroom. The floorboards answered with a familiar rhythm. My bedroom door opened slowly. I recognized the face immediately. Age refined every feature with quiet patience. I watched myself smile before whispering, “Remember everything this time.” Tomorrow I will write the first envelope, seal it carefully, place it upon this desk, and remember this life once again. Each cycle preserves another memory, while remembrance steals another certainty until my own name belongs more completely to someone else forever.

Thanks to the overwhelming volume of submissions to the arena I’ve had to step up posting these. Thank you all very much :)

I think you will enjoy this fight tonight, where is joined by the equally talented . Both are capable of writing emotional, thought-provoking stories, and has replied with their unique style to the prompt below. I can’t tell which of these chilling pieces of fiction will win. Each has trained hard for this moment— So, I fully recommend you check out their SUBSTACKs from the links provided.

VOTING

The authors are ready to fight.
Now their fate rests with you, the readers.

Read both stories carefully before casting your vote. Each author has responded to the above prompt, but their interpretations may differ wildly. Consider how they approach the challenge and which story leaves you with the stronger impression.

The poll will be active for one week. May the best author win.

Wendy Cockcroft's Writings

Strange Games

Written for a John Watson - Horror Author image prompt. Inspired by The In Between and Labyrinthia Mythweaver…

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3 months ago · 23 likes · 14 comments · Wendy Cockcroft

The Stalking of Annie Macklin

It began with a tiny rag doll on her doorstep. Annie shrugged, thinking Tinker bell might have left it there. She picked it up, washed it, and braced herself for the inevitable knock on the door.

She found her wing mirrors bent inwards. So far, so annoying. When she found the Nice ‘n’ Easy hair dye on the doorstep (Medium Cool Brown), she began to worry. The cat could not have dragged that home. She ran her thin fingers through her hot pink hair. What was this about?

Annie found her garden gnomes repositioned. Her tulips were dug up and swapped with her begonias. A throbbing pain above her nose joined the tightness in her scalp.

“Are you alright, Annie?” her team leader asked.

“I don’t know what’s going on, Karen,” she complained. “Everything is just… wrong.”

Calls to her mobile phone and at work rang three times and stopped. The numbers were hidden. A scaly red rash broke out on her arms. She found a tube of Betnovate lying on her inside doormat when she got home.

Her aunt Martha had a caravan in Rhyl. Annie had a spare key for it. When she arrived, she found the handle wrenched off the door. She called the police. They told her to get a locksmith. She sat crying in her car until he arrived. When the lock had been replaced, she got back into her car and drove back to Littendale.

Tinkerbell was lying curled up on the doorstep. When Annie bent down to pet her, she realised her cat was dead. Her heart jumped. Glancing desperately around, she saw nothing untoward, and returned to her car. A yellow flash in her left side view mirror made her turn her head. Her bedroom light was on. She shuddered and fumbled the key, and as she tried to drive away, realised she’d left the handbrake on. She disengaged it and drove to the police station.

The desk sergeant looked up with a bored expression on his careworn face as she walked in.

“There’s someone in my house and my cat’s dead on the doorstep.”

He nodded. “Take a seat. Someone will be out in a minute.”

She sat down on the faux leather bench until a policewoman came out and called her into an interview room. Half an hour later, she was sitting on a bed in a women’s shelter, wondering when the nightmare was finally going to end. The following day, she called in sick.

“If you tell me where you are, I’ll come and see you,” Karen said, her voice like cheap treacle.

Annie raised her head, her mouth dry. “I’m at home.”

“Of course.”

When her caseworker, Linda, came later on, Annie told her about the call.

“What is her full name?”

“Karen Hurley. She lives in Stockport.”

“The police have traced the three-ring calls to an address in Stockport. Have you ever met her boyfriend?”

“No.”

“We think he’s behind this.”

Annie shuddered. “Does she know?”

“We’re not sure.”

The Sebstack of Horror

The Watcher

I have love for all of my subscribers, and I thank you for your time and your support. Because you can’t buy love, paid subscribers get early access with extra benefits and pieces which is the only thing I have to offer outside of my heartfelt gratitude and humble appreciation…

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2 months ago · 26 likes · 5 comments · Sincerely Seb

Getting Published

My phone started vibrating in my pocket.

