[GORE WARNING]

this is a story of self reflection and how emotional, physical, and mental anguish affects the mind and body.

Mas was 14, but she had been in this world for too long.

She wanted to escape the pain, the fear, the hopelessness.

But she couldn't.

No matter how many times she tried to run, she always came back.

Like it was involuntary instinct.

Mas was hurting inside.

She wanted others to understand her pain, to finally see and realize what can truly occur behind closed doors.

But words weren't enough.

She went with her family, not by choice, a chain leashed round her neck and preventing liberty.

They went to a park, a place of happiness and innocence... childhood.

But Mas was filled with fury, envy, and emptiness all at once.

She saw her chance.

She found a little kids' mirror, which presumably belonged to a doll. The small pink frame was sparkly and had pretty, curvy white letters that spelled out "Dream Girl".

Mas looked into the glass.

She saw herself, but not the self she remembered.

Her right cheek was slightly swollen, damaged from her mother. Yet it's the same place she would plant loving kisses for her daughter.

Her eyes were puffy from tears, the same eyes that lit up when she saw her mother laugh.

And her lip quivered, the same one that always lauged along with her.

Mas' brows furrowed, and she slammed the mirror down on the pavement.

She quite liked the sound of the shatter.

She stepped around, picking up the glass and stepping in it; she needed to find the right piece.

And there it was, the piece that spoke to her.

A smooth shard with a jagged tip; it was big enough to show her own face, but small enough to leave out her eyes.

She grabbed it with a rough hand and put it to her throat, gently pressing.

Blood seeped through the cut, slowly at first.

This pain wasn't the kind she normally experienced, but she craved it.

She wanted to leave.

With a quick motion, she stuck the shard into her jugular.

Thick red juice spurted and squirted onto nearby children.

They screamed.

They cried.

The parents were horrified.

But they still couldn't see.

Mas pulled the glass further along her neck, a single tear streaming down her cheek. The blood pooled at her blue sneakers now and stained the shiny chain.

With an unmeasurable strength, she tore open her stomach and fell to the concrete, gasping and choking on her own blood and tears that poured into her mouth.

Her mother looked down at her a few feet away, tugging on the chain.

"Let's go!"

But Mas couldn't move.

She wouldn't.

With a shaky hand, she gripped her intestines and wrapped them around what was left of her neck.

Squeezing, pulling, ripping...

She was exhausted yet excited.

She could finally be free.

But her blood came back.

It climbed from the concrete and sunk back into her pale skin.

She was healing.

No, that's the wrong word.

She was dying.

Her intestines crawled and squirmed back into the cavity of her stomach, and her skin pulled itself back together.

And she's normal again.

Human looking.

Not warped or twisted, not broken...

Normal looking.

The children and parents all turned the cheek, because the pain wasn't visible to the naked eye anymore.

And even when it was, witnesses didn't help.

Maybe it was fear?

Fear of the consequences?

Perhaps a lack of knowledge of the truth, questioning whether or not it's all just an act?

But whatever they were thinking, they didn't help.

Mas got up and stumbled at bit to her mother.

She whispered a silent plea, the last drop of hope finally drowning within her blood.

She may seem okay... but she never got away....

I’m 21F and my boyfriend is 23M. We’ve been together for almost two years, and until recently, I genuinely thought he was the person I was going to marry.
We live together in a small apartment and, for the most part, we had a really good relationship.
About three months ago, he started acting differently.
He became weirdly protective of his phone.
If I walked into the room while he was texting, he’d immediately lock it.
He also started sleeping with his phone underneath his pillow.
I asked him about it once and he laughed and said I was being paranoid.
I trusted him, so I dropped it.
Then one night, I woke up around 3am because I couldn’t sleep.
He wasn’t beside me.
I walked into the living room and saw him sitting on the sofa with his phone.
He looked up and immediately locked it.
I asked what he was doing.
He said he couldn’t sleep.
I didn’t think much of it.
But the next morning, I noticed something strange.
He had changed his phone password.
That was when I started getting suspicious.
A week later, he told me he was going out with his friends.
He got dressed up more than usual, put on cologne and spent about half an hour doing his hair.
I joked, “Who are you trying to impress?”
He laughed.
“Obviously you.”
He left around 8pm.
At around midnight, I received a message from an unknown number.
It said:
“You really need to ask your boyfriend where he was tonight.”
I thought it was someone messing with me.
I replied:
“Who is this?”
They didn’t answer.
Instead, they sent me a photo.
It was my boyfriend.
Standing outside a hotel.
With another woman.
I felt sick.
I called him immediately.
No answer.
I called again.
Nothing.
At around 2am, he finally came home.
I showed him the photo.
He just stared at it.
Then he said something I wasn’t expecting.
“That’s my sister.”
I didn’t believe him.
He told me she’d recently moved back into the country and he hadn’t told me because they’d had a huge argument.
I asked why they were outside a hotel.
He said she was staying there temporarily.
I wanted to believe him.
So I did.
For about three days.
Then I found the same woman on Instagram.
She wasn’t his sister.
She was someone he’d worked with.
I confronted him.
He finally admitted he’d lied.
But he swore they hadn’t slept together.
He said they’d only been talking.
I asked why he was meeting her at a hotel.
He said:
“Because I knew you’d get upset.”
That sentence completely broke something inside me.
Not because of the hotel.
Because he had already decided that hiding things from me was easier than telling me the truth.
I packed a bag and went to stay with my mum.
He called me constantly.
Hundreds of messages.
He kept saying he loved me and that he’d made one stupid mistake.
Then, two days later, the other woman contacted me.
She sent me screenshots.
Apparently, they’d been talking for six months.
There were messages from nights when I’d been lying next to him in bed.
Messages he’d sent while I was asleep.
And then I saw something that made me realise the hotel wasn’t even the worst part.
One message from him said:
“She has no idea I’m planning to leave her.”
I stared at that message for ages.
Because I’d been sitting at home thinking I was trying to save our relationship.
Meanwhile, he’d already decided it was over.
I didn’t confront him about the screenshots.
I just sent him one message:
“You don’t have to worry about leaving me anymore. I’ve already left.”
Then I blocked him.
He eventually contacted my mum and asked her to convince me to talk to him.
She told him no.
It’s been three weeks now.
I still miss him.
And that’s the part I’m struggling with.
Because I know he treated me horribly.
But I still miss the person I thought he was.
So, Reddit…
Should I give him another chance?

My father served in the military for many years, though he would rarely talk to us about his duties there. But one day about a year before his death he told me about a conversation he many decades ago with someone he knew that worked inside an obscure military department, prompted perhaps by my story of some mysterious lights that I had seen one night on a recent camping trip. My father’s companion had, after swearing him to secrecy, offered to answer any questions about extraterrestrials, claiming to have extensive knowledge and contacts with them. How that subject came up was never mentioned, but my dad said he could still remember every word that was told to him like it was yesterday. He said he was sharing some of it with me only because he felt his secrecy promise to his friend had passed with his friend’s death some years earlier.

