Glad you groaned, Fye!

Alice is the middle manager between the brothers and Cullen. I should make that more clear.

Thanks!

Cullen Bell, the editor in chief of the Daily Apple, looked out over the beginnings of sunset. The deadline was fast approaching, and his biggest story was still up in the air. He needed to hear back from the final authors, twin brothers Edward and Jacob Long, before he could put it to bed.

"Where is that finished article?" he asked to no one in particular.

As if on cue, a knock came on his office door. Alice Carlisle, the managing reporter, burst through. "Mr. Bell, sir... we have a problem."

Someone who was a seasoned veteran of the newspaper industry such as Cullen understood that "we have a problem" was business-talk for "everything just hit the fan". He slowly turned around, then quickly recoiled. Alice's face and arms were covered in ink!

"Why, Miss Carlisle... what in the world happened to you?"

"It's the twins, sir. They were out of control."

"Did they hurt you?"

Alice hesitated. "N-no, sir, but they've set operations back in the printing room quite a bit. The two were working on a middle paragraph of the top story and got into an argument over the Oxford comma. It turned into a bit of a shoving match, and then... then a full-on fight broke out."

Cullen became nervous. "Is... everyone alright?"

"No injuries, sir, nor any damage. But as you can see, they wasted some of our printer's ink on each other and... I got in the middle of it to break it up." Alice stared at her hands, wondering when her subordinates stopped paying attention and hoping her boss wouldn't blame her.

"I'm glad you did. I assume both brothers were sent home?"

"Pending an investigation, yes," Alice replied. "And we're working double-speed to get the paper out. I don't want to fire them -- they have a way with words separately, but when on the story together, everything falls apart!"

"No, Alice, I presume a suspension will be enough." Cullen offered a box of tissues to Alice, as though that would clean up the black mess on her face thoroughly. "But I suppose this is a lesson for next time."

"I agree, boss. Never let the brothers on the same story again." Alice wiped as much of the ink off her face as she could with every tissue in the box before returning to supervise the daily edition.

Slowly, Cullen sat as his desk and made himself a note: two Longs don't make a write-up.

[WC: 411; Regrets: 0]

Both of you take your upvotes and get out.

Sure is!

Now, wait, "It was a dark and stormy night" is the opening paragraph to A Wrinkle In Time, one of the best children's books ever!

Thanks for the help, Fye. I'm usually not the type to do ninja edits, but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate it!

Stop by campfire to hear it! :)

"It's been said that the true secret of happiness lies in taking a genuine interest in all the details of daily life. I can assure you, class, that this statement is both true and false. It all depends on whether you view life as macro or micro; and that distinction will be the game-changer that will determine if you are healthy or twisted."

Looks of confusion scattered around the economics lecture hall at Saint Stephen's. "Macro" and "Micro" fit the class, but nothing else did. Father Jonathan noticed them, held up a finger of patience, and continued.

"On the balance," he began, "the macro world sees life as a pursuit. Things like money and power are their own reward. The only limit is supply. To a man obsessed with only earthly things, there is no endgame, no diminishing returns. There is only more.

"Very often, this leads to the macro level being polluted by horrible individuals, those who see only themselves as the person to satisfy. To them, the misery of others is a trivium of daily life. Morals and rules are fungible. A simple kind act that only God sees is a waste of time.

"Economics is the 'dismal science' for a reason," he added to a few laughs from the students.

"You have spent this year learning a cold, mechanical, macro view. It will make you successful, but it will make you depressed and decrepit. Jesus said there are those who care only about the world. You are called to be more. You are called to improve the world, and to do so with a single-minded gusto of a whirling dervish. But to make the world better, you must make your world better, through love and happiness." He paused.

"Of course, this requires you to know your world. It's not the world. Leave that for the leaders. Social media would leave you overwhelmed. Your world is that which you interact with, and those details of daily life are your life. Show them love, as God has shown you love, and happiness follows.

"Understanding this is the key," Jonathan added as he turned around to face the class, now fully paying attention. "You will slip, you will fail on occasion, but never stop being kind to those who are your details!

"And when you let your hearts be ravenous for joy and for spreading joy through kindness, then all I've taught you about money gets a proper perspective. This learning is a tool for providing more to those who need it. Never forget your main goal from God: to love everything in your life. Even the details.