Number withheld. I answered.

“Hello?”

“Mr Green! So good of you to answer my call.”

It was the independent publisher I’d given my autobiography to yesterday.

“Mr Anders! I’m so happy you called! Did you read my manuscript already?”

“I got what I needed from it.”

“So you think it’ll be good to publish?” I asked excitedly.

“I would’t know,” I could hear him smiling, “You should probably ask a publisher that.”

I paused.

“You said you were a publisher?”

“No, that was just a ruse.”

“Wait, what? Then...why did you want to read my manuscript?”

“It’s an autobiography,” his tone was casual, relaxed, “I just wanted to get to know you personally. Find out a little bit about you, it makes the experience more enjoyable.”

“What experience?” I demanded, “Who are you? Is your name even Anders?”

“Nope,” he snickered, “I told you, that was just a ruse.”

“What do you want?” I looked around the street, my heartbeat increasing each second, “Who are you?”

“Did you know I like dinosaurs, Jim?”

“No…why would I know that?” I couldn’t think straight, “And it’s James.”

“I think the dinosaur shirt your son has on is pretty cool,” he continued, “And your manuscript says those close to you call you Jim. You don’t mind, do you Jim?”

The world stopped moving. My chest was pounding.

I couldn’t breathe.

My son Matt was wearing his favorite green Tyrannosaurus rex t-shirt today.

“Are you there, Jimbo?”

My wife, my son. I’d given him my address to send royalty checks to yesterday at our meeting. I’d written it down on the contract we signed.

“Man, your wife is a looker there pal,” he whistled quietly, “Wouldn’t mind a piece of that...or pieces.”

I looked at my watch. She’d picked him up from daycare and would be arriving home right about now.

I still couldn’t believe this was happening.

“Are you at my house?”

“135 Waltham Way?” came the reply, “Nice little place you have here Jimothy, be a shame if there were a couple of mangled dead bodies lying around inside.”

“No,” my stomach dropped, “No, no, no, don’t do anything. Please.”

“I’m afraid that’s the whole point Jim Jiminy,” he chuckled, “Be a pretty big waste of my time and resources if I didn’t get to enjoy a little torture for my efforts.”

“Please,” I cried, “Please don’t. Why are you doing this? What did I do to you?”

“I’m not really that kind of killer, my friend. You just got unlucky. It’s not about you, it’s just how I operate. You come to my office, give me everything I need, and I take everything you have.”

Tears were flowing down my cheeks.

“Why?! Why would you do this?”

“I enjoy it,” he said simply, “Anyways, I gotta run. The cops’ll be here in about six minutes. Plenty of time for some brutality. I recommend calling them soon.”

Then the line went dead.

This episode of Campfires was a little different. Thanks to a new feature on Substack Notes, instead of contacting authors directly, I asked you to choose the course of an unfolding story. It was an experiment that harked back to the Choose Your Own Adventure books I loved as a child.

— Below is an example of the NOTES prompt —

Thank you so much for the participation of everyone in deciding how the story unfolds. I will be exploring this interactive story-telling further, but in a separate series. Campfires 10 will continue the established process, but with a SPECIAL format,

For now, enjoy the story below.

PART 1

SPECIMEN 3B — “Subglacial Helminth Fossil (NON-LIVING?)”

But the word NON-LIVING has been scratched off. From inside the broken jar, the ancient species has escaped. A technician leaning over the jar just 12 minutes ago, a security monitor confirms it. Impossible to know who it was. He tilts slightly… then jerks violently as the worm invades his mind. The feed cuts before he shows his face. Behind you, somewhere deeper in the article station, a ventilation shaft clicks. You realize someone entered before your lab shift. And whatever was in that jar… is already inside the base.

What do you do?

You chose - Initiate a lockdown.

PART 2

Your finger hovers over the emergency switch. Allowing anyone to leave would mean the organism's escape. You’ve got to save humanity. But in doing so damned the five personnel here, including you. You don’t finish the thought. Your hand slams down, and for a second, nothing happens. Then the station erupts.

LOCKDOWN INITIATED.

