Story 9: The Dutchman

The sky was a mottled grey, with thick clouds blanketing the sky. Not a spot of blue anywhere in the sky or on the horizon. The old schooner, Mazer’s Folly, was pushing along on its Journey toward Port Royal. A band of scallywags and scoundrels hoisted the sails, manned the cannons, and were on watch for any pirates or dangers. The life of a privateer, while not as glamorous as that of the pirates of the west indies, was certainly a lot longer if one was careful out on the open sea. The captain of the vessel, Miss Anne Read, had always played it safe and careful for the sake of her crew. In a few short hours they would spot land and arrive in Port Royal for trading, tobacco, drink and merriment. But first they needed to make it there.

Anne walked the deck of the ship, watching the work of her men with a careful eye. She learned long ago that loyalty on a ship was earned, not given outright, and the loyalty she earned from her crew was due to her keen eye for detail, her willingness to work alongside them, and her safety-first mentality. Anne spotted one of her crewmen struggling to tie down one of the cannons to the deck. “Oy, Mister Stephens, struggling with that there knot?” Anne knelt down and swatted his hands away, “Go and take watch, give your hands a rest. I’ll get this tied down.”

“Yes, Cap’n” Stephens said, giving a half salute and scampering off to the crows nest.

“He’s a good man, but he’s got maybe a season or two left at sea before his hands are about used up.” Anne said under her breath, securing the cannon quickly and resuming her check of the deck. About forty-five minutes after the cannon incident she heard a bell ringing from above her. “Ship ahoy, Cap’n. Galleon by the looks of it! Signalling for us to come about and take some letters ashore!” Stephens called from the crows nest above. Anne reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out her spyglass. A series of lantern flashes of the ship confirmed the signal:

“Letters home, please take with you. Dropping barrel now.”

Sure enough, a barrel was lowered into the water and the ship turned about to sail towards the open ocean. A storm could be seen off in the distance, brewing stronger and stronger but it appeared to be moving out toward the sea as well.

“Reef sails, you scallywags. Slow the ship. Get that barrel up here and lets continue on our way. That Galleon’s got business elsewhere and so do we.” Anne called out to the men who were already moving in anticipation of her orders. The barrel was hauled onto the deck and set next to the water barrels. With a bark of orders from the Bosun, Mister Veers, and the ship was back on course toward port royal.

“I wonder if that Galleon will survive the storm ahead, seems foolhardy to sail directly into a brewing maelstrom like that, eh Veers.” Anne said, pulling out her spyglass one more time to check the Galleon’s status.

“Indeed, Captain Read, But what the King’s Navy decides to do is hardly our probl-” He cut off after hearing a gasp from Captain Anne Read.

“That’s not a ship of the King’s Navy, Veers.” Anne closed the spyglass and pocketed the spyglass. Veers looked in the direction Anne had been looking and took in a sharp gasp himself. That storm that had been brewing all day was now a wall of rain, storm, lightning and death sailing straight toward them and at the head of that storm was the Galleon they had just encountered shortly before. “Are they trying to get away perhaps?”

“Turn the ship around, me boys, Turn around and run!” Anne shouted, “That storm is a coming and we surely won’t survive it. Now batton the hatches, unfurl mains, and lets make with all haste to Port Royal.”

The crew moved again, anticipating their captain’s orders. Veers moved to the navigator station as the captain motioned the man away, “This is going to take the captain’s touch I think.” She dismissed the navigator and had him take up with the crew manning the main sail.

“Captain, what about that other ship, do we leave her out there without trying to help those crewmen?” Veers asked, panicked. He had never known Anne to simply turn tail and run.

“That ain’t no King’s Navy Ship, nor is it any ship of any nation on this earth. Rage, Death, and Chaos fill her sails. That there is the Flying Dutchman. We’ve got to move, NOW!” Anne said with a fierce determination and a sharp turn of the wheel. “Wind is from the west, which means we’ve got the favor of whatever gods you believe in! Now let’s go, go, go!”

The thunder seemed to growl a monstrous roar, like the roar of a hundred devils and demons from the depths of hell. The Dutchman seemed to leap forward from the waves, cutting through the storm riddled ocean with ease. The undead crew certainly didn’t need to worry about things as simple and fragile as mortality, that was certain. A large wave crested beneath her ship and raised it above the ocean, almost as if grasped by the hand of Poseidon himself. As quickly as they had been risen up, the wave seemed to dissipate, causing Mazer’s Folly to crash into the trough that formed below them. A crack of lightning flashed against the surface of the sea nearby, lighting up the sky and sea for a moment.

“Man the lines boy, give us every inch of sail we can spare.” Anne called out. Veers held on to the deck, fearful for how quickly their fortunes had changed. “Mr. Veers, update!”

Veers looked back, the ship and storm were closing quickly behind them, with maybe a couple dozen meters between them. “They are closing, Captain, A few more moments and they will be on top of us!”

Captain Anne Read gritted her teeth and held on for all she could. She saw several members of her crew doing the same, all knowing the same deadly truth: letting go now would mean certain damnation. Another flash of lightning provided a glimpse of the sea around them, still no sign of land. The winds and rain crashed against the ship, knocking her around, too and fro. Suddenly a chill laughter could be heard on the air. For a moment, Anne thought one of her crew members, maybe old Stephens, had cracked under the pressure. “Steady, lads, steady!” She called out to her crew, then turned to the left. About two doezen meters off the bow of the ship, there was the dutchman. A ghostly figure stood on deck laughing like a mad hatter. “Turn the ship around me boys, turn around and run” he mocked her warning to her crew.

“Captain, Land ho!” Anne heard Stephen’s voice call out. The man may be going bad in the hands, but those eyes of his were sharp as ever. “Port Royal, by the look of it!” Anne knew it was time to risk it all at this point. “Time to make for land my boys! Crew, cut the guns from the deck and drop them in! Let out every inch of sail! Anything we can spare to lose, lets lose it.”

“Captain!” Veers grabbed her arm tightly and leaned in “Dropping our guns will leave us defenseless against that ship!”

“Its the only chance we have, Veers. Guns are no use here. On that land lies our salvation. If we get caught, we spend an eternity on that ghostly ship and I will be damned to the locker before I allow Davy Jones to press me into his hellish crew.” Anne looked at Veers with such determination and fire in her eyes that he actually feared he’d shoot him on charges of disloyalty. But that wasn’t Anne Read’s style.

“You heard the captain, men! Cut those cannons away, let out the sails, anything that can be tossed, toss it out.” Veers called out to the crew.

