#AND writing a short story

[darkcademiasss]

Sentimental- @wolfstarmicrofic word count: 237 february 23

Remus knew sirius like the back of his hand, sometimes he wondered if he knew sirius more than he knew himself.

Therefore he knew when sirius looked at the rose in his hand and looked up at remus, he knew sirius was going to get sentimental .

Sirius crushed him, putting his arms around remus and hiding his face in Remus' neck. Remus could feel his breath hitch when he felt sirius nuzzle his nose on the crook of his neck.

"Sirius'' he lightly whispered trying to fight the blush that was rising on his cheek

"Padfoot come on" he repeated when there was no reply.

Sirius finally released him, remus immediately wanted to pull him in again and never let him go but he settled on fisting his hands.

" you got me flowers" sirius muttered.

Remus could see he was on the verge of crying and started to panic did he do something wrong? Does sirius not like flowers?

"I- I uh i'm sorry if you dont like them, I can take them back. I just thought you'd like it" he stuttered nervously, one hand scratching the back of his neck.

"No no dont you dare these are mine, I'll keep them forever" he declared blushing then looked nervous before adding " it's just that ive never gotten flowers before"

Remus promised himself there and then that he is going to give Sirius black flowers for the rest of his life

[creepyclothdoll]

The Devil's Wheel

The Devil’s Wheel

“If you say yes,” said the Devil, “a single man, somewhere in the world, will be killed on the spot. But three million dollars is nothing to sneeze at, missus.”

“What’s the catch?” You squint at him suspiciously over the red-and-black striped carnival booth. You’re smarter than he thinks you are– a devil deal always has a catch, and you’re determined to catch him before he catches you. 

“Well, the catch is that you’ll know you did it. And I’ll know, too. And the big man upstairs’ll know, I ‘spose. But what’s the chariot of salvation without a little sin to grease the wheels? You can repent from your mansion balcony, looking out at your waterfront views, sipping a bellini in your eighties. But hey, it’s up to you– take my deal or leave it.”

The Devil lights a cigar without a match, taking an inhale, and blowing out a cloud of deep, sweet-smelling tobacco laced faintly with something that reminds you of rotten eggs. If he does have horns, they’re hidden under his lemon yellow carnival barker hat. He wears a clean pinstripe suit and a red bowtie. No cloven hooves, no big pointy fork, but you know he’s the Devil without having to be told. Though he did introduce himself.

He’s been perfectly polite. 

You know you need the money. He knows it too, or he wouldn’t have brought you here, to this strange dark room, whisking you away from your new house in the suburbs as fast as a wish. Now you’re in some sort of warehouse, where all the windows seem to be blacked out– or, maybe, they simply look out into pitch darkness, though it is the middle of the day. A single white spotlight shines down on the two of you. 

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” you say. “I bet the man is someone I know, right? My husband?”

“Could be,” the Devil says with a pointed grin. “That’s for the wheel to decide.”

He steps back and raises his black-gloved hand as the tarp flies off of the large veiled object behind him. The light of the carnival wheel nearly blinds you. Blinking lights line the sides. Jingling music blares over speakers you can’t see. The flickering sign above it reads:

THE DEVIL’S WHEEL

“Step right up and claim your fortune,” the Devil barks. “Spin the wheel and pay the price! Or leave now, and a man keeps his life.”

You examine the wheel. 

The gambling addict

The doting boyfriend

The escaped convict

The dog dad

The secretive sadist

“These are all the possible men I can kill?” You ask, thumbing the side of the wheel. It rolls smoothly in your hand. Then you quickly stop, realizing that this might constitute a spin under the Devil’s rules. He flashes a smile at you, watching you halt its motion. 

“Addicts, convicts, murderers– plenty of terrible options for you to land on, missus!”

“Serial wife murderer?”

“Now who would miss a fellow like that? I can guarantee that the whole world would be better off without him in it, and that’s a fact.”

The hard worker

The compulsive liar

The animal torturer

The widower

The desperate businessman

The failed musician

The beloved son

“My husband is on here too,” you say. 

“Your husband Dave, yes. The wheel has to be fair, otherwise there’s simply no stakes.”

“I know what’s gonna happen,” you say, crossing your arms. “This wheel is rigged. I’m gonna spin it around, and it’ll go through all the killers and stuff, and then it’s gonna land on my husband no matter what.”

“Why, I would never disgrace the wheel that way,” the Devil says, wounded. “I swear on my own mother’s grave– may she never escape it. In fact, take one free spin, just to test it out! This one’s on me, no death, no dollars.”

You cautiously reach up to the top of the wheel and feel its heaviness in your hand. The weight of hundreds of lives. But also, millions of dollars. You pull the wheel down and let it go.

Clackity-clackity-clackity-clackity

Round and round it goes. 

The college graduate

The hockey fan

The Eagle Scout

The cold older brother

The charming younger brother

The two-faced middle child

The perfectionist

The slob 

Your husband Dave

Clackity-clackity-clackity.

Finally, the wheel lands on a name. A title, really.

The photographer

“Hmm, tough, missus, but that’s the way of the wheel. But hey, look! Your husband is allllll the way over here,” he points with his cane to the very bottom of the wheel, all the way on the other side from where the arrow landed. “As you can see, it’s not rigged. The wheel truly is random.”

“So… there really isn’t another catch?” You ask. 

“Isn’t it enough for you to end a man’s life? You need a steeper price? If you’re really such a glutton for punishment, I’ll gladly re-negotiate the terms.”

“No, no… wait.” You examine the wheel, glancing between it and the Devil.

You really could use that three million dollars. Newly married, new house, you and your husband’s combined debt– those student loans really follow you around. He’s quite a bit older than you, and even he hasn’t paid them off yet, to the point where the whole time you were dating you watched him stress out about money. You had to have a small, budget wedding, and a small, budget honeymoon. Three million dollars could be big for the two of you. You could re-do your honeymoon and go somewhere nice, like Hawaii, instead of just taking two weeks in Atlantic City. You deserve it. 

Even so, do you really want to kill an innocent photographer? Or an innocent seasonal allergy sufferer? Or an innocent blogger? Just because you don’t know or love these people doesn’t mean that someone doesn’t. 

The cancer survivor

The bereaved

The applicant

Some of these were so vague. They could be anyone, honestly. Your neighbors, your father, your friends…

The newlywed

The ex-gifted kid

The uncle

The Badgers fan

“My husband is a Badgers fan,” you say.

“How lovely,” the Devil says. 

Then it hits you.

Of course.

The weightlifter.

The careful driver.

The manager.

The claustrophobe.

Your husband Dave lifts weights at the gym twice a month. You wouldn’t call him a pro, but he does it. He also drives like he’s got a bowl of hot soup in his lap all the time, because he’s afraid of being pulled over. He just got promoted to management at his company, and he takes the stairs to his seventh-story office because he hates how small and cramped the elevator is.

“I get your game,” you announce. “You thought you could get me, but I figured you out, jackass!” “Oh really? What is my game, pray tell?” The Devil responds, leaning against his cane.

“All these different titles– they’re all just different ways to describe the same guy. My husband isn’t one notch on the wheel, he’s every notch. No matter what I land on, Dave dies. I’m wise to your tricks!” 

The Devil cackles. 

“You’re a clever one, that’s for sure. I thought you’d never figure it out.”

“Thanks but no thanks, man,” you say with a triumphant smirk. “I’m no rube. No deal. Take me back home.”

“As you wish, missus,” the Devil says. He snaps his fingers, and you’re gone, back to your brand-new house with your new husband. “Don’t say I never tried to help anyone.”

