#crwr213

You ask me when I last saw Sam the Stocked Trout? Listen closely. To decide on what must be done, you all must know the fate of Sam the Stocked Trout. Council of the lake, here is my recollection of what happened. Make of it what you will.

It was two days ago. As you all know, the weather that day was fair. To maximize this warm spell, I was having a leisurely stroll topwater. After all, warm weather means that anglers will be attempting to entice the trout near the bottom of the lake. But for a bluegill such as myself, warm weather means my activities will be topwater.

It was during this lovely swim that I spotted our dear friend Sam. He was at the bottom of the lake, zigging and zagging about. We all know that it is not unusual to see Sam so excited, but I felt something was wrong. I called out to him, but he did not respond.

At once, I knew something was afoot.

Ever attentive, Sam would have normally greeted me.

Immediately, I swam down to meet him.

I asked Sam what on earth could have him so ecstatic. He turned to me and said that he was on the prowl for pink Power Bait.

I was shocked.

I asked him why he was searching for such a thing.

Joyfully, he replied that it would allow him to return to the hatchery, where his fellow trout awaited him. That the people from the hatchery had come to bring the stocked trout home, but for whatever reason had failed to give him the memo. But it was no big deal. All he had to do was find the bait.

Aghast, I asked him who could have given him such a foul idea. He was about to respond, but a nugget of pink Power Bait drifted between us, suspended on a bottom rig.

Sam lunged.

I shouted at him to stop immediately.

Sam stared at me, anger flooding his eyes.

His voice was full of rage. He asked why I would try to stop him from going home.

I yelled, “Sam, this is your home! If you bite that, you will end up gutted and served on a platter! Don’t do it!”

Sam replied that Monica told him that by biting the Power Bait, he would return to the hatchery. That he would see his friends.

I cried, “Sam, your friends didn’t return, they were a fisherman’s supper!”

He couldn’t take it.

He called me a liar and a fake friend.

Monica had told him that his friends were at the hatchery, so that was that.

And then-

Gulp. Gulp. Gulp.

Sam swallowed the Power Bait whole. In an instant, he was snatched away, never to be seen again.

Monica, you fiend.

We know you hate Sam, but why did you have to go to such lengths?

To twist his hopes into something so evil?

Oh, don’t try to pretend you didn’t hate him, Monica.

Even the most obtuse among us could see the poison in your heart.

Stop crying, you villain. Your crocodile tears won’t convince any of us here.

…Okay, I get it, counsellor, I’ll restrain myself.

Council of the lake, I hope you make the right decision.

The first time a brown dog followed me, he was small enough to disappear behind my backpack.

I was in middle school then, still young enough to think that naming something meant it might stay with me forever. He had soft brown ears, quick little paws, and round eyes that always made him look curious. I named him Ppukku because it felt light and warm in my mouth, like a name meant to be called with affection.

For years, he was simply part of my life. He waited near the door when I came home. He stayed close when I was sick. When I was sad, he climbed onto my blanket without invitation, as if he understood that being near me was enough. Back then, I never imagined there would be a version of my life that moved so far away from his.

Then I left for Canada.

Ten years is a strange amount of time. Long enough for a whole life to change, but short enough that part of me still thinks of home as if nothing there should have aged without me.  My family sends me photos and short updates. Sometimes they turn the camera toward him on video call and tell me to say hello.

Each time I see him now, Ppukku seems a little quieter.

He does not run the way he used to. He does not jump. The last time I saw him, he took only a few slow steps toward me, blinking like he was trying to place me inside an old memory. But when I said his name, his ears still moved.

“Ppukku.”

That small response stayed with me more than anything else.

He is seventeen now. Everyone says the number first, as if preparing me. Some days my family tells me he ate well. Other days they say he seems tired, or that he went to the hospital again. These are ordinary updates, but they never feel ordinary to me. They follow me through the day. They make me think about how much of his old age has happened while I was somewhere else.

