las vegas is a special kind of horrifying compared to the rest of the southwest because you get three different flavors of horror all together. thereâs the strip, obviously, the hypnosis of the casinos. you know they intentionally donât put clocks in casinos? and they put mirrors wherever they can? theyâre trying to disorient you so you stay inside. theyâre trying to trap you. and the casinos are different but theyâre all the same underneath, slots and shows and roulette wheels, the same bones in different bodies. but then you get outside the strip and youâre in the suburbs. itâs flat. barely anything outside the strip is more than two, maybe three storeys. everything is in a strip mall. the houses are identical wherever you go. even the schools - there are two major architectural blueprints for high schools in las vegas. if youâve been inside one school you can navigate them all. itâs all the same and itâs all normal, in defiance of the neon of the strip. (you can see the beacon from the luxor from anywhere in the city, you can always find your way to the strip, but- is that better, than being somewhere that you know? somewhere thatâs the same wherever you go?) and then of course if you step too far outside youâre in the desert. much further and youâre in the mountains. the suburbs are creeping out further and further, taking over, but there will always be desert. summer will always be 120 degrees. there will always be heat and scorpions on the edges and no matter how far you push out you will not be able to build on the mountains. no matter how hard you try the desert will find you. and none of these things are mutually exclusive, not as much as you think. there are slot machines in grocery stores. there are houses behind casinos. there is undeveloped desert in the center of everything, reminding you that the desert was not built to hold you, the desert was not built for this, you should not be here. you shouldnât be here.
this oneâs going around again so i wanna shout out the person who correctly determined what part of vegas i lived in based on minor details in this post
alright so when I was a teenager I went to this bug-themed summer camp for socially stunted nerds and on the way back from it I visited the university of kentucky. I met with an entomologist there and while we were touring the department he asked "wanna see something cool?" so he took me down an elevator to what must've been a sub-sub-sub basement on a card-access only floor, and after turning several more corners we went through two sets of (I'm not even exaggerating) 12-inch thick doors, opening onto one long as fuck corridor. each side of this hallway was lined with about 50 refrigerators. and each and every single one of these refrigerators was filled with hundreds of thousands. of live. bedbugs. the very reasonable explanation for this was that they were doing research on insecticides and needed to test them on real samples, but they could not under any circumstances allow them to escape, so they had to be kept under area 51 levels of overkill containment. but reasonable or not that was very much not what I anticipated seeing that day. so yeah. I decided after that I did not want to become an entomologist
To be read only in the event of Aunt Rowanâs passing:
As you probably remember thereâs a phenomenon in our town called âthe blue door effectâ. About five years back it blew up on social media. Teens were freaking out every time they saw something they thought looked like a blue door. More often than not they were just color corrected photos of a door. But the thing is, no one really knows where it all started. You see the actual first report of the blue door happened thirty years ago.
No, the story everybody knows is the hotel incident. That happened later, after I joined the force. There I am sitting at my desk when the call comes in that something is going down at the hotel, and nobody is sure if itâs a medical emergency or if drugs are involved or what. I got a paramedic buddy who was one of the first on the scene. They walked up the stairs to the second floor. First he heard the sobbing, then he saw the hall. It was filled with the hotel patrons lying on the floor bawling their eyes out. They claimed that a baby had started crying in one of the other rooms. This compelled the patrons to begin entering the hallway. One by one they saw a blue door at the end of the hallway and began to collapse into a ball of emotions. Each new sob brought another patron into the hall until the whole hotel filled the second-floor hallway. Despite all of this the blue door initially got over shadowed by the fact that one of the people in that hall was a senator and another was his secretary. But the role of the blue door would soon make itself known when the senator published his autobiography and included the tale of the blue door as a kind of coming to Christ moment.
