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Found 16 results

  1. I’m really proud of this! Any and all feedback is hoarded and appreciated. (Especially if it’s about the reveal. I’m concerned I might have been accidentally offensive, despite my efforts.) I hope you enjoy.
  2. Hey, this is a short story that I'm submitting to an online contest in eleven minutes, right before the deadline. If you have an opportunity to read it, that'd be cool. Thanks! You are in a dark, cold room. A white linoleum floor glitters beneath you, illuminated by the skylight above. You are standing in front of an electronic safe, protected with unimaginable firewalls, and impossible passwords. You slide the bypass cover open, revealing the black hole of a USB port. In a few moments, you will hold the culmination of years of hard work. You will have the key to unlock wealth and prosperity. “Hand me the drive.” You whisper to your partner. The drive. A single USB symbolizing all the work that you have ever done. It is your Sistine chapel. The Mona Lisa of all your coding prowess. He nods, and drops a hand into his pocket. Your hands hangs in the air. He frowns and checks another pocket. Then he opens his pocket and stares inside, then he begins patting down his other pockets, frantically searching. “What are you doing?” You hiss. “I can’t find it.” He says, “I can’t believe it. It was just here!” You stare at him, not quite hearing what he says. Then, you smack yourself in the face. “You idiot.” He starts to search around the room. “Have you seen it?” “Yeah,” You say. “Yesterday, when I gave it to you!” “Sorry!” He’s still searching the room. You groan, and slid your hands through your hair. “Do you remember the last place you had it?” Your partner looks at you like you’re stupid. “If I knew the last place I had it, I wouldn’t be looking for it now.” You slap your hands down onto the computer module. “Someone is going to realize that we broke in here, and call the authorities. And you lost the one thing that will get us into the safe.” “Can we just move past the part where I lost it, and actually find it?” You check your watch, not enough time. Not nearly enough “Did you leave it in the museum room?” You both had to crawl upside-down, using the pipes. He might have dropped it down there. Your partner raises a finger. “I’ll go check.” He tears out of the room, shoes squeaking on the linoleum flooring. You race to the computer room, and shove aside the limp body of a security guard. A few frantic moments of typing, and you access the system’s alarms. You turn off the ones in the museum room, before you partner rushes in. He would have stepped into a laser and set this whole place buzzing with alarms, you muse. You access the security cameras, and watch him pacing across the floor. Head down, retracing the path that you both took across the ceiling. He pauses, and mimes the actions of crawling across the ceiling, then looks up at the poles, thinking. Your eye begins to twitch, and Your partner scratches his head. You slam your head against the keyboard, buttons mashing against your scalp. “It’s not there.” Your partner says. You whirl around, staring at his wide-eyed face. How did he get back here so fast? You look back to the video feed. On the screen, your partner is still looking, then he turns and runs out of the room. “There’s a delay on the camera feed.” You mumble. “Huh?” You click off of the video feed and check the alarms. A light is blinking in the corner of the screen. You had only disabled the alarm after your partner had stepped through the lasers. It had triggered a silent alarm. A few moments of searching show that your fears are correct. The signal went directly to a police station, located ten miles down the street. You rush back into the room. You’ve gotten too far to give up the prize now. “Find that drive, or we’re dead.” You can try to break through the firewalls guarding the electronic safe, but the code on that USB was months of work. You can only hope that there is a hole in the programming you can find under last minute pressure. “I have an idea.” Your partner says, sitting beside you. He has his phone out, “Hey Google, how do you find something you lost?” You try to ignore him, and pull out your bag, removing the laptop. It’s booted and ready to go, so plug it into the USB port of the safe, and load up your