This was a hell of a week, fair Survivors. We tackled some very obvious fears and few that were way out there. Both DK and I wanted to medal nearly everything, as it seems you people have some talent when it comes to writing about neuroses. Why would that be???

We also had the two lower-scoring teams in a pretty close battle. Get excited, bitches.

Will Young, Teo

I don’t really want to be here. That’s not right. I don’t want to be here at all. There’s no reason to equivocate. I’m here because I was told I had to be.

Dr. Meyer seems pleasant. It looks like she has an infant son. She also seems slightly obsessed with Peanuts. I’m not sure why anyone would need multiple framed posters of Charlie Brown. She went to the St. Olaf for undergrad and the U for med school. Her residency was in Denver. I wonder why she went there. Maybe she was from Colorado initially. It’s weird that she left Minnesota and came back.

She’s diagramming something for Deborah. What is it? Oh, it’s the spine.

Her Gmail is open on her monitor. That’s weird. I’m surprised she didn’t minimize that before she brought us in. Oh well, sometimes I forget to hide mine at work, too.

“I’m a little concerned that there hasn’t been more progress.”

A little concerned? Deborah looks nervous. I’ll smile at her.

“I want to do some testing.”

That’s not good. Deborah seems content. Someone is trying to chat with Dr. Meyer.

“We’ll schedule a procedure next week.”

I’ll have to take time off from work. Dr. Meyer’s son looks more like his dad than her. I wonder where they were camping when that picture was taken.

“You’ll get in a fetal position –”

It’s a little hot in this office. I’m glad I’m wearing shorts.

“We’ll prepare your back and use a local anesthetic –”

I’m really thirsty. They should have air conditioning here.

“The spinal needle will be –”

I need to stand up. Should I tell them? Should I just stand? I’ll just wait for a good moment. I don’t want to interrupt. This is really important to Deborah.

“– injected into your spine and –”

I should really tell –

“Owen? Owen? Are you ok? Owen?”

Where am I?

“Owen?”

“Where am I? Where are we?”

“Are you ok?”

Where am I? I need something to drink. I can’t see anything. It’s hot. Where am I?

“Are you ok? I saw your eyes roll up into your head.”

They did. Why? What happened? I need a shower. I’m all wet. Where am I?

“Dr. Meyer went to get some help. Are you ok?”

“I’m thirsty. My eyes?”

“They went straight up towards your brain. Are you ok?”

“I guess so. I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I’m really embarrassed. I’m sorry.”

My arms are drenched. My legs are, too. The back of my knees are sticking together. This is gross.

There’s Dr. Meyer.

“It’s ok, happens all the time. We have a room where you can lie down. Do you need anything?”

I’m ridiculous. How is Deborah supposed to be able to have courage and strength if I can’t even sit there and provide support? They probably think I’m nuts. I’m still thirsty.

“I’ll take some water if you have any.”

That was weird. I should have said something earlier. I think I’ll go lie down. I don’t want to be here at all.

K: That’s a hell of a phobia. The author does an excellent job of putting us in this character’s head with rapid-fire delivery of short sentences, and thoughts all over as the doc is saying rather important things. A fun, tense read. GOLD

DK: Not many of these took on the tactic of presenting the fear building in the first-person like this, and I think this one does do pretty well. That thought process makes the buildup more effective.

Matt Novak, Lycans

The sound of Alec’s heavy wooden heels echoed through the empty Panelák canyons. He fought to keep a metronomic pace, steady, using the deliberation of stride to stem the paranoia creeping in from the edges of a street that felt too narrow. His eyes wandered upward, to faces that peered from lit windows above. Alec catalogued these faces and turned his eyes back towards the cobblestone road stretched in front of him. It struck him that the romantic old streets remained while everything else – the blocks of apartments, the wires crossing overhead – rose ugly and new. The cobblestone was functional and so it remained, a tribute to the old world hidden beneath a veneer of utility. A door closed somewhere behind him, and he quickened his pace.