He ate a little today. He slept most of the afternoon. He seemed tired again.

What I remember most from the last time I saw him is how quiet the moment was. He was lying on his blanket, thinner than before, breathing slowly. I sat beside him and placed my hand near his head. After a while, he shifted just enough to rest against it.

That was all.

But in that moment, I thought: one day I will come back, and he will not be here.

I hate that thought. It feels cruel even to think. But I think what hurts most is not only that he is getting older. It is that his life has kept moving forward in the house where I grew up, while I keep arriving late to it.

Still, I want to believe he knows me. I want to believe that love does not disappear just because distance gets in the way. The last time I saw Ppukku, he did not run to me or climb into my lap. He only looked at me with those dark, tired eyes and stayed still while I stroked the fur between his ears.

And somehow, that was enough to break my heart.

The last time I saw her, the cherry blossoms were already beginning to fall.

Not enough to end the season, only enough to make the road look softened at the edges. We walked slowly beneath the trees, letting petals land on our shoulders and hair. She kept brushing them away, only for the wind to return them a second later.

“It’s like they won’t leave me alone,” she said.

I smiled and told her, “Maybe they just like you.”

She laughed. I remember that part clearly.

What I don’t remember clearly are the things that mattered more.

That is the cruel part. I have always had a good memory. But strangely, when she was with me, I forgot the small things she said and disappointed her in ways I barely noticed at the time. But after she left, her words stayed. Now I remember them with a sharpness that feels almost useless.

It was great today. Wish we can see cherry blossom next year together. Together? Sure.

It was such a simple promise that I believed it completely.

At that age, I thought promises were broken only by dramatic things like betrayal, anger, goodbye. I did not yet understand that some promises fade quietly. A missed message. A delayed reply. A season that comes back without the people who once named it together.

One evening, though it was clearly spring, the air was strangely cold. Maybe it was because the season was already nearing its end. She walked half a step ahead of me, her bag hanging from one shoulder, petals catching in her hair. I remember wanting to say something important. Something that would make the moment stay. But I was young, and youth is often most helpless when it feels most sincere.

So instead I said, “When the blossoms come back next year, let’s walk here again.”

She looked at me for a second, then nodded.

“Okay,” she said. “Next year.”

I believed her.

Or maybe I believed the season. I believed that if something happened beautifully once, life would allow it to happen again.

But spring returned on time, and we did not.

Our messages became shorter. Then infrequent. Then careful. Nothing happened all at once. That was what made it harder to understand. There was no scene large enough to remember, no ending clean enough to point to. Just distance, doing its work quietly.

A year later, I went back to the road alone.

The trees were full again. The same petals gathered along the sidewalk. The same bench stood halfway down the path as if it had been waiting for us. I stood there longer than I meant to, trying to remember the exact sound of her voice when she said next year. A few petals had landed on the bench beside me, and for a second I hated them for arriving so faithfully when we hadn’t.

And of course, that was what I remembered most clearly.

Now when I think of her, I do not first remember the beginning or even the end. I remember the small things I failed to hold onto when they were still mine to keep.

The last time I saw her, the blossoms were still falling.

The promise was too.

Credits:

Image 2; Self-created by Gemini, using prompt: "show the conversations :It was great today. Wish we can see cherry blossom next year together. Together? Sure. on phone screen with background little sakura"

When the cabin lights dim, the moon looks closer.

Not in distance. The navigation screen still shows the same careful numbers, the same clean trajectory. But once the others fall asleep, the moon stops looking like a destination and starts looking like a memory.

Jae drifts toward the window and presses record.

PERSONAL LOG / Day 11

“For the record,” he says quietly, “the moon is less beautiful up close.”

He stares at it a moment longer, then shakes his head.

“No. That’s not true. It’s just less forgiving.”

From Earth, the moon always comes with context, above rooftops, bus stops, and power lines, softened by distance and ordinary life. Here, it is only rock, shadow, and light. Beautiful, but stripped clean. Nothing to romanticize except whatever a person brings with them. That feels important to him now. Even here, meaning is still human-made.