“Save the barrel of letters, mate. We may need those.” Anne called down to a crew member who was reaching for barrels.

“The Dutchman is cutting our wind, captain!” Veers called out. A sharp turn kept the Dutchman from crashing in on top of them by just 10 meters. The wave generated from such a crash was nearly enough to capsize the old schooner though. The masts of the ship bent under the pressure of the water as it flooded over the deck, nearly causing it to splinter. Another wave came from the opposite direction and pushed Mazer’s Folly back upright. Anne charged her ship into the harbor with every ounce of grit, will and faith in her crew.

As they reached the harbor, The Dutchman pulled away. The bitter screams of the ghost crew echoed over the winds and waves. The Dutchman had lost its prey today, and Anne’s crew was safe. The crew of the ship quickly docked with the harbor, piling off the ship and onto shore with all the haste their captain could force out of them. Anne, the last one off the ship, grabbed the small barrel of letters and carried it off the ship.
”Alright, lets see what this barrel really has inside it, shall we?” Anne said as her crew gathered on the shore near the docks. The barrel was cracked open and out spilled mold and waterlogged parchments. They looked decades old and were practically ruined. “Well Lads, let that be a lesson to us all, if we next meet a ship beneath a grey and stormy sky, we don’t take their letters. For the Dutchman will descend upon us and try to claim us as their prize. Now, lets get back down to the ship, properly stow our cargo, unload, and drink to celebrate our escape from certain death!”

“YEAH!” came a shout from the crew around her. Mazer’s Folly survived to sail another day.

Story 8: Abandoned

The quiet house creaked as the rushing wind outside blew past it. The old paint chipped a little more as the decrepit building was hit by tiny pebbles, a small twig, and some leaves. The rain falling down outside beat against the ground in fast, quick bursts, slowly forming puddles in the pot holes that lined the drive way up to the old house. The porch swing hung by one chain in a sign of disrepair, disuse, and destruction.

The yard outside the home was unkempt, with the flower bushes having long wilted into thin, pathetic strands of dead plant material, the grass of the lawn had grown to a ridiculous length, the tan-brown hue giving away the fact that it had not been cared for in years. A small ecosystem of spiders, snakes, moles and other creatures had made the field its habitat and now called it home, each species struggling to survive in the dilapidated, unkempt garden that was now theirs.

The steps leading up to the front door were cracked and creaked under the slightest weight. The rot riddled wood was one heavy step away from giving way and shattering into sharp splinters. The hand railing that one would use for support as they climbed the steps was loose and shook in the wind as well, threatening to topple over into the dirt beside the staircase.

The front door of the home had at one time been a red door but time and the elements had shaven away the paint leaving a wooden husk of rotted wood. The lock and doorknob had rusted in the rain and wind, making it nearly impossible to open without a bit of force. The doormat in front of the door once read “WELCOME” but was so badly damaged you could hardly tell it was a doormat at all.

Inside the home were bare walls with dust marks outlining the places where large portraits and paintings once hung. The furniture covered in white sheets that had started to mold due to moisture seeping into the home. A small gray mouse flutters across the floorboards, seeking its next meal in the home. Dishes left on the table, perfectly set for a dinner that would never happen. The table slowly rotting away from the legs up as the water in the home damages the wood fixtures further. Out onto the back porch a single table sits with one chair on either side, looking out into the back yard. From the porch, a large ferris wheel can be seen, equally abandoned in the rush to evacuate.

And here it sits. A quiet, forgotten home, in a quiet forgotten part of the world. A monument to humanity’s technological achievement and the costs such achievement can bring. The city of Pripyat lays dormant, never to feel the presence of humanity again.

Story 7: A day in the life

I fell really far behind in keeping up with my writing. I am a really busy person and sometimes I just want to sleep at night rather than write. So I am going to write a short, fictionalized account of how my busy life interferes with my passions. I hope you enjoy!

___________________________________________________________________________________________

Jeffrey wakes up every day around 6am. His alarm is supposed to go off at 5:30am, but he snoozes that first alarm; The bed is just so god damn comfy. Luckily he showers at night, so he doesn’t have to worry about skipping showers in the morning. He lumbers his body out of his tower of pillows. Reaches his hand out to touch his wife on the arm lovingly. She works a late work shift and he hopes that his movements won’t wake her up.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Jeffrey pulls open the drawer of his dresser and grabs out his change of work clothes. A white shirt, a polo, underpants, socks and pants. A basic outfit for his business casual office job. A shuffling comes from outside the room. Jeffrey’s daughter is awake and playing with her toys. The rambunctious three year old has never understood the concept of sleeping in. He smiles and hurries to get dressed, hoping to get dressed quickly so that his wife doesn’t get woken up from the noise.

Jeffrey quickly gets his daughter dressed and out the door for daycare. His blue Toyota sedan makes a weird noise when he pushes on the brakes. A grinding sound that sounds much more damaging that Jeffrey hopes it is. No time to worry about that now. The drive to daycare occurs shortly afterwards. Jeffrey’s daughter is a talkative, energetic kid even at 7 in the morning. Laughing, wanting music, dancing in her car seat, and all around having a great start to the day. The drop off at daycare is uneventful, Jeffrey’s daughter runs away into the playroom to hang with her friends. Jeffrey then races across town to start work.

The work day is a long drag of questions, answers, data, and projects. Some days it is a lot of fun and fulfilling work. Some days it seems like it just never ends and it won’t ever get better. But Jeffrey keeps pushing forward. Finally 4pm hits and he races back to pick his child up from daycare.

As they arrive home, Jeffrey attempts to distract his daughter with a movie, some toys, or some activity while he prepares dinner. Tonight’s meal is a pork loin chop with greens and rice. A simple dinner, but one that his daughter will almost always eat. Eating dinner takes a bit of time as she at first refuses her dinner and then slowly and surely starts to eat.

As the night winds down, a quick bath, cuddles, a story and lots of blankets, Jeffrey kisses his daughter goodnight, turns off the light in her room, and closes the door. Its 9pm. Jeffrey has to be up in 8 and a half hours. A quick shower shaves a half hour off of that. And now, Jeffrey has a choice.

He has been working on creative projects his whole life. He records a podcast, he writes stories, he yearns to engage with the creative parts of his mind. He can go downstairs and write for an hour, maybe two. But the payoff is that it will be another day where he wakes up at 6am, groggy, sleepy, and worn out. But he always feels so much more alive when he gets creative. He isn’t some sort of gift to the creative process. It could be argued that the arts of podcasting and writing would benefit if he were to abstain from engaging with them.

