#onestoryaday

I have just finished to register to join Color Me Run Event take place in Phu My Hung in the 12th of May, 2018. So excited and can’t wait to that day.

I’m writing one new short story, every weekday until December 31st 2016. This is the final one! Thank you so much for joining me on this journey, lots more in the New Year! Dearest, I've been trying to figure out how to say goodbye, and in the process I've discovered that "goodbye" is something I'm pretty terrible at. "Farewell" I can do, probably because it seems more like a request than a statement. There is no finality to "farewell," it's all, "have a nice day, I'll see you next time." I find "laters" to be a bit juvenile, a bit flippant. I think they assume too much, namely that there will be a "later," that the world or our world won't be crushed under the weight of inevitability. It feels like the kind of thing you say when you're young, and you think that being young means something to the Universe. "Take cares" are pretty good, but they come off as too much of a warning. It's like you know the piano is going to fall from the second story window, but you can't bother to be more specific, so you just hand out a blanket bit of terror. As you might imagine, these are the tools I'd use in a pinch, but I'd prefer to avoid them with you. "Have a good ones" are sort of delightful in their non-specificity, you want the person to do well, be well, but at what, you don't much care. My problem is that they've always felt like lies on my tongue, without knowing the "one" I'm wishing well for them, it all feels sort of pointless. And so I'm stuck. I could list a thousand more, but it all comes to the same thing, none of them are right. I want a "goodbye" that captures my love for you, my devotion, my fear that we may never meet again. I want a "goodbye" that wishes you lifetimes of good days, and shields you from all the nightmares of this world. I've searched through a thousand "goodbyes" looking for just one that tastes like the absence of your kiss, that feels like your hand drawing back from my cheek, that warms like the tears we both will shed. But in all the richness of our mother tongue, there seems to be nothing that fills my need. Discovering this, my darling, I was left to create my own, and even it is only a pale echo of what is in my heart, so please, forgive me: May our paths always cross when we need them. May our dreams never stray from our eyes. May the world be kind and gentle, and always filled with surprise. May we live our time apart, knowing we'll be together again. May we love for once and forever, my lover, my heart, my best friend. As you can see, It's a little long, but I think it works. Yours, Forever

I’m writing one new short story, every weekday until December 31st 2016. This is the 259th one, only one more left! I was watching the sky on a kind evening day, Cool glass in my hand, Warm animals at play, When a light, No a flash! Rended heaven and air, And in the sky, On that evening, A figure appeared. It had the head of an Asp, And a short, graceful mane, Though it looked like a beast, It's speech was quite plain, It asked me to join it for a cup of tea, And held out its hand, I had to agree. Didn't have to agree, I wasn't in fear, Though an Asp with a hand is really quite rare, And I wasn't much doing on that evening day, And been wanting for months a short getaway. So we flew through the sky, Well up past the clouds, Went faster, much faster, the air cold and loud, I wondered what magic did keep me alive, But I knew with the Asp, I'd somehow survive. And I did till we entered his home in a space, Not heaven, not Earth, it was its own place, With walls of blue brick, And strange creatures of air, Where everything living was filled with great cheer. Some set out a table of gossamer thread, One gave me a pillow to rest my worn head, Three sang a fine song, Four danced its refrain, And a fifth of their number played their spritely games. "What is this place?" I asked, pouring tea, From a pitcher so cold I thought it would burn me, "A place," Said the Asp, with a smile on its face, Pouring tea of his own, And filling the place, where more words should have gone, With a laughter so clear, It bounced from each wall, Till it finally appeared, And drank tea with our number, Told jokes just the same, The Asp and his Laughter, Like the thunder and rain. This went on for hours, or days, maybe more, Till all smiles had been smiled, And all throats were quite sore, Then the creatures who lived within these blue walls, Bid the Asp and myself a most friendly fall. The Asp wished them the same, As I held out my hand, And we stepped from the edge, Above sky, before land, Then we fell and we fell like a star, Quite insane! I thought it at first, till we slowed, And the plains and the forests and homes became crystal and clear, I was once like a star, And now I'm back here, Watching the sky on a kind evening day, Hoping the Asp might come back to play. Like stories? Here are more just like them. Like stories read to you? Subscribe to the podcast. Like stories for your eye holes? The comic might be for you.