The entire mission had seemed off from the start. Someone already on the other side could have made the drop, but the Agency decided Alec would assume cover. He’d been in the field before, as a courier or lamplighter, had excelled at the roles even, but mostly he sat in the embassy and pushed papers. He took walks. He got out. That was how he’d liked it. The story was weak, coming from Potsdam for an educator’s conference. Even his name – Werner – felt off. He’d made the drop the first day, then received word the tunnel had been closed. These things happened. He sat tight. The conference had ended that morning, and still no word. He could justify an afternoon of sightseeing, but staying longer would raise suspicion, and Alec began to feel trapped. Finally, late that afternoon, he’d gotten the sign: a chalk mark across the front of a green park bench. He was to proceed to the alternate pass. The tunnel must have still been closed.

The crescent moon sat high in the autumn sky as Alec reached the small park by the river. No one else was around. He would wait. An hour passed. Alec began to grow worried, afraid he’d been made. He thought about being taken away in cuffs, the tiny cells of a Russian prison. A bullet would be a welcome end. Another hour passed. Not a soul passed by. Though it was the dead of night, Alec wondered if that was a good sign or bad. Finally, a car roared through the night, pulling to a stop in front of Alec. The driver stepped from the car.

“Come, bitte.”
“Was ist los?”
“Ja, ja, Werner. Was ist los? My auto ist gebrochen.”
“Sieht gut aus mich.”
“Es is gut für Sie. Now hurry.”
Alec reached for the door.
“No. Here.”
The driver opened the hood of the car. The engine had been shifted back, leaving just enough room for a body to contort into place underneath the hood.
Alec stammered, “I can’t.”
“This is your exit. You do not have papers.”
Alec started, then paused.
“We do not have much time.”
His pulse raced as he pictured himself trapped beneath the hood. His training would not help him here.
“Werner?” the driver puzzled, “Where are you going?”
Perhaps he could find another way.

K: I wondered where that was going. This has the feel of one of those stories where an idea was formed before the prompt was named, as it feels sort of tacked on; however, with room to grow this idea, a man in Werner’s position being terrified of vehicles would make for a pretty good story.

DK: I almost always like characters talking in semi-German, although I feel like the way this is paced is a little unbalanced. The ending comes and goes almost too quickly after all the expositional groundwork laid.

Melissa Diamond, Teo

The lighthouse was silhouetted against the hazy night sky. It had been out of service for years, so it projected no light onto the still lake below. Not even the moon lit the shores.
The Rookie shivered in the autumn chill. The Minnesota Paranormal Investigation Team (MPIT) milled around him, doing final checks on their equipment. Team Lead, Amanda, tested an EMF meter. Jake, second in command, had already set up cameras inside the lighthouse. Rita had tested the audio equipment in the van. The speakers crackled in the earbuds each of them wore.
“You ready, Rookie?” Amanda asked.
He nodded. The others took deep breaths and shook out their limbs as if readying for a race. He said, “Does this job ever freak you guys out?”
Rita huffed. “Not the paranormal stuff. We’ve seen it all. Poltergeists, spectors–”
“Demons,” Amanda added. “We’ve faced almost every fear we have.”
“Almost,” Jake said.
Amanda’s expression flattened. Except for her eyes. They burned with a fearsome intensity. “There are some things,” she said, “that must always be feared.”
The Rookie frowned. “Like what?”
She glared at him, and Jake ended the conversation with a commanding, “Let’s go.”
Rita headed to the van. The Rookie followed Jake and Amanda into the lighthouse. Halfway up, Jake paused to get EVPs. The other two continued until they reached the closed door to the lantern room.
Amanda shot him a significant look. “This is where the majority of paranormal activity is said to happen. Think you can handle it?”
The Rookie squared his shoulders. “Absolutely.”
“Give me a few seconds to feel it out, then follow me in.”
Amanda opened the door and stepped into the shadowy room. The Rookie counted the seconds to keep from rushing in. One…two…three…
Screams pierced his head.
He ripped his earpiece out, shouting as Amanda streaked past him, screaming as she scrambled down the stairs. His instinct was not to run but to face whatever had done this to her, to take down the threat. He raced into the lantern room.
And found nothing.
The Rookie’s flashlight fell on dusty chairs, cobwebbed windows, the dormant lightbulb at the center of the room. He grabbed his earbud and stuck it back in his ear. “I don’t see anything,” he said into the microphone. “What just happened?”
“Amanda’s worst nightmare,” Jake whispered. “We didn’t warn her. She made me face black cats last year. She made Ruth face albino spiders back at Dartmouth Caves. It was Amanda’s turn.”
“What’s her worst nightmare?”
“Giant things.”
In the perturbed silence, his heartbeat slowed. “‘Giant’ things?”
“You know, things that are not…normal-sized. Like Paul Bunyan. Or those huge chairs all over the Cities.”
“Really?”
“Don’t question it, man. We did. She nearly ate us for breakfast. You’re lucky she’s crying into the lake and not listening in.”
“But there’s nothing giant and–”
The light bulb.
The Rookie laughed. The team leader of MPIT, dominator of demons, had run screaming…from a lightbulb.
“You alright?” Jake asked.
“I’ll remove the lightbulb so we can finish the investigation.”
“Forget it. The place isn’t haunted. We just came for the light bulb.”
“Damn. Remind me to never share my fears.”
“Too late. We already know them.”