A howling siren heralds steel blast doors crashing shut across the base. Every route into the wilderness vanishes, leaving cold stillness behind. However, before you’re given time to think, the station intercom crackles to life. A voice fills the room. “This is Hansen. Who the hell locked down the base? Answer me!” You don’t answer, because he could be compromised.

Then a new announcement plays, overriding your radio silence. “Report to the central briefing room, immediately.” He can’t be serious. People should be kept isolated until they're properly checked. As you look at the array of security screens, you suddenly notice the briefing room’s monitor is flashing nothing but static.

What do you do?

You chose - inform the base of the breach.

PART 3

You thumb the transmit button.

“Attention all personnel. This is Dr. Mercer.” Your voice echoes through the empty laboratory. “I initiated the lockdown because Specimen 3B has breached containment. Remain where you are. Lock your doors—”

A burst of static drowns out the last of your warning.

Then another voice cuts in. “This is Hansen. Dr. Mercer has no authority to override station protocol. I said, everyone report to the central briefing room.”

A trembling voice interrupts before Hansen can continue, “...Thank God.” She struggles to steady her breathing. “This is Linda. I’m trapped in Hydroponics. The emergency doors sealed when the lockdown started.” One by one, the remaining scientists answer Hansen’s roll call, all except Dr Robert’s.

After several long seconds, Hansen speaks again. “Understood, I’ll see about Linda. Everyone else, briefing room, now.”

What do you do?

You chose - Go to Hydroponics and rescue Linda.

PART 4

Every emergency light stains a corridor crimson. Hydroponics lies on the far side of the research wing. You keep one hand on the radio and hold an emergency flare in the other. It isn’t much of a weapon, but it beats empty hands. From up ahead, you hear a voice. “Linda!”

“Hansen?... I’m in here.” He got to her first. “The doors sealed when the lockdown started. I can’t get out.” Together, you force the Hydroponics entrance open. At the center of the room stands Linda, repeatedly striking the emergency release panel with a wrench. The moment she sees you, relief floods her face.

“Oh, thank God.”

You don’t go inside, not yet. If either of you is compromised, this ends here. Without a word, Hansen raises his hands and lets you examine him. “So, I’m telling the truth. But you think someone else is infected?” Hansen asks.

You reply, “I know it. That specimen jar didn’t break itself.”

Hansen nods once. “I see. Now it’s your turn, Mercer.” But before you can reply, shouting erupts through the station speakers, from back in the briefing room. Heavy crashes against metal follow it. Then a single gunshot echoes through the station.

What do you do?

You chose - Escort Linda to safety.

PART 5

For a moment after the gunshot, no one moves. Then you speak. “We’re getting you somewhere secure.” Linda doesn’t argue. The wrench remains clenched in her trembling hands as the three of you hurry through crimson-lit corridors. Every intersection feels exposed.

Hansen leads you to Storage Room C. His explanation: “Reinforced walls with an independent air supply.” The heavy door opens with a reluctant hiss. Inside are emergency rations, medical supplies, and a thick manual deadbolt.

“What about you?” Linda asks. You don’t answer. She realizes she won’t get one and quietly steps inside.

“This is getting out of control,” you mutter. “We’ve got to warn the mainland.”

Before Hansen can reply, the radio crackles.

“...This is... Roberts... Is anyone...” Static swallows the rest. Then another voice cuts in.

“Hansen here. Glad you’re still alive. I found the entity in the sleeping quarters. Come here immediately.”

You slowly turn toward the man standing beside you, color draining from his face. He barely whispers,

“...There’s something I didn’t tell you.”

What do you do?

You chose - Question Hansen

PART 6

“...There’s something I didn’t tell you.” Hansen’s voice spoke barely above a whisper. “When the alarm sounded... I wasn’t in the briefing room.” You stare at him.

“What?”

“I never made the announcement telling everyone to gather.”

“But—”

“The first voice you heard...” Hansen swallows. “...wasn’t mine.” Silence. Every decision you’ve made since the lockdown flashes through your mind.

Report to the briefing room.

Disregard Dr. Mercer.

I’ll see about Linda.

If Hansen is telling the truth...someone else has been speaking with his voice.