"Life is not zero-sum," he concluded. "Make your world better, and you make the world better. Deus vult... God wills it, and you deserve it.

"Let me thank you for taking my course this year. You give me happiness. Class dismissed."

[word count 479]

It's an old canard that science fiction is best when it mirrors reality. As is done here, and done beautifully. But more than the story and just as important is the formatting.

It can be very hard to paint with words, but if it's at all possible, it's done here. From the multiple levels of story-inside-story to the begin and end Unicode marks to the use of Courier to indicate the robotic nature of the future setting, all of it adds to the story that could be seen as just another sci-fi allegory.

I do feel like a layer is missing, though. The first layer is anti-Artificial, showing them to be as needy and demanding as humans. Then it goes pro, with a wonderful bedtime story. Then anti, with language we've seen used against several groups before... and then anti-again? Unless the last layer is meant to be a twist, I would've liked a fifth. Oh well, word count strikes again.

Incredible stuff, and I hope the rest of campfire enjoys it as much as I did!

Thanks for reminding me why I don't want kids, Sevens. :)

Though I gotta say, I feel like Jonah may have a point here. He's nine; sending a note home from the teacher seems a bit much. I mean, Grey Poupon is just a funny name! (Reminded of reading the Horatio Alger stories in 11th grade. A few people in the class couldn't get past the name of the main character.)

Wait, do nine-year-olds know what "cringe" means?

Also, it's an easy word to mix up, but in this case you want principal, not principle. One is a human and one isn't if you want an easy way to remember it.

Love the idea you went with here, telling a story without telling any of the story! Well done.

[Poem]

Before the throng I soon will stand,
Then forced to kneel with both hands bound.
There I shall wait until as planned
They hear the awful slicing sound.

What brought me here, you dare to ask?
What makes them do this awful thing?
I'm here for failing at his task;
I'm here for questioning the king.

An oath was taken, it was broken,
All of us were to forget
That such a claim was ever spoken
Lest a challenge we regret.

But know his rule is of the earth,
His power weak to the divine.
He overestimates his worth
His sentence nothing next to Thine.

My oath was to uphold His truth,
Against all who would test its might
I knew from when I was a youth
That power did not make you right.

I stood before the king and court
And told him of his oath before.
"Your fealty", he did retort,
"To I who run your life means more!

"Tis I who with a single word,
Can choose your future -- death or life.
And yet what is this I have heard
Of sympathy for my ex-wife?"

"Your Highness," I had calmly stated
As I stood before the crown,
"This charade shall not be aided
By my ministry renown.

"When you spoke upon the altar,
You pledged love and loyalty;
Just because your eyes have faltered
Means not from that pledge you're free.

"I have counseled by your side
Every time you deigned to ask.
You know I would never hide
Or shirk from any royal task.

"But here my conscience and my mission
Cannot help but intersect.
I don't support your blind ambition
When from my God you would defect!"

Anger poured out from the throne;
Integrity in him doth wilt.
"Since your treason is now known,
I hereby proclaim your guilt!"

My future does not give me worry,
For I can't control my fate.
It is sealed inside the fury
Of an ego run by hate.

Man has now declared it treason,
Put the sentence on my head.
I go to where there is no season;
I go to where there is no dread.

Here inside my final room
I face tonight my final rest.
Before you lay me in the tomb,
I write down this last request...

O man in Black, a hood for cover,
Swear you'll treat me like no other.
As I give my neck to you,
May your blade be swift and true.
Send me to the Judge of All,
He whose Kingdom shall not fall.
And as your king protects his pride,
I ask that I not leave his side.
So in his room display my head
And let him then enjoy his bed.

Congratulations u/bookworm271!

A new pair of questions:

1. If you could have dinner with any author, past or present, who and why?
2. Do you have any ideas for a future NaNoWriMo or equivalent, and what story would you tell?

Asimov and Bradbury are the most famous building blocks of the genre, of course; if you're writing anything involving a robot, Asimov's the place to start as he basically codified robot behavior in science fiction. One name I don't hear tossed around enough is Ursula LeGuin, who was a master at world-building and species-building (if that last part makes sense) in her novels and especially short stories.

Space travel is something I think will be restricted to fantasy for a very, very long time. As it stands, it's more likely an alien species visits us than we visit them, and the odds of this species being from a terrestrial-type planet are pretty low. That said, Star Trek is tons of fun to watch, so as a writer the idea of visiting a very very foreign land still intrigues me. I admit it's not my strength, though.