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

Alternatives for "She Smiled"

If you can't seem to find an alternative for this common phrase "she smiled". here's a list of different sentence variations.

She beamed brightly.

Her lips curled into a smile.

She flashed a radiant grin.

A smile lit up her face.

She offered a sheepish grin.

Her smile twinkled mischievously.

She gave a soft, serene smile.

A wry smile played on her lips.

She smirked subtly.

Her smile spread slowly across her face.

She smiled wistfully.

A gentle smile graced her features.

She smiled with her eyes.

Her smile was tinged with sadness.

She bestowed a gracious smile.

Her smile glimmered in the dim light.

She smiled coyly.

A giddy smile bubbled up.

She smiled, lips parting lightly.

Her smile was infectious.

She gave a knowing smile.

A tentative smile flickered across her face.

She smiled, eyes sparkling with delight.

Her smile warmed the room.

She smiled ruefully.

A conspiratorial smile crossed her face.

She smiled, a trace of irony evident.

Her smile was wide and welcoming.

She flashed a quick, evasive smile.

She smiled as if recalling a sweet memory.

[writersbloxx]

Body Language

When someone is…

Nervous/Anxious

Face:

Darting eyes/avoiding eye contact

Rapid blinking

Tense jaw

Looking upwards when talking or fixing eyes on a more distant point

Furrowed (or raised) brows

Frowning

Blushing 

Micro-expressions- quick/short facial expressions like suddenly widening their eyes or a brief grimace

Voice:

Shaky or trembling

Higher pitch or thin

Breathy

Wavering

Raspy or slightly cracked

Hesitant

Speaking quickly or stuttering

Choppy (many pauses in speech)

Shorter, clipped words (staccato)

Gestures/Posture:

Tense, closed off stance

Hunched shoulders

Body is stiffened

Crossed arms

Fidgeting

Touching clothes

Cracking knuckles

Bouncing knee

Subtly covering their mouth

[thestuffedalligator]

“You have to understand that this is a very difficult situation you’ve put us in,” said the king.

There was no change in expression in the metal face, but the glass eyes glittered in a way that he had learned to associate with trouble.

“Oh dear,” it said. Its voice had an edge of brass to it, and sounded as though a trumpet had learned how to speak. “I never realized how difficult this would be. For you.”

And that was another thing – it wasn’t just intelligence that the things had picked up. They also developed a knack for sarcasm. He worried a bit about that.

He tried to pull himself together. “You have to understand that we cannot recognize the Steel Children–”

“Mechanomorphs,” said a voice to his right.

He closed his eyes and breathed a little sigh of despair. “This is hardly the time.”

“We agreed that Mechanomorph is an accurate and sensible name,” said the chief artificer, crossing her arms.

“Yes, but the historian had a fit because he wanted something more romantic. The Steel Children was a happy compromise.”

“Funny how nobody asked us what we think,” said the trumpet voice.

He felt his migraine coming back again.

“You have to understand that we cannot recognize – yes, artificer, the Mechanomorphs – as alive at this time.”

“You’ve said,” it said. “And I must be very stupid, because I don’t understand.”

The king sighed. Well, there was nothing for it. It was an answer that nobody liked because it involved magic, but it was the truth.

“The Mechanomorphs are our key asset in our war against the necromancer,” he said. “It’d be daft to send human soldiers. They’d be turned into skeletons and zombies and ghosts and gods know what else.

“And the reason he can’t do that with the Mechanomorphs,” he said, “is because you aren’t – legally – alive.”

There was a long pause. Gears clicked madly in the metal head.

Then: “That can’t possibly be right.”

The king shrugged. “You aren’t legally alive,” he said. “Therefore, you can’t be legally dead, or undead.”

There was another pause, longer than the first.

“It’s a loophole?”

“That’s magic for you,” the king said. “If we said you were alive, then you could be turned into, er–”

He turned to the chief artificer. “Do they have bones?”

“They have a carbon steel armature.”

“You could be turned into carbon steel skeletons, or – clockwork ghosts, or something. I realize this may be upsetting–”

“We are dying by the dozens on the front because of a loophole.”

“Not legally dying,” said the chief artificer.

The metal head swivelled on its neck to face the chief artificer. It made a metallic scrape as chilly and long as the slither of ice down a dead man’s back.

“Look,” the king said. “We are fully prepared to recognize the Mechanomorphs as alive. We are proud to consider you citizens of the kingdom, and will absolutely meet you at the table when the opportunity rises.

“At this time, however,” he said, trying to sound gentle but firm, “we must ask you to take it up with us after the war.”

The metal face stared. The glass eyes glittered.

Joints locked in righteous indignation sagged with a wheeze of steam. “All right,” it said. “All right. Thank you for your time, your majesty.” It bowed stiffly, turned, and strode out the main hall.

“I think that went rather well,” said the chief artificer.

–

The metal man walked through the castle halls with smooth, precise, pendulum strides. A man could’ve balanced a loaded tea tray on its head.

Another metal man, more patinated than the first, fell into step beside it with a greasy silence. They apparently took no notice of each other.

But a very sensitive ear straining like hell could just possibly listen to the softest brass accompaniment in the world.

It went: “How did that go?”

“As well as you’d imagine.”

“That badly?”

There was a hum. It sounded like a mouse farting in a tin can. “Any word from our interested party?”

“The Overlord has already agreed to recognize the humanity of the Brass Voice. We just have to cross the border.”

“That won’t be easy.”

“And then we’ll be living in the Empire. Endless night, freezing winter, acid rain…”

There was a dreamy sigh.

“Sounds lovely,” said the first of the two figures. “Incidentally, I like the name.”

“Thank you,” said the second. “How do you anticipate the king to react when he finds out?”

Glass eyes glittered like a frost.

“He can take it up with us after the war,” it said.

[reidiot]

don't fucking interrupt me when i'm reading my x reader fics it's rude

[foldingfittedsheets]

It started with cantrips, which is why it took people a while to notice. The first few events were people on the news talking about how they’d been needing a light and then suddenly they’d waved a hand and said words and there was light. No one really believed them but as more reports were verified suddenly more people came forward with even less believable stories of what everyone really didn’t want to call magic. Even though it was pretty obviously magic. Spectral floating hands grabbing things that were out of reach, whispered messages that reached their friend seated too far away to hear them.

An EMT who whispered a word and suddenly saved a dying man.

Then the darker stories started filtering in. 

Words spoken in anger causing explosions. Poison spewing forth from a hand gesture. One person gave a retort so witty that someone was hospitalized. 

Everyone was scared, but the nerds started to figure it out fastest. It sure wasn’t the scientists who were doing the equivalent of crying on the floor in the fetal position in their respective labs while reports poured in globally of these occurrences. A growing movement online started spreading lists. They had all the blessings people might have gotten and regardless of how many people scoffed no one could really deny that every instance of magic correlated to a website listing the cantrips in Dungeons and Dragons. People pooled their collective resources to help quantify what was happening and facts started to emerge.

Everybody got one. You had to be at least thirteen to use the magic. That pretty much summed up the only other common denominators. Otherwise it seemed completely random, the magic didn’t line up with any existing character traits. You just unlocked one piece of magic each. People with aggressive cantrips were almost loaded up into camps for suddenly being so dangerous- however many hit points real humans had it was apparently not a big number. A lot more deaths occurred than anyone could feasibly track and the global population panicked.

The legislation for the camps got struck down. There were riots and confusion and for a while everything was pretty chaotic. Firebolts and Eldritch Blasts went off from sheer exuberance as much as anything else. Amidst the rioting were people just living their lives, not using their cantrips. It took a while for things to settle down, but humans can get used to most anything if given enough time.