programs. “Here we go, ‘How to Find Misplaced Objects’ Step 1:” Your partner is saying. “Check the messiest parts of your house/area first.” You stare at him. He shrugs, “It’s iHow. You can’t go wrong with them. That’s how I figured out how to slice a mango.” You could throttle your partner, but you take a deep breath, and plunge yourself into the code of the safe. You know that there is no hope trying to start from the beginning, so you blindly jump from section to section, searching for a weak spot. “Studies show that objects tend to get lost in the most cluttered areas of your house, where there is more stuff for them to get lost in. I’ll go check at the reception desk.” You curse under your breath, and start slicing at the code again. That USB was everything. You and he had worked tirelessly on the code on that drive. He had even risked capture by scanning the contents of the electric lock, before you and he got your hands on it and hacked the code, devising the perfect electronic lock picking tool. Footsteps sound in the hallway. You glance out of the corner of your eye, and see your partner running up with his phone still out. “I checked the police radios,” He says, “They’re sending out a cop out to check a silent alarm out. How did we miss that?” You give him a blank look. “Well,” He says. “They’re going to be here soon, we need to get out of here.” You turn back to the code, but your partner grabs you by the shoulder. “We need to go!” You shake out of his grip, “We aren’t getting out of here till we get this safe open.” He sighs, and holds out his phone. “At least try this first.” You look down at the phone. On the screen is the border for iHow, the screen is filled with, what looks like a script. “What is this?” “Guided meditation for retrieval of lost objects.” “That’s stupid.” “It’s actually Feng Shui.” You feel a sob building in your throat. This was not how today was supposed to go. Your stupid partner wasn’t supposed to lose the drive, you weren’t supposed to trigger the alarm, you weren’t even supposed to get a mocha before you left, because that makes you very emotional. You take a deep breath, and look down at the script. “Close your eyes and take a deep relaxing breath.” Your partner closes his eyes, and breathes in deep. “Feel a warm sensation in your heart area— this is idiotic.” “Keep reading.” “Fine,” You scroll down the page. “Take a deep breath, and feel a warm sensation in your heart area, you are at peace with the situation.” The text indicates a pause, you wait for a moment, nerves sensed waiting for sirens. You continue trying to keep your speed slow and relaxing. “Now, visualize what you have lost, try to feel a connection with the object.” Your partner takes another deep breath, smiling a goofy grin, that exudes comfort and contentment. I am going to throttle him, you think, but if he actually finds it… “Visualize the object, what it means to you, the emotions, concentrate on the feelings. What does the object feel like. How does the sensation of it in your hand make you feel?” The clock is ticking, the computer hums, you could be hacking and coding, but you have to see if this works. You glance at the time on the phone, 3:26 A.M. the authorities would arrive in under three minutes. “Look back on your history with the object, the first time you saw it, the first time you held it. Was it a year ago? A month? A week?” Sweat beads on your brow and trickles down your nose. Your partner looks completely at rest, calm, but focused. “Now move forward through your time with the object. Let the months and years fly by.” “We finished three days ago.” Your partner murmurs. “Now,” You say, “Fast-forward, let the days pass by in a blur. Then, when you are ready, stop at where you last saw the object.” The script is almost done. “I’m going to count to five. When we count to five, you will open your eyes, feeling fresh and wonderful, rested and energized You will be ready to find your lost object. Five...Four…You will open your eyes feeling refreshed and ready to retrieve you object. Three…Two…One. Now open.” Your partner’s eyes snap open. He looks, peaceful. “Well,” You say, your pulse pounding in your ears. “Where is it?” Your partner furrows his brows. “I’m not sure. I feel wonderful though, have you thought about making guided meditations?” Your hands clench around the phone case. “Maybe we