K: This is a strange little tale. I like the idea of a team of paranormal investigators facing their own fears, but this isn’t comedic enough to be straight comedy or horrifying or dramatic enough to be those things. Some more commitment to any side of things would make this pretty great.

DK: I like the usage of the concept to play up the horror-type tension, and then the way this story subverts that. I think that gives the ending a little more multi-layered punch. BRONZE

Margaret Martin, Lycans

Kingston opened the file. Bonnie had requested him specifically when Claudia quit her practice.

“Bonnie. Female. Caucasian. 42. Brought in by husband. Shredded, scabbing skin, heightened sensation, tics, extreme anxiety, tactile defensiveness. Believes that millions of insects are crawling on and just under her skin. Irrational itching and fear that her home, husband and others are infested.

Tried to ‘scrape’ her husband’s arms with a putty knife.”

“Diagnosis: Acarophobia.”

The notes were clinical at first, but grew agitated as Claudia began her own descent. Kingston could hear the horror in her words.

“Session 3: B taking Paxil; anxiety persists. B set fire to her bedding and pillows. Husband filed for divorce. B unable to function normally.”

“Session 9: B experiencing anxiety, rapid heartbeat, breathlessness, tunnel vision. Scratching intensified. Fingernails dragging bugs from skin, dragging skin from body. Bugs can’t be killed.”

“Session 11: Discussion today about the word ‘irrational’ in the definition of Acarophobia. B thinks her fear is rational since there are, in fact, trillions of bugs — bacteria and microflora — on everyone’s skin. There are, in fact, mites and larvae in everyone’s house. Pincers tearing flaking skin, microscopic setae burrowing into subcutaneous flesh.”

“Session 16: B is right. Bugs! Seeking food in my ears, reproducing on my sheets, crawling along my eyelashes!”

Claudia had been admitted just days after the last entry; Kingston had found her pouring scalding water over her forearm. A lump rose in his throat; he should go visit her.

Kingston closed the file and went to meet Bonnie.

Dressed in white and smelling of bleach, she positioned herself in a place where she wasn’t touching anything. She scraped her foot across her ankle. She scratched and plucked at her eyebrow. She shivered, trying to reach an itch in the middle of her back.

“Bonnie, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Kingston.”

Bonnie reached up to pick at a scabby place where her neck met her shoulder. As Kingston watched, his skin bristled in that same spot. He twisted his neck to rub it away.

“I’ve seen your file, but I’d like to hear what you have to say.”

“A million years of co-evolution. Some people can’t feel them. But I can. Beetles and bacteria and mites pick and bite and skitter. You wipe away a tickle – a loose hair on your cheek? Your scalp prickles. With the tip of your pinky nail, you pick off a bug with dandruff in its mouth. Now it’s under your fingernail. Now it’s racing up your arm.”

