Head to Head

Thought Plane Media

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FICTION

An experimental anthology series, where writers Justin Church, Joe Morin, and guests challenge themselves to better their storytelling. The participants use a shared writing prompt, then get one month to write short stories based upon that prompt. Finally, the writers and narrators self-analyze their work, constructively criticize their peers' stories and narration presentation, and figure out how they can all do better on the next one.

MAY 1

Writer and Narrator Analysis | Head to Head Prompt 3

Joe, Justin, and Jess analyze and critique our stories and narration for Head to Head Prompt 3. Speaking: Joe Morin, Jess Yeoman, Justin Church Edited by Joe Morin THE PROMPT A guy is scared of his own shadow... for a good reason.

1h 53m
APR 24

Sanitarium Shadows | Head to Head Prompt 3 | Story 3

Doctor Howard Phillips conducts brutal experiments on a serial killer to uncover the origin of human immorality. Story by Joe Morin Narrated by Joe Morin Foreword and Afterword by Joe Morin Edited by Joe Morin Head to Head Created by Justin Church and Joe Morin. THE PROMPT A guy is afraid of his own shadow... for a good reason. THE STORY Please be warned: this story contains scenes of torture, gore, and assault. SANITARIUM SHADOWS - By Joe Morin Mr Morrison writhed as the midday sun exorcised his shadow to the walkway. The Policemen at Morrison’s sides held him steady– hands cuffed behind his back– while they led him to an immaculately dressed, moustachioed gentleman, in a physician’s coat. Doctor Phillips examined this new patient upon his approach: he was tall, muscular, carried himself with poise, and stared unwaveringly into Phillips’ eyes. These magnificent emerald irises, with predatory focus, were all Phillips could see of Morrison– whose pin-striped uniform abnormally included a mask and gloves. Phillips met and matched Morrison’s gaze. The moment lingered until Morrison walked into the sanitarium’s shadow, wherein his writhing stopped abruptly. Phillips shuddered to witness Morrison’s demon return to its host. And the Doctor, in that moment, watched those emerald eyes alight. A stern feminine voice addressed Phillips: “I should hope your hospital is in less a shambles than your front entrance. My son was promised to receive the best of care.” Phillips suppressed a prideful outburst towards this slander, and forced a smile at this elegant yet sour-faced woman: “I can assure you, Mrs Morrison, that Cranston Sanitarium is the best institution of its kind in the state.” Her eyes pierced through Phillips with the same hue and intensity as her son’s. “What will it take to ensure William is well-seen to?” “He’ll be as well cared for as any of my other patients.” Mrs Morrison somehow frowned more deeply, “Except he is not just any of your other patients, is he? He is a Morrison. What is more: this wrongful conviction will soon be over-turned. But in the mean-time–” Mrs M. brazenly pulled a pocket-book from her hand-bag. The stoney-faced police officers pretended not to notice. “How much of a donation to the institute can buy William adequate accommodations?” Phillips bit his lip: “That will not be necessary.” “Your false humility does you no credit, Doctor. I know how these things work.” “All due respect, ma’am, they don’t work that way here.” The quizzical raising of this woman’s eyebrows, coupled with a grimace, sent a shiver down Phillips’ spine. These old money families could make trouble where they wished, and the Doctor feared to be on said trouble’s receiving end. “But know that Mr Morrison will be comfortable, and will receive my personal care and attention.” The irate woman shoved her pocket-book back into her bag. Phillips turned to his massive orderly, who patiently awaited orders: “John, take Mr Morrison into my office and brew us some tea.” The orderly silently took Morrison’s arm from the police and led him inside the building. “I will visit soon, William!” cried Mrs M. The patient, for the first time, broke his gaze from Phillips and turned to his mother. He addressed her in a strong and articulate tone: “I shall earn my freedom before that is necessary.” He soon disappeared through the sanitarium’s threshold. Phillips re-addressed the patient’s mother: “My recommendation, ma’am, is to allow William time to settle before you next see him. Your presence too soon may bring him false hope, and prolong his adjustment period.” “I do not recall asking for your recommendation. You may practice medicine, but you are first and foremost a jailer who is holding my son against his will.” “By the tight case of a District Attorney and the indictment of an unbiased jury.” “The reputations of these sanitariums precede them. Should William be harmed here, I shall find you personally responsible. Are we clear?” Phillips’ fake smile dropped. “If you’ll excuse me: I have a patient to whom I must attend. Good day Mrs. Morrison.” Phillips didn’t give her the chance to respond before he turned about-face to enter the building in which he answered to no-one. Phillips found John and Mr Morrison in his dim, lamp-lit office. “Remove that face covering, and unlock those hand-cuffs.” John did as was ordered. Phillips examined Morrison’s face: he looked to be in his late 30s– the same as Phillips. The patient’s features were remarkably handsome, tempered by an unmaintained beard– surely grown in jail. And he smirked wryly while he rubbed his red wrists. “Please, take a seat,” Phillips beckoned towards a chair at the opposite end of his desk. Morrison stood till Phillips himself sat. John set the tea between them, then slinked to the corner nearby a curtain. Phillips partook in the beverage; Morrison followed with hesitance. “I’m afraid that business outside was a rude and improper introduction to me. My name is Doctor Howard Phillips: Administrator for this institute, and your caretaker from here on.” “Charmed.” “You are aware why you’ve been brought here?” “Because my mother finds this sanitarium less scandalous than prison– and had the wherewithal to get me here.” “It’s because you killed five men.” “Though I was only convicted for one, wasn’t I? A street rat. Why anyone should care to see a man like that go–” “You admit to it?” “Only to some empathy for the perpetrator.” His smile widened as he leaned inward. “Do I strike you as a dangerous man?” Phillips stayed composed: “Your valor during The Great War suggests as much… though, at present, your mother seems more formidable than you do.” “The freedom to speak is one of the few which I still possess. Fighting you over comfortable quarters is her battle, not mine.” “Still: I’m afraid Cranston Sanitarium’s offerings aren’t so luxurious as those to which you’re accustomed.” “Did you fight in the war, Doctor?” Phillips stopped mid-sip, and uttered a defeated “No.” “When you’ve lived through hell, even this old lunatic-asylum should seem like heaven.” “Glad to hear it, Mr Morrison.” Phillips paused. “Tell me about your pathology with sunlight.” “Little to tell there: My skin must be covered in direct sunlight, lest I receive violent convulsions. I’ve learned to live with it.” “I have my theories on its cause.” “I’ve met many medical professionals, of more renown than you. All had theories, none offered practical cures.” “I have no cure to offer. But, perhaps, you may help me discover one through careful study– not merely to your ailment, but to… humanity’s worst impulses!” The first hints of frustration crept through Morrison’s exterior, “I am no lab rat.” He took a short breath. “But go on.” “I theorize that depraved thinking is rooted in the shadow– the dark reflections of every person– and that these shadows are demonic figures, housed inside their respective host’s bodies. But the demons have a weakness: light-wave-particles, which pass on and through these parasite’s hosts to force them out. Hence why we humans are most evil in the absence of light: it’s when we and our shadows are one.” “It is well you already spend your days in an asylum, Doctor. But what has this to do with me?” Phillips stood and turned to face the curtained window behind his desk “I will study your shadow; then I will learn how to destroy it.” “Preposterous.” “I’ll grant you this, Mr. Morrison: You're more gentlemanly than I anticipated. You play sane convincingly well. But Iet’s see if you’re so smug when detached from your demon. John, now!” Phillips and John speedily flung open the curtains and panes of their respective windows, to let sunlight’s full exposure bathe the room. Morrison’s pupils dilated as the wave-particles hit them. He abruptly flung back his chair to the ground, carried the momentum into a shoulder-roll which brought him to his feet, and rushed for the door. But John’s hulking form already blocked the entrance. Morrison cried in pain, scratched at his face, then dropped to his knees and wretched. His shadow loomed ahead. Phillips handed Morrison his mask as he declared: “You’re the missing link which will validate my research. You– who is so symbiotic with his shadow that sunlight hurts the demon AND the host.” Morrison panted in relief as he slipped on his mask “What do you propose to do with me?” “Your sensitivity is so pronounced that extensive exposure to light may be counter-productive to my aims. So let us have an easy first day. Come, I’ll give you the tour.” Phillips helped a weary Morrison to his feet before exiting the room. Morrison followed whilst John trailed the newly nervous patient. Cranston Sanitarium was a dour place– with narrow corridors, and dim lighting. Few souls roamed the eerily quiet institute. Morrison inquired, “Where are your prisoners and guards?” Phillips maintained his pace, and half-turned his head backwards to address the question, “I insist that our well-behaved patients, alongside their doctors and orderlies, spend pleasant days outdoors.” “For the… ‘therapeutic’ benefits, you mean.” “Precisely.” “And would you torture me thus?” Phillips thought for a moment: “Not until I’ve learned more of your condition.” Morrison chose not to respond. They soon arrived in the kitchen: where a stocky man, and his lanky aide prepared a stew from the bare-bones ingredients which they had about. Morrison grimaced. Phillips declared, “Here at Cranston, we subscribe to the belief that good honest work makes for good honest people. This will be your station.” Morrison see