could—um—try it again?” He says, and smiles.. You let out a strangled cry and smash the phone against the safe. You smash it again and again, until your partner’s hands wrench you away. You feel the shards of the phone clatter to the floor. You make a fist ready to pound it into your partner’s face, but he’s staring at something else. You follow his gaze and see the safe handle lying broken on the floor. Your partner reaches into his pocket, and puts on a glove. He extends his hand and tugs on the empty socket where the handle was. The safe door pops open. “Huh,” He says. “That’s a design flaw.” You shove him aside, and pull out a silver box. You check the lock, and see the MasterLock logo. You feel as if you could sing. You raise the case over your head, and bring it down on top of the safe. The lock shatters, and clangs to the floor. You snap open the case and remove the single vinyl, covered in a faded sleeve, your prize and your key to wealth and prosperity. Your ticket to live wherever you want, do whatever you want, be whatever you want. “Get the stuff in the bag,” Your partner nods, and stuffs the laptop into the bag. He zips it up, and kicks the shards of the pone underneath the safe. You both race out of the room, not caring about silent alarms, the police would know about a break in already. This took way too long, and was way too close. This was risky but it was worth it. Your employer would pay you well for this, you might even charge an extra hundred thousand for the difficulties. Nothing matters anymore. You have the prize: Elvis Presley’s ‘My Happiness’. Recorded in the days long before the popularity of Elvis Presley, it was the last of its kind. All other copies had been lost, broken, or simply worn out. The starting bid for this record was three million dollars. Tomorrow, it would be sold to the highest bidder. Today, it would go with you. You try not to imagine what you will buy with your riches, as you turn down a side passage, and run past a dinosaur. You’re almost there. Almost to the broken door and freedom. “Freeze!” a voice shouts. You jerk to a stop, and your partner yelps as you both go skidding off the red carpet. The record slips from your fingers, and flies through the air. It slips from its faded case and crashes to the ground, crumbling into a dozen pieces. You stare in dumbfounded shock. “I said, freeze!” You turn to see two officers standing with guns raised. “Now,” The first one says. “Get your hands in the air.” # “One laptop computer, one Taser, one baton, two rolls of duct tape, one round of rope, one USB cord, one ball peen hammer, two wireless transceivers.” The officer drones on as they rifle through your bags. You stand handcuffed next to your partner. An officer grips your arm tightly around your bicep, and your partner is held the same way. Your heart is steadily sinking into your stomach. You are going to jail. Breaking and entering, Attempted grand theft, and destruction of personal property. It didn’t help that your partner tripped on the way out and broke a penguin skeleton on display. Your benefactor won’t help you. You haven’t even seen his face. Maybe in ten years you’ll get out and track him down, get compensation— “—And here’s a USB we got off of this guy.” The man holding your partner says, handing the officer a small drive. You stare at the USB drive in the officer’s hand. It’s the drive. The drive. You turn and glare at your partner. He gives a sheepish smile, and a nervous laugh. “I guess it must have been in there the whole time.”
  3. Hello All! This is a short story I've been agonizing over and I welcome your feedback. It's scifi short story, stand alone, with creature feature emements. I don't think it needs much of a content warning but I'll put a mild violence warning just in case. Nothing graphic. I really near to bring this story down another 700 words in order to submit it where I would like to. Any ideas and tips on where to cut the fat would be greatly appriciated. I've carved off over 1,000 words already (I overwrote the crap out of it apparently) but need to find a few more places to cut. In addition, other critiques welcome. What did you like? Not like? What's boring? What's confusing? Where am I asking too much of the reader? Typo and spelling checks always welcome This is my first submission to the group and I look forward to your feedback! Sarah B.