I tracked several other incidents over the next few decades. As Tales of the blue door became more popular the tales began to get more outlandish. But sniffing out the genuine cases isnât too hard if you know the details that matter. The compulsion to cry was a detail that eventually faded from the zeitgeist so if someone mentions it as a compulsion, that tends to be a point in their favor. But the main detail is the crying baby. Few people actually connect the crying to the door. So if they mention it, even off handedly, then you know theyâre being genuine. So how do I know the crying and the door are connected? You see, I know where the door comes from, and I know where it always is.
Thereâs this little two-bedroom house. Nothing spooky about it. A coupleâs been living in it for the past six years. Husbands a banker, the wife sells jewelry on the internet. Now sheâs got this little room that serves as her workshop. The door is green, but before they painted it, it was blue. And years before the couple moved in, it was the door to a small bedroom that housed three siblings: A boy, a girl, and a baby. The older brother and the little sister occupied a bunkbed while the baby slept in a crib in the corner. One night the mom and dad were able to afford a night out. They left the oldest in charge of his younger sister and the baby. The sister was only three, and wanted to show her baby brother her stuffed bunny. She was too young to understand anything about lungs and airways. After a tragic night filled with yelling screaming phone calls and ambulances there were only two siblings again.
Eventually the family moved. The sister was too young to remember what she had done. Thank God. The parents did everything you were supposed to do, they leaned on each other, they laid in bed comforting each other deep into the night, praying that their eldest would one day forget too, but their eldest heard these prayers through the paper-thin walls. The still young boy decided to lie. To pretend. To spare his parents the realization that one of their children remembered the most tragic night of their familyâs existence. Of course, he could also never tell his sister either. So, he closed the blue door to his old room and vowed never to open it again, but closing a door never stops them from wanting to be opened. There was only ever one person who can open the blue door.
Now after the passing of my dear parents, myself, and presently my dear sister, and upon completion of the reading of this letter the door is now opened.
When I was 3 years old I went to a preschool that had this little green crocheted crocodile finger puppet that was my absolute favorite toy to play with of all time. I named her Chelsea, because Chelsea starts with C and crocodile starts with C and more often than not wild animals in fiction aimed at kids have names that start with the same first letter as their species. I played with Chelsea every day, because she was my favorite toy, and because the other kids weren't really interested in her, and also because I eventually started to hide her in a special secret spot in the room so no one else would find her before I did. She was so beloved by me that when I graduated from preschool, my teachers gave Chelsea to me permanently, because it was clear no one else would ever love that little crochet crocodile as much as me anyway (in part because I hid her). They waited a few weeks after I graduated before doing it, too, and sent Chelsea with some post cards as if the crocodile had been on a whirlwind "travel the world" vacation before deciding to come live with me.
And Chelsea remained my favorite toy all through my childhood. There were others I loved nearly as much, like my Imperial Godzilla and the big red T.rex from the first Jurassic Park toy line and my tiny knockoff plush Charmander, but Chelsea always held the place of honor in my heart. She was my absolute favorite toy.
I kept a lot of my favorite toys through adolescence, even if social pressure eventually got me to give away a lot of them (and some, y'know, broke). That's obviously not surprising to you if you've followed my blog, since I still collect toys into my adulthood. But it's important to note because while I know I made a conscious effort to never throw out Chelsea every time I pared down my collection... at some point, she went missing.
I became aware of it when I graduated from high school. I was feeling really emotional about leaving that stage of my life and, y'know, becoming an adult and shit, and in that state I decided to find Chelsea to reassure myself that I hadn't entirely left childhood behind. But Chelsea wasn't there. No matter how hard I looked, I could not find Chelsea anyway.
And that was, like, devastating, because the only explanation was that somehow, at some point, I had accidentally tossed her out with some other "childhood junk" while trying to grow up and be responsible in my teen years. I had literally thrown away my childhood in a careless attempt to be more grown up.
Of course I knew she was just a toy - nothing more than some yarn twisted together in the loose shape of a crocodile, lifeless and soul-less and more or less worthless in the objective light of day. But she was also Chelsea, my best friend since i was three, my stalwart little pal, a source of comfort for most of my life at that point, and I had just... tossed her out! Like garbage! What kind of person was I becoming if I could do that to my best friend?