The radio crackles again.

“Dr. Mercer.” It is Hansen’s voice. “Roberts has barricaded himself inside Laboratory Four. He’s killed two people already. If you’re hearing this, don’t let him escape.” The transmission ends.

The Hansen standing beside you slowly removes his radio. “I turned mine off five minutes ago.” Neither of you speaks. Then, somewhere beyond the storage corridor... Three gunshots echo through the station.

You and Hansen reach Laboratory Four together. The reinforced blast door hangs half open, twisted by explosives meant for ice excavation. Inside, the laboratory is soaked in blood. Broken equipment litters the floor. Two bodies lie motionless. Standing at the far window is Dr. Roberts. His lab coat is stained red. A flare gun hangs loosely in one hand. He doesn’t turn around.

“I was wondering how long it’d take.”

You raise your flare. “Don’t move.” Roberts laughs—a tired, defeated laugh.

“Still giving orders.”

“You murdered them.”

“I stopped them.” He finally turns. His face is untouched. You expected wounds and impossible movements, but there is just exhaustion.

“Have you all been listening?” he says quietly. “To the radio?”

Hansen steps forward.

“The parasite imitates voices.”

“No.” Roberts shakes his head. “It never needed to control us, only had to make each of us believe someone else was infected.” His eyes settle on Hansen.

“Tell him.”

Hansen freezes, so Roberts continues. “You never told Mercer what happened in the briefing room.”

For several seconds, Hansen says nothing.

Then...

“I shot Collins.” The words barely leave his mouth. “He tried to stop me from sealing the exits.”

“You thought he was infected?” you ask. “You killed him anyway?”

“I couldn’t risk it.”

Roberts nods sadly. “And after that...”

“...everyone became a possible host.”

Hansen lowers his head. “I kept making choices; I thought they were the right ones.”

“I’m trying to save everyone.”

“So am I.” Roberts raises the flare gun at you. Silence fills the laboratory, in contrast to the Antarctic wind screaming against the walls. Finally, you ask the question neither man can avoid.

“You think I’m infected?”

“I know it.” Roberts smiles faintly. “No one was in the laboratory but you, Mercer.”

“Back with Linda…” Hansen looks at you with eyes wide. “I… Didn’t get to check you…” You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Because, for the first time...you cannot remember opening the laboratory door. Only an empty specimen jar broken on the floor.

The station speakers crackle. A calm voice fills every room.

“Contacting Dr. Mercer from Mainland.” Your blood freezes. The voice is yours. “We confirm your report - Containment is secure. No other survivors. Initiating a rescue team to pick you up.”

You instinctively step backwards.

Roberts tightens his grip on the flare gun.

Hansen doesn't move.

Neither of them looks away from you.

END

Congratulations to for winning her author match. put up a great fight, and I hope they submit again. And now, it’s time for another round in the arena.

Each author has replied with their unique style to the prompt above. I can’t tell which of these chilling pieces of fiction will win. Each has trained hard for this moment— So, I fully recommend you check out their SUBSTACKs from the links provided.

VOTING

The authors are ready to fight.
Now their fate rests with you, the readers.

Read both stories carefully before casting your vote. Each author has responded to the above prompt, but their interpretations may differ wildly. Consider how they approach the challenge and which story leaves you with the stronger impression.

The poll will be active for one week. May the best author win.

Daniel Fahey

Lovebugs

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2 months ago · 12 likes · 2 comments · Daniel Fahey

Title: The Audit

There is a way to know the exact time and manner of one’s death. The process is simple, but taxing for the psyche because the most vital ingredient is the blood of an unbaptized infant, enough to fill a basin.

There are people who will sell newborns in this world. They worship other gods than the ones whose guidance we seek during the ritual; ones who bestow their gifts in little plastic bags and leave marks on the arms of their followers.

The person performing the ritual should not prolong the sacrifice, nor choose a painful manner. The original text that described the ritual details a method that involves pinning the child’s neck to the floor with a broomstick and pulling their legs until the spinal cord dislocates. One should be mindful of the death spasms, which can be quite hard to control.

This method is recommended because it maintains the physical integrity of the vessel; more or less. The head still flops when the Auditor assumes control of the body, but at that age, they flop either way.