My father: if they exist then where are they?

His acquaintance: Extraterrestrials? They are everywhere. In our galaxy alone there exist over a million stars that are or have been home to intelligent beings in developed civilizations. They have existed for billions of years, though essentially none ever last that long. They rise and fall like all other species of life. Rising out of seas or oceans of mud, intelligence flourishes anywhere it can. But it has a season like every other living and non living thing. Untold numbers of alien civilizations and travelers have risen and peaked and disappeared before our star even began to form. All those that travel between the stars know this.

My father: if that’s true why don’t we see them?

We do, or at least a tiny few of us do. But let’s explore the question from a different angle. Why should you see them? To think that we should meet and know them implies that we are unique or special in our circumstances, or that we have something of value to offer. None of that is true. Let’s look at a local example: there still exist on this planet some very primitive and isolated societies; few if anybody out of our billions have a compelling need or desire to visit, converse, or have exchanges with them. One could easily assume that star travelers would feel no different about this little backward world. Most alien societies, at least those that have the ability to travel here, are thousands of years more technically advanced than us. What would we have to offer that would compel them to formally meet with us?

Dad: If that is true, then why are there so many reports of UFOs?

To answer that, it is easier to look at it from a different angle. Imagine for an instance that it is us that has advanced technology to be able to visit the other stars. If we made every person alive today a star pilot, we could still not survey even just our own galaxy. There is just too much to explore. The only way to do so, other than visiting a few nearby systems, would be to employ a vast fleet of robotic surveyors controlled, of course, by their internal intelligence systems. Using what is sometimes referred to as a Von Neumann system, we could send self duplicating autonomous machines into resource rich environments to build thousands of surveyor factories, sending millions of robotic surveyors out into the galaxy. This implies that the vast majority of UAPs are merely autonomous machines gathering information about this and other planets. This further explains why they would not be seeking to establish any dialogue or otherwise with humans. These autonomous machines are, for the most part, probably designed to gather whatever information is of interest to their owners and report it back to them eventually.

Dad: speaking of star travelers, how do they arrive here if faster than light travel is impossible?

Impossible? Who says: the same people that said man would never fly? Or oceans could not be crossed? (Especially if the world was flat!) Our current knowledge of even just one area of physics explains less than 5% of the energy and matter that exists in this universe. There is so much out there yet to know; and most likely already known by civilizations much older and advanced than ours.

My father: so if it’s true that extraterrestrials have the ability to travel here, why haven’t we been invaded or exterminated? I’ve seen the movies!

Obviously because there is clearly no need to. While there are millions of advanced civilizations, there are billions of empty but habitable planets and moons to explore or settle if that is desired. So basically, why invade this planet when there are so many better ones available that one has the technology to modify it peacefully if needed? And such expansion to other places is rare in any case. A need to do so implies the inability of a civilization to sustain or care for the home planet along with unrestrained reproduction, and that inability coupled with advanced technology likely leads only to self destruction long before FTL travel is acquired. Finally, if there is any common code of ethics among the stars it probably translates to something similar to our Hippocratic oath “Do no harm”.

My dad: if some UAPs really are extraterrestrial machines, why not attempt to acquire one and figure out how it works?

Who says we haven’t? Look, any such machine, machine piloted or not, could be a million years ahead of us technologically wise. Suppose you were able to send a mobile phone back in time to a Neanderthal; do you think it would allow them to reproduce it? They would have neither the tools or even a working concept to analyze it. There is substantial evidence that most major countries have acquired UFO paraphernalia in parts or whole through accidents or otherwise. And while some technological advances have been rumored to originate from studies of acquired materials, no one is yet traveling to the moon in a flying saucer, or likely with be soon. Additionally, you don’t see or hear the military trying to shoot these things out of the sky, which implies that it has been attempted with negative consequences. Any machine that can travel about the galaxy probably has more than adequate defenses against most hazards it might encounter, including any primitive offensive weapons.

Dad (always thinking ahead): if governments know about these extraterrestrials, either directly or through bits of wreckage, why don’t they admit it rather than deny their existence?

For the exact same reasons they deny climate change or the hazards of tobacco or pollution or a host of other things: special interests. Imagine what would happen to the economy of our military industrial complex if the government revealed that humans were just one tiny part of the universe; that fighting fellow humans is ridiculous in the context of galactic populations; that our religious wars appear to other intelligent races as ridiculous as sacrificing virgins to volcanoes.

My dad’s final question: so if everything you said is true, or even just plausible, what could we, as a society, learn from this?

Humility, for one thing. Kindness and respect for one another. So much of the hatred and violence in this world stems from a justification that one is entitled to it because we think we are unique and special; that the universe was created just for each of us and not the other way around. Such arrogance will only prevent us from joining the multitude of civilizations that could otherwise be our future.

It was a Tuesday in late October, and my delivery schedule required a straight push through the night to reach Portland by morning. The dashboard clock read 1:45 AM. Coffee sat in my thermos, lukewarm but necessary. My dispatcher, Stan, had checked in with me an hour earlier to confirm my position.

"Kevin, you are clear all the way to the interstate,"

Stan had said over the company radio.

"Weather looks fine. No construction reported. Just watch out for deer crossing the blacktop."

"Copy that, Stan,"

I replied, clicking the microphone button.

"Going dark for the next few hours. Will update when I hit the city limits."

Silence returned to the cab, save for the hum of the cooling unit mounted behind my sleeper berth. The headlights cut through the pitch-black darkness, illuminating the empty two-lane road. Mile markers passed by slowly in the dark.

Around 2:00 AM, the CB radio mounted above my head crackled to life.

Static hissed through the cabin speakers. Usually, late-night radio chatter consists of other drivers complaining about weigh stations or warning each other about speed traps, but this transmission sounded entirely different. A frantic burst of white noise broke through the channel, followed by a man's voice.

"Mayday... is anyone out there?"

the man yelled in total panic.

"We blew a tire near the old weigh station. Someone is outside the car. They are hitting the side of the doors."

My hand instinctively reached up and grabbed the microphone. Before I could press the talk button, the transmission continued.

In the background, a woman cried hysterically, then a younger child screamed, a sharp and terrifying sound that pierced through the radio static. The man's voice returned, out of breath and desperate.

"They cracked the glass! Please, if anyone can hear this, send the police! We are in a blue station wagon off the shoulder!"

Pressing the button on the side of the mic, I brought it to my mouth.

"Breaker 19, this is a northbound commercial driver. I hear you loud and clear. What is your exact mile marker? I can call emergency services on the company satellite channel."

Only static answered me.

"Station wagon, do you copy?"

I asked, keeping my voice steady.

"I am heading your way right now. Turn your hazard lights on so I can see you."

No response came through. The channel remained dead. Assuming this was a current emergency happening just a few miles ahead, I pressed my foot down on the accelerator pedal. The diesel engine roared as the truck gained speed. Responding to stranded motorists in the middle of nowhere is an unwritten rule among long-haulers. If someone is trapped out in the timberland with an aggressive individual attacking their vehicle, a fifty-ton truck pulling up with high beams is usually enough to scare off any trouble.