I was very visibly distraught, and my mom noticed. Being very crafty, she tried to find the pattern for Chelsea so she could knit me a new one. The problem is, she had no idea where to find said pattern. She checked all her books of crochet patterns, and when that failed she tried the internet, but no matter how hard she looked, she found nothing.
So my mom found the next best thing.
The original Chelsea was a tiny finger puppet, and I had "met" her when I was three. Well, I was eighteen now - shouldn't Chelsea have grown too? And as has been established, this crocodile was fond of whirlwind vacations. My mom found a pattern that looked as much like Chelsea as possible while also being a much bigger crocodile, and gifted her to me before I left for college - to show that while we can't stop the flow of time or how it changes us, that doesn't mean we have to leave it behind.
And yeah, I decided to believe it. That's Chelsea now. Yeah, I know that in reality it's a completely different set of yarn made by my mom rather than... whoever it was that crocheted the original Chelsea, but then, Chelsea was never really the yarn. She was the feelings I put into the yarn, you know? So that's Chelsea, all grown up, and still my most prized toy.
...
Flash forward... Jesus, eighteen years, holy shit. A few weeks ago I saw a post trying to identify a different crochet crocodile pattern, and thinking it was cute, I decided to try and look for it on ebay and etsy, just to see if maybe I could find it. I didn't, but do you know what I found instead?
A very familiar crochet crocodile finger puppet. An intensely familiar one, you might say. Of course I bought it. And of course I asked the seller if, perhaps, they might have the pattern for it or know where it came from (they did not, alas). And after a few days, she showed up at my house.
She's not Chelsea, obviously. For one thing, she's far too clean and fresh looking - Chelsea was very well loved, and looked the part, while this crocodile finger puppet has definitely not endured years upon years of a child's affection. And, more importantly, she's not Chelsea because we've already established that Chelsea grew up into a bigger crochet crocodile. This has to be Chelsea's younger sister, Cici.
And if I could find another of Chelsea's kind after all these years, then maybe, with a bit of luck, I might find the pattern for her, and be able to make more of them. Fill the world with Chelseas.
WHO WANTS TO HAVE THEIR SHORT STORY MADE INTO AN AUDIOBOOK/PODCAST???
I present:
The Struggo Prompt Challenge!
This is a FREE, WEEKLY community writing prompt challenge. Every* Sunday, submissions are read live on twitch and a community vote is held in The Writer's Den Discord Server.
Then, the community suggests a new prompt for the week, which is also voted on. Once the prompt is chosen, you have until the next Sunday to submit your 1,000 word short story via the Google Form link.
Finally, the week's winner will be queued up to be read aloud by a trained voice actor in a YouTube & Spotify podcast episode with full writer credits and an optional shout-out to the winner's other works.
And it's all free. All you have to do is join, write, and submit.
This Week's Prompt (Feb 2nd - Feb 8th): Why does this whole chat feel like a message to someone?**
The Rules:
Short story must be a maximum of 1,000 words
Accepted file formats: .pdf or .docx
NO SLURS
No names of real people (please do not get Struggo sued)
NO AI GENERATED SLOP. REAL WRITERS ONLY***
Must be original work, original characters, and original story
Don't get too hot n' heavy. Keep it Twitch and YouTube appropriate please!
You're allowed to get creative with the formatting, but please no huge text blocks! Double space your paragraphs (like how Ao3 does by default) to make it easier to read.
Please do not vote for your own story or invite fake accounts to vote for your story. This is a small, fun, free contest. You can try again next week if you really want to win. Even if you don't get picked, you still get to have your story read aloud on stream! No need to cheat.
HAVE FUN!
Catch the Live Stream Here!
Struggo reads the submissions LIVE on Sunday morning at 10:00am Eastern Standard Time. If you miss the stream, he'll post the vods separated by each story and neatly organized on Discord, complete with the PDFs so you can read along!