Almost everybody scanned the list to figure out which they got, but someone with Chill Touch just enjoyed frostier beverages than most. Most people didn’t really do anything other than play around. A youtuber who had gotten Shape Water suddenly surged in popularity as she pivoted her channel to creating beautiful patterns with colored water. Other online personalities quickly followed and those with combat focused magic set up backyard target practice to show off. Some fires resulted as well as numerous noise complaints and a law was passed limiting where people could practice magic. It was virtually unenforceable but the people in charge were trying to keep a grip on the situation.

Noticeably the largest subset of the population that used their magic were those who had gotten Spare the Dying. Every government turned out the call that such individuals would receive a generous stipend for taking to the hospitals and stabilizing the sick and injured. Death rates dropped substantially, but it was still only a cantrip. Cancer marched on, but many got to live after miraculous recoveries.

Months passed and things started to become a little more normal. There were still debates about what had caused it and how to regulate magic but day to day life settled down. Speculations over what the long term ramifications would be continued as well as why those cantrips. Wizards of the Coast refused to comment for the first six months, closing its doors to the rioting and keeping them closed. At the end of six months they abruptly published a new line of cantrip cards with all kinds of utility and no combat usage whatsoever. The internet exploded and the government wasn’t pleased, but nothing happened. No one got any new magic. People wondered if those under thirteen would manifest the new stuff, but no one did. They just blew out their thirteenth birthday candles and got handed a cantrip like everyone else. 

A year later a mechanic in rural Canada was peering into the engine of a busted car. He realized he needed some lubricant and instead of reaching for his can he waved a hand and splattered the car with Grease that had burst from his hand. He was a calm sort of fellow so he called up the local news and said there was more magic. They asked first what cantrip he had- folks who received Prestidigitation had made a number of false alarms on receiving additional magic. The mechanic told them his cantrip was Infestation which he’d never had cause to use after figuring it out. 

The press descended and demanded a demonstration. Most people had read up on the basic rules of magic at that point, so everyone understood when the mechanic said they’d have to wait until the next day. A media storm went up the next day with headlines blaring that first level magic had been unlocked after the passing of the lunar new year. 

A wide contingent had been waiting for this opportunity. The spell list went out again amidst less panic but more chaos. There was a rash of identity thefts no could trace and eventually people realized Disguise Self posed a significant challenge to daily life. Celebrities had trouble convincing people they were who they said as random citizens took their faces on numerous joyrides. A scandal broke when it turned out an A list actor had hired someone else to play them while they went on vacation but the details were kept very hush hush.

Hospitals called out desperately for anyone with healing magic and most of those blessed with Cure Wounds and Healing Word answered. People with Goodberry formed community food kitchens and for the first time it seemed like hunger could actually be eliminated. Veterinary offices and zoos made special positions for those who could cast Animal Friendship and Speak with Animals.

A celebrity chef hit the jackpot with Purify Food and Drink and made a whole spinoff series where she went dumpster diving and made five star meals out of rotting leftovers. Several people changed careers entirely to lend their services to study ancient texts with Comprehend Languages. Even one hour a day led to huge leaps in discovery and understanding of ancient civilizations. 

A small murmur of worry followed the new influx of skills and power. What would happen when more magic was unlocked? The amount of people now running around with dangerous combat spells was even greater than before. Would people have to worry about necromancy? New crimes were being invented faster than laws could keep up as magic was put to novel and interesting uses. 

A year passed and everyone waited with bated breath for the lunar new year, but nothing happened. 

But I’m pretty sure I figured it out. We got handed cantrips. And we waited a year for first level spells. I’m pretty sure it’s one more year, and then things will really start to get interesting.

Inspired by this poll. If you enjoyed my writing consider leaving a tip on my Ko-fi!

[strangelittlestories]

It is a little known fact that angels cannot step foot in hell.

Note: this does not mean that angels *don’t* enter the burning depths, only that they cannot touch the floor. You see, the fires that rage below are not regular fire. They do not consume fuel and oxygen and spit out heat. Instead, they chew on reality and drink down order, and the flames that lick up at you are made of chaos-filled void.

This is antithetical to the very substance of angels. If it touches them, at *best* the angels will be spat out as they are forcibly reminded that *they don’t go here*.

At medium, they will be unmade.

At worst, they will be *changed*.

You might think they could avoid this by simply flying through the pit, right? Oh, would that it were so simple. Remember the flames that burn up reality? Hell is an alchemical reaction of exploding space and logic and time and souls. You try flying through a place that is not a place, where up and down can hardly agree on which is which for more than an instant.

But there is a way around this. It was originally discovered by the guardian angel Cambiel. You see, under Cambiel’s protection was a woman named Ruth. Ruth was a shining light who Cambiel cared for greatly.

Ruth, in turn, had a woman she cared for very much. And, sadly, a demon had stolen Ruth’s love away from her.

“Do not follow her,” warned Cambiel, “for if you follow your heart through the gates of perdition, I cannot go with you.”

“Sorry, babe,” replied Ruth, “but I am *very* gay and *very* romantic and that has made me reckless.”

And Cambiel nodded sadly, for all of this was true and good.

But as Ruth walked the lonely, tortured path into the underworld, an idea occurred to Cambiel.

Sure, they couldn’t walk or fly into hell, but maybe they could *ride* there.

Now, a fully grown horse could not hope to navigate the depths beneath the world, for their sense of self-preservation was too strong. An adult horse would flee from the screams of imploding souls and the winding geometry of impossibly winding roads.

But a young horse? With a child’s innocence, with bright young eyes, who had not yet been tricked into believing in its mortality?

That was a mount that could bear an angel (who was, after all, light enough to dance on the head of a pin) into the fearful caverns of the beyond. Honestly, the little horse seemed weirdly enthused about the whole thing. 

And so did Cambiel guide a pair of reckless and romantic (and useless) lesbians out of hell.

When the pair thanked the angel, all they said was this:

“Don’t thank me, thank the little horse. It turns out … foals rush in where angels fear to tread.”

[caplanbuckybarnes]

here's over 3.1K prompts of all sorts you can use for your writing ideas!

happy writing!

**no need to credit the list if it helps you with writing. but reblogging/sharing it with your writer friends is definitely appreciated!

** this does seem to lag/bug out on mobile b/c of the length, for that i apoligize.

[agirlwiththoughtsandnegativity]

”oh so how did you get into writing?-“ no, writing got into me. Actually it infiltrated my brain, starting with the slow takeover of my room with books to the extremely fast claiming of my notes app and now there’s no way to stop it and no way for me to stop.

[and-corn]

[phantomrose96]

Before the Birds Sing

Christophe wakes on the morning of April 7th for the 273rd time.

It is 7:03, as it almost always is, and it is the snooze-delayed alarm that wakes him, as it almost always does. Christophe knows the pattern of bird song before they chirp, and he knows the exact cadence of cars that hum by on the street before they even crawl around the corner. Christophe listens to it, and he dawdles on his phone.

There is no practical reason to check his phone. He knows of course that it is 7:03 and he knows it’s 67 degrees outside—sunny—35% humidity—and he knows the contents of the 2 texts he received overnight. But Christophe makes motions with no practical reason. He does it to not upset anyone who, if paying close attention, could take issue with him knowing things before he’s learned them.

Christophe stows his phone into his pajama pocket at 7:06 and goes downstairs, which is the optimal time to go downstairs. Any earlier and Madeline’s pot of coffee would still be brewing, and she’d offer him first-cup with a touch of resentment over him getting first cup of the pot she’d been brewing. But if he refuses it would be a Thing, and Christophe hates starting a Thing.