Bonnie’s arm twitched; she scrubbed at it with a raw knuckle.

Kingston felt a prick at his hairline. He scratched. Grains under his fingernails.

There was something crawling down his back and into the waistband of his pants. He scoured his lower back against the chair.

His mind squirmed, remembering Camp SunRock. The bugs had been so bad! He and Claudia were scratching for weeks! They had poured every bug they could catch into the tent of that dopey girl, Barbara or something, and she had run out of there naked and screaming. As he scratched at his cheek, he remembered her tears and their laughter.

Bonnie looked on as Kingston re-lived the memory she re-lived every day.

2 down, 5 to go.

K: I appreciate what you were doing here, plot-wise, though the order of things could have been stronger. The story completely explains itself in the first bit, so the sessions don’t have the pop that they could otherwise have. The ending then explains itself too much, too, as we all (I would hope) figure it out when you say “Barbara or something,” so the next paragraph about reliving it isn’t necessary. I do like the writing…I’d just reorganize this a little.

DK: I really like this one as a revenge-oriented tale, and how long it waits to parse out that revenge nature. I could see a few different explanations it could go down which made the ultimate reveals more effective. SILVER

Brian David, Lycans

She was perfect. She had dark hair, dark eyes and a dark dress. She squinted in just the right way when she thought she was being clever. She was usually right.
“I’ll take another one,” she said, holding up her wine glass as the waitress passed. It would be her third.
“Me, too”, said Chris, pointing at his empty pint.
She set the glass down on the table and smiled at Chris. For a brief moment they said nothing, and then she leaned forward.
“Okay, so I’m in the police car, hands cuffed. I’m not even sure why I’ve been arrested, but it’s Chicago – it’s not like they need a reason.”
“I’m sitting there, and I feel something hit my face. . .” She slaps the palm of her hand against her head. “. . .and I think, ‘What the fuck is that?’”
“I reach up, and grab the biggest cockroach I have ever seen in my life.”
Chris felt his back tense up. The waiter had finished refilling the wine glass. She took a quick sip.
“Now, something you need to know about me is that I hate – and I mean hate – cockroaches.”
A cold sweat broke out on Chris’s forehead. He started to fidget nervously with his beer.
“The things just make me want to die.”
Chris stood up.
“Can you excuse me for a moment?”
* * *
“And that was it?”
“That was mostly it, yes. I mean, we finished our dinner, but there wasn’t much talking after that. It was awkward.”
There was a moment of silence.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Chris?”
They were headed towards the liquor store, Jackson walking just slightly ahead.
“I don’t know,” Chris said, scratching his head. “It’s hard to explain. That shit is just terrifying to me.”
Jackson turned to face Chris.
“You know what’s going to happen? One of these days you’re going to find a woman who has an underwear phobia. And you’re going to react the absolute wrong way.”
Chris rolled his eyes.
“Maybe I’ll find somebody that has a phobia of talking about phobias,” he said. “We’ll be perfect for eachother.”
Jackson put his hands on Chris’s shoulders and stared at him somberly.
“Seriously. You’ve got to figure this out or else you are going to end up marrying the most boring person on the planet.”
Jackson lifted his hands.
“Everyone’s afraid of something,” he continued, taking a step back. “At least, everyone that –”
Jackson slipped on a rock and tumbled to the ground, landing heavily against a metal trash can.
“Aw, goddamnit!”
There was a quick flash of movement and the sound of tiny, sharp nails on pavement. Jackson leapt to his feet, squealing.
“Shit shit shit! Rats! Stupid goddamn fucking rats!”
Chris felt a shudder run down his spine. Seeing the color draining from his face, Jackson pointed a stern finger at his friend.
“Oh — oh man, don’t give me that look!”
Chris slowly started moving away.
“Chris… Don’t give me that look, man. Chris!”
K: I really like the casual, realistic tone of the dialogue most of the way through this, and the subtle suggestion that drinking is the way they deal with it. The “rats” ending is a bit tacked on. I don’t know what the best ending for this story is, but I really like it otherwise. I also have nothing against the bit about the underwear phobia.