Check Out The Previous Winning Stories!
Struggo's a little behind right now on account of Cheri not sending him the next thumbnail helping MamaBuckle Films edit the sound for Dead Air, our newly released Buckle Up Challenge winner! So you might notice there's a couple weeks missing. Don't worry about it. It's free. He'll get there.
Join the Discord Server Here to Vote!
Everyone is pretty chill! Just read the rules, react appropriately for the right roles, and have fun. Don't be afraid to ask if you need help.
Submit Your Entry Here!
(No spam please! Struggo runs this challenge out of the kindness of his heart! He is very busy with a full time job and his family but he still makes time to make this fun for us writers.)
*Struggo occasionally misses a week or two here and there on account of being a very busy man. Give a man a break he's doing all this for free
**did u think I was joking about the community choosing the prompt?? only a group of writers would freaking vote for this. i can't believe this actually won are u kidding me what am i supposed to write
***cheri will know if it's ai. and she will come for you.
Disclaimer: MamaBuckle Films is not affiliated with the Struggo Prompt Challenge. This is something Cheri is promoting because it's cool as hell and she thinks Struggo is cool as hell.**** And because she wants there to be more submissions so it's not the same 3 winners every month.
****Do not tell anyone I said so. Especially Struggo. It'll go to his head.
Hiiii, sorry for being a super inactive blog runner. the holidays were rough.
Im here to tell you all that the new challenge has actually been live since December, and is now due in less than two weeks (February 1st). (I'M SORRY OKAY?)
The Buckle Up Challenge:
This Winter Challenge is focused on creating the pilot episode of an ongoing series. We're looking for stories that feel like the beginning of something larger. Conflicts, worlds & characters that can grow over time.Â
WINTER'S PROMPT:Â Vampire goes to retire in his coffin, but can't sleep...
(c'mon tumblrinas you can't tell me you don't have at least 2 fics in your backlog with this premise.)
Submission Requirements:
Length: 15 - 20 pages in standard screenplay format (Or roughly 4,500 words in prose/novel format with clear scene/character formatting)
Characters: 1â6Â
Locations: MAX 3 Locations [Scripts using unavailable or high-cost locations will be disqualified. Indoor locations encouraged.]
Budget-Friendly: No VFX or stunts
Original Content Only: No AI-written scripts or copyrighted material
Filename Format: PromptTitle _TwitchUsername.pdf
Format: PDF only
You must submit the Google form to be eligible.
Submit Here
If you want to see some of the previous contest winners, check out our website!
Read a book written by a woman from every state in India. Fiction, non-fiction, poetry, short ...
Hello, Dr Tall Gf and I made this little reading challenge earlier this year, after we realised that a lot of the books we'd read from India were not anywhere near reflective of the vast diversity of the place, and I can't recall whether or not I've shared it previously, so here it is:
Read a book written by a woman from every state in India. Fiction, non-fiction, poetry, short story collections - anything goes!
Bonus points if the book has been translated from a language other than English, and double bonus points for Dalit and Adivasi authors.
This challenge can be started and finished at any time. No pressure - enjoy the journey!
hi, i'm rov. the penless poet behind all my poetries. i'm a writer, a poet, and a gatherer of fleeting thoughts. i mostly live in the daydreams of metaphors, in between the flipping pages, and inside my midnight musings.
this blog is where i scribble the thoughts that speak to me, whether they are reflections taken from the novels i read, films i watched, or just fleeting moments that gave me thoughts to ponder that linger in my chest long after they happen.
currently, i'm writing a novel, and hopefully, i won't get lost somewhere in the abyss of editing hahaha.
for the curious wanderer, my untamed penless poetries rest on instagram (@nevernotrov), and the thoughts i gather from quieter meadows are tucked away in my blog (rovfuentes.home.blog). or you can click the link on my bio.
âYou really do enjoy your own company, donât you?â â 29/08/2024
...