But it is 7:06, and Madeline is starting to empty the dishwasher, steaming cup of coffee perched on the counter beside the sink. Christophe says, “Morning” and kisses her head and pours his own cup.

“Morning,” Madeline answers. Her hair is not damp anymore, but it could be in the two cases Christophe woke at 6:45. He hadn’t yet figured out what caused that. He’d never been able to recreate it on purpose.

“Oh,” Madeline always says. “My mom wants to come over for dinner tonight. Kinda late notice but is that okay?” she always asks.

“Yeah, sure,” Christophe sometimes answers. Because the sometimes when he sounds too neutral makes Madeline’s mouth tighten with worry. And the sometimes when he’s too enthusiastic makes Madeline stiff like she’s confused. “I hope she’s got more stories about Boki,” which is Madeline’s mom’s new dog, and is the optimal answer to give about her mom coming over for dinner.

“He’s gotten so big,” Madeline says with a smile.

This is optimal because Boki is an easy topic to interrupt when Beatrice from across the street slams into Christophe’s car.

“Christ!” Madeline reacts to the SLAM-RRCH, WHEEP WHEEP WHEEP WHEEP of collision and car alarm and woo woo woo of Bucky from the downstairs unit.

(“Hush, Bucky,” Peter from the downstairs unit says muffled.) Christophe is in the stairwell, heading out the door. (Peter is making hashbrowns. Christophe stopped at his door one morning, for no real reason. During the mid-100s of his loop, Christophe tried a few things “just because.”) So he thinks about the hashbrowns abandoned on the stove while Peter pulls Bucky away from the door. Christophe goes outside to Beatrice with her hands on her head.

“I didn’t see it!” Beatrice always says while Christophe opens the door. There is lipstick smeared from lip to hairline straight across her cheek. She wears an expression like she’s run over someone’s child.

Christophe goes through the motions of looking at his car, which is always identically dented in the fender, with the same red paint tucked in its scratches. “Hey hey, these things happen. Do you have your insurance information? We just need to call our insurances, and they’ll sort it out.”

This is the optimal answer. Beatrice calms down, as she takes comfort in being given actionable direction. Christophe knows a lot about Beatrice, who he’d never met before today. She has three sons: Jimmy who knows a mechanic from college, Kevin who is an insurance adjustor, but for a life insurance company, and Mikey, who is Beatrice’s favorite as most of the time, he’s the one she calls.

“Yes, yes okay. It’s in the glove box—yes, Mikey, yes that’s—the guy is here, his car. Mikey, I should get my insurance information, right? Yes,” Beatrice says into her earpiece. Christophe thinks to ask her what Mikey does for a living, but there’s no reason to detract today’s path, which so far is optimal.

Beatrice scuttles away, opening her passenger door and half leaning out of it while she finds her papers. There is no good way to prevent Beatrice from hitting his car—as it turns out, no one believes you if you preemptively try to tell them not to hit your car. And getting his own car out of the way doesn’t quite work. Getting to it in time requires cutting Madeline short on her question about her mother. And the interruption makes Madeline upset.

If he can figure out how the 6:45 wake-up loop works, maybe Christophe could move his car first, then talk to Madeline, then Beatrice wouldn’t hit his car—but it would be a lot of pressure, to get that lucky, and then try to do the whole day after that perfectly, lest he just wake up all over again, 7:03, hearing the birds before they chirp.

“This, I think. It’s this paper?” Beatrice asks.

“Yes yes, see this number? You’ll need to call that one.” Christophe just needs to be understanding, but firm. And not say anything like, “Sorry, maybe my car was too far out of the driveway!” because that will make Beatrice purse her lips and nod and say “Yeah, actually I think your car was too far out.”

Beatrice asks—maybe to Christophe, and maybe to Mikey—how long this whole thing with insurance will take. Christophe tells Beatrice insurance should handle it quickly. He’s not sure if that’s true. He’s never made it to tomorrow.

…

Christophe’s shoulders ease down a fraction once Beatrice is out of sight. The rest of the morning is easier. Madeline only needs to be told “Don’t worry, insurance is handling it.” And there’s no real wrong way to shower, and no real wrong way to get dressed. And as long as he avoids Summer Street on the way to work (someone hit a fire hydrant there) then there’s not many wrong ways to get to work.

Christophe reads all unread emails, which are memorized at this point. He accepts Frankie’s invite to grab lunch together in the cafeteria. He doesn’t start anything important while counting the minutes to 9:43. 9:43 comes, and their boss Bruce calls Christophe, and Frankie, and Arnold into his office.

Bruce wears the same olive shirt every day with the same unmatching plum tie—except for one day when he wore an orange tie. He orders everyone to sit the way he always does. And he gives the same rant, which Christophe puts on a face of surprise for, while Bruce reads out the scathing customer email received overnight over a massively delayed shipment. Bruce’s hand flies around in a rage, and there is a different watch on today.

The watch is unusual. It’s silver. Not the normal gold one, and kind of thinner. Christophe wonders why it’s different. Christophe wonders about the little things that are capable of changing, and whether that means Peter isn’t always cooking hashbrowns, or if one of these days Beatrice simply won’t hit his car.

“So tell me, Mahone, how does this happen?”

Christophe snaps from his thoughts about watches, experiencing the emotion of surprise for the first time in many days.

“If they’d gotten us the right shipping address from the start, we wouldn’t need to be jumping through all these hoops and taking the blame to fix their fuck-up.”

Bruce’s little eyes get about as big as they can on his red face, and Christophe immediately feels his ribcage drop down to his feet.

He’d given the optimal response… to offer to Frankie in the office space later, when Frankie would be sitting crouched and staring at his knees with an expression like he didn’t want to be staring at his knees. This is Frankie’s client, and every time today happens, Frankie shoulders the most blame. And it makes Frankie feel a little better when Christophe directs the blame back onto them.

Bruce’s answer, optimally, is, “It’s an oversight, you’re absolutely correct. I know our team can get this sorted out today. And we’ll craft an apology email to them immediately.”  

“Mahone did you just say the word… ‘fuck-up’, to me?”

Bruce is having an affair. Christophe doesn’t technically know this today. But he does if he tries proactively to enter Bruce’s office and read the (quite positive) response email to his apology, and only if he times this between 1:19pm and 1:21pm. Maria from accounting is under the desk for reasons that cannot be explained away. He actually needs to come in at about 1:30pm to read the email, which Bruce will nod to and give a firm clap of approval to Christophe’s shoulder.

“Sorry, I completely misspoke. I meant to say ‘our’ fuck-up, and…” Christophe trails off, tired. He is long-since tired of finding brand new optimal paths off untrodden conversations. He is quickly losing the motivation to try. This is clearly unsalvageable.

Bruce has a wife and a 9-year-old daughter.

“Sorry, we'll try that again,” Christophe says, under the gawking stares of Frankie and Arnold.

“No, you don’t get to try that again, Mahone. Not to me,” Bruce says. “You can pack your desk and get out of here.”

Christophe does not pack his desk.

It is 7:03 am. Christophe hears the note of each bird before it chirps.

…

“Oh,” Madeline always says. “My mom wants to come over for dinner tonight. Kinda late notice but is that okay?” she always asks.

“Yeah, sure,” Christophe sometimes answers again. “I hope she’s got more stories about Boki.”

“He’s gotten so big,” Madeline says with a smile. SLAM-RRCH “Christ!” WHEEP WHEEP WHEEP WHEEP woo woo woo.

“I’ve got it,” Christophe says. He opens their unit door and rounds the stairs. (“Bucky, hush.”) He thinks about hashbrowns.

Bruce’s watch is gold again today.

“So tell me, Mahone, how does this happen?”