His reflection hovers faintly in the glass. Older now. Tired. Built by years of training, deadlines, and silence.

Sometimes he wonders if this is where it has all begun, not with ambition, or science, or the clean language of achievement, but with the impossible wish to get closer to the one thing that had once made distance feel survivable.

There is one silence he never escapes.

Draft never sent: Do you still look at the moon from there?

He was seventeen the last time he saw her.

Her family was moving the next morning. Boxes filled the driveway. Her mother carried the boxes in and out of the house while they sat on the hood of her father’s car, saying almost nothing. The air smelled like grass and cardboard. Above them, the moon hung pale and full.

He looked up so he would not have to look at her.

“The moon’s beautiful tonight,” he said.

What he meant was: Don’t go. What he meant was: I don’t know how to say this right. What he meant was: I love you.

She turned and looked at him, very still, as if she had heard the rest of the sentence anyway.

“It is,” she said.

Then her mother called from the porch, and the moment closed.

Archived Chat

Rena: You made it sound like the moon belonged to us lol Me: Maybe it did for one night

Archived 8 years ago.

Jae turns off the recorder, then turns it on again.

Later, people will want the public version of this mission: the polished one, the historic one, the one fit for headlines. But this is the private version, the one that will probably remain buried in a file somewhere, unsent and unshared. He finds himself trusting that version more.

“If this ever reaches you,” he says softly, “I want the record corrected.”

He touches the window with his fingertips.

“I don’t think of history first. I think of what it means for something to stay with you, even when there’s no reason it should. I think of all the things that never leave, even when no one else can see them.”

He swallows.

“I never did.”

The ship hums around him. Outside, the moon waits in cold white silence. Inside, the red light on the recorder keeps glowing, proving that even unsent things leave a trace.

Then he lowers his head and whispers the truth too late to be useful.

“The moon is beautiful,” he says, “because someone once taught me how to look at it.”

Credits:

Image 1; Self-created by Gemini the prompt: showing moon through an window of spaceship and reflect asian man face on window"

Image 2; Self-created by Gemini the prompt: "Do you still look at the moon from there? never sent and keep on message app"

When was the last time I saw Sam the Stocked Trout? Well, I think it was about two or three weeks ago.

I was swimming over by the log in the deepest part of the lake. Usually, we bass stay over by the weeds in the shallows, where it is warm. But the lake was unusually warm that day, so I decided to go visit. That’s where I saw Sam. He was over in the vegetation, swimming slowly and bumping his tail along the bottom.

That was unusual for Sam, who normally zips around the lake excitedly. He’s usually an upbeat and positive guy. That’s why everyone in the lake likes him. Even the old heads in the lake, who always bust the chops of the incoming stocked trout, warmed up to him real fast. It didn’t take long before he started getting invited to our mealtimes and swims. Finding someone who doesn’t like the guy is almost impossible.

I say almost, because there’s one person in the lake who didn’t like Sam.

That person being me.

Yes, I said it, I wasn’t a fan of the guy.

You’d hate it too if some new guy comes in and gets popular right off the bat. I mean, he didn’t even grow up here. He was raised in some hatchery somewhere in the big city. Contrast that with us who did. We grew up rough. Food was never guaranteed.

Sam never had to worry about birds, frogs, and invasive fish trying to eat him up.

He’s not one of us, yet everyone treats him like he is.

And what I hated most about this whole Sam situation is that no one else sees this. Sometimes, it’s like no one remembers what we went through together. Sam could never understand it. He didn’t grow up in the struggle.

Anyways, back to the story. Sam’s stopped sulking when he noticed me over in the distance. He looked at me for a moment, blankly, then with a twinge of embarrassment. I called out to him to ask if he was all good. After all, I may have disliked the guy, but I’m not heartless. He nodded and told me life was doing great.