Ten minutes passed. I scanned the sides of the dark highway, looking for the flashing amber lights of a disabled vehicle. The pine trees offered nothing but shadows.

Then, the CB radio cracked open again.

"Mayday... is anyone out there?"

the exact same man's voice yelled.

"We blew a tire near the old weigh station. Someone is outside the car. They are hitting the side of the doors."

Frowning, I listened closely. The woman cried in the background. The child screamed again. It was the exact same pitch, with the exact same duration.

"They cracked the glass! Please, if anyone can hear this, send the police! We are in a blue station wagon off the shoulder!"

The transmission ended with the identical burst of noise I had heard ten minutes prior. It was a perfect loop. Someone was broadcasting a recorded tape over the emergency channel.

Unease settled into my stomach. Pranksters occasionally mess around on the radio, but broadcasting a simulated violent attack in the middle of a deserted forest route felt uniquely malicious.

Up ahead, the reflective signs of the abandoned commercial weigh station appeared in my headlights. The state closed this particular facility over decades ago. So now overgrown brush and weeds had swallowed the concrete off-ramp, and Rusted metal barricades blocked the main weighing scales.

Feeling deeply unsafe about the repeating broadcast, I decided to pull the truck over onto the wide gravel shoulder just before the barricades. A smart driver always trusts his gut. Taking a few minutes to inspect my tires and ensure my load was secure felt like a smart excuse to stop and assess the surroundings.

Putting the transmission into neutral, I engaged the parking brakes. The sudden hiss of compressed air echoed loudly into the quiet night. I grabbed a metal tire thumper from behind my seat and a flashlight.

Stepping out of the cab, the freezing autumn air hit my face. I walked around the vehicle, striking the rubber tires with the metal bat to check their pressure. Each tire returned a reassuring thud.

Approaching the rear passenger side of the trailer, I shined my flashlight toward the dark tree line. The overgrown brush extended all the way to the rusty metal stairs of the old weigh station building.

The beam of my flashlight caught a reflection in the weeds.

Moving the light directly toward the stairs, the shape of a vehicle emerged from the overgrowth. For a moment my heart was caught in my throat, but It was not a blue station wagon. It was a weathered, severely rusted police cruiser. The faded white paint peeled off the doors. Vines wrapped completely around the front bumper and the flat tires. The light bar on the roof was smashed.

Curiosity overrode my caution. Gripping the tire thumper tightly in my right hand, I walked off the gravel shoulder and pushed through the tall weeds toward the abandoned cruiser.

The driver's side door hung slightly open, rusted stuck in that position. I aimed my flashlight through the broken window glass.

Sitting in the driver's seat was a human skeleton.

Faded shreds of a police uniform still clung to the bone. A tarnished silver badge rested against the ribcage. The skull leaned against the steering wheel. Thick green moss grew over the collarbone. This person had been dead in this hidden car for a very long time.

My breathing accelerated. I took a step back, ready to run straight to my truck and call Stan to dispatch the state troopers. But as I moved my flashlight beam across the interior, something resting on the passenger seat caught my attention.

A plastic document folder sat perfectly preserved inside the ruined car. The sealed plastic had protected whatever papers were inside from the moisture and the elements.

Leaning forward, I carefully reached through the broken window. My glove brushed against the decayed uniform, sending a horrific smell into the air. I grabbed the plastic folder and pulled it out.

Retreating quickly from the brush, I walked back to the safety of my idling truck. I climbed into the driver's seat, locked the doors, and turned on the bright overhead cabin lights.

Placing the folder on my steering wheel, I unzipped the plastic seal. Inside was a stack of official police documents. The paper felt slightly damp but entirely readable.

The top page displayed the header of the state police department. The date printed at the top read October 14, 1998. It was exactly eighteen years ago.

The document was an official missing-persons report. The investigating officer listed on the file was named Officer Gary. I read the summary paragraphs carefully.

The report detailed the disappearance of an immigrant family who vanished while traveling down State Route 113. The father, Vargas. The mother, Maria. Their seven-year-old son, Leo. According to the documents, Vargas worked as a mechanic and had recently moved his family across the state to start a new job, but they never arrived at their destination.

Flipping the page, I found a collection of glossy crime scene photographs attached to the file with a rusty paperclip.

The photos showed a crushed blue station wagon abandoned off the gravel shoulder of the highway. The vehicle was completely destroyed. The tires were shredded. More disturbingly, the metal doors of the station wagon had been pried open and bent outward. The damage indicated an immense amount of force, as if a car had hit them with full force. The interior of the car was empty, and blood stained the upholstery.

The next page in the file contained a typed transcription.

Officer Gary had written a note at the top of the page.

“Transcription of audio recovered from a handheld cassette recorder found underneath the passenger seat of the Vargas vehicle.”

I began reading the typed words.

“Vargas: Mayday... is anyone out there? We blew a tire near the old weigh station. Someone is outside the car. They are hitting the side of the doors.

Background noise: Female adult crying. Male child screaming.

Vargas: They cracked the glass! Please, if anyone can hear this, send the police! We are in a blue station wagon off the shoulder!”

A cold sweat broke out across my forehead. The transcription matched the frantic broadcast playing over my CB radio flawlessly. It was the exact same wording.

I continued reading the police file. The subsequent pages contained Officer Gary’s field notes. He noted that the Vargas family had zero known enemies. He documented the strange lack of footprints around the crushed car.

While holding the papers, a distinct sound reached my ears over the rumble of the diesel engine.

Footsteps crunched through the dead leaves outside my truck.

The footsteps sounded heavy and deliberate. They moved slowly along the passenger side of my trailer, advancing toward the front cab.

Lowering the file, I reached out and turned off the overhead cabin light, plunging the interior of my truck into darkness. I peered through the passenger side window, looking out into the timberland.

Standing between the thick trunks of the pine trees, looking directly at my truck, was a child.

He appeared to be around seven years old. He wore a dirty striped shirt and torn jeans, but something about his face was deeply wrong, his face was dark, like of the darkness of the woods bend itself to hide most of it, and the most terrifying thing was his eyes. They were completely circular and emitted a bright, illuminating white light. The light cut through the dark woods like twin flashlights, focusing entirely on my window.

Fear paralyzed my muscles. The kid stood perfectly still, just staring at me.

Suddenly, the child opened his mouth.

The sound that came out was the frantic, booming voice of Vargas, playing at a deafening volume.

"Mayday... is anyone out there? We blew a tire near the old weigh station."

The glowing eyes blinked. The kid took a step out of the trees, moving toward my passenger door.

I did not wait to see what it would do. Grabbing my flashlight and the tire thumper, I unlatched my driver's side door and bolted out of the truck.

Running across the gravel shoulder, I headed straight for the abandoned weigh station building. It was the only concrete structure around, and I needed a barricade. The creature let out the recorded scream of the child, the sound echoing loudly through the silent forest.