Your story is already written. It’s in your blood and bones, your skin, your teeth. Your soul already knows the ending, but it’s not allowed to spoil it. You need an Auditor for that.

Once the basin is full and the vessel is empty, you can request a soul audit. Your penmanship needs to be perfect for the runes to work, and the body will be small and delicate. Practice if you have the resources to do so.

If the request is granted, expect a lengthy dissection of your moral character. Our fates are intertwined with our actions. The Auditor is meticulous. He will itemize and catalogue every decision you have ever made and will ever make.

He won’t just look at outcomes, but intentions as well. Every ulterior motive, every white lie, everything you tried to hide from yourself. A lifetime of sin and guilt from the mouth of a babe.

The Auditor will know when you heard your mother crying when you were nine and ignored it, and when you will cheat on your spouse on their 35th birthday.

They’ll use slurs because you do, even if it’s only in your mind. They will regale you with tales of shame and cruelty, some you may have forgotten, and some you have yet to know.

Most people go mad during this phase. Many have tried to silence the Auditor, only to find the voice migrating to their own lips instead. One man stuck an ice pick in his ear during an audit in the early 70’s. He survived the ritual only to be struck by a bus that he couldn’t hear coming.

If you make it through the audit, your fate will be revealed in the basin. You will know how you will die... but you will also know why. Few can handle the weight of that knowledge. And sleep brings no peace; their deaths play eternally in their dreams.

Thoughts from Eastern New Mexico

The Last Witness

I was here before your first fire. Before your first word. Before the first frightened child pressed a paint-covered hand against the wall of a cave and unknowingly left something that would outlive them. I kept it. I have kept everything…

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2 months ago · 9 likes · 1 comment · Jon Mountjoy

Everybody in Portales Knows Your Name

By the third time someone apologized for the passing of my mother, I stopped correcting them.

The first was a girl at Allsup’s.

“I’m sorry about your mama,” she said, sliding my coffee across the counter.

“My mother died before you were born.”

She nodded like she was listening to someone else.

“Still sorry.”

The second was an old man outside the courthouse.

“She didn’t mean to leave you.”

He kept feeding cracker crumbs to pigeons that weren’t there. The third was a boy outside the Do Drop In eating a cinnamon roll.

“I liked your dog,” he said.

“I never had a dog.”

“You wanted one when you were nine.”

He bit into a cinnamon roll and smiled at someone behind me.

That night my phone lit up. It was an Unknown Number… “You buried the butterfly behind the propane tank.”

I had forgotten… Until I hadn’t… Blue wings… Small hands.

My six-year-old grief had no language for guilt. I buried it behind the propane tank, then dug it back up two days later because I thought apologies worked backward if you meant them enough.

Then, another message arrived. “You cried when no one came looking.”

Before sunrise I drove east, past Portales, toward a place my grandfather called Hungry Land. The mesquite gave up first, then the fence posts. Even the wind seemed unwilling to cross the last stretch of caliche. An abandoned irrigation well stood alone. There was no pump, no cattle, and no birds. The dirt around it held no tracks. It was as if nothing ever arrived… Or ever left.

I looked down... There was no water… There was no bottom. Only the awful impression that I had caught something pretending not to watch me. It spoke in my father’s voice, then my wife’s, then mine… Then the voice I use when I dream.

“You have lived less of your life than you think.”

“What are you?”

Silence… Then… “I’ve known you since before you had a name.”

Cold air drifted upward. It told me everything…

…Not what happened.

…What almost happened.

The truck that almost crossed the centerline outside Clovis.

The son we almost had.

The person I almost became.

Then it told me about you… You paused there… Most people do… You think you’re reading my story.

No… I need you to keep reading. You buried yours deeper.

Not bodies… Just the parts of yourself you couldn’t bear to keep.

News Flash: Nothing forgotten disappears… It drains.

Down through memory.

Down through shame.

Down beneath whatever town taught you how to lie.

I know what you buried.

You do too.

That’s why you kept reading.

If you don’t remember me tomorrow...

I’ll know you’ve already forgotten yourself.

Whether this is your first visit to the mansion or your second...