As I was turning around to leave, Sam asked if I could stay to talk a little. Reluctantly, I agreed. He told me that he was feeling lonely because he hadn’t seen any trout in a long time. That they bit a pink nugget that smelled exactly like the food from the hatchery and were dragged away.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth. That his friends had been snatched up by fishermen. So, I told him this:

“Sam, the reason it smells like the hatchery food is because it is from there. The people there are taking you guys back now. That’s where your friends are, back at the hatchery.”

His mood instantly lifted. Smiling, he patted me on the back and told me that he knew I was a good guy.

At that moment, I thought, maybe I was wrong about Sam.

But I haven’t seen him since then.

If I do see him, I think I would try and be his friend.

CONTENT WARNING: HORROR, UNSETTLING IMAGERY, DESCRIPTIONS OF VIOLENCE

Table of Contents

- I: Awkward Encounter - II: Flash Photo - III: A Means to an End

About the Series:

Picture Perfect is a series of linked horror fiction stories exploring the fine lines of Lara and Moe’s newfound siblinghood while the fine lines of their own reality threaten to collapse. They are from the perspective of Lara, an awkward teen who tries her best to bond with Moe. This piece is meant to outline the difficulties of navigating such a relationship; despite their shared interests, Lara and Moe are not picture perfect siblings in the trauma they carry, which is reflected in the horrors they encounter.

-

I think something is watching me. It comes in flashes; short glimpses when I rub my eyes, or in the mirror as I look up from the sink. It’s like I’m transported to another world–a world like ours but dark; an inky, floating abyss if it weren’t for the unblinking eyes and brightly coloured figures with cracked smiles.

Original artist unknown, found by poppetmeimei on Pinterest

I don’t know what they are. I don’t know what they want from me. Whatever it is, they won’t let me sleep. Or maybe I’m too scared to. I can’t really tell from the frenzied buzz in my head. 

I turn my head to the right, towards the window. The moon is waning, just barely illuminating the area outside. A deep sigh escapes through my nose. I don’t even want to know what time it is. Instead, my legs drag over the side of the bed, feet meeting the cold wooden floor. 

Image found by Sadiya on Pinterest

My eyes settle on the film camera Moe gave me. It’s sitting on the nightstand, tucked snugly next to my bed. Some of the moonlight catches on the broken lens, glinting in the dark. I should throw it out, I know that. But something’s stopping me, as if there’s a string tugging me away from the mere thought of it.

Shaking my head, I push myself off the bed. Maybe a drink will clear my mind. The buzzing in my head dulls as I approach the door. I swing the door open and I come face to face with a figure. I yell and stumble backwards, body thudding against the floor.

“Oh God, sorry!” The figure shifts into Moe, who shoots forward to help me back up. “I didn’t know you were leaving.”

Being pulled onto my feet, I give Moe a light jab. “The hell were you doing in front of my door?”

Moe looks away. “Couldn't sleep. Didn’t know what else to do” Looking closer, I can make out a tired-looking droop in his eyes.

I take a sharp breath and turn towards the direction of the camera. My mind reels. “I think I know what we can do.” 

Moe follows my gaze. “It’s too easy.”

“Wanna bet?”

In moments, we’re sweeping the broken camera into a garbage bag and running down the street with it, along with a baseball bat and a shovel. The glimpses of darkness are worse outside; there are more of the coloured figures, splitting grins, and piercing eyes. I thought it was endless in the house, but now it feels beyond endless.

Moe and I enter the town’s forest, where we can barely make out the waning moon between the branches. Immediately, Moe smashes the camera bag into the dirt and I follow it up with a swing from the bat. The world around us flickers between itself and darkness and my head sputters with energy.

Original by Swayzo on Distrokid, found on Pinterest

I wince, just barely catching myself.

“Hey, stay with me!” Moe grips my shoulder, eyes blown wide.

I squeeze my eyes closed and see a glimpse of the dripping blue figure. My eyes shoot open. “I’m fine, keep going.” Another swing, another wince, another glimpse; I grit my teeth to stave it off.