41 min
APR 17

Space 3-X | Head to Head Prompt 3 | Story 2

Riley is a horny astronaut, whose need for intimacy might be met by an anomaly from the dark side of the moon. Story by Justin Church Narrated by Justin Church Foreword and Afterword by Joe Morin Edited by Joe Morin Head to Head Created by Justin Church and Joe Morin.

17 min
APR 10

The Fear | Prompt 3 | Story 1

James' worsening paranoia about the darkness requires mental health counselling. Story by Jess Yeoman Narrated by Jess Yeoman Foreword and Afterword by Joe Morin Edited by Joe Morin THE PROMPT A guy is afraid of his own shadow... for a good reason. THE STORY The Fear Head to Head Project Jess Yeoman James sliced slowly, thoughtfully through his Grade A steak, readying a near-perfect bite. A sip of red wine to follow, always red wine with red meat, or at least so he had been told. His stunning date sat across from him, prodding her green beans around her plate playfully. “So, James…” “Mm?” He responded, barely looking up from his plate. She gazed at him with a sheepish smile, and he knew what was going to come next. Always the same questions on these dates, and no new answers, from either party involved. “Well, it’s just, you seem to be quite successful, with the whole Wall Street-bank-thing,” she gestured vaguely with her hands as she spoke. “Insurance,” James said, clearing his throat. “I work in insurance”. Why was the music in this restaurant so damn loud? It was a string quartet, fitting for such a stylish restaurant, but in James' ears it was like radio static, dissonant and distracting. “Ah, right.” The young woman looked somewhat defeated, but plodded on. “So you seem to be doing extremely well in insurance, you’ve got fancy degrees under your belt and, well…” she chuckled and paused, hesitant to play all her cards upfront. “On top of that, you’re quite a dreamboat.” This caught James’ attention, as he looked his date in the eye for perhaps the first time that evening. “I feel you’re working your way towards a point, shall we get there together before our dinner turns cold?” The young woman’s eyes fell to her lap, and she let out a small breath. Realizing he had been too harsh, James took a sip of his wine and sat back in his upholstered chair, attempting to soften his composure. The bright lights, amplified by mirrors hanging on every free scrap of wall in the crisp white dining space, were beginning to give him a headache, and likely the wine wasn’t helping either, but he knew it was only fair to play this evening out to the end. “Sorry, dear, I only meant that I think I know what you’re getting at. Please, continue.” “Well, I was just going to say that despite doing quite well for yourself, in basically every part of life that counts, nobody really sees you out,” she replied, emphasizing the last word in quotation marks with her fingers. James paused to digest her words, searching his steak for a good way to respond. It felt like she already knew the answer, though; surely his reputation had preceded him, surely she had heard stories. He sat forward once more, folding his hands in front of himself, and brought his gaze back to his date. She really was beautiful, a modern kind of beauty with some hints of old-money upbringing. Her chocolate curls hugged her cheekbones, and the string of pearls around her neck reflected every sparkle of light in the place. Perhaps she had a point, perhaps coming out of his cave would be alright now and then, as he took in all the light around him. “Well, it’s really just-” James cut off abruptly. An uncomfortable, familiar chill ran through his core as he looked beyond his date, catching sight of himself in one of the infinite mirrors in the room. The white light bouncing between mirrors and sconces and chandeliers left James disoriented as he stared, but even as he tilted his head to see clearer past the young woman’s shoulder, there was one unmistakable fact: His reflection stared right back for just a second too long, unmoving, unblinking, uncanny. “So, let’s go over this once more. I know we’ve chatted about it countless times, but I really just need to make sure you’re progressing.” The vintage furniture pieces and gently ticking clock brought a sliver of comfort to the otherwise unwelcoming room. James was tired of pretending, tired of putting on a show to convince his therapist that he was just fine, but here they were again. The woman waited patiently for James to respond, and when he didn’t, she persisted. “Look, James, it’s really just my job…You don’t have to enjoy these sessions, but you do need to participate in them, at least enough for me to cross the i’s and dot the t’s”. James looked up at this slip-up, and she winked at him. He didn’t enjoy their time together, no, but he did respect her and her career. For her, he would keep trying. “As a kid, I was afraid of the dark, as many children are. As a teen, however, this fear only grew stronger, and by young adulthood it became unmanageable.” It was difficult to say the words out loud without sounding too scripted or rehearsed, but that’s exactly what they were: rehearsed, twisted and repeated a million times until the response became an acceptable one. “Living alone as an adult, I found I had much more freedom to manipulate my surroundings, to make life more comfortable and to eliminate any of that potential darkness. I began to experience symptoms related to paranoid schizophrenia, and began practicing repetitive actions in hopes of protecting myself, similar to Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.” See, he was even getting the medical terms down now, too. The therapist nodded lightly, following along with her notes as James spoke. “And as time went on, did you find these compulsions had an impact on your day-to-day life?” James had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. She already knew the story, why did they need to play this stupid game again? Just because he wasn’t able to hide his nerves at the restaurant the other night, didn’t mean he was out of control. He was a pro by now, with years of experience pulling himself out of the darkness, fighting with shadows and making his own light. He always made it through by whatever means necessary, for as long as he could remember, and he certainly didn’t need a therapist to rub it in his face that everyone around him thought he was fit for an asylum. The therapist could sense a shift in James’ demeanour, his cool exterior slipping to reveal a fidgety, agitated young man. His eyes shifted around the room, stopping at every dark corner as he processed whatever troubled thoughts must be circulating his mind. She felt somewhat guilty spurring him on like this, but being assigned to his case to monitor his well-being, she had to follow through with the questioning, no matter how difficult. She had seen a number of cases like his, of course, but James had always stood out to her as being unique, especially after the last several years of their sessions together. The elaborate stories, the coping mechanisms, the overactive imagination, it all felt different somehow from her other clients. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, and it was nearly undetectable, but something was there. James took a deep breath, and as if nothing had changed, regained his previous composure. A practiced smile appeared on his face as he responded. “My compulsions were at one point a challenge in my daily life, true, but they were a challenge that I have overcome. I no longer require my apartment lights to be turned on at all hours of the day, I am able to stay at the office alone after hours as needed, and I even enjoy some nightlife on the rare occasion.” He hoped keeping things casual would help to lighten the mood of their session, as well as to wrap things up a bit quicker. All she needed was to hear the right answers, after all. The therapist looked at James, scanning his face for any clues into his real, unfiltered self, but came out empty handed. Reviewing her notes one last time, a thought sprang to mind, and she framed her next question carefully. “The mirror though… That’s new?” The forced smile dropped from James’ face. “What?” Concerned of possibly pushing her client too far, and conscious of the limitations of her job, the therapist hesitated. “I feel like we’ve only ever talked about your fear of the dark, but it seems like there wouldn’t have been any of your regular triggers at the restaurant that night. Those who saw you out at that time reported your reaction to some mirrors, or maybe to your own reflection.” James swallowed hard. The mirror was new. The air seemed to thicken between the therapist and her client, and she could feel that she had pushed a button that maybe even James didn’t know existed. James stood alone in the elevator of his apartment complex, the dim lighting getting under his skin; not dark enough to cause unease, but also not bright enough to be at all useful. He held his keys tightly as he turned them in the lock of his unit, keeping them from jingling in an attempt to maintain the silence he had finally recovered in his mind. His apartment was just as he had left it, arranged and coordinated in a way he had perfected over years of trial and error. The standard pot lights of the unit were on and gave a reasonable glow to his home, but the real illumination came from a variety of bulbs that had been hung in a methodical, concentric pattern. It was always a bit overwhelming at first glance, but James’ eyes adjusted quickly as he settled into his safety. His cellphone rang, startling him. “Mom” appeared on the screen. With a deep breath, James swiped to answer the call. “Jamie, baby! How are you?” “Hi, Mom. I’m ok, but please, just ‘James’…” He hadn’t been called that name in a very long time, and he planned to keep it that way. “Oh, sorry honey, I always forget,” his mom chuckled. “I’m just calling to check in on you! It’s been so long since we’ve gabbed.” James couldn’t help but smile. No matter where life had brought them, his mother would always be there, trying her best. “Yeah, I’m sorry Mom, just been crazy lately.” If only she