Not by my computer, pardon my dust. In any case, this is story #257, only 3 left! --- I spent this morning's Reflection outside of the monastery, sitting on a bench whose history I had once been taught down to the last pebble. I was there watching that breed of green and purple lizard that makes its home at the edge of the Winding Wood, just where the Temple House meets the Cliffs of Halwin, where legend tells us the first Kings and Queens of this land were chosen by the Gods of the Isle, and the courts of Raven and Sky were born. The creature is the one the common people of this land call Genko, for its skin reminds them of a type of tunic that was once fashionable among those who wished to one day be considered noble. My Brothers and Sister, however, have always referred to it as Wrymkin. When I was much younger I asked Aspirant, who was my Guide at the time, why we had chosen to give this creature a name so different than the one the World had provided for it. I told her that it seemed strange, perhaps even blasphemous, that we who have devoted our lives to Understanding the roots of things, to deconstructing their essense -- we who seek to empty ourselves of Self, and to carve new souls from the symbols of this world -- we who have gone as far as giving up our own names to avoid the Great Confusion of Meaning, would show such arrogance towards this tiny creature, to give it a name so far beyond its station. At this Aspirant struck me full on across the face, and instructed me to spend the next three days in Reflection without meals, and with only a single cup of water to quench my first. This was in the height of the Dry Season, and by the end of the second day I could feel Indriel's gentle fingers carassing my throat. When the third day arrived, Aspirant found me sitting silently in my dorm, my eyes red and my face sunken. She sat with me then, her own iron and granite frame refreshing some small part of my strength. When she was satisfied that my tongue was too dry to utter more foolish words, she placed in my hand the creature that we call Wrymkin. Then she said to me, "Reflect, Seeker." Her voice was gentle, whatever anger she had felt having long since evaporated. Still, I knew there was danger in these words. We are taught to experience the World on its own terms, to Reflect on reality within its own context. To have the subject of Reflection forced upon me, and the context made so alien, could only mean that Aspirant saw the lesson as even more important than our traditions, or much worse, saw me as someone who was no longer worthy of them. So I stared at the creature in my hand, watched it look back at me with eyes that knew no fear. How something I could crush between my thumb anc forefinger could appear so regal struck me, as did the strength I felt in those dark orbs. They say the eyes of the Great Wryms, those who hate the Gods and once sought to wrest the Five Seas from their grasp, never blink. They say that to look into those eyes is to give over ones will, that even Kings and Queens prostrate themselves before the Dragon's gaze. Looking at this creature, small and frail as it was, I knew then that buried somewhere in the depths of its soul was Wrym Fire... This knowledge filled me to bursting. I could feel its skin as my skin, could feel dread power growing within my breast -- I could feel the claws and fangs of the thing flooding the vessal of my soul. A soul that was not yet prepared. Aspirant saved me somehow. Even to this moment, she has never told me what I became, or what she did to return me to myself, but when my mind finally cleared, I could still taste embers in my throat. Since that day, I've come here at least once a Moon to Reflect on the creatures we call Wrymkin. Even as the vessal of my soul has grown stronger, I have never again been able to Understand it as I did sitting in the stone room. Aspirant tells me that more use often dulls a blade, that greater power should not be the only goal of Understanding. I am old and wise enough now to agree, but I'm also brave enough to look her in the eyes when she says it, and when I do, I can't help but sense something familar in those unblinking orbs. Perhaps to find my answer, I just need to find a larger Wrym.