Plus there was his bed. It had a bit of a divot where he laid down, due to his weight. But it was still a comfortable bed. Sleep was so nice, so comforting, and on days where he got a full nights sleep he felt on top of the world.

But the creative projects would suffer if he slept more.

But he will feel tired the next day.

But the feeling of life being creative gave him was so good.

But the sleep is good for his help.

Giving himself a slight chuckle, Jeffrey headed downstairs to start writing his next story.

Story 6: The Stealthy Child

NOTE: So this was a really fun short story to write. I was thinking of all the silly antics my daughter pulls around the house on the weekend and thought I would try to write a story about what I imagine her thought process is when she is pulling one of her silly schemes. I hope you enjoy it.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

Alright, I am going to get that toy. This is the thought that hits the young child’s mind as they look up onto the counter at the shiny, white-cased tablet sitting precariously on the edge. The counter is high. From the child’s perspective its 100 feet tall. In actuality its about three and a half feet tall. But the child is determined to get their hands on it. First, the child checks the living room for any sign that mom or dad is onto their scheme. Nope. Mom looks up and smiles and then goes back to reading her book. Dad looks up for a moment and makes a silly face at the child, but then goes back to looking at his phone.

“Man, I really want that phone” the child thinks upon seeing it in dad’s hand. The child begins to walk forward but stops and goes back to the task at hand: getting the tablet. The child then quietly walks to the table and pulls a chair out. The noise draws the attention of dad, who looks up and watches the child. The child gives a cute little smile and climbs into the chair, making it seem like they are just going to sit at the table. But its all an act. As soon as dad looks away, the child is back at it and moves the chair a little more. Now that dad thinks the chair is just being moved for sitting, he is none the wiser. The big brown chair is made of heavy wood that, to the child, weighs about 300 pounds! in actuality its probably a 10lb chair, if that.

The child now has the chair positioned next to the countertop. The child pulls themselves up onto the chair, then up onto the countertop. Finally, the tablet is within reach. But look what is next to the tablet. Its a plastic container. The child knows that they just saw mommy pull cookies out of there a little bit ago. So the child now has a new goal. “I can have cookies and the tablet at the same time. The child quietly grabs the plastic box and lifts the lid. Sure enough, there are nearly 100 cookies in the box, ready to be eaten. In actuality, there are about eighteen cookies, but to a kid, eighteen cookies might as well be 100.

The child quietly puts the lid back on the plastic box and then moves on to their true prize: the tablet. But the child realizes that they can’t carry both the cookies they grabbed and the tablet. So the child decides to put the cookies on the chair first. Dropping the cookies one by one onto the chair, the child now has their stash right where they want them. The child then grabs the tablet and begins to climb down.

WOOOOOSH!

The child falls from the countertop. The fall isn’t very far, maybe twelve inches or so, from counter to chair. All the child’s stealth, all the child’s quietness wasted, as the child’s but falls onto the chair and crushes the three cookies beneath their body. The tablet also falls to the ground, rousing mom and dad from their distractions as they rush into the kitchen to find their child, laughing hysterically on the chair, the back of their pants covered in cookie crumbs, and the prized tablet laying face down on the floor.

With a laugh and a sigh, the dad starts picking up the mess on the chair as the mom grabs the toddler into her arms for a giggle, a kiss, and a quick check to make sure everything is alright. The child is fine and is giggling and laughing with mommy. As Dad finishes picking up the mess, he turns around to find the child and mom gone from the kitchen. He returns to the living room to find mom and child, curled up on the couch, eating cookies and watching Netflix on the tablet.

All according to the Child’s plans.

Story 5: Salvation

Monica awoke in the narrow, cramped chamber, as she had now for the past twenty-seven cycles. The blue-green water swirling around her as she groggily regained consciousness in her new body. The apparatus on her face was a black mask with tubes and cables coming off of it and leading to the top of the chamber. The mask kept her from drowning in the chamber also held in her panicked breathing and gasping as she fought to try and remember where she was and what she was doing. This part of the process was always the worst. A voice could be heard in the chamber.

“Revivification complete! Brain Scan Complete! Brain Pattern transplant 99% effective. Memory loss holding steady at 0.3%! Evacuation of clone chamber activated!”

Suddenly, Monica felt the liquid rush out of the chamber, her breathing apparatus popped off and the door flung open, dropping her to the clean tile floor in the cloning room. Yes, she thought, that was what this place is, the cloning room on the Star Cruiser Last Chance. She climbed slowly to her feet, holding her head as the memories were still settling in her mind. She used the edge of the nearby desk to pull herself up and took in her surroundings. On the desk was a pad of paper, a pencil, and a picture of a family smiling back at her, but she couldn’t quite remember the significance of them yet. Turning to the left she saw a closet with a black and blue jumpsuit hanging in it. Underneath the suit was a pair of plain black boots with velcro straps. Next to the closet was a narrow mattress on a platform with some drawers. She turned to the chamber she had just exited, the clone processing chamber. The door still hung open, the apparatus was swinging back and forth inside the chamber and the computer inside was making a short announcement: “Please input genetic material into sampling intake!”

“Oh right, gene sampler.” Monica said, her voice sounding raspy and strange to her. She walked up to the chamber and touched the small device protruding from the side. The device was about the size of a human finger, with an opening at the end. Monica stuck her finger in the tube and felt a small stabbing pressure. Pulling her finger from the device she saw a small trickle of blood starting to come from her finger.

“Genetic material accepted. Analysis beginning. Clone will be ready in approximately seven years.” the machine said.

“Alright. Well I better get started on the work then.” Monica said, walking over to the closet and putting on the suit and boots. They fit perfectly, just as she had expected them to. After all, she knew what size shoe she wore whenever she got out of the clone chamber.

Monica opened the door into an empty hallway. Like the rest of the ship. All of it empty. Except the cryo chamber in the bottom of the ship of course. The rest of humanity laid there, waiting for Monica to fix the life support systems, the food replicators, and the water purification systems enough to support more than just herself. Monica hadn’t gone down to visit the cryo chamber in about 3 cycles. She just trusted the autopilot functions to maintain it and received regular updates from the onboard computer systems.

A thought hit her. The onboard computer systems.

“Computer,” Monica said into the emptiness “Activation code Alpha, Leo, Leo, Charlie, Leo, Echo, Alpha, Rodger.”

“Acceptance code accepted, welcome back Captain Monica.” the computers deep, logical voice came over the speaker. “Would you like a status update?”