Welcome to the playground.

It waits for you…

It has always waited for you…

You stop. After years of chasing rumors, you've found the mansion in the forests of Japan. A place where people were torn apart. It shouldn’t exist. The stories contradicted each other, yet every dead end carried you closer. A faded Torii gate marks the opening, and there, low on the wood, a scratch. Beyond it, a bridge covered in moss invites you further in. Before continuing, you are reminded how every victim eventually hangs in the mirror. Do not turn back; this has been your life’s work. One moment you hesitate, the next, old wood groans beneath your weight. The grass lies untrodden on this side. No wind. No voices in decades.

Only you and the house.

Stories all agree on a ceremonial mirror. If you leave with it, no one can deny the mansion ever existed. The entrance hall opens beneath a roof torn open to the sky. The flashlight’s beam stutters, leaving parts of a hallway untouched. The air is a mix of mold, dust, damp wood, but something else lurks underneath it. The walls themselves are scarred—that same tangled scratch from the gate, fresher here, though still nothing you can read. From above, water drips down ropes that hang from the ceiling. Whenever you stop, one begins to move. When you continue, it falls still again. You can’t help counting them. Who hung them here? Perhaps one rope for every visitor.

Where does yours hang?

Footsteps echo uncomfortably loud in this place. Paper doors line the walls, sealed tight, with scratch marks, low on the doorframe now, close enough to touch. From behind you— a scrape. No one there. But now a single rope swings.

Near a collapsed pillar are the sleeping quarters. A photograph lies face-down beside a table. You turn it over without thinking. A family of four smiles back at you— a woman squints into the sun, while one child laughs. On the back is written: First cherry blossoms in the house. This room is serene, but another is not. Knowing comes before you slide open the door. You have been in this room before, though you have never been here at all. Mats are split apart by cuts so violent the stains have soaked through the fibers. On the far wall, handprints— almost childlike—drag crimson before disappearing beneath another door.

Through the door and deeper still. Another room opens before you, lined with countless scratches. They overlap each other until the surface blurs. Most stop halfway, cut by hands pressing too hard. Were they afraid, you wonder. Did whoever carve these know what was coming? Beside it all lies a coiled length of rope. Its rough weight settles in your hands after picking it up. At the center—an altar with a shard of trembling glass. Every instinct tells you not to meet its gaze. You do anyway. It is not you who stares back. It is them. The mirror has seen who entered before you. Men, women, and children hang shoulder to shoulder, dressed in white. They stare past the glass as if expecting you. For a heartbeat, no one moves. Then, one woman blinks, mouthing words, over and over.

Save me. Save me. Save me.

You tear away from the sight. The room around you hasn’t changed, only gone silent. Then— screaming. Not yours. Every mouth in the mirror opens at once.

You hear yourself cry out, “Keep your secrets, just let me leave.” You want to run—escape whatever it is before it arrives— but your legs don't answer. The rope ending in your hands is already hugging your body. You don't remember it tightening. You only know it has. Fingers ache from nails biting deep into wood. Before you can pull away, you realize you're carving something into the frame, the same shape you followed from the gate. Save me. Panic tears your hands free— You understand, too late, that you have been reading your own fate the entire time.

Got to leave. Find the exit. But somehow you can’t move from where it started, the mirror. Here, the people who came before you hang on the wall. Every one of them howls. Mouths open, stretching wider. Eyes gone empty. Hungry for another.

A burning spreads across your chest as you look at the ceiling. Almost every rope hangs occupied. Except one. You were never going to find the mirror, only the place to hang your own rope. Pain never has time to arrive. No— the last sensation is the tearing. Something gives. Your body ceases to belong to you as you’re pulled away from the message carved for the next one to follow.

Someday another person will read this, too, and see one more face among many in the mirror.

Yours.

You'll already be waiting.

In light of the recent tremendous responses from people, posts will happen more frequently. I want to personally thank for spreading the word.

** I also want to address concerns about the PROMPT DEADLINE - It's basically open indefinitely. So don’t worry much, because I will take submissions as long as you write them. You can also submit to old prompts by writing in their comments section, just like most people sent to me quickly.