For those wondering why everyone is saying "Duke", when I joined Discord I used a name I already had (honoring my alma mater), and I couldn't change it to the generic pseudonym you see here. So Duke became my name when I was in the writing prompts Discord and frankly, I'll answer to either.

I also want to take this time to say there's a story on my subreddit that I co-wrote in a FMF-esque tag team format with u/Crystal1501. It's called "The Intersect" and, like other stories, was inspired by a prompt here. Check it out!

Ah, I missed this the first time.

1. I have two favorite environments. Either at my work pc during a break, or at home on my laptop resting on my mattress. I'm kind of simple that way.
2. If I was stuck with one thing, it would be finishing the novel, definitely.

Literary may be the wrong word. I'm heavily influenced by works of science fiction and low fantasy, not just in books but on TV. I've studied the Twilight Zone collection -- all four versions -- and I love finding prompts inside stories. Then, when the right prompt comes along, it's all about finding the strange angle no one else has.

TT and FMF are great practice for that because it's taking a start that's more open and working with it. I will say that's one issue I have with some prompts -- a lot of beginner prompts tell the story in the prompt. I want more open-ended stuff, and when I find it, I want to find the right angle to make for a story no one's thought of.

But some writers I like include Twain, Orwell, Bradbury, Dave Barry for when I'm feeling amused, and Asimov. If anyone spots any others, though, let me know. :)

What an honor. Thank you all so much. Sure, let's answer a few:

1. I enjoy writing because I enjoy creating different situations. There's a huge escapism element to it, and I'm not afraid to admit there's a bit of Walter Mitty in me. But I've always loved to write. Senior year in high school I was taking a writing course for my English class, and considering my cough-coughth reunion is this summer, that's a lot of time.
2. I think the biggest theme is trying to do something different. That's been a commonality in the TT and FMF I've written; I tend to consider the theme but try to take it in a direction that is non-intuitive. It doesn't always work, but some of my favorite stories take the theme word of TT or the beginning of FMF and go in a way that is unique. (For example: when "Feast" for TT was proposed on Thanksgiving weekend, I looked at invoking a saint's guidance on their feast day.)
3. Oh, this one's easy. It's about being in a new world and becoming someone you're not. In this case, practically literally. I can't explain why, but that is the one that stands out. As part of NaNoWriMo, I built half a novel (the other half will come soon) out of a writing prompt along these lines. Working title was Two for One, but I'll probably change that. But it, to tie it in to the trope, is about a life that isn't yours, but you have to adjust to. Call it escapism at its best or worst, but that's where I stand.

Hopefully I can live up to the honor!

The conductor had saved this piece for his final encore. It was to be his last performance, but he wanted it to mean everything. This was for his idol.

After getting the signal that the audience was at attention, he looked out over his charges. Violins at the ready. Percussion standing by. A choir taking their deep breaths. With subtle flicks of his hand, he counted off the 6/8 time needed. And with a nod, he brought the instruments in for the final movement of the Ninth.

The many stringed instruments played their intro, loudly sending the tones of the great German echoing through the concert hall. As they finished setting the tone, the percussion joined in, a long cymbal roll producing a crescendo designed to invite singing. And sing, the choir did, at full volume:

Freude, schöner Götterfunken,
Tochter aus Elysium,
Wir betreten feuertrunken,
Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!

The lyrics of Schiller joined the glorious melodies and enraptured the crowd who had gathered. But the old master conductor wasn't satisfied. It wasn't enough that they heard this glory; they must feel it! As his baton wagged back and forth in time, his free hand raised upward, encouraging both orchestra and choir to be louder. Always, in his mind, fortissimo, FORTISSIMO, maximum volume!

As the choir switched from German to English, from Schiller to Van Dyke, from Ode to Hymn, the conductor felt it in the podium and in his heart. This, THIS was what the idol had intended. A noise to rock the heavens, a paean to the very feeling of positivity that the universe would sense! Let them know, he thought! Let them all see what humanity can do when blessed with euphoria!

Choir and orchestra ended their beautiful noise in a frenzy of heavenly inspiration:

Melt the clouds of sin and sadness,
Drive the dark of doubt away.
Giver of immortal gladness,
Fill us with the light of day!