Shortly after, Moe plunges the shovel into the earth, and for a moment the dirt is replaced with a screeching eyeball. Moe grimaces, but continues digging.

Eventually, we’re able to bury the camera bag and we waste no time running home. When we get there, we sit on the living room couch. The buzzing is gone, the world is quiet. I don’t know when it happens, but I fall asleep.

Yeesh, this is awkward. I probably shouldn’t just stand here, right? I should… say something? Yeah. I should say something.

“So,” I walk forward and set the stack of books mom gave me on the coffee table. “What are you up to… pal?” God, I sound like an out of touch father trying to reconnect with the youth.

To my surprise, Moe lets out a laugh. “Nerd stuff, really. You can take a look, if you want.” He extends a camera towards me. I walk forward and grab it, falling into the seat next to him. Looking at it up close, the structure of the camera becomes obvious.

Photo by TheCameraLifestyle on Tumblr

“It’s a film camera,” I say.

“Yeah. You interested in them?”

I nod. “Never had one though.”

“Well you’re in luck,” Moe grabs another one off the table and hands it to me, “I happen to collect them.”

“Don’t collectors like, never share their stuff?”

“I’m a cool collector.” I give Moe a look. “Also I have two of these.”

“Ah, there it is,” We swap cameras. Before I can thank him, my (our?) mom shuffles in with a box in her hands.

“Oh good, you don’t hate each other.” She sets the box down with a huff. “Room’s ready hon, Lara can show you.”

Getting up with a slap to the knee, I lead the way up. Stopping briefly in front of the door, I open it with a flourish. It reveals a basic, mostly bare bedroom, ready to be filled with whatever trinkets Moe possessed.

“Behold, your chambers.” Moe walks in, taking in the space. He stops in the middle. I chew the inside of my lip. “How do you like it?”

A beat, then he turns. “It’s good, just… new.”

I press my lips together and nod, unsure what to say. I look down at the camera in my hands. “Hey, how about we commemorate the moment, or whatever.” Moe looks up thoughtfully and nods. 

I step forward and swing an arm around his shoulders, pulling him down to match my height. He lets out a sound of surprise, then a breath of laughter. Turning the camera around with my finger on the shutter, I count down.

“3, 2…” My finger presses down. Immediately the room warps with the flash; we pull apart as we’re engulfed in darkness. It looks like we should be falling endlessly, but we remain standing. Parts of it peel back into wide, bloodshot eyes and outstretched grins. I step back and my heel squelches into one of the eyes; it releases a piercing scream and gnashes its teeth with resounding snaps. Gasping, I start stumbling backwards.

“Lara!” Moe shoots forward and grabs my arm, but whatever was holding us up drops beneath our feet, and Moe is pulled down with me. My heart jumps into my throat; I want to scream but my mind goes blank in pure panic. I barely register Moe’s own yelling until I feel a tug, and suddenly, we’re hanging. With heavy breaths, I look up. Something is holding onto Moe’s arm; something with a long, clawed hand fully dripping in a vibrant blue substance. It drips down Moe’s wrist, soaking into his sleeve.

I hear Moe’s breath quicken as we both continue staring. Slowly, another clawed hand creeps forward and digs into the edge, wheezing croaks and groans filling the space. My head fills with a frenzied buzz; whatever it is shoots out, revealing a bright blue figure with glowing red eyes and a piercing grin. It lunges forward, jaws unhinging with a reverberating screech.

Original creator Astrono17756423, image from Cinematic Eye on Pinterest

Just as it's about to swipe at Moe, I let out a shriek and swing my arm forward, chucking the camera at the creature. The camera rips through the centre of the figure’s head, then crashes into the space above. The darkness unravels; the figure dissipates. Moe and I briefly fall through empty space, then thud onto the wooden floor of Moe’s new room. The camera rebounds off the ceiling and drops inches from us with a resounding smash.