  4. when she is born, they name her mary. it means “bitter.” her mother—plain, unlovely—knows what her ugliness will mean. how it will feel. knows that ugliness makes everything harder, the mirror image of how being too beautiful makes everything harder. mary’s mother is unlovely, and she is happy, basically. she went to school, and they let her, not pretty enough to earn their scorn but too pretty to earn derision. mary’s first word—a year old, face too red, eyes somehow too far apart and too close together at the same time, nose a curious hook—is, “please,” and mary’s father says, “no.” mary’s father loves her, and he always says no. no mary, you can’t go to school; they’ll mock you at school. no mary, you can’t have pretty dresses; they’ll only accentuate your ugliness. no mary, no mary, no mary, no. “please,” mary says, and her father kisses her too-large forehead. runs his hand along her puffy cheeks. there isn’t any one thing, not any single marker of her ugliness, only individual parts that don’t seem to fit together right. lumps where straight lines should be, pocks along her chin, eyes that were too bright and too big and yet still not considered striking. he kisses her and holds her and says, “no.” — this is what you learn, when you are young and you don’t look how they want you to: the baker closes at four. if you are hungry, he will feed you, out of pity. witches are everywhere. witches understand. witches will hold your hand, and run their thumbs along your lifeline. witches will say, take this, and press a bag into your palm. take this, it will help you. beautiful women look at you once, and then never again. they fear you. they fear what you remind them, which is that natural beauty is unearned and hard-won beauty is unnatural. beauty is arbitrary, but beauty means everything. you are here, you are alive, you are ugly: they do not know what this means. beautiful men will look at you, and look, and look. they will try to understand. they will say cruel things first, because that is how men are taught to treat ugly things. then they will taper into benign amusement. eventually they will forget you are a person at all, and they will say anything. they will say their darkest secrets and not realize you can hear them. mary learns. mary listens. mary understands. mary is not as bitter as her name. — they say “ugly,” but what they mean is, “stupid.” what they mean is, “useless.” what they mean is, “defeatable.” “be good, boys,” she scolds a group of particularly loud stable boys as she gathers their empty pints. the lights are dim enough to ease the angled corners of her broad shoulders. they love her here, gentle dim mary, too ugly for marriage. such a shame. what a nice girl, our ugly duckling. “Ugly Mary!” says jonas, the butcher’s son. “have a sit. tell us a story.” “these tables aren’t gon’ clean themselves,” she answers, even as she sits. jonas always leaves his purse on the table. the more drunk he gets, the less attention he pays to its weight. “what kind of story?” “a good one,” jonas insists. “make us laugh.” “all right,” says mary, and leans forward. she wraps her fingers around jonas’ purse and holds it up in front of him. “this is my dowry,” she says. he laughs, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut. the stable boys laugh too. everybody laughs. a dowry, for ugly mary. a dowry! mary palms the purse and leaves an empty one in its place. a witch gave it to her, once. a witch gave it to her and said this will come back to you, no matter how far away you send it. mary has given jonas the butcher’s son this purse five times. he has always brought it back, confused, asking for his own. “i seem to have stolen this from someone,” he laughed, nervous. “only—don’t tell, mary, eh? i’ll leave it here, and no harm done, eh?” mary had tutted at him every time. “watch those sticky fingers, jonas,” she’d said. “they’ll get the better of you one day. but it’ll be our secret.” “last drink’s on the house,” mary says, and whisks their glasses away. — a beautiful woman would walk into any room and have all eyes on her long legs, her round mouth, her startling eyes. a beautiful woman would have them on their knees saying yes. a beautiful woman would say, “i want—” and they would say, “we’ll give it.” everyone wants to please a beautiful woman. mary’s first trip to the palace is with a hood over her head. don’t make them look too long at you, edna had said, her hands on her hips. edna loves mary, too. edna loves mary and edna always tells mary no. she’s here to make a delivery, some chickens for a party, and their usual boy has a broken leg. so mary brings the shipment. mary has her witch’s purse in her pocket, a snack from the baker in her mouth. “oh, well aren’t you a bit of a divine accident,” says the royal chef, frowning. “angels were scraping the bottom of the barrel for you, eh? parents couldn’t quite get pregnant ‘till you? asked a witch for help?” mary flashes a smile. first they will be cruel. two days ago, she had knocked out a tooth specifically for this event, and her mouth is swollen. “where should i leave them?” she asks. “six of them straight to the kitchens, but leave one with me,” the chef says. he is still looking at her. “i’m hungry too, eh? ha!” he winks at her. then they will taper into benign amusement. when mary moves to obey, he catches her arm. “what’s your