“Yes please!” Monica shouted, still rubbing her head from the disorientation of the clone process.

“Understood! Cryo chamber functionality at 100%. Food replicators operating at 90% functionality. Water purification at 100% functionality. Life support at 65% functionality. Auto pilot operating at 99% functionality. Clone process chamber at 78% functionality. Shields Offline. Weapons Offline. Stealth mode Activated and operating at 100% functionality. Outgoing communications offline.”

Monica let the computer ramble on with the status update. So she had finished water purification and had food replication repairs were nearly complete. Life support was still down so that was where she would start her work.

“Computer, put on some classic rock music. Something that starts off soft and builds up the beat. The computer began playing Hotel California by The Eagles. An earth classic. Monica didn’t care for The Eagles, but at this point she had heard every song in the database a few thousand times. It didn’t really matter.

“Computer, where did I leave off in my repairs for the life support system.” Monica asked.

“Captain, you left off repairing the computer terminal in the forward section of the ship, responsible for air circulation and regulation. That section does not have any atmosphere. You will need a vacuum suit and air canister, which you conveniently left outside the room last time you left that area of the ship. Once that computer terminal is fully repaired, life support will be fully functional.”

“Good Job, Monica, always thinking ahead.” Monica said to no one in particular and hurried off toward the forward part of the ship.

“Captain, it is important that i inform you that the estimated time to repair that computer, working at the full capacity of a human being is three years, four months, seven days and twelve hours.”

“Wow, so in three and a half years, I can finally have some company?” Monica said a little huffy as she ran down the hall.

“Yes captain. Your cloned body will be approximately aged twenty which will be approximately seven years younger than the age you were when your compatriots were put under cryo freeze. You may wish to work at a slower pace, so as not to startle them.”

“Computer, I am the only one who can save these people. I am not going to make them wait any longer than I have to. They’ve been under cryo freeze for one thousand, two-hundred, fifteen years while I jump from clone body to clone body. I am not making them wait any longer than they have to.”

“Understood, captain.” The computer said.

The days turned to weeks and the weeks turned to months as Monica continued to work. The music played, she slept and ate, but only as much as was necessary and no more. She wasn’t going to risk putting more strain on the systems than she needed to. Finally three years, four months, and six days had come and gone.

“Computer, status update on the life support system.”

“Life support, online. You’ve finished 1 day ahead of my estimations. Excellent job.”

“Thanks computer, play some victory music.”

“Playing: “Don’t stop me now” by Queen”

Monica danced her way back to the clone process chamber, excited that tomorrow she could finally wake the rest of the crew up from the cryogenic sleep system they had been stuck in for centuries. Arriving at the clone process chamber, she sat down in front of the desk and glanced up at the clone chamber where a new body was still being formed. The body was about the size of a ten year old child. Monica often wondered if there was any sort of conscious being in that brain before her mind was copied onto it? Was she overriding another person’s existence simply by trying to save the human race?

Monica had wrestled with the moral and ethical problems to her proposed solution to save the human race. But it had to be done. The humans had done something to Earth before they had to abandon it. Thousands and Thousands of ships had left the planet, in search of a new home. The human race had divided up into these ships to ensure a huge genetic pool to pull from. Families had been torn apart. Ethnic, racial, cultural and religious groups were split apart to ensure that even if only one ship survived the journey, a great cross section of humanity would survive the voyage and be able to rebuild those groups on their new home, where ever that ended up being.

Some ships had gone toward the constellation Virgo, others headed closer into the galactic core. Her ship, the Last Chance was heading in the direction of a planet called TOI 700-d, a planet found that was Earth sized in the habitable zone of its star. Even having developed ships that could travel near the speed of light, the journey was expected to take thousands of years. A long time for humanity. But the ships had been equipped to support several hundred generations of humans. But after a few hundred years, the ship systems started to have problems. Monica had been the captain of the ship and ordered everyone into cryo stasis while she activated repairs. After a few years of repairing the ship and realizing just how many systems were going down, she realized she would need more time. She had considered waking someone else from Cryo stasis and having them assist her, but the life support system was barely hanging on and couldn’t support another person for the amount of time it would take to enact repairs. So she came up with a new idea.

The clone process room had originally been designed to simply clone body parts, organs or tissue that would 100% match that of the crew member in need of a transplant or replacement. A few modifications and the clone process chamber was able to make her a new body. The ability to copy her brain scans and consciousness over to the new body was experimental at best and she wasn’t even sure it would work until the first time her body had reached old age and she turned the scanner on.

Traveling from an aged body to a healthy young body was a weird experience. It felt like being sucked out of your head through a straw and then being shot at the speed of light against a wall. The disorientation always hurt and was uncomfortable. Living for twelve-hundred years had also made Monica realize one other thing: She was tired. She was tired of reliving the same experiences, the same thoughts, the same bodily aches and pains. Now that this was over, she was not only ready to wake up the other humans. She was ready to rest.

Resting her head on her pillow, she closed her eyes. This would be her last night alone. Her last night as the only human active on this ship. Tomorrow humanity resumed its Salvation.

Story 4: Nightmares

QUICK NOTE: This story explores the anxieties, worries, and insecurities that I dealt with and continue to deal with as a father to a child. I didn’t have the easiest childhood growing up and I often worry about falling into any of the same patterns that I saw adults in my life fall into. I worry about being a good dad. I worry about not being there for my child. This story is fictional, but the feelings, anxieties' and thoughts it explores are all real thoughts I’ve dealt with, worried about, and imagined in my head about me. I hope you’ll find this enlightening.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

“I hated him.

My whole life I spent hating that man. Since my earliest years the memories, feelings and thoughts I had about that man was nothing but anger and hatred. He yelled, he drank, he hit me and I couln't stand it. Growing up it was a constant stream of chores, yelling, beatings, and disappointment. I could have screamed with all the hate that had built up inside me. When he finally left the family and disappeared for awhile, I thought I would have the chance to work through this anger and hate. Then he came back a few months later, acting like nothing had happened. The anger boiled up in me again, hotter and thicker than ever.

Now I stand here, in this funeral chapel, shaking hands, receiving hugs, and listening to kind words given to me by strangers to this man. They weren't really strangers to him, but they clearly didn't know him. They knew how he was at work, or in school, or out with the guys at a ball game. They didn't know the man behind closed doors. The people who claim to have known my father knew a shell, a mask, a false face put on to please society. I am the one who knew the truth of who he was, of what he was.