DK: Pretty funny stuff. Especially the idea of a woman with an underwear phobia. Uh, excuse me a moment, I have to go…take care of something.

Shawn Ashley, Brimley

His breathing harried, he pressed his eyes to the floorboards, trying to get a better look. Frantically, he searched but he couldn’t see anything more than the dirt that had accumulated throughout the weeks.
He knew they were there. He could hear them while he slept. They kept him awake all night long.
In frustration, he grabbed a mop from the kitchen. He scrubbed the entire apartment with bleach, top to bottom, before he stopped and pressed his face back to the floorboards for another look.
Nothing.
He sat back.
Carlo Le Questa was quiet. Lived alone in this sixth-floor walk-up for ten years, never had any problems. Sometimes loud neighbors moved into the building but the ornery, elderly woman- her name was Joy, ironically- in 2B usually ran them out within months.
A few months ago, the scratching started. At first, he awoke in a panic, thinking someone was at the door.
No one was.
From then on, it never stopped. He heard them all night, all day…
Roaches.
He hated roaches.
Nothing terrified him more than roaches and the world’s inability to rid itself of them. He believed them to be the beginning of the end.
Knock, knock.
He looked at the door in terror. Slowly, he crept towards it and looked through the peephole.
His brother.
Quickly, he opened the door. “Come,” he grabbed his arm and pulled him in.
“Carlo,” Miguel said. “What is going on? I haven’t heard from you in days.”
“Listen.” Carlo put his hand up, requesting silence.
They stood for a moment.
“I don’t hear anything…”Miguel whispered.
“They are here. Thousands are here.”
Miguel looked around slowly, then back at the crazed Carlo. “No one is here but us.”
Carlo dropped to his knees, pressed an ear to the floor. “Thousands,” he whispered. “I can hear them.” At that, he got a hammer and went to work pulling up the floorboards.
“Whoa, Carlo…wait a second…” Miguel protested.
Underneath the first board was nothing.
Carlo sat, stunned. “I was for sure they were here…”
“Carlo, you need rest-“
“I CAN’T SLEEP!! THEY KEEP ME AWAKE! All night, walking, scurrying…” Carlo looked around dazed.
“Go to bed, Carlo. I’ll come check on you tomorrow.” With that, Miguel left.

The next day, Miguel let himself in the apartment and to his horror, the entire living room and kitchen floor had been ripped up. The place was in shambles.
“Carlo?” He called and gingerly picked his way through the apartment.
He found Carlo in the bathroom. Hanging by his neck from the pipe on the ceiling with a note pinned to his torso that read, “I COULDN’T FIND THEM”.

After the police and ambulance left, Miguel stood in the middle of the disastrous apartment. No one had found the roaches, after hours of searching.
He went into Carlo’s room, deep in grief. He sat on the bed, tears streaming down his face, wondering how he didn’t notice that Carlo had become so mentally ill.
That’s when he heard it. The scurrying.
Crazily, he moved the bed and started to rip up the wooden boards. He pulled one from the corner and that’s when hundreds- maybe thousands- of roaches started to pour into the room.
Before he knew it, they covered the floor.

K: It’s all roaches, bleach and paranoia this week, eh? This story is mostly just fine until the ending, which is paid off in the sort of double-twist I always fall for. A strong ending doesn’t always save a story that runs in place for so long, but I was fairly engaged, so this one gets a pass. BRONZE

DK: I do like the way this concept uses the possibility of Carlo’s fear being real or not to the full extent. Like before, stretching out that reveal keeps the story’s tension high until we learn the truth.

Sarah Bizek, Lycans

When I started college, I met a boy. Jack. We became friends over shared teen-angsty poetry and late nights in a competitive environment. I wanted him to kiss me. He didn’t.

But he did come to my dorm room. And often. I didn’t know what a big deal that was at the time, because I didn’t know how terrified he was of fish. And I had three. In bowls. And he could probably even smell them.

It’s called “ichthyophobia,” the fear of fish. But he came to my dorm room and laid on my bed and read from his journal. Four feet away from these three small creatures that instilled the greatest anxiety in him. He felt like he might die, and still he came to my dorm room.