18 min
MAR 6

Writer and Narrator Analysis | Head to Head Prompt 2

Joe, Justin, and Jess analyze and critique our stories and narration for Head to Head Prompt 2. Speaking: Joe Morin, Jess Yeoman, Justin Church Edited by Joe Morin THE PROMPT A fairy works for the Department of Mythical Creature Conservation and discovers unicorns are real.

1h 60m
FEB 27

The Real Story of How Maple Ketchup Helped Jerry Cherry Discover Unicorns and Fight God | P2 | S3

Pak-a-mon trainer Jerald Cherry regales a group of children with exploits of his adventurous youth, and the great rivalry which defined his life. Story by Justin Church Narrated by Joe Morin Foreword and Afterword by Joe Morin Edited by Joe Morin THE PROMPT A fairy works for the Department of Mythical Creature Conservation and discovers unicorns are real. THE STORY The Real Story of How Maple Ketchup Helped Jerry Cherry Discover Unicorns and Fight God By Justin Church, Narrated by: Joe Morin An Elderly fairy sits down in a rocking chair holding a book. He is surrounded by a crowd of children sitting cross-legged on the floor. “Now, you all know the story of how Maple Ketchup discovered Unicorns, fought god and became the most famous Pak-a-mon trainer around, but today Children I will be reading to you my new book. It is called The Real Story of How Maple Ketchup Helped Jerry Cherry Discover Unicorns and Fight God. By Sir Doctor Professor Director Jerald Cherry PHD” The children all clap and cheer as SIr Jerald, otherwise known as Jerry Cherry the Fairy, opens the book. Chapter 1: Maple Finally finished his paperwork. In Pellet town’s office for the Department of Mythical Creature Conservation, a 20 year-old Maple Ketchup was sitting at a desk in the dark back corner, with a single light to read by. Maple checked off a final box on the sheet he had in front of him, and placed the page on top of the stack of paper on the floor which reached the height of his desk. Maple shouted out “Professor Cherry, I’m done.” An older fairy passed out at a tipped over desk surrounded by beer bottles groaned. “By the way, this isn’t me, that’s my grandfather who’s also called professor Cherry, this was a long time ago, I show up later.” Maple stood up from his desk and walked over to the passed out Professor. “I’ll just leave the paperwork beside my desk for you, and before you ask, I triple checked, all the forms are completed.” The professor rolled over and groaned again. Maple took that as an acknowledgment and gathered his bag and walked out the door. Outside, he looked at the stable the unicorn he discovered had been staying for the four years it took him to fill out the paperwork. The unicorn was dead. “Dammit” Maple sighed, collapsed to the ground, curled into a ball and cried like a little bi- “…wait, am I allowed to say that in front of you guys?” Maple curled into a ball and cried like a little child. Inside Professor Cherry put a hand to his head and stumbled over to the papers Maple had told him about. He moved aside the 3 page checklist and checked the top page. Maple had filled out all the basic info about the unicorn he had found. He checked page 2, which was an essay portion where one needed to write all about how the creature was found and caught. He began to read it. It went a little like this. Chapter 2: Maple’s Essay of Events “My name is Maple Ketchup, and I’m gonna be the very best, like no fairy ever was.” And that day was the day he could finally prove it, because he was going to become a Pak-a-mon catcher. Maple Ketchup the fairy put on his running shoes, popped his baseball cap on, and ran out the door, completely forgetting to say goodbye to his mom. Next stop, the Department for Mythical Creature Conservation, to get his pack and select his first pack monster. As Pellet town was very small, it didn’t take him long to reach the office of the DMCC. Maple rushed through the doors and cried out in a shrill “Professor Cherry, I’m finally 16 and I’m ready to start my pack monster adventure.” Professor Cherry jerked awake from his drunken nap on his desk, looked at Maple then put his head back down saying “Oh, Maple, it’s you. I was waiting for my amazing grandson Jerry to arrive.” “Well I didn’t see him on my way over, but I’m here and ready to start my Pak-a-mon adventure! Can I pick my Pak-a-mon yet?” Maple Exclaimed. Professor Cherry held a hand to his throbbing head “Slow down Maple, we will get there. First you gotta sign some paperwork.” Professor Cherry slid the empty beer bottles off the papers on his desk and gave the papers to Maple. Maple didn’t even read them and just signed, thinking he already knew all the rules of being a pack monster catcher. “So now can I get my Pak-a-mon?” “ Slow down Maple, that’s like the last step before you leave. Take this backpack, with it you will be recognized as an official Pak-a-mon catcher.” Maple grabbed the worn looking bag and put it on then excitedly cried out “Time to choose my Pak-a-” “MAPLE!” the professor shouted “Slow down. You have to take this first, it’s your Pak-a-dex, you use it to log all the creatures you encounter, don’t forget this part, it’s basically your whole job.” “Yes professor, I know” There was a long pause, Maple vibrated with excitement, and Professor Cherry stared off into the distance. After an awkward amount of time, Professor Cherry slurped up his drool and asked “What were we doing?” “You were going to let me pick my Pak-a-mon.” “Right, right.” Professor Cherry walked over to his cabinet, slid his case of beer out of the way and brought out a case. Maple eagerly awaited, knowing the Pak-a-mon crystals were inside, and he would get to pick out his first partner. Maple’s older brother had always told him about all the amazing choices he’d had, and Maple couldn’t wait to see his options. Professor Cherry opened the case, and two crystals lay inside. It was not as many as he expected, but at least he had a choice in the matter, or so he thought. Just then, the glorious figure of Jerry Cherry the Fairy burst through the door at top speed. “See, I told you I’d show up later. This is when things start getting good.” “Sorry I’m late Gramps. Guess those are our crystals, sweet.” And before anyone could object, Jerry grabbed one of the two crystals and tossed it on the ground. With a puff of smoke and a burst of light, out popped a 2’ tall dragon. “Awesome, I’m gonna call you Drago.” He ran towards the door with the small dragon struggling to keep up “Smell ya later Maple.” and out the door he went. “What is that even supposed to mean?” Maple asked. Professor Cherry sighed, “He didn’t even get his pak-a-dex.” Maple looked at the lone crystal in the case with disappointment. “Well Maple, here’s your pack monster, and if you wouldn’t mind, can you bring Jerry his pak-a-dex. I’m sure he isn’t far.” Maple took the pak-a-dex and crystal and ran out after Jerry. Chapter 3: How Maple Came Into Possession of the Unicorn Outside he looked towards the tall grass at the edge of town, but there was no sign of Jerry. He ran up to the edge of the grass, ready to begin his adventure, who knew what could be in store for him. He stepped forward and as if appearing from nowhere, Jerry Cherry popped up. “Maple, Battle me!” “What, where did you even come from?” “We locked eyes, you gotta battle me, them’s the rules.” Maple didn’t want to look even more like a wimp, so he pulled out his crystal and tossed it on the ground. Through the shimmering light, he could see it, his partner pak-a-mon. It was a 5 inch tall yellow mouse. Jerry Cherry laughed “Haha, your partner is a pak-a-chu? I probably passed like 12 of those field mice already.” Jerry tossed 2 crystals out, his dragon appeared but was now 12’ tall and blew fire out its nostrils, and next to it was what looked like a glowing horse with a horn on its head. “How, what? You got out here like a minute earlier than me.” “What can I say Maple? I’m just a better trainer than you.” Maple pulled out his pak-a-dex and scanned the new creature, yet it came up with only ‘no data collected’. “Hey Jerry, you forgot your pak-a-dex, also what the heck is this thing?” “Pfft, pak-a-dex are for chumps, now let’s fight. Drago, blast that pak-a-chu to dust.” The dragon roared and blew a blast of flame at the small mouse. When the fire cleared, there wasn’t even ash remaining. “My Pak-a-mon!” cried Maple, as he curled up into a ball on the ground and started crying like a little- “Um…bad word again.” “Maple don’t cry, I really can’t stand that sound. I guess you weren’t ready to fight someone on my level.” Jerry Cherry summoned the unicorn back into its crystal, and tossed it to Maple. “Here, take this one, I didn’t like it anyways.” Maple wiped the tears away from his eyes as he watched Jerry mount his dragon and flew off towards adventure. Maple looked at the crystal and remembering the pak-a-dex entry, headed back to the office. Chapter 4: Maple Made a Mistake Professor Cherry cracked open another bottle just as Maple walked in “Oh Maple, back so soon, aren’t you supposed to be adventuring or whatever?” “Well, I found something you might find interesting.” Maple threw the crystal onto the floor, and the unicorn sprang out, knocking over Professor Cherry’s desk and scattering empty bottles of beer all around on the floor. The Professor just stared wide eyed at the creature. “A unicorn! I’ve heard of these only in stories. My boy this is a mighty fine discovery, hats off to you for catching a never before seen pak-a-mon.” Professor Cherry pulled open the drawer of his tipped over desk, and out came a stack of paper that filled the whole drawer, then the Professor shoved the stack into Maple’s arms. “Fill these out, this is a big discovery, so a lot of information is needed, be as detailed as possible.” “Do I have to? I kinda just want to-” “Maple! You signed the contract, this is the job you agreed to. You wanted to work at the Department of Mythical Creature Conservation, well this is it. It can’t be all fun and exploration and adventure and battles and such. Some people have to buckle down and do the hard work. Now find a desk and fill