name, ugly girl?” “mary,” she answers. her breath whistles through the gap where her tooth used to be. she smiles again, and watches his eyes soften. good. “ugly mary,” he muses. “i like you, girl. come again, with the next shipment.” “yes sir,” she says, and smiles. — the chef cooks laxative herbs into the food of nobles who mistreat him. he tells her this thoughtlessly, sprinkling a leaf onto the top of a perfectly roasted turkey. his serving boy takes silver from the storage and sells it. their errands boy has been sleeping with the queen’s lady-in-waiting, and the queen’s lady-in-waiting told him that the queen is sleeping with the king’s brother. there are fights, at night, loud and long in the war room. mary gives her magic purse to the errands boy and he comes to her, days later, in a panic. “i don’t know where i got it,” he babbles, “but it’s got a note in it, what says there’s some kind of plot, some kind of secret plan, i—it wasn’t me but if they find me with it—” mary smiles. “shhh,” she soothes. “it’ll be our secret.” — “it’ll be our secret,” mary promises the chef, the purse full of belladonna in her hands. i didn’t mean to, he’d blubbered. i didn’t know, i thought it was sage, i thought it was— “it’ll be our secret,” mary says to the serving boy, taking the purse from him. the queen’s diamonds are in it. her favorite. she’s gone to war for less. i don’t know where it came from, he’d wept. i must have grabbed it by mistake. “it’ll be our secret,” mary assures the queen’s lady-in-waiting. the purse is heavy with a vial filled with liquid. enough to terminate—oh god—a pregnancy, the girl had whispered, horrified. i must have taken it from her bathroom, thinking it was mine, i…if she knows… our secret, mary promises, smiling, smiling. they thank her. they give the purse back, and give it back, and give it back. — mary eats well. her mother sells the diamonds mary gave her—“a gift,” she says, smiling, smiling—and their roof is thatched, their clothing mended. they buy a cow. mary holds onto the vial. she knows better than to waste opportunities on frivolous purchases. “are you proud of me, father?” mary asks, and her father says, “yes.” — “so you’re ugly mary,” says the queen, looking at her. mary nods. smiles. mary is not as bitter as her name. the king laughs, loud and booming. the king is not a beautiful man, but beneath the glitter of his crown it’s hard to see. he hides his ugliness, with thick capes and gold crowns; mary knows better. “can’t seem to get anyone to say a single word against you,” the king says. “everyone says: you want something done, ask ugly mary.” “if i can serve you, Majesty,” mary says, curtsying deeply, “it would be my honor.” “no,” says the queen. the queen is beautiful, and she looks away. “just to do the cleaning,” the king says, and smiles at her, benign. “nothing like an ugly girl to do the ugly work, eh?” mary smiles. “indeed, your Majesty,” she says. — beautiful women are noticed. you never stop noticing them. they arrest you. they want you to please them, and you want it too. ugly women are noticed. you never stop noticing them. they arrest you, and you want them to please you. it is not hard to please you. they only have to give you what you think you want. — “what i like about you, ugly mary,” says the king, “is that you never make a fuss. i barely realize you’re here.” that’s not true, mary knows. but she has worked hard to learn how to make it seem as if it is. she is not unnoticed, she is simply unremarkable. surely someone who looks defeated must be defeated. “aye, Majesty,” she says. he trails off, fingers running across the bedspread. “what’s this?” he asks, plucking mary’s purse from the sheets. she keeps her eyes on the floor, scrubbing. one dose before bedtime, the paper reads. the pregnancy will end with blood. “the pregnancy will end,” the king says aloud. “the pregnancy will—the pregnancy—” mary looks up. she waits. the king’s eyes snap to her. “tell no one,” he says, and mary smiles. “Majesty, it will be our secret,” she promises. — father are you proud of me father are you proud father yes yes yes yes yes — the day of the queen’s death, and the death of the king’s brother, mary stays at the castle. she cleans, and waits. she is careful to be in the king’s chamber when he returns, puffy-eyed. drunk. “ugly mary,” he slurs as she tucks him into bed. “she was too beautiful. she lied. her beauty lied, she—you would never lie.” mary smiles. she takes a liberty she never has before, and brushes his hair from him face. “never, Majesty,” she promises. “your ugly face hides a beautiful heart,” he slurs, and mary laughs. “please don’t tell anyone, majesty,” she teases, and he says, “no mary, no. it’ll be our secret.” — you are here, you are alive, you are ugly: they do not know what this means. — at the wedding, mary does not try to look beautiful. she dresses simply. they love her for it, ugly mary with the beautiful heart. the chef weeps, the serving boy weeps, the errands boy weeps, the lady-in-waiting weeps. ugly mary has been so kind to them. ugly mary keeps their secrets. they stand at the altar, mary and her king, her simple king. he looks at her and smiles, so fond, so trusting, so sure. a woman like ugly mary could never betray him. a woman like ugly mary is surely so grateful. gratitude is loyalty. gratitude keeps your secrets. mary smiles.