Later, when he told me about his fear, and this was after my fish had all died, I wanted to laugh. What a foolish thing to be afraid of. And how afraid could he actually have been, right, if he came to my room so often? There was no reason for it, no trauma or tragedy that led to the development of this fear.

Two years later, I let a mutual friend talk me in to throwing a wrapped fish head at Jack when we were grocery shopping. He freaked out. He retreated, ran, screaming as he went. I laughed. Because it seemed silly to me; because our mutual friend was laughing.

He was silent for a long time. I was afraid to approach him. When he recovered, I apologized.

Profusely. And I didn’t deserve his forgiveness. He gave it anyway, my friend Jack who is afraid of fish; who came to my dorm room because he liked me that much; who forgave me for perpetrating one of the most traumatic events of his life. He forgave me because he liked me that much.

K: Sometimes, I’m just in the mood for an easygoing tale of days past. Not always. Today, I sort of am. Putting the phobia in a secondary role is an interesting choice, as I know that outsiders from a phobia really can’t “get” them sometimes, no matter how the one with the phobia tries to explain. I also have this particular phobia, as many of the people around here just learned, so there’s that, too. My one real issue is that “because he liked me that much” is used twice in the last paragraph. It could be an intentional repeat but it feels like too much in a short space. SILVER

DK: Simple, but it got to me a little. Certainly, one of a few here that sounds like it could be a real story. Either way, I found Jack and the narrator’s relationship interesting for the time it lasted. BRONZE

Erik S, Brimley

At least the guys down the street at Sexworld get to see actual women now and then. Here at Shinder’s, behind the tall, white saloon doors, we just get greasy haired perverts.

On cue, Creepy Carl walks in (we don’t know his real name). I’ve rung him up a hundred times, and have engaged with him on zero levels. Probably don’t have much in common.

Carl stomps the winter off his boots and takes off his frayed and faded winter cap. I don’t recall seeing him walk directly towards something, he just ambles around and slowly crab walks towards the back corner. Hopefully he doesn’t think he’s being subtle, because I can pretty much give play-by-play by now.

“Carl appears to be favoring the right side of the store today; more direct with a higher degree of difficulty, but Carl’s in the zone tonight. Hands clutched tightly towards his chest, eyes darting back and forth, and all this with his trademark mumbling throughout. Oh no, Carl’s inadvertently made contact with a fellow patron! He recoils in horror, but quickly gathers himself. He waddles past, eyeing his opponent indignantly. And he’s made his escape into the dirty playing cards section. Nice recovery!”

(I once took a deck home as a joke; a choice set simply called “Gapers”. We couldn’t make it past 3 hands before putting the cards away in disgust. Even Keith couldn’t do it, and that fucker’s depraved…)

Carl’s finally made it to the back where we keep the old sex pulps. Though the cover art and names are usually something benign (sunlight striking a lace doily, titled Expressions for example), I assure you they’re quite filthy.

His Shinder’s shuffle eventually gets him to the counter. The paperback’s yellowed wrapper pinched between Carl’s fat fingers and held at a distance, as though it was something distasteful.

Maybe it’s boredom, annoyance, or a little of both, but my tolerance for weirdoes is low tonight.

Carl drops the paperback (Indiscretion) on the counter, produces a crisp $20 bill from his stained overcoat, and lays it down parallel with the book. Always a crisp twenty. Where does he get them!?

I place the book in our nondescript black plastic bag, and fetch his change.

“Here’s your change, sir,” I say, holding it in my outstretched hand. Uncertainness, and then his eyes squint in anger. I smile more broadly.

*tap*

He taps the counter. I feign confusion, and hold out my hand further.

*tap*
*tap*
*tap*

“I’m sorry, sir? Here’s your change.”

Thunderclouds of rage have developed in his eyes. The tapping increases in pressure and frequency. I have a wide, toothy grin.

Keith peeks out of the back to see what the commotion is. He sees the situation and immediately knows what’s going on. I slip a wink that says, “oh yes, this is happening,” as our woodpecker grows more apprehensive.