25 min
FEB 20

Detective Matthew Pearce's Final Case | Head to Head Prompt 2 | Story 2

Matthew Pearce's mundane life as a desk jockey is upended when an old flame from his field agent days pays him an unexpected visit. Story by Jess Yeoman Narrated by Joe Morin Foreword and Afterword by Joe Morin Edited by Joe Morin THE PROMPT A fairy works for the Department of Mythical Creature Conservation and discovers unicorns are real. THE STORY 1. Pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed tight enough to shut out the stunned face in front of him, Pearce released an exasperated sigh. “Was it not clear the first million times? All new Hallow’s Eve funding requisitions MUST be filed under ‘Events’, not ‘Holidays’. And you’ve entirely mislabeled these forms from the Troll Bridge Real Estate firm.” “I’m so, so sorry, sir,” the assistant stuttered, clearly hurt by the sting of his superior’s tone. Pearce looked up again from his desk at the young Fairy and, seeing visions of his own self standing there, felt his gaze begin to slightly soften. “Hey, we all gotta start somewhere, kid. But if you screw this up again, it’s gonna be both our necks on the line, and trust me when I say I won’t hesitate to throw you under the bus.” Pearce was still fuming, but tried to soften the blow with a small wink. “Definitely, got it.” The assistant ducked out of the office quickly and without another word, for fear of further upsetting the clearly irate older Fairy. Matthew Pearce had worked for the Department of Mythical Creature Conservation for nearly 125 years. Just long enough, in fact, to have moved through the ranks, from a nobody taking hot cocoa orders for the higher-ups all the way to Lead Detective of his branch. Gods, did he miss the freedom of being out in the world, the smell of dewdrops in the morning, the feel of the cool air on his wings… But now, despite his years of experience in the field, he was stuck here at this crappy desk, with the closest thing to freedom being the ever-changing landscape on the wallpaper of his magic-powered laptop. It wasn’t the dream, but it paid his bills – with the rising cost of housing in the surrounding Toadstool Communities, he would take anything he could get. He spent most of his days convincing himself that moving from Detective to Human Resources wasn’t a demotion, and just a shift in positions, but it was still a painful truth to swallow… A torn wing was enough to bring you right back down to the bottom, he guessed. His work wasn’t all so bad, though; if the humans believed rumours of mythical creatures living on their turf, there was a higher chance of that land being protected and conserved, and then a better chance of those creatures’ survival. The Humans got to see the big bucks come in from their little tourism traps, and the Department was able to maintain a vast network of beings under their protection. Win-win, or as close to it as possible. Despite the success of the program, Pearce knew that this little gig wouldn’t last much longer; already the heads of the DMCC were bringing in fresh faces, updating methods and upgrading the department with the newest of Fairy technology, pushing out anything obsolete. And, soon enough, Pearce knew that he would become obsolete too. 2. Heavy rain pounded Pearce’s leaf umbrella as he trekked across town, familiar shops and the gentle glow of neon lights being the only source of comfort in the dark streets. Another day of correction, editing and painfully dull interactions with other clerical Fairy workers had left him feeling numb, and the cold damp settling into his wings didn’t help that. As he jiggled his keys in the lock of his oak tree apartment, he noticed a smudge of crimson red on the doorframe, a shade barely noticeable against the dark wood but unmistakable to Pearce. A shiver went up his back as he opened the door cautiously, hoping to retain some semblance of calm so as not to give away awareness of his unexpected guest. Breathing shakily, his eyes adjusted to the soft light of his lamps, casting a warmth around his apartment and yet still unable to ease the slow dread he felt. “Been a while, Matthew,” a cool, low voice spoke into the room. Pearce’s head spun to find his beautiful intruder standing in the kitchen, slender arms leaned back on the counter and legs crossed in front of her. Her chin tilted slightly to reveal a gorgeous jawline and thin, long neck, and of course her signature red lips. A halo of blonde waves framed her petite Pixie face in a way that Pearce could admit, despite the fear tightening around his stomach like a fist, was truly stunning. A face that he had once loved, and one he thought he had lost. “Meredith?” he managed to get out. The last time he saw her must’ve been, what, 30 years ago? On that last case they worked together… “Yes darling, c’est moi!” she said, grinning at her own little phrase and the look of shock on Pearce’s face. “Yeah, guess it has been a while,” he replied, hand rubbing the back of his neck. What could she possibly be doing here, after all this time? “Well, surely I deserve a better welcome than that,” Meredith teased, crossing her arms in front of her and playfully pouting. “I know things didn’t end off on the best terms-“ “You left the Department, you left me, without a single word. I didn’t know if you’d been taken, or killed, or if you just got tired of me and took the first ticket out. And I was left to think and overthink about all that for years, no, decades. So yeah, I guess not the best terms.” Meredith’s grin began to fade, her gaze dropping and all flirtatiousness quickly leaving her demeanour. “Look, darling, I know it must’ve been so hard for you, but at the time it was what was best… or at least it seemed like it. It wasn’t easy for me either, changing my whole life like that, but after everything we went through with the Department, all the cases we worked, all the lives we saved and more importantly the ones we couldn’t… I don’t know, I couldn’t do it anymore.” Pearce sighed, reigning in his frustration and trying to remember more deeply the Pixie in front of him, his former partner, lover, and so much more. “You think I didn’t struggle too? Look where I’m at now, chained to a desk and dealing with buffoons every day.” “That’s my point, Matthew. The Department is no good, they didn’t take care of you after your accident, they barely even kept you around, in fact they likely only do keep you around so they don’t get their wrists slapped by the higher-ups for firing an employee after a workplace injury, especially one involving the Humans.” Pearce inhaled sharply, unsure of whether to be upset at the mention of his accident or offended on behalf of his employers. “You know the Department does good work, Meredith. We did good work in our field, and I do my best now with what I’ve got.” Meredith rolled her eyes. “You really don’t get it, do you?” “Get what? Besides the fact that you’ve broken into my apartment, told me my work is essentially worthless, and come up with some crappy excuses for breaking my heart?” “Look, I know that nothing I say will change how you feel about… everything. But I came here because I need your help, and because you need to know the truth.” “The truth?” Pearce asked, still reeling from the sudden reappearance of this dazzling individual. “Yes, Detective Matthew Pearce of the DMCC,” Meredith mocked, her patience beginning to run thin. “I don’t have time to hold your hand through this so you better listen carefully. The Department has been around for ages, right? Generations of Fairies, Pixies, Dwarves, and other folk have relied on their protection.” Pearce tried to hide his annoyance at being given a history lesson. “But what about the folk we don’t know about?” Meredith continued. “What about the ones who’ve flown under the radar, living their own lives free from the Department’s close watch?” “That’s absurd,” Pearce scoffed. “We’ve worked in the Department for years now, myself longer than you. I’ve personally handled hundreds of cases, helping probably millions of Mythical Creatures live better quality lives and stay safe from prying eyes.” “See, that’s the thing,” Meredith chuckled. “What if the Department was the prying eyes?” Pearce blinked, not sure how to digest what his former partner was suggesting. “You work in Human Resources now, right? Have you never wondered why some of the legends had to be maintained, even though you’ve never seen them yourself?” “Well, sure,” Pearce said thoughtfully. “The Humans have always been creative in their storytelling, easier to promote rumours of everything and protect many than to narrow it down, all about keeping the balance.” Meredith’s grin returned, her small sprightly face lighting up. “Now you’re getting it.” “So you’re trying to tell me all the rumours are true?” “Well, yeah,” Meredith shrugged. “Pretty much every last one.” “But why would the Department try to convince us that those creatures are just bedtime stories for human children?” “Because they don’t like rogues. They like having control. Anyone under their ‘protection’ can be monitored, every move watched carefully, every word measured and calculated.” Pearce shook his head, his tired mind unable to wrap around all this wild new information. “There’s a whole world out there, Matthew, beyond what the Department is willing to admit. And you’re the only one I trust to help me save that world.” 3. The warehouse seemed smaller than Pearce remembered, but it had been years since he’d last stepped foot inside. He still wasn’t sure how Meredith had convinced him to tag along on whatever most recent whirlwind adventure she had planned, but it wasn’t the first time he’d been dragged into her schemes b