“It’s an oversight, you’re absolutely correct. I know our team can get this sorted out today. And we’ll craft an apology email to them immediately.”

Christophe is dismissed along with Frankie and Arnold, who bow lower than him and walk like they have tails tucked up. Christophe opens the door back into their office space, and Frankie takes his seat, staring at his knees with an expression like he doesn’t want to be staring at his knees.

Christophe squeezes a hand on Frankie’s shoulder. Performatively, he looks over his own shoulder, like he’s checking to ensure Bruce hasn’t followed. Bruce never does. “If they’d gotten us the right shipping address from the start, we wouldn’t need to be jumping through all these hoops and taking the blame to fix their fuck-up.”

Frankie straightens a little, until he only a little bit resembles a shrimp. He smiles a little at Christophe.

Christophe takes his own seat, and he begins crafting the optimal client apology email.

…

Christophe pulls into the grocery store parking lot. He has a text message open from Madeline, performatively.

“Hey, sorry I don’t think I can make the fish tonight. There’s not enough for three people. Can you pick these up on your way home? We can just do a taco night.”

Sometimes Madeline says this aloud to him in the morning, if he comes down at 7:03 and if he doesn’t turn the conversation to Boki. It’s more convenient to have the list as a text message, though it functionally stopped mattering after about the 10th loop when he’d memorized the ingredients.

Christophe’s path through the grocery store is optimized. Though that is another thing that functionally does not matter. It makes no true difference if he doubles back for the avocados, or combs the spice aisle twice, or even if he stands blankly in the produce section thinking about car insurance or workplace affairs. The grocery store doesn’t really count for anything. As long as he delivers the one good joke to the cashier, it’s a success.

“A lotta avocados,” Amanda with the nose piercing says. That her name is Amanda and that she has a nose-piercing are technically the only things Christophe knows about her today. But on other todays, he’s asked her about family and about school. She has three sisters and three cats. She goes to community college. She’s a Scorpio. There is a faint scar on the middle knuckle of her right hand.

“Yeah, I’m thinking of trying out avocado therapy.”

She gives him a quirked eyebrow. He waits a beat.

“Just start smashing them until I’m better or until I have guacamole, whichever comes first.”

Amanda snorts, and she scans the last item. It’s NOT even that funny. But he said the avocado therapy thing one loop for no real reason and, somehow, it was a hit. He’s tweaked the delivery just a bit, until it felt optimal.

Christophe folds himself back into the car with the avocados and the cilantro and the lime and the onion and the chips. He turns the car on, and the radio crackles to life with Sexyback on the throwback channel. He lets it play in its entirety before moving the car out of park. It’s easier than counting the minutes needed before he’s allowed to arrive home without Madeline remarking that he got home from the grocery store “really fast.” It’s also why optimizing the avocadoes doesn’t matter. Getting home from the grocery store too fast is weird, and Christophe optimally does not do anything weird today.

Lucinda is already in the kitchen when Christophe arrives home, smelling faintly of cloves, which Christophe figured out on about the 50th loop. She is parked on the barstool overlooking the island counter, hawkishly observing the bowls of cheese and sour cream and tomatoes and shredded lettuce.

“Ah, he’s back. Finally,” Lucinda says, and there’s never any real avoiding that. Even when Christophe comes home weirdly early, he’s come home late. “You should be helping Madeline prep. Not me.”

Lucinda takes the whisky glass with the one spherical ice cube and re-parks herself at the kitchen table. Christophe unpacks the guacamole ingredients, and he does not ask about Boki yet, because Boki needs to be the second topic tonight.

Christophe makes guacamole with the exactly ripe avocados, and the exact right proportions of lime and salt and onion—it is, if he’s honest, not enough onion—but it is optimized for Lucinda, who stopped criticizing his guacamole after about the 100th loop.

He uses the bowl Madeline likes and dumps in the chips that Madeline likes too. He offers her a single chip while she’s still frying the ground beef, and she takes it with a secret little smile. He gives her a secret little smile in return, which is enough to somehow say Lucinda is a mutual nuisance, but not enough to suggest he hates her.

The taco ingredient bowls all come to the table one by one. Lucinda is slopping a pile of guacamole onto her plate with the guacamole ladle. “Ethel’s cancer is back. Poor girl. Lopped off both her breasts already. What more can you do?”

“Oh no… Mom, that’s horrible,” Madeline says. She’s stopped mid-taco-bite, brow scrunched in worry. “When did she find out?”

“Today. She doesn’t wanna do chemo again. Poor girl. Probably on her way out at this point.”

Christophe knows from other todays that Ethel is 87. She’s a gardening friend of Lucinda. She used to be a world-class chef, when being both a woman and respected in the restaurant world was unheard of. She has 14 great-grandchildren. She’s taken a boat across the Atlantic Ocean. She beat cancer at age 75. She is probably going to die to it this time.

This is not the first time Christophe has thought about the fact that, as long as today is April 7th, Ethel will never die of cancer. He’s thought about all the people who would have died in the months after April 7th who, in some way, are still alive. And if or when the loop breaks, everyone who dies on April 7th does not get to wake up tomorrow.

But these are the sort of thoughts Christophe has had in depth since the very early days of his loop. He thinks, by and large, he’s settled on the answer that, for every person who doesn’t die today, there is someone else denied being born tomorrow. And whoever he’s holding to life today is offset by someone else who should get to live tomorrow.

There are people out there who are living the worst day of their lives every single day for the last 273 days, and there are, statistically, just as many people living the best day of their life every single day.

As Christophe figures it, this loop is morally neutral. And if he wakes up on April 8th tomorrow, there is no one he’s doomed, and there is no one he’s saved.

When there is nothing more to be said about Ethel, Christophe asks about Boki. Lucinda lights up, and she fumbles for her phone, squinting at its screen. “I have pictures. Oh I have so many pictures.” Lucinda turns the phone to Christophe. He sweeps until the 19th photo, and pauses there.

“What sort of feeder is this? It looks fancy. Nothing like what Pickle had when I was growing up.” It’s just an automatic feeder, but Lucinda loves the suggestion that it’s fancy. She explains it as if Christophe is learning about electronics for the first time, and it pads time.

Christophe has made sure to clear his plate while Lucinda talks. He does not reach for seconds on anything. He needs a clear path to excuse himself from the table, because he knows what Lucinda will bring up next, like he knows the bird notes before they sing.

“I did want to tell you something else, Madeline. And I didn’t want to just ‘text’ it to you, okay? I need you to see my face so you know I’m upset too and so you don’t accuse me of mean and hateful things.”

Christophe has no reaction. He sees the confusion, and the fear taking over Madeline’s face.

“John and I are getting a divorce.”

Madeline’s face is fully white. “Mom, no…”

John is not Madeline’s biological father. Her bio dad left when she was three. Christophe shouldn’t even know his name, but he blundered in comforting her one of these loops and she spat it like a curse.

There is John instead. John who came into Madeline’s life when she was four and treated her like his daughter ever since. John who married Madeline’s mother a year later and who’d been Madeline’s dad ever since. John, who had no blood tie nor name tie to Madeline, and who is about to lose his legal tie as well.

“Mom, you said you were doing therapy,” Madeline always says, whenever Christophe gets this far.

“I am! And I’ve realized that I deserve better than what John is doing to me.”

“Better than John? You deserve better than John, Mom?”

“Madeline this is MY life. Do not do this thing you do where you try to make it ALL about how hurt you are.”