Each author has replied with their unique style to the prompt above. I can’t tell which of these chilling pieces of fiction will win. Each has trained hard for this moment— So, I fully recommend you check out their SUBSTACKs from the links provided.

VOTING

The authors are ready to fight.
Now their fate rests with you, the readers.

Read both stories carefully before casting your vote. Each author has responded to the above prompt, but their interpretations may differ wildly. Consider how they approach the challenge and which story leaves you with the stronger impression.

The poll will be active for one week. May the best author win.

1.

The cold comes first. My bare feet decide to swing out from under the blanket and find the cold hardwood, like they’ve done it a thousand times.

This isn’t the heavy, suffocating paralysis that traps you in sleep. I’m perfectly awake, entirely functional, just evicted from my own flesh. My body throws back the duvet, swings my legs over the edge of the mattress, and stands. I scream internally, straining to pull back. My consciousness is a ghost behind unblinking eyes.

I watch my feet glide across the floorboards with a fluid precision that doesn’t belong to me. Down the dark hallway. There’s a third stair from the bottom that creaks, and my foot skips it without being told.

Into the kitchen. My hand pulls open the heavy utensil drawer. It goes to the back left where the good knife lives, the one that’s always dull despite barely being used. The fingers close around the handle in a grip I’ve never used to hold anything, low and reversed, the way you’d hold it if cutting wasn’t the point. I pull against my own arm with everything I have. The arm doesn’t notice.

My legs guide me to the front door. Two deadbolts. My left hand turns the top while my right turns the bottom, a little choreography. The night air is crisp, making my eyes tear. I want to wipe them. Instead, my hand rises and tucks my hair behind one ear, unhurried, like I have somewhere to be and time to look right.

Parked at the end of the driveway, under the streetlamp, a black sedan idles. The window rolls down with a soft hiss as my body approaches. The figure waits behind the wheel in a tailored suit, looking at me with the casual satisfaction of a manager checking a production line.

My arm extends through the window and offers him the knife. He takes it from my unresisting fingers and sets it on the passenger seat as he checks his watch.

“Two minutes early,” he says. “Was worried after the last wipe. Get in.”

The back door opens on its own. My legs already lifting me inside. Early for what? The last wipe? What the fuck is happening?

My body slides onto the leather seat. The door closes with a gentle click.

I look down at my hands, resting neatly on my knees, completely out of my control as the car pulls away. And then my eyes catch the ledger sitting beside me, along for the ride.

It’s a logbook. Names, dates, hours logged. All in my handwriting. My name at the top, and beneath it, hundreds of entries spanning twelve years. Every night, 3:00 AM to 5:00 AM. Some of the names are crossed out; a few I recognize from the news, though I have no memory of ever writing any of this.

Every morning I wake exhausted, bruised, blaming a dream.

The stranger catches my gaze in the rearview mirror and smiles. “Don’t look so tense,” he whispers. “You always hate it while it’s happening. But don’t worry. You’ll thank me again at breakfast.”

Perfectly Unsuitable

So like, straws?

Subscribe to Perfectly Unsuitable. It gets weird, but usually in a meaningful way…

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2 months ago · 6 likes · 2 comments · Meghan Carozza

2.

He knows how I like my pancakes.

The warm fork with lace-thin burned edges rests against my lips until I open wide. Each bite small enough to gently melt on my tongue before I swallow the soft sweet centre soaked in warm syrup and sinking butter.

His cold hand does not smell of duty.

His touch makes me whole.

After lunch, my wheels begin their soft, slow complaint as he pushes me outside. He never asks where I want to go. We both just know without ever speaking about it.

No need to kill the innocence of our secret little outing.

My stranger, all mine.

I wonder what he looks like, not that it matters. But I think he has beautiful, quiet sad eyes. I can feel it in his rhythm, his stride. His nature. I get lost in him. He makes me think. He makes me dream.

I miss him.

There is a place that smells like damp stone. Roses. Soil warming in the afternoon. Our place. Where I can feel him rustling and settling around the warmth of the blanket wrapped around my knees, where he takes me to cry.

He always stops right there.

I always gasp a little in delight when he waits for the air to gather itself differently around us. Green. Blooming. Breathing.