26 min
FEB 13

When the Dust Settles: A Clint Sherwood Adventure | Head to Head Prompt 2 | Story 1

Investigator Clint Sherwood is burdened by his new rookie partner on their quest to rescue a unicorn from animal traffickers. Story by Joe Morin Narrated by Joe Morin Foreword and Afterword by Joe Morin Edited by Joe Morin THE PROMPT A fairy works for the Department of Mythical Creature Conservation and discovers unicorns are real. THE STORY When the Dust Settles: A Clint Sherwood Adventure By Joe Morin; Narrated by Joe Morin My old nemesis sat before me, seductive and taunting. She beckoned: “Take me Clint. Here on this table.” I turned away, my lips puckered, as this situation’s sour taste lingered a moment. Such pleasures I’ve felt before and often– the rapture, the release of my demons. Yet with each appeasement my sense is carried off, my resistance weakens, and my life’s hollow deepens. Still what would be the harm in one last indulgence? I faced my nemesis, bent to meet her– already spread across the table– and snorted the purple dust through my nostrils. First came the irritation, then the burn. Some spasms followed. And then… Clint Sherwood gazed upon himself with a new perspective. His heightened state of mind showed his reflection thoroughly, more detailed than a mirror’s constructs. Clint saw the surface: a disheveled middle-aged man; a sullen face, which looked 10 years older than it was; one good wing on his back, and another grotesquely mangled. But he saw too what lay beneath: a good for nothing, past-his-prime junkie, with no future, no legacy to leave; a passionless investigator for the Department of Mythical Creature Conservation, left in the dust by changing times. These observations were old hat for Clint Sherwood. They were always the first things he noticed on the Dust. But today Clint saw something new: a boy– a young fairy, in Department uniform– who stared at him, mouth gaped in shock and… disgust. “How long you been there, Rookie?” Clint asked, with suspicion. He watched the kid jot notes on a paper pad. Odd. The Rookie opted against the standard DoMCC magical short-hand. Because that would have meant waving his fingers in such a pattern that Clint would understand. SI Sherwood deduced that a game was underway. Sherwood continued to break the kid’s concentration “Speak MB Rook?” (that’s “Mythical Basic”). “Y-Yessir,” the boy stammered, eyes still down on his pad. “Eyes up, kid.” The Rookie nervously met Clint’s glassy gaze. “Good. Now why are you in my basement?” “My name is–” “Don’t care,” Clint interjected. “I asked why you’re here.” The boy hesitated. “I’ve been assigned to your tutelage, Investigator Sherwood.” “Why?” “Because my bosses felt you could teach me a thing or two?” “Nope.” “Nope?” “You deaf?” “Nope.” “Good. Listen here, Rookie: You tell those hacks they won’t make a fool of Clint Sherwood.” “I don’t understand, sir.” “Maybe you don’t. And that’s fine. But understand this: I don’t do partners and I don’t babysit. The bosses and I have a rare understanding there.” “I was told to give you this if you put up any resistance.” The rookie handed Clint an official document, stuffed with dull jargon, which effectively amounted to “The kid’s yours, Clint. Deal with it. Signed: your bosses.” “Hrmm”, Clint grumbled. He caught the rookie smirk. “If we’re going to be working together afterall, I ought to introduce myself properly. My name is–” "Don't care. And I won't until you do something I'll remember. Till then you're just 'Rook'. Yeah?” “Whatever you’d prefer, Investigator Sherwood.” “Clint. I don’t go for the titles b******t. Just don’t forget I’m in charge.” Rook wrote another note on his pad. “What’s that there?” “I’m a diligent apprentice… Clint. Just noting your wisdom.” “Good. Here’s summore for you: stay close, keep your mouth shut, and jump when I say ‘jump’, got it?” “Yessir.” Clint Sherwood snatched his trilby off the deeply indented couch cushions in the room’s corner; he pocketed the pair of brass knuckles stored in his desk drawer; he aggressively swung a tattered long coat over his shoulder– the tail end missing Rook’s face by an inch; and he marched out the office door. Rook followed Clint Sherwood from a respectable distance, adding more notes to his pad. Rook rode shotgun next to Clint in his DoMCC Glider (glowing pink chariot base, and organically engineered fairy wings on the vehicle’s sides to propel it). Clint barely contained his bitterness each time he rode this thing, knowing his healthcare plan could never cover such a replacement wing for himself… Here Clint noticed the young officer nervously glance his way, looking for an excuse to start a conversation. Clint preferred the kid to stay quiet. ‘Cause Rook’s next words were sure to be some snide judgment over Clint’s decision to “drive under the influence”. Or maybe Rook got that thought out of his system… on his little notepad. The kid found some courage, and began: “Earlier you expressed some… disdain for partnerships. Your last partner stab you in the back or something?” Clint