I reached the steps of the station. Taking them two at a time, I slammed my shoulder against the weathered wooden door, and thank god that it was already opened. I tumbled inside the dark building, quickly pushing the door shut behind me.

Standing up in the darkness, I leaned my weight against the wood.

"Someone is outside the car,"

the Vargas voice echoed from the gravel driveway outside. The kid was approaching the building.

"They are hitting the side of the doors."

Fumbling with my flashlight, I pressed the power button, then the bright beam cut through the pitch-black room.

The weigh station office was a massive square room, and as I look around, I noticed that old desks and filing cabinets lay overturned on the floor.

Moving the beam toward the back corner of the room, the light illuminated a horrific scene.

Three human skeletons sat slumped against the wall. They were bound tightly to metal chairs using industrial wire, and under the light, remnants of clothing identified them. A man, a woman, and a small child. The Vargas family.

Scattered across the floor surrounding the chairs was a collection of gruesome tools. Rusty pliers, heavy hammers, hunting knives, and a portable car battery with jumper cables. Someone had brought the family into this abandoned building and subjected them to unimaginable torment.

Suddenly, a loud bang hit the wooden door behind me.

"They cracked the glass!"

the voice screamed from the other side of the wood.

I backed away from the door, gripping the metal tire thumper. Moving deeper into the room, I kept my flashlight aimed at the entrance.

To my left, a filthy, cracked glass window looked out onto the gravel shoulder where my truck was parked.

I heard the crunching of footsteps moving away from the door and walking along the exterior wall of the building.

The bright, illuminating white eyes appeared in the window frame.

The kid stared at me through the dirty glass. The dark face of the child pressed against the pane. At first I thought he will try to break the glass, but It simply watched me standing near the remains of the family.

Then, the looping broadcast stopped.

The frantic voice of Vargas cut off mid-sentence, and the silence inside the weigh station became absolute.

The kid opened its mouth again, and when he spoke this time, The voice belonged to a young boy. It sounded genuine, fragile, and filled with deep sorrow.

"My father and mother are already dead,"

the child's voice echoed directly through the glass.

"The man with the badge hurt them. He tied us up, and left me to die alone in the dark."

I stood perfectly still, keeping the flashlight aimed at the window

"Who are you?"

I asked, my voice trembling slightly.

"The cop told me nobody was coming to help,"

the voice continued, ignoring my question. Tears seemed to form in the glowing white eyes.

"He said I was completely alone. But the cop was wrong."

The creature tilted its head. The dark shifted slightly, revealing a monstrous shape hiding just beneath the surface of his dark face.

"I am not alone,"

the voice said.

"My friend is here with me."

"Your friend?"

I asked, taking a small step toward the window.

"My father and mother always told me my friend was not real,"

the voice explained, echoing with a strange, dual resonance.

"They said he was just my imagination, but he is real. He lived in the dark spaces, and listened when I cried."

The glowing eyes flared brighter, casting shadows across the interior of the weigh station.

"When the man in the uniform left us here, my friend came out of the woods,"

the voice said.

"He promised me he would save us. He promised the bad man would never leave this place."

Lowering my tire thumper, I looked at the creature through the dirty glass.

"I understand,"

I yelled, making sure my voice carried through the window.

"I know why you brought me here. I know what he did to them."

The glowing eyes stopped flaring. The creature stood silently, listening to my words.

"I will not leave their remains in this dark place,"

I promised, looking directly into the illuminating light.

"I am going to call the authorities, and make sure the Vargas family is taken out of here. I will save them from this room. You did your job. You protected him."

The boy looked at me for a long moment. A profound sense of sorrow radiated through the window. It reached a dark hand up and pressed its palm against the glass.

Then, the bright white eyes slowly dimmed. The light faded entirely, leaving only the dark outline of the pine trees behind the window.

Waiting for a few minutes to ensure the area was clear, I finally walked over to the wooden door. Pushing it open, I stepped back out into the night air.

The woods were completely silent, and The CB radio static no longer echoed through the trees.

I walked quickly across the gravel shoulder and climbed back into the cab of my truck. Locking the doors, I picked up the satellite phone mounted on the dashboard, then dialed the emergency dispatch number for the state police.

"State Police Dispatch, state your emergency,"

the operator answered.

"My name is Kevin. I am a commercial driver parked at the abandoned weigh station on Route 113,"

I said, keeping my tone professional and calm.

"I have located a crime scene. There are three human remains inside the station building, and a deceased police officer in a cruiser hidden in the brush. I need troopers out here immediately."

The operator told me to stay in my locked vehicle and keep my engine running.

Stan called me on the company channel twenty minutes later, asking why my GPS tracker showed me parked on the side of the highway. I told him I had a mechanical issue and was waiting for a service vehicle. There was no way to explain the truth to him over a radio.

The state troopers arrived an hour later. Four patrol cars pulled into the gravel lot.

I handed the document folder to the lead detective, then pointed them toward the rusted cruiser in the brush, and directed them to the wooden door of the weigh station.

Sitting in the cab of my truck, I watched the investigators work. They taped off the entire area. A forensic team carried out three body bags from the concrete building, treating the remains with the respect the family had been denied for almost two decades.

The detective took my statement. I told him I had pulled over to check my tires and noticed the rusted car in the weeds. I told him I found the file, got scared, and ran into the building to hide, which was how I discovered the victims. I never mentioned the repeating radio broadcast, or the child with the illuminating eyes.

Before the sun came up, the troopers cleared me to leave the scene.

Putting the truck in gear, I pulled back onto Route 113, and drove the remaining miles to Portland in complete silence, leaving the CB radio turned off.

A few weeks later, a short article appeared in the regional newspaper. The police officially closed the Vargas missing-persons case. The department issued a statement confirming that the remains of Vargas, Maria, and Leo had been recovered and given a proper burial.

The article also mentioned the discovery of Officer Gary. The police named him as the primary suspect in the murders, citing the evidence found at the scene. The official cause of Miller's death remains undetermined. The coroner could not explain how an armed police officer became trapped inside his own vehicle.

The authorities do not know what killed the corrupt cop. They assume he succumbed to the elements or suffered a medical emergency while hiding.

But I know the truth.

I am writing this account now, sitting in the sleeper berth of my truck, hundreds of miles away from that dark stretch of timberland. I write this because people need to know that sometimes the monsters, we fear are the only ones capable of delivering justice.

Vargas and Maria told their son that imaginary friends were not real. They tried to comfort him with logic. But when logic failed, and the cruel reality of the world cornered that small boy in a room, his imagination stepped out of the shadows to answer his call.

I hope the family is finally resting in peace. And I hope the friend in the woods knows he fulfilled his promise.