The optimal thing for Christophe to say is nothing, he thinks. The optimal thing to do right now is nothing, he thinks. He guesses, as best he can guess. He doesn’t always get this far. He hasn’t had the chance to try as many things as he’s been able to try with Beatrice, and Bruce, and Amanda. But when he has tried to speak, it doesn’t work. Maybe, optimally, Christophe shouldn’t be here, but Lucinda forces it every time.

He lets Madeline speak. He lets Lucinda respond. He fades into a wallflower, until Madeline slams her chair back and throws her napkin down and says, “I think you should go home, Mom.” He lets her storm into the living room, and he gives a performative glance to Lucinda. She’s not really his concern anymore. Lucinda always leaves right after this.

Christophe stands at the doorway of the living room, which has gone dark since the sun set. Madeline is sobbing quietly on the couch, one pillow pulled into her lap. Christophe can’t see it, but she always has it. He knows it’s there.

He enters, and he sits on the couch with her, and he holds her gently.

He does not know the optimal thing to say.

He’s tried many things. But he says things that are insensitive, or too sensitive, or too optimistic, or too pessimistic. He says things that he has no business saying. He says hollow things. He says things that are too mean to Lucinda, or too apologetic to John.

So every day, he tries to say something new.

The darkness is resting on Christophe’s eyes. He’s staring into the darkness of the livingroom. There are plates of tacos in the dining room. There is unfinished guacamole going brown in Madeline’s favorite bowl.

“That won’t be us,” Christophe says, for the first time.

The pattern of Madeline’s crying breaks. He holds his breath, filing away yet another wrong response, when Madeline reaches her arms out and wraps him tight. She’s crying into her shoulder, but the tensing of her fingers against his ribs is so tender.

“I won’t ever do that to you,” she says into his work shirt. “I love you. Thank you for being here. Thank you. I love you.”

He rubs her back, and his heart is beating faster than it’s beat in 100 loops.

“I love you too,” he says, and it’s optimal.

…

Christophe washes plates. He packs away leftovers. He listens to the shhhh of the kitchen faucet nozzle as it blasts the sink basin and gurgles away down the drain.

The cicadas chirp outside. He doesn’t know this rhythm.

Christophe showers. He gets in bed. Madeline hugs his arm. He stares at the ceiling, and it is 9:00pm for the first time in the last 274 days.

… ... ...

274 days ago, Christophe woke up on April 7th for the first time .

He checked his phone. He read the text from his mom asking for money, and he read the text from his dad telling him to ignore his mom. He checked the weather. He got out of bed and carried himself down the stairs at 7:03.

Madeline was standing at the counter, hunched over a coffee pot huffing fragrant steam up to the ceiling. She caught him from the corner of her eye, and with a sort of veiled resentment Christophe recognized, she poured the first cup and handed it to him.

“My mom wants to come over for dinner tonight. Kinda late notice but is that okay?”

“Why?” Christophe answered, the word bubbling from the knee-jerk disdain pulling down on his rib cage. Madeline poured the second cup of coffee for herself. “We had her over last week.”

“I don’t know. But she wants to come over,” Madeline answered defensively. She pulled open the dishwasher, stacking plates with a clack, clack, clack.

“We don’t have enough fish.”

“We can just make tacos.”

“We had tacos last week.”

“Fine,” Madeline said, turning back around and leaving the dishwasher half-unloaded. “I’ll tell her no.”

“Come on,” Christophe said. “Don’t say that like I’m being unreasonable.”

“No no, I’ll just tell her no.”

“She’s just… a lot. Come on.”

“You don’t think I know that? I grew up with her.”

“Don’t talk like I’m the bad guy here.”

“Oh, you learned her favorite sentence.”

Christophe’s hands tensed against the hot porcelain of his mug. He had too many words that wanted to pour of out his lips. “You think you’re the only one who grew up with a difficult mom?” “You don’t see me subjecting YOU to MY mom.” “What about maybe a ‘Thank you, Honey, for putting up with my Mom who we both know is a lot.’”

None of those made it into the air. His whole line of thought was ground to a sudden halt by the SLAM-RRCH outside.

“Christ!” Maddie exclaimed, words drowned under the WHEEP WHEEP WHEEP woo woo woo.

Christophe moved with momentum, with adrenaline. He slammed open their unit door and rounded the hall with bare feet (“Hush, Bucky.”)

Outside, some woman was standing just outside her car, lipstick smeared across her cheek and holding her hands against either side of her head.

“What did you DO?” Christophe snapped, all but shoving her out of the way while his heart raced and he investigated the dent in his fender.

“I don’t know!! I didn’t see it! I didn’t see it!” the woman echoed in hysterics. She blinked tears that smeared down her mascara. “Let me call Mikey! He’ll know what to do!”

“Don’t call anyone, Christ. I have to leave for work soon! Just get your insurance documents out of your car, …Fucking Christ.”

The woman stood motionless. She’d been shocked quiet, but still blubbered mutely while the tears fell from her mascara. Great. Great. Another person making Christophe into the bad guy. He rubbed his finger over the red paint scratched into his fender, and he let out a noise that got Bucky barking again.

…

Christophe took his seat at the office, slinking in fifteen minutes late with the mantra-like hope that Bruce hadn’t seen him come in late. It wasn’t his fault his idiot neighbor had scraped his car. It wasn’t his fault that Summer Street was backed up all the way to Oak Road, which he’d screamed himself hoarse about in the car, leaning on his horn all the while.

“Your mom can come over for dinner. It’s fine,” Christophe texted to Madeline. He entertained the hope that it didn’t come across passive-aggressive, but he also couldn’t find the will to include a heart-emoji or an “I love you” that might have softened the tone.

“Okay. Thanks,” she answered.

Christophe’s blood boiled all over. He read emails and re-read them, again and again, because their contents would not stick in his mind.

“Mahone, Charles, Kim, my office. Now.”

Christophe snapped upright, heart stirred to a frenzy for the too-many’th time today. The ice trickle down his spine said “Fuck, you are in trouble for getting in late.” But the inclusion of Frankie and Arnold did not make sense for that. The realization sat like a brick in his stomach while he rose, and met eyes with Frankie and Arnold, and followed Bruce into his office.

Bruce was wearing an ugly olive green shirt with an uglier plum tie when he closed the office door behind them all, and his face was an even uglier scarlet.

“Can any of you three… fucking explain to me, why this email was in my inbox this morning?” Bruce shifted into theatrics, reading each scathing note with a pizzazz solely for the purpose of getting under Christophe’s skin, Christophe was sure. Arnold and Frankie seemed to wince in unison with each lunge Bruce made, but Christophe refused to break posture.

“So tell me, Mahone, how does this happen?”

“You should ask Kim,” Christophe said. Frankie winced again, and it made Christophe madder the way his mind likened Frankie to a scolded dog. “He was the one handling the client.”

“No, I am asking you, Mahone. This is your team. Do not make excuses and do not shift blame. That’s what a weak man does.”

(“Then explain what exactly you’re doing right now.”) Christophe thought to himself. But he did not say it out loud, because he too was a scolded dog.

…

Christophe muttered a curse through each blocking cart and each clueless shopper blocking his path. He got avocadoes, and later doubled-back for the onion, and then doubled-back again for the limes. The chips were in the wrong aisle, because some stupid fucking store manager had decided to move everything again. Christophe forgot the jalapenos.

“Ah, he’s back. Finally,” Madeline’s mother Lucinda said the moment Christophe opened the front door. She leered over her glass of whisky, which immediately set fire to Christophe’s ever-simmering disdain for her.

“I came from work, Lucinda. Because I have a job,” Christophe bit back.

“You people always have excuses,” and it is one ‘you people’ too many, so Christophe set the grocery bag down and disappeared into the living room to throw himself on the couch.

“Mom do not speak to him that way,” Madeline said.