turned to Rook, his face neutral, expressionless as stone: “I stabbed her in the back. There’s a lesson in there for you… somewhere.” Rook wrote something down, and the Glider returned to silence. Rook glared in disbelief at the entrance to their destination: a glittering image of Greek Godhood, bottle of wine in hand, its “arm” tipping said bottle to the god’s mouth. And underneath this tacky mascot was written the establishment’s name: The Drunken Dionysus. Clint exited the carriage and made for the entrance. He didn’t care whether Rook bothered to join him. Unfortunately, the kid was close behind. “What are we looking for here?” he asked of Clint. “A drink.” And there was another note for Rook’s supposed “words of wisdom” page. Clint glimpsed a sign on his way in: “No Satyrs.” He tore it down in one swipe while he marched to the bar. Clint had only just sat down when he heard from behind: “Hey Earth Scraper!” Clint gritted his teeth and took a breath. He wanted to give his verbal assailant a chance to rectify their mistake. “I’m talking to you, Grounder.” The voice was closer now– practically right behind him. Clint swiveled on his seat and cracked his fist against the vampire’s jaw. Clint leapt to the floor and pressed his advance, with gut shot after gut shot to his mocker. And he fought fiercely, despite standing half the height of his 6ft foe! The temperamental investigator might have pressed his advantage to victory, were it not for Rook, who ripped Clint off the vampire’s torso: “Allow us to clear up this misunderstanding,” he begged. “Stay out of this Rook!” barked Clint. “It’s you who misunderstands what’s happening here, officer,” mocked the Vampire with a chuckle, as a werewolf grabbed Rook’s arms from behind. The vampire’s arm launched out to Rook’s face, and thudded straight-on against the Rookie’s nose. The werewolf let Rook go, and the punch’s momentum carried the poor, well-meaning boy to the ground. Clint, meanwhile, sneaked around the vampire, wrapped his arms around its waist, and threw the evil creature over his head. The fiend morphed into a bat, before it hit the ground, with a “SQUEEE!” and quickly reverted to its first form. It laughed at Clint, relishing the challenge, and pounced like a predator. Rook regained consciousness as Clint laid on the ground, beaten and bloody, with the vampire standing over him: “Time to finish this,” said the vampire with menace. Rook tried to send a stunning incantation towards their foes, but was so dazed he messed up the words. Then the vampire… extended his arm to Clint and laughed while he helped the battered investigator to his feet. “You know the deal: Victor buys the drinks.” “Not fair, Alexei. You brought a friend.” “So did you.” “Not to fight.” “He stepped in.” “He’s a dumb rookie.” “Shut up and accept the drink already.” “Hrmm.” The vampire approached the bar, with a grumbling Clint behind, and a confused Rook (with blood-soaked nose) behind him. “What’s your poison?” he asked the half-delirious detectives. Clint ordered a “Hydra’s Head” (ale which slowly refills each time you cut off the frothy head), Alexei got his usual Phoenix Fire (drop a match on some treated ashes in a glass, and drink the blazing liquid which results), and Rook refused. “Take a drink, kid. Alexei’s buying,” prodded Clint. Rook took another note, grimaced, and looked at the menu a moment before he picked a “Banshee.” “Your friend here is either brave or stupid,” remarked Alexei to Clint. “Stupid, I’m sure.” “What’s the problem?” whined Rook, blissfully unaware of his faux pas. “Banshees are an omen,” Clint explained, as the server brought the drinks. They set Rook’s “Banshee” on the table, and he looked at it with hesitance. Clint and Alexei stared at him with anticipation. So Rook cautiously sipped the glass. And the most unpleasant screech his baby ears ever heard erupted through the bar. Rook was so startled, he spit half his sip. “What was that?!” cried Rook. “The Omen. Now somebody in this bar is gonna die. Today,” said Clint as he casually cut the head off his Hydra. “Are you serious?” Clint saw the abject fear in the youth’s eyes, and sought to quell it. “Don’t beat yourself up. Whoever dies here will die no matter what. People just don’t like hearing the Banshee tell ‘em is all.” “‘Cause of the scream, mostly,” added a drunken Alexei. Rook put his glass down, with a mix of disgust and regret. “So you old, old drunkard: what’s the word on the streets?” asked Clint of Alexei. “S-somebody founddd a -belch- found a uni– a unicorn.” Clint

33 min
JAN 30

Writer and Narrator Analysis | Head to Head Prompt 1

Joe, Justin, and Ryan analyze and critique our stories and narration for Head to Head Prompt 1. THE PROMPT A guy breaks both legs from jumping/falling into the suicide pit, and landing on the other bodies to break his fall. 00:00 What is Head to Head? 02:28 Origins of Prompt 1 07:02 Hole of the Living Dead 23:36 Ryan and Justin's Comments 29:06 Stop at the End of the Line Speaking: Joe Morin, Ryan Walker, Justin Church Edited by Joe Morin