Silence doesnât absolve. Silence accumulates. Often, the only witness to silence is the clock moving forward, one tick at a time. Each person builds their own relationship with time and how it passes, with or without permission. For some, this is a comfort. Time, allegedly, heals all wounds. For others, time is endurance, and in endurance: observation.
Prolonged quiet reorganizes behavior. Messages unsent become habits. Responses rehearsed in thought lose their urgency. Days start to structure themselves around what doesnât happen. That is how neglect turns into routine, and how the absence of communication begins to mimic stability. Many mistake this adjustment for recovery, but itâs only adaptation. The body learns the choreography of waiting. The mind records its repetitions. Over time, silence becomes the achievement and endurance its only metric.
One develops a calendar of small rehearsals for someone elseâs return. Not dramatic ones, no sweeping gestures, no grand displays. Only a series of quiet preparations, and each is a decision made not out of hope, but out of muscle memory. These behaviors become so integrated that they no longer register as choices. Theyâre maintenance. A way of staying upright.
Dignity in solitude becomes ritual. But ritual is not a memorial and it isnât built for closure. Itâs a system of containment. It gives shape to waiting so it doesnât spill everywhere. People assume stillness is passive, but stillness is physical. It lives in the chest, the stomach, the fidgeting hands, the position of oneâs eyeline toward the door or a mirror through which they can monitor it. Stillness can become the pace of oneâs evenings. What appears as composure is often just choreography: a body moving through silence in a way that wonât draw attention. Stillness is a bodyâs defense against silence.
âYou really enjoy your own company, donât you?â
It isnât a compliment. Itâs a release clause. Itâs very easy to reward someoneâs independence when it clears your path to departure. A woman alone is easier to admire than to interrupt, and the more self-sufficient she appears, the less others feel she requires. Her solitude becomes a form of composure and therefore a form of strength that one can rely upon, and potentially weaponize. If she doesnât need you, she wonât be broken if you disappear. If you disappear and she endures, then to what extent did you really interrupt?
...
Read the full essay and follow the full arc on Substack
Visual art and updates on Instagram
Donât Be A Stranger is a forty-part essay series about what people do with intimacy when they donât know how to carry it. About silence after harmâââand the architecture built in its place. Each essay functions as a standalone structure: declarative, critical, poetic. Together, they form a long-form companion to a conceptual art arc releasing from April to June 2026.
This ( @kateannjoy ) is a blog that I've created to feature my writing and visual art.
This essay is the first of forty to be released over the coming months, and I really hope that those who are still around from my time here will be interested. This is the first time I've promoted my original writing on this blog, so I would really appreciate your feedback and support on this new endeavor.
In case you were wondering where I've been for the past... several years, I'm now a working photographer and visual artist in London and am very excited to make a real return to writing.
I'm very glad this blog has continued to be of service to you, and I hope you will come along with me into this new chapter.
Instagram
Substack
Website (currently being updated)
your town had a ridiculous villain more annoying than fearful. Always committing minor inconveniences and pranks more than evil deads. But when a new truly evil big bad starts hurting their people, he'll show how evil and powerful he can be.
The bridge almost collapsing consumes local media for a good fortnight after Mr. Maxwell finds the crack during an early season rafting trip.
Could have been disastrous, Ms. Lane from the grocery store says.
Potentially a dozen lives lost during rush hour, Amber Carter says in her guest appearance on 43.2 AM. Sheâs valedictorian and thatâs about the closest to a popstar the town sees. I would have had to organize the memorial on top of writing college essays. Can you imagine?
People can imagine, DJ Arthur assures her at the top of the hour. Thatâs what makes it so horrifying.
The Mayor releases a statement. No indication there was immediate peril. However, the township always strives to improve infrastructure and will patch the crack before the holidays.
The mayor is not invited onto 43.2 AM.
Why are we still talking about the bridge? The Police Chief wants to know. Heâs standing in front of his cruiser which looks closer to a clown car than a police vehicle. Doesnât anyone care that the Echolocator painted official police property polka dot red?