I was asked, as the oldest, to give my father's eulogy. How do I do this? How can I say the things his friends are expecting to hear, while being honest about what kind of man he really was? Should I just stick to the couple of work stories I head throughout the years? Maybe I should talk about how he loved the red sox and always wanted to go to a World Series game of theirs? No. That wouldn't be fair. It wouldn't be fair to the children he abused, the wife he cheated on, the lives he altered and destroyed with his lack of love. It also wouldn't be fair to the coworkers he lied to and tricked throughout his career.

My father was a problematic, evil man. His drinking started long before I was born and ended long after I left home. He beat me, he beat his children. I had to go to school, sweaters covering my arms and pants covering my legs, to hid the bruises and burns on my body. Why was I beaten? I dropped the beer from the fridge to the couch. I didn't get up fast enough from my book to go get the laundry out of the dryer. Why did I get burned? For the fun of it. I got cigarettes put out on me because I was, in his eyes, deserving of the pain and torment that it caused me.

My father loved the Red Sox. At least that is what he told people, when he took his many trips to Boston throughout the year. He would claim he was going to the spring training, or the draft, or he was sure they would get into the playoffs this year. But that wasn't what he was doing at all. It came out after he died that he was actually visiting his other family. Another wife, another son and daughter, people he didn't abuse, people he didn't harm. My mother was broken by this news when she found out. I remember holding her shaking body in my arms. A woman torn apart by grief was then further destroyed by the betrayal of the man she was grieving. I hated her for staying and I hated her for crying. But seeing her saddened and harmed by him made me feel so incredibly sad for her. My anger is not meant for her at all. Its meant for him.

My father also placed a great emphasis on making sure his coworkers saw him as fun, nice, and a good guy. But he wasn't any of those things. Not just behind closed doors, but even at the company where he worked as a CPA for 25 years. Check your books again and you'll see: he has embezzled millions out of your company. Stolen millions of dollars to enrich himself and his hidden, more loved, Boston family.

There were many reasons that people think they should love and revere this man. None of them are true. He was a bad man. He was an evil man. I hated him. And now, we are free of him.”

Jason, still shaking, stepped down from the podium and walked past the table where the black urn sat, holding his father's ashes. He spat on the urn, leaving a slick trail of water winding down it. Gasps, crying, and whispers could be heard coming from the sea of black clad figures in the audience. Jason put his arms around his mother and his sister and turned to walk out of the chapel, without a care in the world.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————\

Alexander sat up straight in his bed, sweat dripping from his brow, his medium length black hair clung to his head in a sticky mess. He was panting and breathing heavy, shocked at the kind of dream he had been having. Alexander's wife stirred a bit next to him as she rolled over, her back facing him. Her slow breathing indicated that she was still asleep. He swung his feet over the side of the bed and stood up quickly, gripping the night stand for balance. He walked into the hallway and peered inside the doorway to his son's room. Jason lay there in his crib, the 9 month old baby was sleeping peacefully, a small reprieve from the usual chaos of infant sleep patterns. The night light in the room showed the details of the black patch of hair on the top of his little head, the small rises and falls of his chest, the cute snoring sounds coming from the snoozing child.

Alexander smiled fondly at his child. These nightmares would pass. He was stressing about being a good dad for Jason. He was stressing about making sure he was supportive, loving, and kind to his child as he grows up. But looking at his child now and feeling the overwhelming swell of love in his heart for this little human he had created, there was no way these dreams would come true. He wouldn't allow it. Coming into the room and reaching down to the night stand in Jason's room, he dimmed the nightlight a little more, sat in the rocking chair, and waited for his son to wake up. He was going to cherish every moment of this. And he wouldn't allow his nightmares to become reality.

Story 3: Change

Vincent walked down the crowded street, taking in the sights, sounds and smells of the city. For all the talk about cities having a smell similar to that of a garbage chute and a waste dump, he was surprised to find that the city was instead an appealing mix of fresh bread, alcohol, smoking meats and a dozen other smells. It practically made his mouth water.

There were shouts, laughter, and conversation taking place all around him, in at least a dozen different languages, many of which Vincent had never heard before. As he watched the people he passed, he was able to gather the general topic that was being discussed: some people were arguing about pricing of some goods being traded, another pair, clearly a couple, were holding hands and pointing to various restaurants, trying to decide where to eat. A woman was kneeling on the ground in front of a child, tying his shoes and telling him that they would be going home soon.

The street he was on had a variety of shops on it, consisting mostly of store fronts on the bottom level, then with several stories going up making up the apartments, lofts, and offices that the business owners below called home. The buildings all varied in age, material, and architectural design. They would make excellent subjects to write about for his book.

“Ah, hello my friend!” a man with black hair and dark brown skin wearing a flannel shirt and blue jeans waved at him, gesturing him to the booth he was working at. “You seem to have a discerning eye, someone who really takes in his surroundings! May I interest you in some of my souveniers today?”

Vincent, curious and taken in by this mans wide smile and welcoming gestures, approached the booth and observed some of the goods available there. There were some books titled “Map of the Capital and “Capital City Tourism”. A few baubles and pieces of jewelry also caught his eye. Finally, his gaze was drawn to a small, wooden frog. The design was crude and clearly hand carved, featuring several notches and bumps from the natural formation of the wood. The frog had a big smile carved on its face and large black eyes painted on it.

“How much for the frog?” Vincent said, picking it up and handling it. “This is really well done!”

The man ran his hand through his hair and laughed, “oh well thank you. I never actually thought I would sell one of my own creations here. You really like it?”

“It’s perfect. I have a nephew back home who would love to get something so perfectly well carved and beautifully finished. I’ll pay you fifty dollars for it?” Vincent looked the man straight in the eyes and smiled warmly.

“Ah, uh…Fifty dollars is a lot of money, my friend, are you sure?” The man was taken aback, but clearly didn’t want to deny such a great sale on a relatively slow day.

“I am definitely sure. You’re doing great work here and if my sale can help you find more time to take off of working your booth, and more time doing your art, I would love to support that.” Vincent held out a crisp, clean fifty dollar bill.

“Oh, thank you sir. Thank you!” the man was beaming with joy and happiness at this sale. It was not just a sale of a wooden frog, it was validation that his art was not just something he did in vain.

“One other thing, my friend.” Vincent said, a sad note touching his voice, “Why don’t you take that fifty dollars and take your husband out to dinner tonight. I hear there is a great Steak restaurant up in White Plains. I think he will really like that.”