  5. Heh, so sorry about this. I had intended to submit something else, but that has not worked out at all well so far. I've stalled at 1,300 words and it's just not working. So, I hope you don't mind, but I've submitted an updated version of Il Rosso E Il Nero and crave your indulgence to have another read through (those who have read it already). It's 500 words longer, and I hope that you will find the issues from last time tidied up and stronger in those areas identified. For those who haven't, I hope you enjoy. Do be aware of the content warnings, please. Here is the spiel from last time: "I put on S for sexual content because it felt wrong not to. D is for implied drug use. SV of for sexual violence although again, it's maybe more coercion, or something like that. BF is for bodily functions, and L is for choice language. Obviously, I'm hoping to sell it to the D1sney Channel. As ever, your forbearance and comments would be greatly appreciated. If you decide it's too much, please feel free to stop reading and castigate me soundly on this thread."
  6. Hi everyone! This is the comment/critique thread for my very first Reading Excuses submission, "Star Light, Star Bright."
  7. Hello all, Apologies that this is so shockingly late, but I got tied up editing my last submission, and also in starting another short for the James White Award. Still, late is late, sorry about that. This short story was submitted back in February 2016 ( ). It's revised , I hope, addressing some of the problems before, so I would very much welcome what you'd like to throw at it. It's a bit long, sorry about that, hopefully within tolerance?! Cheers, Robinski
  8. Heh, so, here's a short story what I've wrotten. It may be a crime against humanity, or it may be just more of my foul-mouthed ramblings, but I'd really appreciate your comments on it. I put on S for sexual content because it felt wrong not to. D is for implied drug use. SV of for sexual violence although again, it's maybe more coercion, or something like that. BF is for bodily functions, and L is for choice language. Obviously, I'm hoping to sell it to the D1sney Channel. As ever, your forbearance and comments would be greatly appreciated. If you decide it's too much, please feel free to stop reading and castigate me soundly on this thread. <R> p.s. Background: This came about as a result of a discussion on the GSFWC forum, an unused (or unfinished) story by one of the other guys from a discussion in the pub. He hasn't seen it yet. I'm thinking it might be my first submission there, but then again, that might be a bad idea. Anyway, it comes from a two word prompt, which I will share with you later. I started it on 2nd May, and I expect that shows!! Thanks again
  9. Hello all, I was unsure whether to include the violence tag, but I thought better safe than sorry. There isn't much though, but it is there. I'm looking for anything and everything, but the three specific things that come to mind are: - Does the framing work, or do I need to bulk it up more at the beginning? - Are there any bits that jarred you from the story? - Which bits, if any, made you laugh? I hope this finds you all well, and thanks for having me
  10. Hey, I wrote a thing for school, and I just handed it in, but I wanted to know what you guys thought of it. A bit of background, I'm a pilot, this is an exaggerated story about something that happened to me, and this is based on last summer where I was accepted onto a $50,000 scholarship to get my private pilot's license in seven weeks through the air cadet program in Canada. Without further ado, here is Hazy View.