When I turn back to Carl, I see the rage has dissipated and only frightened, childlike eyes pleading for mercy remain. I immediately feel like an asshole.

I place the change on the counter next to the bag, and Carl snatches both with a reproachful gaze and storms directly out the door.

Keith raises an eyebrow, and I shrug in response.

Then, we both go about our business.

Five hours left…

K: True story? It feels like one. That’s two in a row where the story is told from an observer’s perspective, though in this case, the observer has no emotional attachment to the subject, and is an asshole to him. Somehow, possibly because we spend so much with his idle thoughts, the shitty lead character comes off with a lot of charm. Fun little story. GOLD

DK: I’m not sure what it is, but something about the descriptions of the skewed banality of this workplace and/or the details of Carl and their interactions with him really tickled me. And where does he get those crisp 20s? (Actually, I have a theory or two about that….) GOLD

Colin Woolston, Lycans

“Needles.”
“Seriously?” I felt disappointed. Chris is the writer of the family. His wife, even, is published. He writes professionally, and when I asked for his help I imagined strains of brilliance dancing from his mouth to my ears to “In the Hall of the Mountain King.” I imagined my fingers flying across the keyboard, and a fever of creativity capturing my very soul.
“It’s the only phobia that can make someone faint. You can be afraid of spiders or heights or whatever, but needles is the only one that makes people faint.”
“Huh.” A moment of reflection helped erase the disappointment from my face. Thankfully, as I hadn’t seen Chris is something like a year. Maybe more. I don’t remember things like that anymore.
“Well, what are you afraid of?” His voice always anchored me in my childhood, instantly. Every time I see him, which had been a handful of times in the last ten years, I feel a rush of happiness. Here is a man I looked up to as a child, and a young adult. Someone I care for. Still, the moment he speaks I am 9 again, and shy, and tongue tied.
“There’s a lot of things that I can think of. That’s the problem with trying to, uh. I mean, I spend hours, hours, trying to just get a concept, or anything specific enough to…” I trailed off, realizing with a sickly feeling in my stomach, how stupid I sounded. The room spun, briefly.
“I don’t know. The game sounds pretty cool. ” He meant it, it was clear, but I still reacted as though he were mocking me. I felt a light sheen of sweat form on my forehead. “I don’t think the meta story about being afraid to non-sub has enough substance though.”
I had told him two minutes prior, for the first time, about the challenge, and only skimmed the details of the game, and he already had a better understanding of the game than I did.
“Thanks, Chris.” My voice cracked. I am thirty-seven years old and my voice cracked.
Chris turned to get a few instructions for the cabin from Grandpa Bill before leaving. I turned back to my laptop. I remember, distantly, that in the midst of my writing, my parents came in, having just arrived. My children laughed, and hugged, and fell, and cried and squealed. My cousin left. My wife rubbed my shoulders. My father even looked concerned when he tried to get my attention.
I couldn’t look up, though. I was paralyzed. Chris’ instant understanding of the game, juxtaposed with my idea for writing a meta piece about having a phobia of non-subbing, cut me to the core. There is nothing I fear more than looking stupid in front of people I respect.
Still, I can’t tear my eyes away from the screen. The room is silent, only my ancient grandparents are here, sitting quietly and staring at me. I wonder for a moment what they could possibly be thinking about, having spent 94 years apiece on this planet. Probably wondering why I’m not helping my wife pack for our trip up to the mountain.
Still I just sit, staring down, hoping that eventually they too will wander away, tired of my existence.