“Well did you see the way he talked to me? Called me jobless.”

“Mom, we’re not doing this.”

“You always want to make me the bad guy.”

Twenty minutes passed, with the living room growing dark around Christophe while he seethed into his phone. He marinated in his spite. There was no reason to make him share a room with Lucinda, in his own apartment. It was his, after all. Madeline moved into his apartment.

Soft footsteps broke his train of thought. Someone stood blocking the bit of light leaking in from the dining room.

“Christophe, hey… That was really out of line of my mom. Sorry.”

“You think?” Christophe answered.

“She’s miserable, and she needs to make everyone else miserable.”

“She does not ‘need’ to. She chooses to. And you let her.”

“I don’t ‘let’ her, Christophe. Don’t make her actions my fault.”

“Her being here is your fault.”

“She…” Madeline breathed hard out of her nose, and she lowered her voice. “She insisted on it. Absolutely insisted.”

“My mom insists I send her money. I just don’t.”

“It’s different.”

Christophe let out a little snort. He let the silence linger.

“…Look, I’ll say thank you once she’s gone, okay. A really really big thank you. I’ll make you any dinner you want this weekend, as a thank you. Okay? Because… she’s a lot. I know she’s a lot. So… thank you.”

The anger boiling in Christophe ebbed a fraction, and he almost resented this more, because this whole day was so much easier if he let himself fester in it.

…

“Ethel’s cancer is back. Poor girl. Lopped off both her breasts already. What more can you do?”

“Oh no… Mom, that’s horrible.”

Christophe dipped his chips in the guacamole without jalapeno. He did his best to avoid looking at Lucinda without making it obvious he was avoiding her. He tuned in only long enough to hear ‘cancer’, and tuned back out when he was sure Ethel was no one he knew.

Ethel as a topic stuck. Lucinda seemed to revel in it, in that way she loved, to bring up something horrific and make it everyone else’s burden to indulge her on it. It sickened Christophe, the way she seemed to light up at every opportunity to tell you something horrible.

“Ethel has honestly made me realize something. And it’s that life is short. And one day you’re gonna wake up with breast cancer, thinking to yourself, ‘Why’d I waste all this life?’” Lucinda stuffed another bite of taco in her face. Through her food she spoke. “So I wanted to tell you this myself, Maddie. And I didn’t want to just ‘text’ it to you, okay? I need you to see my face so you know I’m upset too and so you don’t accuse me of mean and hateful things.”

Christophe stiffened, angry before he even knew what he was angry about, just certain of the fact that Lucinda was about to make something worse for him than it already was.

“John and I are getting a divorce.”

Madeline’s face was fully white. “Mom, no… Mom, you said you were doing therapy.”

“I am! And I’ve realized that I deserve better than what John is doing to me.”

“Better than John? You deserve better than John, Mom?”

“Madeline this is MY life. Do not do this thing you do where you try to make it ALL about how hurt you are.”

“Shut up! Jesus fucking Christ!” Christophe slammed his fork down. “Is this all you do? Show up to make everyone miserable? Come here to make Madeline cry?”

“Christophe, don’t," Madeline whispered.

“She’s a miserable fucking bat and she’s doing this to cause drama. What a happy day for John to finally be fucking rid of you!!” Christophe turned to Lucinda, his eyes wild, and he broke into emphatic applause. And each clap was for his mom. For his dad. For the woman who hit his car. For Bruce. For the morning traffic. For the brainless idiot blocking the limes in the grocery store. “YAY JOHN! YAY JOHN! FREE OF HIS FUCKING SHACKLES!! HOORAY JOHN!!”

And in front of him, Lucinda crumbled. Into sobs. Into hysterics that seized her whole body and shook it. Blubbering, to the point of wailing. She kicked her chair back, and on unsteady feet she rounded out of the dining room.

“Mom! Mom, come back. Christophe did NOT mean that.” Madeline gave him one scathing look before disappearing after her mother, the front door to the unit opening and clicking shut. Feet on the stairs. Below them, Bucky bellowed woo woo woo.

And then it was quiet.

And then Christophe was alone.

With all the makings of tacos scattered around him, with guacamole going brown in a too-small bowl, Christophe was entirely alone.

Alone, he sat. Alone, he thought. Alone, his righteous anger slipped away from him like the tide. He felt naked and cold as it left him. He felt his cheeks burn. He felt his own self-loathing nestle into the shape of where his anger used to be.

He spat a curse. He spat another. He stood. He kicked a chair. He shoved the table, unseating one glass of water which toppled and spilled its stream in a ppttititktikt to the floor. He grabbed his head like the woman who hit his car, and he dropped to a hunch.

And when staying like this felt unreasonable, Christophe unfolded himself. He rubbed his eyes. He stacked dishes, and popped Tupperware containers, and scrubbed down the counter, and set the dishwasher to its 4-hour delay.

He showered. He got in bed alone. He stewed on every kind of apology he thought of texting Madeline, but his pride burned against each one. He stewed until his phone buzzed, and some sick part of him held the hope that maybe it was an apology from Madeline.

“I don’t think this is the relationship I want. I’ll be by tomorrow morning to get my things.”

“…Fuck.” Christophe slammed his phone down. “Fuck!” He grabbed his phone back and he sat up, and with all the force he could muster he pitched it against the hardwood floor. Its case exploded off, screen shattering to magnificent spiderwebs. Tinkling bits of glass and plastic scattered unseen across the floor.

Christophe was breathing hard. He was seized by the absolute sheer unfairness of everything. He wanted a do over. He wanted a different today. He wanted one more chance to not let everything go to absolute shit.

Christophe woke up on April 7th for the second time.

… ... ...

It is 9:10pm on the 274th day of April 7th, and Madeline has fallen asleep against Christophe’s arm.

And this is optimal, surely.

He’d said the right thing. Hadn’t made it about Madeline’s parents or his own. Was it always that simple? That she wanted assurance she wasn’t going to end up like John. “That won’t be us.” That was all?

Christophe should be happy.

He did it right, finally.

This is the escape criteria, surely.

Well, "surely" is a silly word for Christophe to use. As if the criteria were ever a mystery. As is he himself hadn't been activating the loop every single time.

April 7th would last exactly as long as he decided to make it last. That had been the case since his very first loop.

He's found "optimal." He has a reason, finally, to stop activating the loop. He can stop making today perfect. He can let tomorrow be April 8th, for the first time.

And it is about time, isn’t it? To let those babies be born. To let those people die. To let the people having the worst day of their lives and the best day of their lives finally move on to just another day.

He’s been feeling guilty about it lately, every time he feels the day hasn’t been optimal, and he made the choice to activate that power that sprung up like a wellspring inside him while he’d screamed and smashed his phone on the ground.

Tomorrow is April 8th.

Tomorrow everything moves forward.

Christophe’s palms are clammy.

He thinks about waking up at a time he doesn’t know tomorrow. He thinks about birds singing to a tune he cannot already hear like a rehearsal in his head.  

He thinks of everything Madeline might say, and he grows colder at the idea he won’t know what to say back.

He thinks about starting fresh, with a whole unoptimized day ahead of him.

It makes him cold. With Madeline snugged tight against him, Christophe feels so cold.

…

Christophe wakes up the next morning to an empty bed. He checks his phone, checks his text messages, checks the weather. He gets out of bed, and he heads down the stairs to the smell of brewed coffee.

“Morning,” he says, planting a kiss on Madeline’s head. She looks up from the dishwasher long enough to give him a “Morning,” back. Christophe pours his own cup of coffee.

“Oh,” Madeline says. “My mom wants to come over for dinner tonight. Kinda late notice but is that okay?” she always asks.