People roll their eyes. The Police Chief is from out of town. Heâs always up in arms about the Echolocator and his newest shenanigans. The Echolocator commandeered state resources! The Echolocator used the townâs dam for a truly impressive yacht party for one night. Where the yacht came from or where it went didnât really matter, did it? The dam didnât break, right?
Echolocator mobilized the cityâs mole population to erode the future site of the townâs first Walmart! The way the Police Chief went on about that one made the townspeople extra suspicious. All of the moles the Echolocator used came from Central Park, ending the infestation there. Did the Police Chief want Central Park to be mole infested and hole-riddled so that theyâd have to cancel their Sunday marathons? And did the Police Chief not care about small businesses? If he did, heâd be as indifferent as them at the cancellation of the Walmart project.
Somebody decorated every tree along Main Street in various holiday themes out of season. Thereâs crime going on, Police Chief, did you know that? Maybe start caring more about solving those rather than acting like the president of an HOA.
The Echolocator isnât news. Heâs as unpredictable as the weather, sure, but just as fleeting.
He makes apple juice come out of every faucet for a few minutes every hour, making every citizen time their showers with care.
 (They do and effectively reduce water waste by 30% that week.)
He makes 3rd street into a giant slip and slide, shutting it down for a whole month.
(The only business on that road was closed with Mrs. Castor in the hospital so itâs not like she loses any sales. And at least the kids â on summer break â found something to do that month with the local pool closed for maintenance. )
When a movie producer comes to vet the town for the next biggest hit, he goes missing. Last spotted walking arm in arm with the Echolocator.
(The town never wanted to be a film set so that one doesnât even merit a mention on 43.2 AM)
The Police Chief learns slowly, but he learns. When it comes time for reelection he only talks about Mr. Maxwell, the hero who found the crack in the bridge, and how the citizens were the real heroes here. He shakes Mr. Maxwellâs hand when he gives him the Good Samaritan medal, smiling for the cameras through gritted teeth.
I can play the game, he thinks to himself. He makes a show of surveying Central Park himself to verify the continued absence of moles. The real police work happens behind the scenes anyway. One day, when they need me, theyâll listen. Iâll save them. Get their trust. And then theyâll listen.
Theyâll listen.
The day comes sooner than expected and too soon all at the same time. When the Police Chief vowed that heâd prove himself, heâd imagined heâd do so against thieves. A jewel heist. A bank robbery. Something dramatic and worthy of 43.2 AM.
Instead, what he gets is Coriander. An A-rank villain with the power to summon and control tiny imps that ran through peopleâs yards and set fire to all the houses that didnât have any flower beds to tear up. The Police Chief watches the creatures carry their stolen flowers up and into the Gothic castle that appeared overnight in the middle of Central Park. The command center is posted right in the parking lot, as close to the castle as he dares to get without Hero Force backup.
He scrubs a hand over his face. The castle is dormant after a long night of flower looting. According to his sources, it wonât last long. Whatever spell Coriander is cooking up will be unleashed soon. He looks up to the single microphone held out to him by DJ Arthur. At least heâs on 43.2 AM now.