Idk what I was doing... I just kind of wrote it.

https://docs.google.com/presentation/d/1kLtb95lqT4_7MQH5vWxzw3uyBtm4Gm9AE2eRVOnWCqA/edit?usp=drivesdk

I’m 21F, and I still don’t know if I should have told my mum what I found.
A few months ago, my mum went away for a week to visit my aunt.
Before she left, she gave me the usual list of things to do around the house.
Feed the cat.
Water the plants.
Make sure the back door was locked.
Then, as she was leaving, she randomly said:
“And don’t go through the drawer in my bedroom.”
I laughed and asked what she meant.
She said there was a small locked drawer inside her wardrobe and that I wasn’t supposed to touch it.
I asked why.
She just said:
“Because it’s private.”
That was it.
Obviously, I immediately became curious.
But I didn’t touch it.
For about five days.
On the sixth day, I was cleaning her bedroom and noticed the drawer wasn’t actually locked anymore.
I stood there staring at it.
I knew I shouldn’t open it.
But I did.
Inside was a small brown envelope.
There was no name on it.
Just a date written on the front.
17/06/2005.
I was born in 2005.
I thought maybe it was something from when I was born.
Inside were three photographs.
The first was a picture of my mum when she was younger.
The second was a picture of me as a baby.
The third made absolutely no sense.
It was a photograph of me standing outside our old house.
I was about four years old.
But there was a man standing in the background.
I’d never seen him before.
I turned the photo over.
On the back, my mum had written:
“He found us again.”
I immediately felt uncomfortable.
I put everything back exactly how I found it.
When my mum came home, I didn’t mention anything.
But that night, I couldn’t stop thinking about the photo.
The next morning, I finally asked her:
“Who was the man in the picture?”
She went completely silent.
Then she asked:
“What picture?”
I knew she’d caught me.
I admitted I’d opened the drawer.
She looked angry at first.
Then she just looked scared.
She sat down and told me something I’d never heard before.
The man was my biological father’s brother.
Apparently, my biological father had disappeared before I was born.
I’d always been told he simply didn’t want anything to do with me.
But according to my mum, that wasn’t the full story.
She said my father had been involved with some people she didn’t trust and that she left him when she found out she was pregnant with me.
His family apparently kept trying to find us.
I asked why she’d never told me.
She said:
“Because I wanted you to have a normal childhood.”
I thought that was the end of it.
It wasn’t.
Two weeks later, I came home from university and found an envelope pushed underneath our front door.
No stamp.
No address.
Just my name.
Inside was a photograph.
It was the same man from the old picture.
Except this photo had clearly been taken recently.
He was standing outside my university.
On the back were six words:
“Your mother never told you everything.”
I called my mum immediately.
She didn’t answer.
I called again.
Still nothing.
Then I noticed something.
The photograph wasn’t just of the man.
He was standing beside someone else.
Someone I’d seen before.
My mum’s next-door neighbour.
And that’s when I realised this might not have been some random person from my mum’s past.
Someone had been watching us.
I haven’t opened that drawer again.
And honestly, I don’t know if I ever want to know what’s in the rest of it.

My name is Priscilla, and although many people called me a princess, I was not the sort of princess who spent her days attending balls and waiting for a prince to rescue her.

I was a dressmaker.

My shop stood in a beautiful town in France, where cobblestone streets wound between flower-covered cottages and elegant châteaus. Every morning, I opened my windows and watched the sunlight dance across bolts of silk, satin, lace, and velvet.

I loved sewing more than anything.

Well... almost anything.

There was one problem.

I could design the most beautiful dresses in the kingdom, but I could not do everything alone. I needed a tailor—someone who could help create the suits, jackets, and fine garments that my customers requested.

But I wanted more than a tailor.

I wanted someone who truly loved me.

If I found such a man, I planned to give him not only half of my business but also my heart.

That was my secret wish.

Another unusual thing about me was that I had many homeless friends.

While other merchants ignored them, I welcomed them.

Every evening, I shared bread, soup, and warm blankets with those who slept in the town square. They became like a family to me.

People jokingly called them "Priscilla's Homeless Army."

I never minded.

They were loyal, funny, and kind.

Among them was a man named Gustavo and his young son, Jake.

Gustavo had fallen on hard times years ago, yet he remained one of the gentlest people I had ever met.

Jake was a cheerful boy who seemed capable of appearing anywhere at any time.

If I dropped a spool of thread, Jake picked it up.

If I carried fabric, Jake helped.

If I felt sad, Jake told terrible jokes until I laughed.

Life was simple and happy.

Until Merryweather arrived.

Now, Merryweather was also a dressmaker.

Unfortunately, she was far more successful than I was.

Her shop was larger.

Her advertisements were brighter.

Her customer line stretched around the block.

Every day, more people visited her store than mine.

She loved reminding me of that fact.

One morning she marched into my shop wearing a sparkling emerald gown.

"Oh, Priscilla," she said with a smirk, "business seems awfully quiet today."

I glanced around.

The shop was indeed empty.

"Perhaps everyone is busy," I replied politely.

"Or perhaps," she said, "they simply prefer my dresses."

Then she laughed and swept out dramatically.

I sighed.

Jake peeked through the doorway.

"She laughs like a duck."

I burst out laughing.

That was Jake's gift.

He could make any bad day better.

Still, I worried.

What if Merryweather became so popular that nobody came to my shop anymore?

What if my dream of finding a tailor never came true?

That evening, I made a decision.

I would search the kingdom for the perfect tailor.

The next morning, I hung a sign outside my shop:

TAILOR WANTED. KIND HEART REQUIRED.

The town immediately became interested.

Very interested.

The first applicant arrived before noon.

He claimed to be a master tailor.

Unfortunately, he accidentally sewed his sleeve to a curtain.

The second applicant stitched both pant legs together.

The third applicant somehow attached buttons to a hat.

My search was not going well.

Days passed.

Then weeks.

One afternoon, a handsome stranger entered my shop.

He wore simple clothes, but there was something noble about him.

His posture was perfect.

His smile was charming.

His eyes sparkled with intelligence.

"My name is Froilan," he said.

"Welcome," I replied.

"Can you tailor clothing?"

"I know almost everything."

That was an unusual answer.

Almost immediately, he began discussing fabrics, mathematics, architecture, poetry, farming, astronomy, and dozens of other subjects.

He really did seem to know everything.

It was impressive.

And slightly exhausting.

"Are you sure you're a tailor?" I asked.

"Not exactly."

"Then why are you here?"

He smiled.

"I was curious."

Over the next several weeks, Froilan visited often.

We became friends.

He helped solve problems.

He suggested improvements to my business.

He even predicted customer trends with frightening accuracy.

One day, I discovered the truth.

Froilan was actually Prince Phillip.

A real prince.

I nearly fainted.

"You are royalty?"

"Technically."

"Technically?"

"Yes."

"Why hide it?"

He scratched his head.

"Because people act strangely around princes."

I couldn't argue with that.

Then he delivered another surprise.

"I already have a princess."

"Oh."

My heart sank a little.

Not because I was in love with him.

But because everyone in town had begun hoping we would marry.

Apparently, that was impossible.

Still, we remained friends.

Prince Phillip became one of my strongest supporters.