“You know, I may just do that.” the man said, turning to tuck the money into his register. After setting the bill down in the drawer he paused, “Wait… How did you know I had a husband?” The man said, turning back to his customer. But the customer had disappeared.

Vincent had taken off in a sprint from the booth and ran down a random alleyway to get out of the line of sight. Checking his watch, he saw that he had just a few minutes left. He had done it, he had saved them both. Smiling a triumphant smile, he hit the small silver button on the side of the watch. As he did, a portal opened directly in front of him. A free standing gateway made up of blue light and energy. Vincent stepped forward into it, pausing to take one last look at Capital City.

“Hard to believe this will all be gone in a few hours.” He said sadly. The portal closed around him and in an instance he was back in his own time. He stood in the ruins of the city he had just visited. The Capital had been the first target of the war, the bombs and weapons of the enemy had utterly destroyed its people and buildings. But the town of white plains, about 25 miles North of the Capital, had been untouched during the first wave of attacks, due to its relative size. Now it was time to see if he had indeed changed history.

Vincent ran back to his hover-bike and raced back to White Plains. It took him just over twenty minutes to get there. He barely had the hover-bike stopped and was already running toward the door of his home. Bursting into the doorway, he saw three figures sitting with their backs to him, sitting around a circle of chairs having a conversation. As he burst in each of them stood up and turned around quickly, and there they were: Vincent’s mother, Cheryl, her brother in-law, Markus and her brother, the man who had sold him the wooden frog, the man who had been the vendor that day, the man who had been in the city when the bombs fell, who attracted the illness that the bombs held, and the man who had died of that disease several days ago: Hector. “You’re back.” Vincent said, breathlessly, “I can’t believe it worked!”

“What worked Vincent?” Hector said, laughing, “You just left to go scavenge in the ruins.”

Vincent ran to his uncle, hugging him tightly. “I brought you something." Vincent said, holding out the frog to his uncle.

“Where did you…” Hector started to ask as he turned the frog over in his hands “I remember this, I sold this to a young man, about your age, the day the bombs fell. He paid well and convinced me to take Markus out for dinner.”

“Yeah, Uncle Hector, that was me. I have something to show you.” Vincent said, holding out his watch. “I can change everything!”

Story 2: That World is Gone

Short Story 2: That World is Gone

Anita brought her cherry red Honda Ruckus to a dusty stop in the abandoned baseball diamond. Engaging the kickstand, and dismounting from the bike, she removed her matching helmet and wiped her brow, brushing a few loose strands of hair to the side. The trip out from the sanctum had been a good way to clear her mind. She loved the feeling of the bike grips in her hands, the feel of the wind against her body as she drove faster and faster through the ruins of the old city. The world may have ended, but she was still alive and wanted to enjoy every moment of it.

The old baseball diamond was an excellent source for a control batch of soil to sample from. Low nutrient concentrations, low quality soil, and contamination from the industrial processes that built the stadium meant that this soil was definitely not suitable for plant growth, perfect to compare to more promising samples she had taken elsewhere in the region. Taking a small metal vial from her belt, she knelt down on one knee and scooped up a heaping sample of soil from the middle of the baseball diamond. She leveled off the sample in the vial and sealed the lid over it. Anita affixed the vial back to her belt and took a moment to really take in the view from the middle of the baseball diamond.

Anita closed her eyes and breathed in slowly, taking in the smell of the dusty, old stadium. She tried to imagine the cheers of the crowd, the feel of a baseball glove on her hand. The grip of the ball in her other hand. Imagining herself winding up for the pitch and throwing her imagined ball at the batter, passing straight over home plate. She imagined hearing the umpire yell out the strike, as the crowd erupts in cheers of her name. It was probably such a glorious existence, being part of a baseball team. Anita longed for the days that the elders of the Sanctum spoke about. The leisure, the comfort, the luxury the people lived in before the cataclysm sounded divine.

But that wasn't the world she had been born into, it wasn't the world that existed anymore, and unless Anita completed her soil research, it wasn't a world that was likely to return. With a heavy sigh, Anita turned from the diamond and walked back to her motor bike. Kick starting the engine, she took off quickly, deeper into the ruins of the city. She checked the clock on her hud inside her helmet and saw that she was running early on her sampling duties for the day. She had just enough time to go pick up the item she found last week, if it were still there. Her bike dove and dodged rubble and debris on the ruined streets. She was a great driver, and enjoyed showing off. Driving across the bridge, she slowed down, taking it a little more carefully than she did the rest of her travels in the city. The bridge had recently lost a good chunk of track from the north side of the bridge. The bridge was crumbling and it wouldn't benefit anybody if Anita reckless drove herself off of a bridge by accident.

Arriving at the old Pioneer mall, Anita parked her bike and took the pistol, crossbow, and hatchet out of the back basket. Strapping herself and preparing for the worst, Anita approached the mall doors, which had at one time been made of glass but was now just a gaping hole in the structure. Anita cleared the first two corners in the mall, watching out for wild animals and raiders that called the ruins of the city home. Again, caution was the better part of valor. Coming to the open plaza in the center of the mall, Anita looked up into the skylight. It had long since shattered, but Anita always enjoyed the natural lighting that came through the skylight. She imagined how this mall must have looked during the height of the old world; People bustling around, the shops filled with goods and services, the smell of real coffee and fried foods, and the sound of laughter, conversation, and salespeople peddling their wares. But again, that world was gone and not likely to come back.

Anita hurried up the escalator, a long dead machine that had no life inside it. Careful to make sure her movement didn't draw any attention from hidden watchers or predators, she lurked up to the top level of the old mall, carefully watching her path. Finally, she stood in front of the store that held her prize: J-D Jewelry and Watches. The gate was down, the display windows smashed and the jewelry from those cases stolen long ago. But Anita had discovered that the gate was never locked when it was put down, and was still operable. Taking one last glance around her, she lifted the gate about twelve inches, and slid inside.

The inside of the Jewelry store was like stepping back in time. Aside from the broken windows outside, the store was surprisingly well kept. A knocked over computer, long dead, sat on the floor with the monitor broken laying next to it. The display cases here though still had jewels of all kinds: pearls necklaces, diamond rings, beautiful watches, and gorgeous sets of earrings. All kinds of jewels, harvested from distant lands long forgotten, sparkled and shined in the light from Anita's hand lamp. But these jewels weren't what she was here for. Anita stepped up to a door behind the back desk and popped the lock on the handle quickly. Ducking into the room, she saw her prize sitting there on a fake foam hand display. The ring on the first finger of the foam hand was a simple silver band, with small purple amethysts laid into the band all along it. In between each of the amethysts sat small diamonds that added a contrast to the ring. It would be perfect for Cassandra. Anita had spotted the jewelry store last week when she was out exploring. She had ducked in and spent an hour goofing around, pretending to be a prospective customer trying to find the perfect ring for her sweetheart. She had pretended to bargain with the fake owner of the jewelry store, demanding that true love was priceless and the owner should simply give it to her. She spotted the ring and had found this spot to hide it, in case of raiders discovering it. She was glad they hadn't.