âStay indoors,â he says. His voice echoes out of passing vehicles. Theyâve been driving by, gawking at Corianderâs base. He closes his eyes. âI understand this town is fucked up and doesnât care about villain activity. But this is dangerous. Coriander has a body count. We all need to bunker down until Hero Force arrives.â
DJ Arthur frowns. âPolice Chief, thatâs a harsh accusation. We care. Thatâs why Iâm here.â
âIf you cared, you wouldnât be here,â the Police Chief says. He doesnât care about reelection. He feels the last sleepless 24 hours weighing on his shoulders. He gestures to the man in front of him, tweed suit and all. âPeople look up to you, Arthur. They listen to you. I granted you this interview so you can tell the citizens to go home where they have a chance of avoiding Corianderâs next assault. History shows he wonât stop at fire. He wonâtââ
âI didnât come here for an interview,â DJ Arthur says, blinking. He adjusts the strap of his recorder uncomfortably. âSorry. Should have been more clear. I was asking top be granted a spot in the command center. Up close to the action. Front row seats.â
ââŠWhat?â
âAlso, please call me DJ Arthur. Weâre on the air.â
âNo.â the Police Chief thinks this might be what hysteria feels like. âNo, thatâs notâyouâre notâPeopleâs lives are at stake. Corianderâs already committed tens of thousands of dollars in property damage, six people are in the hospitalââ
âWhich is why Iâm here,â DJ Arthur interrupts. He jerks his chin towards Central Park. The double doors of the castle are just visible through the trees lining the main path. âPeople are hurt. Heâll be here soon.â
 âWhoââ He turns to see a man on the main path towards the castle. His cape swishes left and right as he power walks through the park to the front door. Heâs got the worst kind of bedhead and his brown, curly hair looks almost like a birdâs nest from this distance. The Police Chief learns slowly. âWho isââ But he learns. âAre you fucking kidding me?â
Echolocatorâs arms pump. His knees jerk up to the sky in an enthusiastically uncoordinated march. His teal cape twists into a knot and swishes behind him like a tail.
âEcholocator on scene,â DJ Arthur says, his lips directly on the mic. His gaze is feverish. âHeâs approaching Corianderâs castle.â
The Police Chief is frozen. The Echolocator is annoying, but he doesnât deserve to die. His hands tingle and his heart beats against his ribs. Should he draw his weapon? March right up the trail and drag the Echolocator back? Itâd put him in proximity to Coriander and heâs seen videos in the Academy of how that ends. But isnât that his job? Isnât that what heâs been trying to show the people heâs willing to do? Die for them? His numb fingers find the latch on his gun.
âThe Echolocator is knocking on the door,â DJ Arthur says. Metal on metal sings across the park and the DJâs voice fills with mirth. âNo one answered. The Echolocator is using the brass knocker on the front doors to get Corianderâs attention. Come on, Coriander! Open up. Itâs not polite to keep the Echolocator waiting. Open up! Open up!â
A roar of honking fills the streets behind them. The Police Chief jumps, heart leaping into his throat. His hand falls off his weapon as he turns to find theyâre no longer alone in the parking lot. What seems to be every vehicle in town is in the lot and spilling out onto the street. He can see people banging on their steering wheels, shouting along with DJ Arthur.
âOpen up! Open up! Open up!â
Theyâre crazy. The Police Chief tries to get enough moisture to wet his lips. âGoââ No, his voice breaks and he has to try again. He tries to be heard over the din. He waves his arms over his head. âGo home! Itâs not safe! This is an active battle zone! You need toââ
An unholy cheer crashes over his pleas. He stumbles back as it reverberates through his bones. Townspeople lean over steer wheels and pop through sunroofs, all with the same feverish gaze as DJ Arthur.
âWatch, Police Chief,â DJ Arthur says. His hand is gentle but firm as he drags the Police Chief back around. He guides him to the command chair and sits him there. Leans over his shoulder. Whispers into both the mic and the Police Chiefâs ear. âWatch our villain at work.â
A terrible rumbling shakes the ground, coming from Corianderâs castle. The Echolocator is still standing on the front step, hands braced on his hips. The castle doors shiver and the very air seems to ripple as Corianderâs forces race to answer the provocation. Booming footsteps fall like the howl of a bell.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Echolocator starts. Looks over his shoulder with a frown. He contorts so he can untangle his cape. He smooths it along his shoulders. Looks back at the crowd as the cacophony of footsteps swells. Rolls his eyes as if to say Oh brother.
The doors fly open and thereâs Coriander. Long, black hair writhing like the black mass of shadow behind him. Silver robes flapping in maelstrom of power. Eyes and fingertips sparking with furious magic. His voice is a lightning crack. âHOW DARE YOUâ"
The Echolocator grabs Coriander by the throat. The supervillain chokes and his hands go to scrabble at the lesser villainâs wrist. Magic sparks and chews the air with an audible crackle. Echolocator hardly seems to notice. He forces Coriander back into the castle ahead of him. The doors swing shut the instant theyâre over the threshold.