As the performance ended and the musicians recovered, the conductor waited. The orchestra stood first, as one, and bowed. The conductor pointed to his choir, which in turn took their bows. And as he caught his breath, he saw his first violinist telling him to turn around.

Thousands of men and women, in their finest suits and dresses, were standing, their hands producing a noise that reciprocated the piece. The conductor bowed as well and, after sufficient time, walked off the stage to the back.

Stagehands first, directors second, then his fellow performers -- all greeted him, congratulated him on a fine career and a wonderful finale. The conductor stood and took notice of their words before turning to his interpreter. With a flurry of hand gestures, the interpreter helped him understand what they were saying: Ludwig would have been pleased with that final encore.

He stood and smiled in his personal silence. He had done his idol proud.

[WC: 480]

Well, Restser, you reviewed my story; let me return the favor.

One of the more interesting aspects of this piece is how in my mind it plays with the knowledge of the theme. We know that, eventually, there will be something regarding "jubilant" -- saving it for the climax of the story makes the tension build better. But that's selling it short -- this piece stands on its own.

I will admit to not being familiar enough with equine mannerisms; do horses generally sleep lying on their side? I was under the impression they slept while kneeling like cows did. Granted, this could be an oversight or extra characterization of how horrible Horace senses the storm is, in that even he knows to buckle down.

Two pieces of unusual phrasing stood out: one good, one bad. The good was "Been through a few of these I have". I adore when authors go out of their way to give the narrator a character and imbue the narrative with it. It brings the story more to life. The bad, though, is "Locking the barn doors open is hard". Does he mean locking them when they're being forced open? Because I highly doubt he wants to keep them open.

Overall, a very visually intensive piece of writing that gave character to the narrator, which is right up my alley! Kudos!

Wow, uh... thanks! Caught off-guard by how well you received it, but it is nice to get praise.

It's not often you get a micro that hits all the notes, but this one does. Also a good subversive take on the theme. Although I appreciate the challenge you gave yourself to make it a micro, I think something like this almost demands more -- this feels like a preview of a longer story. Perhaps you could expand the idea into a WP if one comes up in the future... or, if necessary, I'll tee one up so you can put it there.

With shorter stories, you're always going to leave something on the table, but the key you figure out here is to make it something the audience wants. I want to know other shops you'd visited. I want to hear more of the author's internal struggle to get back into life. The "And still" mechanic makes me wonder what other reminders the author sees. And most of all: does the author succeed in "out-running" their pain?

Good stuff here!

As the students filed in, they saw their teacher behind her desk. The boys in particular noticed her: a younger teacher, likely no older than 30, with long blond hair like Rapunzel that she kept tied up in the back so it only reached her waist, bright blue eyes, and a slender body with no sign of blemish on what skin she had exposed. The girls were intrigued as well; someone that young who commanded such a presence was a relief from the way most teachers handled a class with sensitive material.

Once the bell rang, the teacher tapped her hand on a special desk bell shaped like a clam shell. "Good morning, students," she began, her voice in almost a sing-song pattern that disarmed even the most nervous among her class. "It's so wonderful to see such young and eager faces! I'm delighted to see you! Thank you for choosing this Adult Health seminar. Let me introduce myself."

She wrote her name on the board: Aphy Agape. "Now, to answer your first question, it's actually pronounced uh-GAH-pay. I will be teaching you about the importance of your physcial and mental well-being as you advance to college and being on your own next year. Are there any other questions?"

One student jumped in: "Didn't we go over all this freshmen year?"

"Yeah, I know we did that thing with the banana," added another.

"Now, class, I'm sure you found that... interesting and helpful," Ms. Agape interrupted. "And yes, we will have one unit dedicated to... re-assessing that segment. But there's so much more to what I wish to tell you than just what happens when the animal within takes over."

She sat down on her desk and faced the classroom, using her hands to captivate the students' attention. "There are many other things you need in your adult lives. Think about it: how do you know if it's love or friendship? When does a playful crush become a desire for commitment? All of you are going to feel the fire with another person, but what happens when the fire begins to die? And the most important thing you'll learn: how do you love yourself?"

"With Kleenex," the class jokester yelled from the back. Ms. Agape let the teenagers get the uncomfortable laughter out of their system before staring a hole into the offending student.