Anita had another thought about the way people used to value jewelry like this. She thought about how couples would offer each other jewelry as a sign of true love. She thought about how the old world placed so much value on these accessories, so much so that they would pledge their lives to each other over these pieces of jewelry. But that world didn't exist anymore. But maybe, just maybe, she could make that world exist for a few moments for Cassandra and her. She would give it to her tonight, at dinner. She snatched the ring up and stuffed it into the breast pocket of her jacket. Smiling, she turned to leave the back room. As she exited, she stopped dead in her tracks.

“Well, well, what do we have here? A poor little critter lost in my territory.” A fat, bearded man in a leather vest and black pants stood in the doorway to the jewelry shop, a shot gun casually bouncing off his shoulder. Flanking him on the left and right were two similarly dressed skinny looking thugs weilding some mean looking machete blades. “Why, oh why, would a silly scientist come all the way from their precious Sanctum just to come into a jewelry store? Find something special?”

Anita casually dropped her hands to her side, “As a matter of fact, I did. I was just on my way out.” Anita began to move toward the three goons, but as she did, they took up a more defensive stance.

“Hold it right there, Red. No more movements, or I might have to have my friends here take you out.” The fat man had said, “Now, why don't you take that crossbow off your back, and set it down, nice and slow.” He gestured with the shotgun slowly.

With a nod in his direction, Anita slowly grabbed the crossbow and set it on the counter next to her. She then pushed it, causing it to slide across the glass counter toward the goons. “Anything else?”

A wicked grin flashed across the raider's face “Nah red, it just makes it easier to kill you scavengers when you're disarmed. I think we will just take what you have after we've killed you. Boys? Why don't you do the honors.” With that the large man, stepped back against the gate of the shop, while the two men with the machetes stepped forward bringing their weapons to bear on her.

This was the world that existed now. A world of blood, of desperation, of violence, and of death. This was the world she had inherited. This was the world she was born into and if she did nothing now, this was the world she would die in.

“Not today,” Anita said as they stepped toward her. In one swift motion Anita dropped low, avoiding the first swings of the blades by the goons, reaching behind her, she grabbed the hatchet off of the back of her belt and flung it toward the large goon's arm, catching him square in the hand. The large goon screamed in pain as he dropped the shotgun he was holding, gripping the hand in pain as it bled and bled. Once the large goon was pacified, Anita turned on the left most goon, swinging her foot out low and quick, causing him to trip and crack his head open on the glass panel of the table. Doing a quick somersault forward, she jumped back up to her feet and pulled out the pistol, holding it up to the goon, who froze in place and took in the situation. His boss was laying on the floor wimpering in pain, holding his wrist impotently. The goon's other partner was on the floor, bleeding from his head and knocked out and in the game of pistols vs. blades, the pistol often won. He dropped the blade to the floor and held up his hands.

Anita didn't take the gun off of him as she took two quick steps toward the large goon, and kicked his shotgun away from him.

“Now boys, this was a lot of fun, but I am going to be going now. Don't follow and next time I run into you, I won't be so nice.” With a quick flourish, Anita placed the pistol back into her jacket's holster, grabbed her crossbow, and pulled the security gate up and stepped out.

“This isn't the way the world should be.” Anita said as she reached her Ruckus. “And when my research is done, it won't be this way anymore.” With a kickstart of the bike's engine, Anita pulled on her helmet and peeled away from the old pioneer mall. She had to get back to the Sanctum; to return her samples and to see Cassandra.

Story 1: The Conquered

Greetings,

A note about this short story: this short story is an exploration of my feelings regarding a particular medical diagnoses and my processing of these feelings. Many of you know that I have been dealing with chronic pain while walking for nearly 3 years. I have some more tests coming up to get down to the source of this injury and try to figure out a way to move forward with it but in speaking with my doctors it is likely that this is a permanent injury that I will just have to learn to live with, in other words, a disability. This story is a VERY FICTIONAL look at how I’ve been processing this diagnoses and how I have been feeling about this injury these past three years. If you know me personally, you’ll recognize that almost all of the experiences of the main character don’t reflect any of my experiences, but his feelings regarding defeat and injury and loss are definitely feelings I’ve been feeling.

Alright, enough of my rambling, let’s get to the story!

Content Warning: brief war zone violence, and brief description of limb mutilation

The cold wind bit and tore into Roy’s exposed skin as he climbed up the cliff face. He had lost his goggles about an hour ago. It had been six hours since he had started out on this leg of the hike, what he hoped was his final ascent to the summit. As the cold air snapped at him, he shut his eyes and wincing in pain. He held on for dear life as he continued his ascent. He would not be conquered by the wind, he would not be conquered by the snow, and he would not be conquered by this mountain.

Roy had let enough things in life conquer him and defeat him. There was his inability to get his grades up in high school. A series of life problems and typical teenage laziness coupled with an undiagnosed and/or ignored learning disability kept him from improving enough in school to get into college. He had really tried: after school tutoring, late night study sessions, and even hypnotherapy. Nothing had improved his ability to retain and regurgitate information for tests in school.

It was that failure in school that had led him to join the military. He thought that if he couldn’t succeed at school, maybe he could succeed in service to his country. The smooth talking recruiter buttered him up and told him he could be a great asset to the armed services as a special forces sniper or operating a heavy armor unit. He found out that listing some of the more glamorous or fun sounding career positions was really just a recruitment strategy and that he was actually going to be an infantryman. He allowed his drill sergeant to defeat him as well: boot camp had forcefully removed a lot of his childlike joy and humor and turned him into a piece of the larger military machine. He was trained to fight and kill wherever the Military sent him.

It wasn’t long before he was sent into the biggest war zone in the world: The Middle East. This was where he felt his biggest sense of being conquered. He had been on patrol in a small village in Iraq. The village was small and Roy had actually gotten to know some of the local leaders well. One leader, Abu-Samal, was a local teacher who was running the only school for miles. The school had become a target for insurgents in recent months and Roy’s unit was tasked with deflecting their attacks and, if possible, destroying the insurgent cell that was nearby. During the patrol, an attack took place on the school building. It seemed like it came from all directions. His unit fought off the attack, but it was towards the end of the attack that an explosion near Roy had ripped through his leg, severing the limb from his body.