Here, in this same shade of me, in the eye of the storm of his presence, where all my feelings come rushing back over me and through me.

I think we are alone. It must be why he chose this spot. I don’t hear the voices. The others don’t need to know about this. They will just get jealous.

I let him hold my soul here, a little longer each surrendered afternoon.

At first it was only a pause. A silence. A nervous cold hand trembling on my shoulder.

I do hope he stays with me here, just a bit longer tomorrow. I know he will. He always does. Each day we become a little closer. I can feel it.

His hand finds my neck, his fingers touch my hair.

He strokes through my hair, brushing each strand aside one by one.

His hand finds my neck again.

My cheek.

My throat.

Each new day, I let him. Each new touch enters me completely and soaks through me like warm syrup.

Each morning I miss him.

His beard brushes the soft place just below my ear.

I miss him.

His breath opens over my skin.

His mouth finds my neck.

I smell rain-wet bark.

I miss him.

Again.

Something even darker.

Deeper.

More faithful.

A soft soothing sigh.

His warm mouth lingering against my skin.

I miss him.

I wonder what his voice sounds like.

He makes me think.

He makes me dream.

I let him.

His voice feels full and strong.

Hungry.

Aching.

Each day he knows more about me.

Each day he comes closer.

I like the way his beard tickles my neck.

His soul devours mine.

In small bites.

Again.

I mix in his mouth, sweetly.

Melting.

Sinking down deeper into him.

He knows where loneliness sits in my bones, and he presses his lips right there while I soak him in.

His pain becomes my own.

Each private afternoon, more needy.

Each time my soul begs his edges to burn a little slower.

A little closer, before he takes me back to my room.

I hope I dream about him again tonight.

I wonder how he likes his pancakes.

My stranger.

I miss him.

My chat is being inundated with the latest pieces of work from great SUBSTACK authors. Here is a small selection that I believe is the most interesting. Please give them a try. Maybe there is an author out there who knows you better than you know yourself…

Please feel free to post your new article in the chat, too.

The Thinking Silence

Permission to Exist

No one should need permission to exist…

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2 months ago · 84 likes · 48 comments · Sara da Encarnação

We spend a surprising amount of our lives asking permission to exist. Permission to speak. To take up space. To be different. To be ourselves.

Today’s piece explores how societies quietly teach us to become smaller... and why, sooner or later, something inside us simply says, No.

It leads to an original song, “Who Gave You the Right?”, because some questions deserve to be felt as much as understood.

Hawtorn V. Rabot

The Orphan in the Woods

Subscribe to both of us…

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2 months ago · 112 likes · 58 comments · James (HVR) and Zephyr Mezmeron👾CYBEROCCULTISM

People once believed that when someone dies, a crow carries their soul to the land of the dead. But sometimes, something so bad happens that a terrible sadness is carried with it, and the soul can’t rest. Then sometimes, just sometimes, the crow can bring that soul back to put the wrong things right.

-The Crow

This piece, a poem, a song, a fantasy, a statement of the environment, is based on The Crow.

Shain Parwiz

Reparations

Artwork by: Shain Parwiz…

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2 months ago · 10 likes · 3 comments · Shain Parwiz

Hey folks,

A new piece is live.

Reparations

What I cannot remember, I still owe. It’s about memory, illness, accountability, and trying to make peace with actions you may never fully remember. Sometimes the right thing isn’t finding every answer. It’s deciding how you’ll move forward regardless.

If you give it a read, thank you.

-Shain

The Sebstack of Horror

Arm Wrestling

I have love for all of my subscribers, and I thank you for your time and your support. Because you can’t buy love, paid subscribers get early access with extra benefits and pieces which is the only thing I have to offer outside of my heartfelt gratitude and humble appreciation…

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2 months ago · 12 likes · 6 comments · Sincerely Seb

My latest short horror story is available; it is mindlessly violent. I hope you enjoy!

A Writer’s Voice

Suffocation, a Poem

Being loved is beautiful. Being loved so much that it feels like there’s a bag over your face is ugly…

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2 months ago · 6 likes · 3 comments · A Writer’s Voice

Being loved is beautiful.

Being loved so much that you can’t breathe isn’t.