"I see some of you have one form of emotion on their mind more than others. That's fine, I guess... imbalances happen at your age. But you can't go through life thinking that way. What kind of a boyfriend would you be if that's your attitude? Yours will be the connection quickly severed. I'm here to help you understand that the forms of emotional attachment you will feel will guide your decisions in life, and that to understand them and to master them will make you a greater success than you could ever imagine."

"Um, Miss?" A timid girl conservatively dressed, with a cross charm on her necklace, raised her hand. "What about loving God? Does that count?"

The teacher smiled. "Oh, worship can be very helpful. We'll cover the relationship between deities and mortals in a later chapter, don't worry; also, it will explain how the types of love you feel can make you more godly, if that's your desire. But it's just one of the seven important positive feelings you will have. And if you use one to shut out another, you won't get anywhere."

A boy in the back raised his hand. "Do I need my parents' permission for this class?"

"There's nothing explicit, if that's what you're asking. I want to keep this practical. Yes, we'll be looking upon physical attraction and its consequences, but that's such a small part of the equation. Hopefully, when this class is over, you'll understand and appreciate everything that goes into being a kind and loving individual."

The class sat enraptured at her patience and her charisma.

"Is that all? Very well. Let me begin with an overview. To survive, you need to love. But love has become such a catch-all term that it leads to confusion. Confusion leads to pain. And as much as I sound like I've been out in the sun too long, I'm here to help minimize your pain through letting you understand your emotions of love. So... what entails love? The important thing is that in this class, we will break your love down into seven areas..."

The class flew by. Ms. Agape had their attention, and they found themselves wanting to learn more. When the bell rang, the students calmly left for their next class. Some of them were chatting about what was said. But one of them -- the jokester in the beginning -- approached her desk.

"Ma'am?"

"Oh, please, Miss."

"Right, yeah -- I'm sorry I said that joke earlier. I guess I just get nervous around pretty people like you."

"Well, I'm flattered. You know what you did was wrong, and you're correcting it. That's a good start! But I want you to think about this: I talked about playfulness; you mixed it with passion. That can be dangerous. And while I appreciate the thought, let's try to steer you more to deep friendship or love of the world. It will help you in the long run. See you tomorrow!"

Hi. Let me introduce myself. I'm everything wrong with the sport.

What? Don't look at me like that. Haven't you heard? I grew up in the city and used my athletic skills to get a break. And that break came from a scholarship to the school I'm with now. You know, the arrogant, pompous, preppy, school full of *them*. *They* don't deserve a team with our talent. And especially people *like me* should not go to a school *like that*. As if getting a top-class education and plying my trade on the national stage is somehow making me a sellout.

Apparently it does. Really. Just ask the people who worked together to find my private email address. Ask the ones who posted my private cell phone number to fan groups so I could hear the words all day. Every day. Dozens of messages. People wishing for me to fail, hoping I choke on the big stage... and those are the ones I can repeat. Campus security had to check in on my younger sister after a few of those messages.

The nationals was my chance at redemption. The championships were when I stood tall. Memories of last year still remain. I know what it's like to be in that dogpile of players who achieve their lifelong dream. I've raised that trophy high. I've felt that euphoria -- it's addictive. This year, we had a chance to do it again. That's the kind of history making you undeniable.

But something happened along the way... we played a team that was up to the challenge. Hey, it's the championships, this happens. It was a back-and-forth game, and it came down to the last shot. And as luck would have it, that shot, the one that would have flipped the game result and allowed us to continue through to history, left my fingertips.

And... well, it didn't go in.

Look, I've made and missed game-winners before, but this one hurt, because it was my last game for the school that gave me a chance to escape poverty. I do want to thank my coach and teammates who consoled me... and yeah, the alums sent hundreds of messages thanking me for my service, keep your chin up, blah blah.

But THEY were out in full force. Hundreds of emails. Hundreds of text messages. Hundreds of voicemails. People drunk in their glory. Rivals and wannabe rivals upping their attack 100 percent. All of them, taking pleasure in my failure. All of them, telling me I deserved it. Some of them using hateful speech, others saying I sold out my heritage so I can go... well, you know. All directed at me.

So that's me. I'm 21 years old. And as you can see, I'm what's wrong with the sport.

---

[Author's Notes: slightly based on an amalgam of actual events. Word count: 463. No celebrities were harmed in the making of this story.]