Roy had blacked out, but later learned that his unit commander had dragged him to safety and radioed for air support and rescue. He had lost his entire left foot and ankle. His doctors kept telling him how fortunate he was to have not lost any more than he did. But he didn’t feel fortunate, he again felt conquered. He spent months and months in physical therapy and then spent even more months getting used to walking with the prosthetic limb that the doctors had given him. Once his medical care was finished he was given a medal, went to a ceremony/photo-op for whichever politician was running for office at the moment, and then was discharged from the military.

Out on his own and trying to navigate his new life was difficult at first. Many jobs did not want to hire him, due to his injury and prosthetic. Of course they never SAID that, but it was clear that the jobs he qualified for: store clerk, security guard, and driver, were all jobs that would be required to provide an accommodation for his injury, an accommodation that corporate would not be willing to extend. He languished for awhile, surviving off the generosity of his friends, the love of his parents, and the small disability check he received. This made him feel like a burden to those who had been helping him and made him feel absolutely awful whenever he received pity from a concerned friend or loved one.

Finally he was given an opportunity to work in an office at a local government building. His father’s close friend was hiring an administrative assistant and was willing to give Roy a chance, despite his lack of experience and education. Sitting at a desk, going to meetings, and filling out forms was not Roy’s idea of a good time, but a job was better than no job and a job with great benefits and a retirement plan was even better. His life was finally on an upswing. It was at this job where he finally Leanne. Leanne was always kind to him, always polite to him, and was always encouraging him to try and do more than he thought he could.

His doctors had told him he could run with his prosthetic. They didn’t say it would be easy nor would it be exactly the same as running before he lost his limb, but they assured him that he could regain some of his athleticism back. He didn’t believe them and had not maintained his fitness much after he was discharged. Leanne encouraged him to start running again and had helped him make that progress. Leanne encouraged him to apply for night classes at the community college, and had helped him begin the path of obtaining a college degree. He and Leanne had spent a lot of time together both in and out of the office and eventually started dating.

After a year of dating, Roy had decided that he wanted to marry Leanne, but was still feeling defeated and conquered by his past failings. His life was on such an upswing, mostly due to Leanne’s influence, but what if he was conquered by marriage too and she eventually left him? He wasn’t sure how many more defeats he had left in his system. He had to show himself, prove to himself, that he could conquer challenges in his life. That was when he had the idea to climb this mountain by himself.

He told his family and Leanne where he would be and how long he was planning on being gone. They of course begged him not to do it. “You can’t, your injury is too severe” he remembered his mother saying. He assured her that he wouldn’t over do it and would turn back if he needed to but it was something he had to try. He promised himself that if he succeeded in conquering the mountain, he would propose to Leanne immediately.

Roy flashed back from his reverie. The mountain breeze had slowed now and he was able to continue his climb up. His gloved hand reached up and grabbed the ledge above him as he pulled himself up. As he was pulling himself up, his grip slipped just a moment and caused him to loose his grip on his left hand. His right hand tighted on the rock he was holding onto. Summoning all of his strength, he swung himself back back and forth slightly, using the momentum to grab the ledge and with one final rush of adrenaline he pulled himself up onto the plateau.

Gasping for air, huffing and puffing as he lay on his back, Roy began to admit defeat. That slip up could have been bad. Another mess up like that and he would be done. He started realizing the folly of having climbed up a mountain by himself. If he had fallen, if he had been injured, who would have helped him? He thought back to his Commanding Officer, saving his life during the attack on the village in Iraq. He had needed his Commander to be there when he was, otherwise he would have died. He had no one like that out here with him. What a fool he was. He decided that he would rest here on this plateau and then head back down and call it a day. It wasn’t his job to conquer everything and sometimes the circumstances of life weren’t something to be conquered, just something to endure.

Sitting upright, he took in his surroundings, looking for the next ridge he would have had to climb up… He didn’t see one. He paused a moment and stood up, heading toward the ridge he had just climbed up. Surveying the horizon, he realized he had reached the summit of the mountain! He had reached his goal.

A laugh, a hearty laugh of joy and excitement escaped his lungs as he realized that he had indeed conquered the mountain. He jumped for joy and yelled out “I AM KING OF THE MOUNTAIN!” Immediately pulling off his glove, he reached into his jacket for his phone. He knew it was unlikely that he had service here, but he had to try. Finding his phone in the breast pocket he pulled it out and held it up high. two small bars of service showed on the screen. Another gasp of accomplishment escaped his lips as he quickly searched his contacts for his girlfriend’s contact listing.

The phone rang and rang. With a loud CLICK on the other line, he heard her voice “Hello Roy, are you alright?”

“Leanne, I am great! I’ve haven’t felt this good in years! I made it to the top Leanne! I’m here. It took me three days to get here. I think three days back and I will be home. Make reservations at that french restaurant down town, we are going out to celebrate.” Roy was talking so fast and excited that it made Leanne laugh a bit.

“Alright there, tiger. I’ll make the reservation for thursday night. Just be careful coming back down.” she said, smiling warmly. Even though he couldn’t see her, he knew she was smiling.

“I’ll be extra careful, babe. See you Thursday. Love you.”

“You too.”

The phone call ended. With one final pump of his arms, Roy stood triumphant on the mountain. His whole life he had felt that he was playing the role of the conquered. Now he felt like the conqueror.

A New Year, A New Project

Welcome friends and fans(?). My name is Josh Fisher. You may know me from my podcast, Are We Dead Yet? or you may be a friend or family member reading this for the first time. No matter how we may or may not know each other, I want to thank you for exploring this page and potentially joining me on this year long journey through 2020! In this blog space I will be writing and releasing a new short story every week for a year. A new short story will be released every Sunday for the entire year.

My goal is that the short stories will run the range of genres, utilizing various points of view, different styles of character voice, and exploring a range of issues and subjects that will be both fun as well as provocative. Short Stories are typically no longer than 5,000 words but I am thinking that I will be aiming for between 1,500 and 3,000 words per week. I want to be a better writer. I believe this will help me in my work on my podcasts, in my professional life, and make me a more creative individual overall. I am not sure how many people will read this or if it will even be enjoyable to read, but I do hope you’ll come on this year long journey with me.