  11. Hello all, I'm really getting an appetite for the short story thing, although lots of practice still required, I know. This is a stand-alone story, fantasy-based, but intended to be heavily centred on character. Also, I was aiming for a certain amount of grit, hence it is somewhat sweary, which seems to be my M.O. these days. My apologies for that to those of a particularly sensitive disposition. I've tried to ensure that the swearing is (a) inventive, and therefore, hopefully, funny; (b) in context of character and, to some degree, setting; (c) in service of the story. Usual questions from me: (1) - Does it work / entertain? (2) - Do the characters engage you? (3) - Is there a recognisable through-line, and does it hang together? (4) - Does the story deliver? (5) - Is the 'message' too heavy handed / telegraphed? Any comments very much appreciated. This piggy is going to market too, like the last one. I did give an undertaking, back in December, I think, that I was going to write some shorts and push them out there. Well, here I am 9 months later thanks to a certain Q&M, following through with that strategy. Best, Robinski
  12. Soooo, I've had another go at this, which I think reflects the key comments from last time. Does that mean it's improved? I don't know!! Any comments very much welcomed. Kind regards, Robinski
  13. Hey there, here's a short that I wrote and edited several times this weekend. It's intended for submitting in the near future (I hope!), so I'm looking for anything - thematics, character issues down to the most detailed line-by-lines, if you want. Anything and everything you care to mention. This includes the title, which I'm in two minds about. Thanks for considering. Cheers, Robinski
  14. I am not a careless person. I cover my tracks, monitor what I say, look before I cross the street. At least, I do now. When I was 20 years old, I walked home reading a book. I was so engrossed that I failed to notice the heavy metal vehicle moving at my frail, human body at 40 mph. It swerved, I stopped, no one was hurt, no one died. They never do. It was only when I took the cookies out of the oven that I noticed the mark on my arm. I knew what it meant. It was my duty to report to the authorities to be murdered. If I didn’t, anyone who saw it would kill me on sight. I didn’t want to die. I was only twenty years old! I hadn’t even finished college, much less gotten to all my grand plans and ambitions (never mind that I didn’t have any. I had time to plan out the rest of my life later. So I thought.) I burned my arm on the cookie sheet. The scar covered the black mark somewhat, and I put a bandaid over it. The people at work didn’t question it. After some time, the burn healed. The mark remained black over the scar, bigger now. I tried carving it out with a knife. It was winter now, and long sleeves were the norm - no one would notice my injury. The mark remained, the bloody lower layers of my skin black as death’s robes. From then on I wore long sleeves. When I went to the doctor I covered it with paint and hoped they wouldn’t notice. They didn’t. I was lucky. The mark grew. I was in trouble when it reached my wrist. As soon as it covered my hand I would be discovered. I ran. Soon I will be nothing but a shadow in the night. Perhaps some of the stories they tell of night creatures originate from people like me. Those who escaped, their marks covering them, even the whites of their eyes turned deepest black. In a way, we are no longer human. Isolated, undying, immortal, betrayers of nature’s most fundamental law: all things must come to an end. If I outlive humanity, will I ever die? When the sun goes nova, will I still exist? When the universe ends, will I endure? Or is death simply a shortcut to that end? When the last star has gone out and matter has been erased, will Death greet me with a weary sigh, saying “where have you been? We’ve been waiting for you for an eternity.” At that point, will I even remember who is waiting for me?
  15. I wanted to get some feed back on my short mystery story and I thought "hey why not on a site dedicated to books" its still a work in progress and im not releasing the ending YET but I just wanted some feed back. by the way sorry about editorial issues this is the unedited copy. also its called prologue because I was originally going to write it in parts but did it all on one doc. mysery proluge.docx