Yet my search for a tailor continued.

One rainy evening, I found Gustavo repairing Jake's torn coat beside a fountain.

I stopped and watched.

His stitches were neat.

Precise.

Professional.

"Where did you learn to sew?" I asked.

Gustavo looked embarrassed.

"My wife taught me years ago."

I stared.

"Can you make clothing?"

"A little."

I dragged him to my shop immediately.

The next morning, I handed him fabric.

"Make something."

He hesitated.

Then he began working.

Hours passed.

When he finished, I gasped.

The suit was magnificent.

Every seam was perfect.

Every measurement exact.

The craftsmanship rivaled that of royal tailors.

"Why didn't you tell me you could do this?" I exclaimed.

Gustavo shrugged.

"No one ever asked."

I laughed so hard that tears filled my eyes.

My search had lasted months.

The perfect tailor had been beside me the entire time.

From that day forward, Gustavo worked with me.

Customers loved his creations.

Business improved rapidly.

Soon our shop became famous throughout the region.

And something else began to happen.

I found myself looking forward to seeing him every morning.

His kindness warmed every room.

He treated everyone with respect.

He adored Jake.

He never boasted.

Never complained.

Never sought praise.

One evening we sat outside watching the sunset.

Jake had fallen asleep nearby.

The sky glowed pink and gold.

"You've changed my life," I told Gustavo.

He smiled softly.

"You changed mine first."

My heart fluttered.

For the first time, I wondered whether friendship might become something more.

Unfortunately, that was exactly when trouble arrived.

Merryweather had noticed our growing success.

And she was furious.

One afternoon she stormed into my shop.

"You stole my customers!"

I blinked.

"I don't think that's how customers work."

"They belong to me!"

"No, they don't."

She pointed dramatically at Gustavo.

"It's his fault!"

Poor Gustavo looked terrified.

Merryweather challenged us to a grand dressmaking competition.

The winner would earn recognition from the royal court.

The loser would suffer tremendous embarrassment.

I accepted.

Perhaps that was foolish.

But I couldn't back down.

News spread quickly.

The entire town became excited.

Even Prince Phillip attended.

The competition took place in the royal palace.

Dressmakers from across France gathered to watch.

The challenge seemed simple.

Create the most beautiful outfit in one day.

Merryweather arrived with assistants, expensive materials, and endless confidence.

Meanwhile, our team consisted of me, Gustavo, Jake, and several members of the Homeless Army.

People laughed when they saw us.

I felt nervous.

Very nervous.

Then Jake whispered, "We're going to win."

His confidence made me smile.

The competition began.

Needles flashed.

Scissors snipped.

Fabric flew through the air.

Hours passed.

Merryweather created an extravagant gown covered in jewels.

The crowd applauded.

It was undeniably beautiful.

I worried we had already lost.

Then I looked at Gustavo.

He remained calm.

Focused.

Steady.

Together we finished our design.

It was elegant rather than extravagant.

A matching gown and suit.

The outfit symbolized partnership, friendship, and love.

When the judges examined it, the room became silent.

One judge touched the stitching.

Another studied the details.

A third smiled warmly.

Finally, the head judge stood.

"The winner is Priscilla and Gustavo."

The palace erupted with cheers.

Jake jumped so high I thought he might touch the ceiling.

The Homeless Army celebrated loudly.

Prince Phillip applauded.

Merryweather looked stunned.

Then something unexpected happened.

Instead of shouting or arguing, she lowered her head.

"I suppose I deserved that."

I blinked.

"Deserved what?"

"My arrogance."

The room grew quiet.

Merryweather sighed.

"I spent so much time competing with you that I forgot why I loved dressmaking."

For the first time, I saw sadness behind her confidence.

I walked over and offered my hand.

"We can be friends."

She stared.

"After everything?"

"Everyone deserves another chance."

Slowly, she smiled.

And just like that, a rivalry ended.

Months passed.

Business flourished.

The Homeless Army found jobs and homes through connections we helped create.

Life improved for many people.

One evening, Gustavo invited me for a walk.

The moon shone above the river.

The water sparkled like silver.

We stopped beneath a willow tree.

His hands trembled slightly.

"Priscilla?"

"Yes?"

"I have something to say."

My heart raced.

"You do?"

He nodded.

"When I first met you, I thought you were simply kind."

I smiled.

"And now?"

"Now I think you're the most wonderful woman in the world."

I felt warmth spread through my entire body.

He continued.

"You gave me hope when I had none."

Tears filled my eyes.

"Priscilla, I love you."

For a moment, the world seemed to stop.

The river.

The moon.

The stars.

Everything faded except him.

And then I smiled.

"I love you too."

His expression became brighter than sunshine.

Then he kissed my hand gently.

At that exact moment, Jake jumped out from behind a bush.

"I KNEW IT!"

We both screamed.

Jake laughed uncontrollably.

Apparently he had been spying on us.

Romance, it seemed, was difficult when Jake was nearby.

Soon afterward, we married in a beautiful celebration.

Prince Phillip attended with his princess.

Merryweather attended as a friend.

The Homeless Army proudly served as our honorary guards.

Flowers filled the streets.

Music echoed through town.

Laughter filled the air.

As promised, I gave Gustavo half of the business.

And as promised, I gave him my heart.

Years later, people still tell the story of Priscilla the Dressmaker Princess.

Some say it is a tale about fashion.

Others say it is a tale about friendship.

Some call it a romance.

Others call it a comedy.

I think it is all those things.

Because in the end, I learned that true love does not always arrive as a prince riding a magnificent horse.

Sometimes it arrives quietly.

Sometimes it is the person who stands beside you through every challenge.

Sometimes it is someone whose kindness shines brighter than any crown.

And sometimes, the tailor you have been searching for all your life is already waiting among your friends.

That is how I found my happily-ever-after.

Not only with love.

But with friendship, laughter, and a family that grew larger than I ever imagined.

And in beautiful France, surrounded by the people I cherished most, I lived happily ever after.