I’m writing one new short story every weekday until December 31st 2016. This is the 256th one, I hope you enjoy! I'm a generally selfish person, unapologetically so. I consider it a form of honesty, one that has the added benefit of never forcing me to feel guilty about being inconsiderate, because I'm always inconsiderate. I'm no hypocrite though, I don't expect humanity to be any better to me than I am to it. One result of this militant, bilateral self-regard, is that I rarely remember the presents people give me. My holidays have been a near endless carnival of wooly socks and second hand soap. I'm the guy you give the stuff you don't want, in bags you've used twice. The same guy who will give these same baubles back to you three years later, after you've forgotten you ever owned them. It's a virtuous circle. There was this one gift though, one that stuck with me. It arrived on the thirteenth of December four years ago. I was watching a show on the Internet box about some guy who had brutally killed one of his betters on that day a century before. Happy Holidays, right? I was considering whether I should go out for dinner or warm up some soup. I might have also been considering putting a gun in my mouth and pulling the trigger, but that's beside the point. I was sitting there in my regifted wooly socks and boxers when the doorbell rang. Considering it was the middle of the afternoon, I knew it was either a package. or a stranger coming by to tell me about his lord and savior. Either way, I decided to put on pants. When I finally got around to opening the door, standing in front of me was a man wearing my face. He looked about ten years older and $1000 better dressed than me. The most interesting part was that he was smiling, which I barely recognized on myself. I'm not really sure what you're supposed to say to your clone, I guess he didn't know either, so we didn't say anything, and just stared at each other for a while. About the time when the awkwardness hit critical mass, he wrapped his arms around my shoulders and pulled me close. He smelled like summer days, I smelled like cigarette smoke. He held me to his chest for an amount of time I'm too embarrassed to relate here. I may have even cried a little, but I'm not going to admit that. After, he smiled a smile that was becoming a little more familiar, gave me the Wink and the Gun, turned and stepped out of my life. I want to say he disappeared in a flash of light or a poof of smoke, but the truth is, he just got back into the waiting taxi and drove off. Ever year since that day, on December 13th, I look at myself in the mirror and smile, because every year, I look just a little bit more like him. I told you I was selfish. I'm so selfish that the only present I've ever remembered, is the one I gave myself. Like stories? Here are more just like them. Like stories read to you? Subscribe to the podcast. Like stories for your eye holes? The comic might be for you.

I’m writing one new short story every weekday until December 31st 2016. This is the 255th one, I hope you enjoy! Hi Remy, I know this might seem a little weird, and I don't want to freak you out or anything, but I wrote this poem and I was...well, too embarrassed to read it in class, so I sort of creepily looked up your address on the Internet. Sorry about that. I really hope you like it though. Please, like it. OK, the poem: We've always been together, In classroom 302, You sitting in the chair, Me watching over you. Your eyes brighter than the stars, Your smile sweeter than the air, Sharing both so freely, Though I'm only sort of there. I know that you don't know me, A ghost is hard to see, But I know everything about you, And want you to be with me. It might seem sort of hard, Because a ghost can't be much deader, But I bet you didn't think, A ghost could write a girl a letter. But I guess that liking you, Has somehow made me strong, Strong enough to feel! How could that be wrong? Yesterday in the mirror, I actually saw my face, And it only looked half dead, Not rotten or displaced. I wasn't missing eyes, I had all of my limbs, The only problem with me, Was that I was looking a little thin. I don't think it will be long, Until I'm real again, All because of you, My lovely human friend. So I beg you to please love me, A love so bold and true, Or at least if you can't love me, Could I stay with you? I guess that's it...and, I know it's a poem and all, but the last part is sort of serious. It's kind of tricky finding a place to live when you've been a classroom corpse for the last hundred years. So, think about it, and when you make a decision, leave a note in your desk. Yours, Amir Like stories? Here are more just like them. Like stories read to you? Subscribe to the podcast. Like stories for your eye holes? The comic might be for you.

I’m writing one new short story every weekday until December 31st 2016. This is the 254rd one, I hope you enjoy! I'll step into The Quiet for the final time today. I've been going for a week now -- only a few hours -- getting my feet wet. They want you to see what it's like, want to make you feel like it's a choice. I guess compared to the alternative, it is. Compared to the alternative, everything feels like a choice. Rock, meet hard place. As it turns out the worst part isn't the dark, the dark is actually a comfort, especially with my eyes as they are now. As it turns out the worst part is this sense, this feeling you get that you're being extinguished by the pure nothingness of it all. A few minutes in The Quiet is like having all the warmth sucked out of your blood, all the fire drained from your soul. It has nothing to do with magic either, it's just the kind of place it is. You lose yourself in the sheer magnitude of it, get swept up in the enormity of the void -- which I suspect is exactly what they want. A shadow can only exist in the presence of the light. I don't begrudge them my fate -- life is choices, power has a price -- I've known that since day one. I don't blame my teachers either, they did the best that they could, all that they could, trying to save someone whose ego was always larger than his ears. I think if there is anyone I'm angry at, it's myself -- not for abusing power, not for treating magic like a shiny bauble to show off to any fool willing to pay me a little mind, not even for the scattering of corpses I've left in my wake. Why should any of that bother me when I know it's the weight of all those crimes that will be my only friend in the dark, when I'm certain that if there is forgiveness in this world, it will never be meant for me. No, I'm angry at myself because they really did give me a choice, and I choose the cowards way. I always said that I'd rather die than become a shadow, to go out in a blaze of fire and light that they'd speak about for a hundred years from the halls of the Institute to the Coven of Corbin. But when I had my chance, when they offered me a scrap of nobility, I choose to cling to the last dregs of my poor life like a babe to a ragged bottle. What's worse, not a one of them seemed surprised. So like all great cowards I find myself here, waiting to step into the darkness, into The Quiet -- waiting to become a shadow like all the rest -- just one more chain in this prison of fools. Like stories? Here are more just like them. Like stories read to you? Subscribe to the podcast. Like stories for your eye holes? The comic might be for you.