1h 13m
JAN 23

Hole of the Living Dead | Head to Head Prompt 1 | Story 2

Victor injures himself during a suicide attempt, and must survive or die in a pit of kindred spirits. Story by Joe Morin Narrated by Joe Morin Foreword and Afterword by Joe Morin Edited by Joe Morin THE PROMPT A guy breaks both legs from jumping/falling into the suicide pit, and landing on the other bodies to break his fall. THE STORY Hole of the Living Dead By Joe Morin Please be advised, the following story contains graphic descriptions of suicide, the occult, gore, and cannibalism. "Please be quick," I think as I leap into the pit. The voices of reason I hear moments before my jump, which urge me to choose life, continue t heir irksome prattling as I fall to my demise-- distraught at what they witness. They ought to get over it; they'll be next, if they came all the way to the pit. Or maybe they'll be scared off. The half-assed warning signs to urge away wanderers might have done it; or could be the anguished and unprepared folks who write their notes at the last minute; or maybe the horrendous smell of uncountable corpses which waft out from the chasm. Yes, my would-be saviour might be scared off, but not me. I marched from that bus stop straight here and threw myself in with confidence! Now the breeze whips around my head as I fall, and whisks away my pesky final thoughts as I think them. Thoughts like: Is there an afterlife? Am I ever going to hit the ground? Who was speaking to me just before I fell? And why the hell are their voices getting LOUDER?! Did I hear one of them say “A day”, and another “An hour”? What does that mean? I've had more time to think than I thought I would. Time for thinking is done. Time to be paste on the ground. I land on the mound of bodies feet first. The impact ripples up my legs, to shatter and dislodge my bones from one another. The bones’ sharp edges rip through my skin and cover my legs in crimson. Not a bad start. But I’m still alive. Damn. And I’m in pain. Ouch. Yes, I’m in severe pain. This is what happens when the government neglects their suicide pits for too long: the bodies pile up, and cushion the fall. Funny that: incompetent bureaucrats found a way to mess up my life AND my death. Bastards. It starts to dawn on me that this is much worse than I imagined. Suicide seemed like a good idea when I thought it’d be quick. But now I’m going to bleed out slowly, or starve to death, or catch a disease from one of these corpses… I don’t want to die those ways. What did I do? Why did I do this? Pull yourself together, Victor! No point in fearing death now. You made your choice. And now you’re going to die here, painfully and all alone. Tough. “Dude, that sucks.” I jolt my head in the direction of this voice. But I see no living beings. “Who’s there?” A face-down body near me twitches, and turns its broken neck around a hundred and eighty degrees to face me. Well, I call it a “face” out of courtesy. It’s more like shredded flesh on a human skull. “What are the chances you’d survive this fall, huh?” “Freaky,” I reply as calmly as I can muster through my pain and unease. Talking helps take my mind off both. “Don’t worry, man. We’re in good hands. The ghosts are decent folks, on the whole. Gail is a bit grouchy, but means well.” This man must have hit his head too hard. Or maybe I did? Wait, no, he definitely did. Am I really speaking with a zombie right now? Meh. Tell me zombies were real yesterday and I would have freaked out. Today, I couldn’t care less. And that thought actually makes me sad. “What?” I ask nobody in particular, still gaining by bearings. “Gail,” repeats the zombie. “Sorta the ghost leader. Been here the longest.” “Can she finish me off? Cause I am suffering horribly right now.” “Nah. She mostly just helps the spirits come to terms with their deaths.” “Argh! Too bad. Did she help you?” “What do you mean?” I hear a voice drift into my ear, almost imperceptibly. “He doesn’t know he’s dead yet.” Is that my conscience? A ghost? The pain has me so delirious I can’t tell what's real anymore. But I figure I’ll play along. Keep my mind occupied. “Lovely,” I reply. “Well someone ought to tell him.” “Tell me what?” asks the zombie. “That you’re dead, my friend. Another corpse on the mound. But one which can speak.” The zombie turns a dangling eyestock towards its rotting flesh. “Oh. I see. Wow, man. That’s trippy.” The zombie’s body collapses back into the corpses, face first as I found it, with a soft THUD. And from the back of these remains rises an apparition of a man– handsome, tall– dressed in pristine versions of the garments which adorn the zombie. I sharply twist my neck to glance beside me, as another apparition– that of a middle-aged woman– takes form from nothing. Her figure resonates a faint glow, as now does the man’s. “Gail?” he asks, voice quivering. “Jackson,” she replies with a warm confidence. “Welcome.” “I’m dead?” “Yes.” “How long?” “Some time.” “And you never told me?” Gail’s lips drop into a frown. “Do you understand what’s happened to you?” “No.” “See, Jackson: those who survive their falls almost never realize once they’ve actually died. And they cannot join our spirit world until they’ve acknowledged the fact. Till then they control their bodies. And their own perception of the world limits their mobility.” “I think I understand… But why did you not tell me?” “That was, I’m embarrassed to say, part of a game some of the spirits like to play. They bet on how long it will take the deceased to realize their fate.” “I see,” says Jackson, his gaze downturned at his body. “My apologies. But you too will crave little amusements when you’ve been here as long as some of us.” “Excuse me!” I interject. “Yes?” replies the female ghost. “I acknowledge I’m dead too!” “But, dear boy, you aren’t dead yet.” “I worried that was the case.” Gail’s demeanor hardens as she addresses me with evident frustration: “Consider yourself thankful. You’re the only soul in this pit who still has a chance to live.” I quiet my natural inclination to a witty response and try to match her seriousness: “I’m here because I made up my mind.” “Then you’re a fool,” she retorts. “Have you no regrets about your decision?” I look towards my bleeding, broken legs, then back to Gail. “Some.” “Good. Hold onto that regret, tightly as you can. Use it to ignite whatever spark of life within you remains, and get yourself out of this pit by any means necessary.” I grimace as I reply: “You seem to mean well, Gail. But I’ve made up my mind to die here. It’ll just be slower than I’d have preferred.” Jackson chimes in: “Bud, I agree with Gail. You want to die now. So did everyone here. But do you want to be stuck in this pit forever?” Suddenly the permanence of the situation dawns on me. “Forever”, he said. My body crumbling down here, probably being buried by other poor jumpers; my spirit bound for who knows where, or for how long? But no. I made up my mind. And, whatever becomes of my spirit, it’s better than my painfully wasting away down here… or up there. I can’t very well take another jump. Still there has to be SOME way for a guy to kill himself inside this pit… Let’s see: maybe I could impale myself on one of these jagged bones which line the ground, from other destroyed bodies like mine. Then again, that sounds painful. Why is my first thought to impale myself? Let’s try asphyxiation. Yes, that’ll probably be terrifying, and require some measure of will to pull off properly. It’s doable though. I just need to crawl over to that heavier looking body there. Ow! My God, what shooting pain that causes. My fingers grip on torsos, legs, arms, heads– whatever they can find that’s sturdy enough to get me to that husk. I slide my stomach across the human remains inch by inch towards my target. Easy does it. OK. Now I’ve just got to roll up the torso a little bit. And I’ll just stick my head under like so. And set her down onto my skull. I try to hold my breath at first, to avoid the putrid stench of decaying flesh RIGHT in my nose. Then I remember that losing oxygen is kinda the point here. My lungs are empty. I’m feeling OK. Then my body craves air. Badly. I resist breathing for as long as I can. I start to writhe. I tell myself to stay strong– exercise that willpower which I knew I’d need. Then I chicken out and suck down a big snort of… nothing. My mouth and nose are crushed. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe! I throw the corpse off my head and take the best breath of air I’ve ever consumed. It’s like breathing for the first time. Sweet, precious oxygen restores me. I sit for a while and ponder my predicament. I sit for so long the sun sets and rises again. Two attempted suicides. Two failures. Third time's the charm , as they say. But how? A new spirit appears: a man in working apparel. Some kind of labourer I suppose? He points at a cluster of bodies: “Had a pocket knife in my jeans if you wanna use that. You'll have to dig a bit, but…” “Morgan!” Exclaims Gail with disgust. “The man's made up his mind. You tried. Let him finish the job. It's better than starving to death down here.” Gail turns away from Morgan, seething. She doesn't want to admit that he’s right. “Thank you.” I offer. “I’m offering you mercy. But also death. I don't deserve your thanks.” I pause while I consider Morgan's suggestion. “Is there ANYONE here who doesn't regret their decision? “No,” answers Gail, decisively. “Nobody left.” “Of course I have to ask what you mean by ‘nobody LEFT’” Gail smiles for the first time since I've seen her: “A few of the lucky souls– the ones who've unloaded their burdens are granted the privilege of