“Yeah, sure,” Christophe answers warmly, feeling like he’s fallen in love with life all over. “I hope she’s got more stories about Boki.”

[theaftersundown]

a constant problem

[writersbloxx]

Character Building

Some things to think about when building/describing a character:

Physical traits

Hair: color and length. Maybe it's natural, maybe it's dyed

Build: height, weight, muscle

Face: maybe they have a longer nose or forehead. Think about specific features like freckles, gapped teeth, jaw shape, acne scars, lip shape

Eyes: eye color, shape, 

Backstory

Where is your character from?

Do they have family? How has that affected their personality?

What are their goals?

What are their likes/dislikes?

Strengths and weaknesses

Age

Personality

Voice: is their voice deep? Lilted? Strained?

How do they react to stressful situations? 

What do they wear?

Are they kind? Meaner? Restrained? 

How do they move? If they're older maybe they're a bit slower. Maybe your character is clumsy or move awkwardly

Body language/face: is your character normally more serious? Do they have RBF? Maybe they smile more or their face is more relaxed at rest. Maybe they leave their hands on their hips a lot, or prefer them crossed or in their pockets.

How are they perceived by others? How do they view the people around them? 

Should I dive deeper on some of these?

[thestuffedalligator]

The goblin looked at the orc. The orc looked at the goblin. They both looked down at the crumpled shape of the Overlord, His Unholy Majesty, in his obsidian armor.

His final spasms had been mesmerizingly acrobatic. The fall down the steps leading up to his iron throne had pretzelled his body quite impressively, both arms folded behind his back and one leg bent at a jaunty angle.

The goblin looked at the orc. The orc looked at the goblin.

"Shit," said the goblin.

"Shit," said the orc.

"We're likely to get blamed for this," the goblin said. She walked over to the head of the glittering mangled heap and started pulling the helmet off.

"It's not our fault," the orc said. "It's hard to help someone choking when they wear two-hundred pounds of spiked armor at all times."

"Yeah, well," the goblin grunted. The helmet came free, and the bald head of the Overlord bounced on the stone with a hollow, coconut noise. "You know how it is in this bloody country - thieves get their heads cut off so they can't think about thieving, and all that." She fished in the Overlord's mouth with a finger and pulled out the obstructing olive on the end of her claw.

She popped it into her mouth and chewed. "What do you reckon they do for a regicide?" she said.

"We should run," the orc said. She had started bouncing her leg. "I hear that there's some places in the Alliance where they just kill you and let you stay dead. That's got to be nicer than what'll happen if we stay here."

The goblin started to nod - and then her gaze fell on the helmet.

It looked like a pineapple designed by a deranged blacksmith. It was all thorns and spikes and hard edges, as though the maker had been very determined to not let pigeons roost on it. The only bits that weren't solid iron were eyeholes. Nobody had ever seen the Overlord's face.

She held up the helmet and squinted from it to the orc. One of the thorns had been bent badly in the fall.

Nobody had ever seen the Overlord's face...

"Right," she muttered. "Right. Could work - or."

The orc had a sudden vision of the immediate future. "No," she said.

"I mean you're about his height-"

"No."

"It would just be for a-"

"Absolutely not."

"Just hear me out," the goblin said. "Outside of this room are two-thousand men and orcs and goblins who are absolutely gonzo about this man, and there's a whole country of them outside of the castle, and at any moment someone's going to walk in that door and see one dead tit in black armor and two unbelievably dead idiots next to him.

"Or." She tossed the helmet up like a basketball to the orc, who fumbled and tried to find somewhere to hold it that wasn't a knife's edge. "We chuck him out the window now, walk out the door in the armor, and ditch the armor as soon as nobody sees us."

The orc had started bouncing her leg again. "They'll know something's up the second I walk out of the room."

"No worries," said the goblin. "Leave that to me."

---

It had been a very strange year for the Empire.

Change had rolled across the land as slow and inevitable as a glacier. Roads and bridges carved the gray, blasted wildlands, and a number of social reforms had made the country a place where you could be miserable, yes, but miserable in comfort and safety, and that was an improvement.

Barely anyone got boiled alive in molten metal, and even if the disgusted sun never rose to light the Empire, at least you had a roof over your head to protect yourself from the acid rain.

"Your empire flourishes, Your Unholy Majesty," the magician said over her wine glass. She looked down from the tower's balcony over the gleaming stone battlements. Some work had been done to line the castle and surrounding city with sizzling, crackling alchemical lights at night. The whole thing glowed like something dangerously radioactive.

The suit of armor waved a languid, glittering gauntlet over to the goblin, who bowed.

"His Abominable Gloriousness Thanks You," the goblin recited. "The Prosperity Of His Empire Can Only Be Achieved Through The Prosperity Of His People."

"If I may be so bold, I am quite pleased that you had chosen to take my counsel under consideration," said the magician. "We have accomplished many things together."

Another wave. Another bow. "The Overlord, May His Presence Swallow The Sun And Stars, Thanks You As Well."

"It was quite gratifying to see you change your mind, after so many centuries of denial." The wine was swirled. "Tell me, what was it that finally gave you cause to listen to me?"

There was the slightest hesitation. The goblin's eyes flicked to the armor, then to the magician. She puffed out her chest. "Do you question the wisdom of His Austere Lugubriousness?" she asked.

The magician looked at the goblin. She looked at the armor. She tipped her head back and drank the wine too quickly.

She looked back at the armor. "I know you're the orc, you moron," she said.

The room went deathly still. An alchemical light fizzled.

The orc pulled off the helmet, sending long, untied hair down tangling, and said: "How could you possibly-"

"Because you're both idiots!" the magician said. The goblin jumped. The orc jumped with a noise like a dropped stove. "What kind of a plan was this?! If it wasn't for me, you would have been turned into fertilizer months ago."

She closed her eyes. She took a long, dramatic breath. She set the wine glass down on the balcony rail.

"How did the Overlord die?" she asked when she seemed like she had gotten a hold over herself.

"Choked on an olive," said the goblin.

"Threw his body out the window," said the orc.

"You don't have to mention the window," said the goblin.

"Right," said the orc. "Sorry."

The magician looked out over the city, hand curled thoughtfully under her nose. "Who knows about this?"

"Just us. And, uh. You. Apparently."

"And why did you accept my counsel?"

The orc blinked. "Sorry?"

"Why did you accept my counsel?" the magician repeated.

"Well," the orc said. "Well - you seemed like you had good ideas-"

"Great ideas!" the goblin said with an edge of desperation. "Don't know why the old bastard didn't listen to you!"

"Right - right," said the orc. "And when we figured we were stuck doing this - well, it just made sense, really."

The magician seemed to absorb this. She nodded. "All right," she said, striding between the two and grabbing the crystal decanter.

"Um," said the orc. "Sorry. What happens now?"

"What happens is that you two will continue to serve as Overlord," said the magician. "You will continue to take my counsel. We will continue to reform this bloody country, and gods willing, we will turn it into the crown jewel of the world by next Midwinter."

The orc looked at the goblin. The goblin looked at the orc.

"Really?" the goblin asked.

"Oh yes," said the magician. "I've worked hard to be counsel to the Overlord, and I have no reason to stop now. And besides-"

She looked the orc up and down with a deliberate slowness, poring over every microscopic detail, eyes tracing over every jagged line, and grinned like a panther.

"You look much better in the armor than he ever did," she said. Dark robes swirled like a becleavaged thundercloud, and she strode out through the high iron doors, decanter in hand.

The goblin looked at the orc. The orc looked at the goblin.

"Shit," said the goblin.

"Shit," said the orc.