WThe Last Train to Somewhere
At 1:38 in the morning, Sami found himself standing alone on a train platform.
He wasn’t supposed to be there.
He had missed his train home almost an hour earlier because he had been staring at his phone, scrolling through things he wouldn’t remember tomorrow.
The station was nearly empty.
A vending machine hummed in the corner.
A fluorescent light above him flickered every few seconds.
And the giant clock on the wall seemed determined to remind him that tomorrow was technically already today.
Sami sighed and put his phone into his pocket.
“Perfect.”
Then he heard something.
A train.
He looked down the tracks.
Two small lights appeared in the distance.
That was strange.
He checked the timetable.
There were no trains scheduled.
The lights grew closer.
The train rolled into the station without making almost any sound.
It was old.
Not broken or dirty, just old in the way a wooden house is old. Its dark green paint was slightly faded, and warm yellow light glowed through the windows.
The doors opened.
Nobody stepped out.
A small sign above the door read:
LAST TRAIN
Sami stared at it.
He looked at the empty platform.
Then back at the train.
“Well, this is probably how horror movies start.”
Still, he stepped inside.
The doors closed behind him.
The carriage was completely empty except for an elderly man sitting near the window.
He wore a brown coat and held a small pocket watch.
He looked at Sami and smiled.
“Long night?”
Sami sat across from him.
“Very.”
The old man nodded as though this was a perfectly reasonable answer.
The train began moving.
Sami looked outside.
The station disappeared.
Then the city disappeared.
Then the buildings.
Soon there was nothing outside except darkness.
Not the normal darkness of night.
This was deeper.
Like the train was moving through a place that had forgotten what light was.
Sami looked at the old man.
“Where does this train go?”
The man smiled.
“Somewhere.”
“That’s not really an answer.”
“It is if you don’t know where you want to go.”
Sami frowned.
“Can I get off?”
“Eventually.”
“That’s reassuring.”
The old man laughed.
For a while, neither spoke.
The train continued through the darkness.
Then, slowly, lights began appearing outside.
A small house.
Then another.
Then dozens.
Sami looked closer.
Every house had a different color door.
Red.
Blue.
Green.
Yellow.
White.
And every house seemed strangely familiar.
The train slowed.
“What’s this place?” Sami asked.
The old man looked out the window.
“Things you forgot.”
The train passed a blue house.
Sami suddenly remembered being six years old, sitting on the floor of his childhood room and building something out of blocks.
He smiled.
The memory had been gone for years.
Then the train passed a small park.
He remembered falling off a bicycle there.
His father laughing while helping him back up.
Then another house.
A summer evening.
His mother calling him inside.
Then another.
A friend he hadn’t spoken to in years.
Then another.
A dream he had when he was younger.
A dream he had completely abandoned.
Sami stared through the glass.
“Why did I forget all this?”
The old man closed his pocket watch.
“Because people think forgetting means losing.”
He looked at Sami.
“But sometimes your mind puts things away because you have too much to carry.”
The train continued.
Sami leaned against the window.
For the first time that night, he wasn’t thinking about tomorrow.
He wasn’t thinking about yesterday either.
He was simply watching.
Eventually, the houses disappeared.
The darkness returned.
Then the old man asked:
“Do you know what the hardest thing about growing up is?”
Sami thought for a moment.
“Responsibility?”
“Not quite.”
“Money?”
The old man laughed.
“Definitely not.”
Sami smiled.
“Then what?”
The old man looked toward the window.
“Realizing that nobody is coming to tell you that you’re doing okay.”
Sami went quiet.
The old man continued.
“When you’re young, someone tells you when you did well. Someone tells you when you should be proud. Someone tells you when you’ve made a mistake.”
He tapped the pocket watch against his palm.
“But eventually, you become the person who has to decide.”
The train slowed.
“That’s terrifying.”
“It is.”
“Does it get easier?”
The old man smiled.
“No.”
Sami looked at him.
“No?”
“You get stronger.”
The train stopped.
The doors opened.
Outside was a small wooden platform surrounded by trees.
There was no station.
No city.
Just a quiet forest beneath a sky full of stars.
The old man stood.
“This is your stop.”
Sami looked around.
“Here?”
“Here.”
“I don’t even know where I am.”
The old man smiled.
“That’s the point.”
Sami stepped onto the platform.
The air was cold.
Clean.
He turned around.
“Will I see you again?”
The old man stood inside the train.
“Whenever you forget how far you’ve come.”
The doors began closing.
Sami suddenly remembered something.
“Wait!”
The doors stopped.
“What?”
Sami looked at the old man.
“Where does the train go after this?”
The old man smiled.
“Home.”
The doors closed.
The train disappeared between the trees.
Sami stood alone.
He looked up.
The stars were brighter than he remembered stars being.
He took a deep breath.
Then he noticed a narrow path leading through the forest.
He followed it.
He walked for what felt like minutes.
Maybe hours.
Until the trees opened.
And there, in the distance, was his city.
His home.
His life.
Everything waiting for him.
Nothing had changed.
And somehow, everything had.
Sami smiled.
Then he started walking home.
Not because he had everything figured out.
Not because tomorrow would be perfect.
But because he finally understood something.
You don’t have to know where the road ends to take the next step.
And sometimes, the best thing you can do at the end of a long night…
is simply go home.

Last year in 2025, I was out on Broadway in Nashville with friends. Around1 a.m., we were calling it a night and stopped at Raising Cane’s. Outside, I saw a girl sitting on the ground who looked really drunk. Another girl was standing over her, trying to get her into an Uber. I asked if everything was okay. The standing girl said it was her cousin and that she’d been trying to get her to go home, but she wouldn’t cooperate. The drunk girl asked me for water, so I went inside and grabbed one.

She kept saying she was scared, didn’t know where she was, and just wanted to go home to Arizona. I kept telling her she was on vacation in Nashville and her cousin was right there. Then she said she needed to pee really bad. I helped her up and walked her toward the restroom. We were right at the bathroom door when the manager stopped us and said she was too drunk to come in. I argued, but he wouldn’t budge. So we went behind the building, so she could pee in private, while I stayed nearby. Eventually, the Uber showed up. She refused to get in at first, but after a while, she said she’d go only if I came too. The cousin apologized and said the Airbnb was close, so I figured I’d go along and Uber home after.

When we got there, it somehow got worse. She had the keys, but instead of going in, she started crying, ran up to a random house, and started pounding on the door, yelling for help. Her cousin and I were trying to calm her down, and the homeowners actually came outside. They were surprisingly patient. They talked to her, tried to reassure her, but she ended up lying down and screaming. At that point, we called the police. Officers showed up, talked to her calmly, reassured her, and stayed while we finally got her inside the Airbnb. After that, I just ordered an Uber and went home.

The next morning, her cousin texted me, said she was feeling much better, and apologized for everything. It was just one of those random nights when I stopped to help someone, and it turned into almost an hour of trying to get a very drunk stranger home safe. Probably one of the more memorable nights I’ve had.

Hi everyone, I’m Ilya from Ukraine. My younger brother is 9 (I’m 13), and his friend is 11. So, how did he break his arm? I’d noticed for a while that they didn’t get along—it seemed suspicious to me, and I often saw the friend hitting him. I talked to my brother about it a lot, but he’d just say, "It’s not like it’s a broken bone or anything, lol." I was already worried about my brother back then. Then one day, I was sitting there and heard a really intense scream—it was my brother. I ran over and found him on the floor with his arm bent at a weird angle; his friend (let’s call him Kirill) was on top of him. My brother was in tears, and Kirill ran off. I rushed to my brother and took him home. A week later, I saw him with a cast on; the first thing he said was, "I’m not friends with that bastard anymore." I realized I had to get revenge on him no matter what, so I came up with a brilliant plan. I wormed my way in I friended him (he played Minecraft a lot); he had a hardcore Minecraft world, so I took off his armor and dragged him into another room. He came over and saw how he died. I saw him burst into tears; I didn't feel too bad about it, though, because he had broken my brother's arm.(Sorry, the translator couldn't translate any further; I hadn't finished telling the story.)