32 min
JAN 16

The Stop at the End of the Line | Head to Head Prompt 1 | Story 1

Marcus' search for his missing friend takes him to a horrific place, at the outskirts of his city: The Stop at the End of the Line. Story by Justin Church Narrated by Ryan Walker Foreword and Afterword by Joe Morin Edited by Joe Morin THE PROMPT A guy breaks both legs from jumping/falling into the suicide pit, and landing on the other bodies to break his fall. THE STORY The Stop at the End of the Line By Justin Church; Narrated by Ryan Walker Please be advised: the following story contains scenes and discussions of suicide, gore, and the occult. My mother always warned me to never miss my stop, never go to the end of the line. Everybody knew anyone who went to the end of the line never came back. Its official name is Terminal Station, but all the kids at school call it suicide drop. My Mother thinks Terminal station is home to some kind of evil or something, and it pulls people in regardless whether they want to or not. It was always in the back of my mind while I rode. We live on the outskirts of the city, the second last stop. From the rear window of our apartment I could see the fields that lined the city, headed out in rolling hills– hills that I could only imagine led to the woods where the demon residing in the chasm pulled people to their end. Local legend is that after the city by-law passed enforcing the criminalization of suicide, a girl named Beth McCormack went to the last stop just outside the city, walked down the forest trail and jumped into the chasm, and was never heard from again. There have always been people who have gone missing through one means or another, but my mother was sure that the rise of disappearances was a direct result of the by-law. See what used to happen was some depressed person would go home and off themself, be found by their family, everyone would be sad, then move on. After the by-law, your family would all face the criminal charges of your actions. Some people went to jail, and the threat was enough to make people get a little more creative. Once the story about Beth started making the rounds, people had found a loophole, and suicide drop turned into the easiest place to go. I’d never really seen a real forest, living in this city my whole life. We had the odd tree here or there in our concrete jungle, but a forest was a thing we only saw in movies. Naturally I’d been riding the subway by myself since I was 8, and the ride downtown to the school was long, and so the subway became like a second home to me. I did homework, and used to hang out with my friend Alexander, until he moved away a while back. Now my friends are a little different. I used to avoid the homeless people because they smelled funny, but eventually I got to know some of the regulars. It wasn’t hard actually, because we weren’t so different. We all called the subway home, the only difference is I had another home to go to, one with a shower. The woman I was closest with, Mrs. Gibbons, it turned out she was Alexander’s grandmother who he used to live with until she fell on hard times. That was why he moved. I didn’t believe her at first when she told me, she was always exclaiming to her audience on the train, stories about her husband saying things like “My husband was a soldier, he fought the wars for y’all, died for your sins” or “My husband was a doctor, he made the downtown hospital what it is today”. But nobody really believed her stories. But she knew details about Alexander and things checked out. I would have confirmed with him if I ever saw him, or tried to text him, but Mother would never allow it. She didn’t like Alexander because his parents were rich. He always came to school with new shoes and a flashy new smartphone. My mother didn’t even have a phone with a touchscreen, let alone me having a cell phone. But then there was Mrs. Gibbons, if she was Alexander’s grandmother, why was she on the streets? Did her family abandon her? One day heading home on the train, I saw Mrs. Gibbons, sitting with a hard look on her face. She was quieter than usual. I sat down next to her and waited to see if she would talk to me. After a long while in silence, she finally spoke in a sad tone “I have received some terrible news. My boy, Alexander, he was seen riding the train up beyond the safe stops. He went to the end of the line.” I could see through her hard exterior, it looked as though she might burst into tears at any moment. I hesitated before asking “Is he…missing?” but she never answered. She didn’t need to. I knew what happened at the end of the line, everyone did. Mrs. Gibbons and I didn’t speak for the rest of the trip. She just stared off into the blackness of the tunnel through the subway window ahead of us. My mind was swirling with the information I was just given. Alexander was gone. Even though we hadn’t spoken in over a year, he was still my closest friend. We had been friends since kindergarten and had done everything together. We had spent hours riding the subway together just talking. We could talk about anything. I snapped back to reality as the train announced my stop. Ordinarily most of the homeless would get off at the stop before mine because it was the last stop that was still underground and provided shelter from the rain. Usually that was when Mrs. Gibbons would get off, and her departure usually alerted me to the fact my stop was next. Without thinking, I ran out of the car. There was no way I was missing my stop. Then I turned to look back and saw Mrs. Gibbons was still sitting in the same spot as before, staring out the window as the light of the sunset poured in through the window, lighting all the shadows of her hard face. Before I knew it, the automatic doors had closed, and I watched as the train pulled away, with Mrs. Gibbons still staring out that window. I knew that would be the last time I would ever see Mrs. Gibbons. When I arrived at home, I didn’t tell my mother about Mrs. Gibbons or Alexander. She wouldn’t care anyways. I never spoke to her much at all these days. She worked long hours at the hospital and spent most of her free time sleeping or drinking, or sleeping then drinking. I used to sleep on the couch, but she got in the habit of passing out there for the night, leaving her bed free, which is where I spend most of my time. I laid back in bed, closed my eyes, and found myself thinking about Alexander. Why would he go to the end, what does he have to be depressed about? As far as I knew he lived in a nice home downtown, with his rich parents who loved him. He had a good life. And what about Mrs. Gibbons, was she really gone? It took a long time before I could push the two out of my mind and fall asleep. I awoke the next morning, creeped slowly past the hungover form of my mother passed out on the couch, grabbed a stale piece of bread out of the refrigerator, and silently went out the front door. As my second home rolled to a stop, I got on hoping to see Mrs. Gibbons still sitting in the same spot. Sure it would be weird if she was still there, but at least I would know she somehow got away from Terminal Station. But there was no Mrs. Gibbons. I rode all the way downtown hoping she might show up at some point, but by the time I got to the stop closest to my school, there was still no sign of her. I sat in class, barely paying attention, imagining what could have happened to her. I pictured her on the train, with the doors of the car open towards the dark wooded trail, the dark whispers on the wind calling out to her, forcing her to leave the safety of the train and away from Terminal Station. The train takes off the moment she exits and she does her odd shuffling down the forest path with that cold expression upon her face. Despite her wearing every piece of clothing she owned all at once, she shivered as the wind blew, and the trees closed in behind her as she walked. The dim moonlight barely lit the path ahead, but there was no path behind her any longer. No choice but to keep going, she made her choice when she stayed on to the last stop. Finally she approached the edge of the chasm, a deep pit so far down you couldn’t even see the bottom. Giant teeth lined the edges and tentacles of pure darkness lay strewn about like tree roots. Mrs. Gibbons leans over the pit and calls out Alexander’s name. She waits for a moment, and yet, does not even hear the reflection of her own voice, as if the being of darkness that lay within the pit swallowed it up. She tried to call out again but no sound would come out. Mrs. Gibbons’ hard face turned into a look of pure dread as she began to analyze her surroundings. The trees had gathered so thick, it was as if even pure daylight couldn’t pierce through. The trunks stood like bars of a cell, lining the area around the pit, trapping Mrs. Gibbons with the being of darkness below, and only one option of going forward. The shadowy tentacles creeped out of the pit, moving their way closer and closer to Mrs. Gibbons, yet remaining out of her sight. She stood up away from the pit, staring defiantly down, knowing what she had to do, the only way to learn the truth about her Alexander. For a brief moment she mentally prepared herself for the plunge. Before she could make her move, the shadows grasped at her ankles, dragging her down. Her fingernails scraped at the ground, leaving deep trails scratched into the earth, leading straight to the lip of the pit. For one brief moment, she clung to the very edge of the pit, the tentacles burned the flesh around her ankles where it grasped. And then In a flash she was gone, disappearing into the darkness of the chasm, never to be seen again. I awoke sharply as the classroom bell rang. My classmates rushed out the door. I tried to scoop up my papers to put them in my bag, but Mr. Barkley, my teacher, walked up to my desk. We both noticed at the same time, the dark doodle I had done in my dreams. It looked like the vi

26 min
JAN 4

Head to Head | Anthology Series Trailer

Joe explains what Head to Head is all about, if you're curious.

2 min

12 Episodes

An experimental anthology series, where writers Justin Church, Joe Morin, and guests challenge themselves to better their storytelling. The participants use a shared writing prompt, then get one month to write short stories based upon that prompt. Finally, the writers and narrators self-analyze their work, constructively criticize their peers' stories and narration presentation, and figure out how they can all do better on the next one.

Channel

Thought Plane Media
Creator

Thought Plane Media
Years Active

2K
Episodes

12
Rating

Explicit
Copyright

© Thought Plane Media 2025
Show Website

Head to Head

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