The screams start up a beat after that.
The tingling in his hands has spread to his legs. The Police Chief feels completely robbed of strength. Heâs heard screams like those in training. He knows what they mean.
âBoo,â DJ Arthur says into the mic. His arm is tossed carelessly over the Police Chiefâs shoulders. âNo audience today. Echolocator has hold of Coriander and it doesnât seem like heâll be letting the villain leave without paying for poor Ms. Ethelâs broken leg. And Mr. Castorâs concussion. And Savannahâs contusions. Andââ
The Police Chief barely processes DJ Arthurâs recitation of civilian injuries. Heâs watching the doors, every scream seeping through his ears and sloshing around his brain. Thereâs something wet slipping out from under the double doors. Something that shimmers a brilliant red under the late afternoon sun.
Heâs seen that liquid in training too.
When the tallest tower of the castle loses the first of its shingles, the crowd starts to drift away. The screams are thin now. A breeze through winter-stripped branches. A stone falls next. Then another. And another.
The Police Chief doesnât stir even when DJ Arthur packs up his microphone and mutters about heading home to write the transcript. He sits in the command chair, elbows on his knees. Tripod position, thatâs what itâs called. Heâs trying to suck in enough air to chase away the feeling of suffocation. But no matter how wide he flares his ribs, he still feels short of breath.
Corianderâs castle dismantles painfully slow. It shrinks like melting ice, tucking itself neatly into the earth. Thereâs no other way to explain it. Each stone sinks and dissolves against the ground as if they very foundation of the town is trying to destroy it.
When the sun sets, itâs on an empty field. No, not quite empty. Mounds of flowers lie in the shape of Corianderâs castleâs footprint. But Coriander is gone. Echolocator is gone.
The Police Chief nods slowly. He nods and nods and nods. The streetlamps flicker on. He stands and sways, blood rushing back into his legs. He nods at this too. Circulation will return. He has no doubt.
Other things will return too.
He hobbles over to his polka-dotted car on pins and needles. The bridge project â the Mayor promised before the holidays. Itâs behind schedule. If he diverts some man hours, he can help get it back on track.
A safe bridge is the best sign of a safe community. Heâs glad he finally sees that now.
He listens to 43.2 AM on the way back to the station.
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Thanks for reading! If you'd like to read short pieces like this before anyone else, I'm doing a daily writing challenge every day in November on my Patreon (X)
Thank you SO much to everyone who supports me over there! It's because of you I can take the time this November to challenge myself and share even more stories. if this isn't a good time to support, there's also a free option! By signing up you get an email every time I post :)
Hey, if anyoneâs curious, this IS making a serious impact â this handbook was taught as standard practice for my EMT license course, as well as several other programs. A lot of new providers are being taught this as a matter of course.
clockmaker Arthur Throckmorton lives a quiet life with his sister and her children, only dreaming of adventure. so when a wealthy client offers him a job that involves traversing Shiftleafâan enchanted forest that claimed his father decades agoâhe reluctantly accepts. the forest is treacherous, but the money will change his family's lives.
the journey quickly turns perilous. fleeing monstrous birds, Arthur stumbles upon a hidden vale where he meets the Lord of the Woodâa figure from his father's many stories. instead of the fairy prince Arthur always imagined, Ira is a morose man, slowly transforming into a beast, his power over a dying forest waning.
Arthur enjoys the safety of the vale, and Ira's company. but he yearns for his family. to safely return home and rescue Ira from a cursed and lonely existence, Arthur and Ira must reach the heart of the wood to heal the forest. except the farther they venture from the vale, the more beastly Ira becomes. if they can't complete their mission before he turns completely, Arthur could lose the man he's falling forâand never see his family again.