I’m writing one new short story every weekday until December 31st 2016. This is the 253rd one, I hope you enjoy! A moment before a few bad beats of my mother's heart stole her from me, while I was kneeling by the bed with a cool towel and warm tears, she told me a secret. She said that if I were ever in trouble, real trouble, the kind of trouble that the world of man and machine had no answer for -- that the first thing I should do is visit the Fairy Tree. My mother was like that, always had been. She never really went in for what you would call religion -- too much kneeling for her tastes, but she had more "believer" in her than just about anyone, and the things she believed came from places older and stranger than most. She lived in a world that had breath and spirit, a world of ancient gods and deep magic. She told me that when her family moved to this country, the thing that scared her most, more than a new home and new friends and the very real threat of starvation, was that the Fae folk, the old ones, those creatures who protected land and water and sky in her home, wouldn't be able to find her in this place of machines. The only thing that got her through was knowing about the seed her Da had tucked away in his boot. The seed that would, with years and water and love, become our Fairy Tree. I never really considered myself the type to go in for hedge gods and forest elves. I graduated from Stanford with degrees in Physics and Business. I have a 401K. I eat cereals enriched with fiber, and go on vacations to places with electric car charging stations and artisinal breads. I believe in what the eye can see and science can measure -- for the most part, my world has been happier for it -- I'm married to the love of my life, and my two children, Liam and Andrea, have never wanted for anything. That is until last summer when Liam was diagnosed with Hepatocellular Carcinoma. You probably don't know what that is, I know I didn't. Whenever people talk about Cancer in kids, it's always Leukemia. Liam though has never been one to make things easy. When he was little, every few months or so he would manage to find his way into the attic -- always a different spot too -- scare us half to death. Merelene or I would go to feed him, and he would just be gone, poof, vanished. The first time he did it we were about thirty seconds away from calling the police when we heard giggling coming from the ceiling. When we got up there and found him, he was wearing Grand Dads old army socks as a hat. It's exactly as disgusting as it sounds, but he was having a grand old time. That's Liam, always finding ways to surprise us. Hepatocellular Carcinoma is Cancer of the Liver, they usually only find it in people who have spent their lives drowning their sorrows. For a child to get it is pretty rare, for it to spread as aggressively as it has is rarer still. That's probably why they didn't catch it at first. That's also why we didn't even think to take him to the doctor for months. He would complain about these really bad stomachs aches every once in a while, but what kid doesn't? Especially a kid like Liam who had mastered the art of sneaking cookies almost before he could walk. I want to believe that anyone would have done the same, I really do, but I think that's because it's the only thing that keeps me from putting a gun in my mouth, that and Andrea. Still, I should have known something was wrong. I'm his father, I should have known. They say he has anywhere between three and six months to live. The tumor has spread, and at this point surgery would hurt more than it's likely to help. They think Chemo might buy us a few more weeks if we're lucky, but at the cost of more pain than I'd willingly inflict on my worst enemy. I've read all the websites and seen all the videos, so has Merelene, we refuse to put Liam through all that. Which is a roundabout way of saying that my son is going to die soon, and we're not going to do anything about it. Well, I guess this is something. I'm here with you, aren't I, offering up a pile of oatmeal and crying my tears into your branches? I'm here, laying all my breathless cynicism at your roots, for the chance that maybe my mother was right all along. That maybe the secret she gave me so many years ago will be enough to save my son. That's why I'm here and why I beg you, ancients ones who have protected my family in the old world and the new, beg you by the roots and branches of this Fairy Tree, to grant me a boon -- to save my son. To please, save my son. Like stories? Here are more just like them. Like stories read to you? Subscribe to the podcast. Like stories for your eye holes? The comic might be for you.