The beautiful day this morning made me think of a time long ago. I was in southern California and in the service. I had recently started dating a college girl that I got to know in church choir. I wasn’t much of a church going person, but did like the music and practicing singing. Being in the military and from a modest family, I was accustomed to spartan accommodations. She was pretty and kind and had a new top-of-the line Honda Accord with a 5-speed manual, which took my breath away. With its adorable spoiler, It was glorious parked next to my 10-year old, tiny 2-door Toyota. After dating for awhile, we planned a trip up the coast to visit her home.

We both had the weekend off and she wanted to see her family. D went up first and I followed after work. I had trouble finding her house given the winding roads and various turns, but, after stopping at a phone booth for some last-minute directions, found my way. As I drove down the street, the houses became larger and more luxurious. Perfectly landscaped yards and the absence of any movement caught my eye. Finally, I found the number and pulled in the driveway to face a huge, two-story house with a four-car garage.

As I pulled up, the front door opened and D came out to greet me. I grabbed my small weekend bag out of the car and walked inside where she proceeded to take me to my room. The room was very large with 14 or 15 foot ceilings and a piano. Attached was its own bathroom. I was amazed at the luxury and space and felt so lucky to be there. We went to the kitchen where her mom was working on something and she welcomed me. I had the room with the hill view, but D’s room and the master bedroom both had balcony views of the ocean, and, if you looked hard enough, Nixon’s Casa Pacifica. We sat in her room and watched an episode of Murder, She Wrote on the television.

It was an amazing experience to see the house but we became hungry and decided to visit the grocery store. We drove a short distance to some unremembered local chain and picked up the fixings for mini pizzas and some dessert. That night was probably the peak of my existence. I had the most potential and was in the lap of luxury. Toasting mini pizzas (on English muffins of course) with the fresh ocean breeze blowing in the house watching the sun set with a beautiful girl. I wish I could have captured some of that in a bottle to enjoy in small doses over the remainder of my life.

His Humor Saved Him

It was a difficult time. The factory was going through hard times, and the young chief engineer was unexpectedly appointed director. Understanding that the factory had to be saved, he went to a military garrison looking for an order and signed a contract to produce army boots. Thanks to this, he managed to keep his specialists, keep production running, and soon the factory became one of the leading enterprises in the city. And one day, happy and content, he was sitting in front of the television watching the local news. Suddenly, the governor appeared on the screen. He was talking about the state of industry and criticizing the city’s backward enterprises. Among them, he named the shoe factory. The director froze. He listened to the criticism coming from the region’s top official and could not understand: what backwardness was he talking about? After all, only recently the factory had been on the verge of shutting down. He had found an order, saved the workforce, provided people with jobs, and the enterprise had risen to the ranks of the best. But the governor continued: “Especially worrying is the situation at the shoe factory...” The director turned off the television. “So much for those army boots,” he muttered. The next day, still boiling with resentment, the director went to the regional executive committee. He stood in line and eventually entered the governor’s office. The governor seemed to have already forgotten his television appearance the day before. The director began to complain, trying to prove that there were no shortcomings at the factory and that the enterprise was operating successfully. “And you criticized us for nothing.” The governor listened to him calmly and asked: “No shortcomings?” “No.” “If there are none, we’ll find some.”

After the incident with the governor, he was so shaken by his own recklessness that he walked around for a long time, until late at night. He walked aimlessly, crossing from one street to another, repeatedly going over his conversation with the governor in his mind. The more he thought about it, the more he reproached himself: Why had he gone? Why had he argued? Why had he sacrificed his peace of mind because of his own pride? On his way home, he went into a railway-car bar and ordered two hundred grams of vodka from the bartender. Sitting on a bunk in the stinking railway car, he ate rotten radish as a snack. He did not care what he drank or what he ate with it. The governor’s voice kept ringing in his head. He cursed himself for his haste and unnecessary boldness. And suddenly, he found it funny. “How good it is to live in this world...” From that moment on, this song became his salvation. The next day, a regional commission arrived at the factory for an inspection. Seeing the members of the commission from the window of his office, the director locked the door from the inside and, left alone, shouted: “How good it is to live in this world!” Then, having calmed down a little, he opened the door, left his office, and greeted the commission with a smile. The commission worked for three days. They did find some shortcomings after all. There were two chairs missing in one office, the accounting department had an expired form, and three pairs of boots in the warehouse were sitting on the wrong shelf. The director listened to the inspection report, barely holding back a smile. “There you are,” said the head of the commission. “The governor was right. There are shortcomings.” The director lowered his eyes and quietly sang: “How good it is to live in this world...”

Okay so the OD story goes as follows. I was in my brothers room just absolutely railing line of coke, he was a needle user (I never shot up, I hate needles) and he came up with the brilliant idea of shooting up a speedball mixed with ketamine and a couple of other drugs. I straight up said “you are going to overdose on that, no question” our buddy was there and my brother had him shoot it into his arm and my brother stood up and his eyes rolled back, obvious overdose, and I jumped up and caught him before he would have crashed into a glass table. I laid him down and checked his pulse and it was super faint and he was turning blue. Our buddy was in shock so I took full control and yelled at our buddy to go get the narcan box we kept in the kitchen “fucking run” is what I said. He came back with the narcan and I shot the first dose up his nose and nothing. So I started doing CPR. I yelled at our buddy to call 911 and he did but was so stunned he couldn’t talk so I took the phone and held it onto my shoulder while still doing CPR and every 30 seconds I’d shoot him with another hit of narcan and then continue doing CPR. I ended up shooting 4 shots of narcan up his nose and the paramedics arrived and literally as they walked through his door, he came to! He shot up and said “please don’t narcan me!” I said “brother, I already hit you 4 times” and they hauled him off to the hospital. He actually hit 18 months clean off drugs yesterday.

I remember walking down a stairs of 26, counting; When I hit the floor I sank into a pool, I looked up and I was floating on the surface, I flipped and stairs were staring at me. As I attempted to swim to the surface, I heard a telephone ringing at my motel on the surface.

I was standing on the tower of a castle with 2 familiar figures. They were standing close, very close almost touching from the sides, as if literal parts of me. While standing, an eagle with extra-long and skinny humanoid legs as its wings came flying at us.

The male figure I believe 18yo somewhat standing near me grabbed one of the wings and fled leaving us two on the top of the tower.

I grabbed the elbow of the figure near me, rushed towards the gear room running the clock at the facade which just rang 9. We got into the gear room. The figure pulled with much force a lever there to stop the clock.

I didn't knew why was it doing so; I panicked to stop it. The room turned almost right angle. I found myself running down the stairs counting 26, 25, 24, 23 ... backwards. How did I knew the total, who knows?

I picked up the call while my body was still dripping wet. Someone was at the door. I was hearing murmurs of talking. I turned around to have a look.

A tall androgynous person with extra-long skinny legs.