K: Not to shock people out of their ballsacks, but I liked this meta entry a great deal. It’s laid-back, real (literally, I assume) and has an interesting and complex relationship. What really makes it fly for me, though, is “There is nothing I fear more than looking stupid in front of people I respect.” If this had tried to work as a story about fear of non-subbing, it wouldn’t have. This twist fear, though, was easily the best phobia of the lot so far. SILVER

DK: Kelly will probably “meh” this, but you guys probably know I’m more willing to accept meta concepts if they grab me, and these descriptions of the creeping panic realizations certainly grabbed me. BRONZE

Bret Highum, Teo

The office is very professional, a richly appointed room that smells of leather and soothing candles. I hate it immediately.
Dr. Bradley reminds me strongly of pictures of Dr. Freud I’ve seen. Well, I guess I think he looks like what a young Freud would look like. Average height, thin but with a protruding ribcage, he wears the same round glasses with heavy black frames. I can tell that his glasses are fake, ‘cause when the light reflects off them it’s obvious there’s no curvature to correct poor eyesight. I hate him more than I hate the office.
“So, you are here today about a phobia– oh, Doctor Mitchell referred you? ” Well, at least there was no trace of a Austrian accent. That would have been too much.
“Did Mitchell give you any details of what I do here? I have a… well, let’s call it a process.” I could hear the air quotes around the last word.
“No, Doctor, he didn’t. He just said that you were THE expert in the field.” I could do emphasis, too. Smug asshole.
He either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “What I do,” he over-pronounced, “is to insert a proxy anxiety for the current phobia. So, say someone is scared of crowds. I manipulate their brain chemistry and, with a non-invasive surgical procedure, change that fear to something they can more easily avoid, like a fear of manatees. This allows-“
“Sea cows?” I interrupt, incredulous. “You’ve made someone deathly scared of manatees?”
“No, no,” he waved his hands irritably. “That was just an example. I’ve had patients who were scared of any number of things. Usually the new fear is of something that has some edge to it. Something visual, where you can glance around and reassure yourself that there’s no reason to be frightened. There is still a therapy component as you deal with your new phobia, but it’s generally much easier to live a normal life. Now, what is your personal fear?”
“Oh, no, Doctor, you misunderstand,” I tell him as I study his wall. “I don’t have a phobia. It’s my brother. He had melissophobia.”
“Really?” I glance at his face, and notice the light reflects off his flat glasses as he watches a pigeon tiptoe on the ledge outside his window. “A fear of bears? That’s a common one that I use as a substitute. But you said, “had”. Why is that?”
“Because my brother died last year. In Afghanistan. Crawling through a tunnel when an IED went off.” I watch Bradley closely, but he still hasn’t looked at me. “He came to you two years ago.”
Bradley looks up sharply, and my gaze pins him in his seat. “You replaced his claustrophobia with a fucking fear of bears. Otherwise, he’d never been in that hole.”
I don’t have much difficulty overpowering the good doctor, gagging him and binding him to his chair. He fought like a 19thcentury psychoanalyst. I start pulling items from my bag- a jar with a dozen brown recluse spiders, a case with a snake, a box with a couple hungry rats, a few other things.
“We’re going to work on your therapy today, Doc. And if these don’t work, I’ll throw you out the window. Five stories is high enough. “

K: I guess I’m supposed to feel empathy with the patient here, but he’s such a total bitch that I don’t. Also, though I buy his misguided hostility, it’s all heightened to a pretty unlikely degree. Blaming the doctor for getting him over a crippling fear that allowed him to fight for his country? It’s just too much.

DK: I admit as a revenge-oriented story I liked this one a little less. I thought at first maybe it showed its cards too quick, but on second thought I’m not sure that’s true. I don’t think the characters stood out as much in either case.

Sarah Wreisner, Brimley

He clenched his hands, fingernails digging into his palms, and walked under a cheerful dinging bell. The bright squawks and metallic clangs of caged animals greeted him as the counselor led him through the doorway. The room smelled of bulk seed and pressed pellets.

He braced himself against a wall of feathered cat toys and rhinestoned collars. A parrot yelled in broken English. The man startled, afraid of the muted intelligence in the bird’s inkspot eyes. “I can’t do this.” He hadn’t been in a pet store in 27 years. His thighs cramped in waves of fear; nausea overwhelmed his body and he backed up.

The counselor smiled sympathetically and steadied him against her arm. “You can. You’ve come so far by taking this step.” She patted his trembling shoulder.

The counselor smelled like warm cloves and hand soap – she was safe and intelligent. Her oversized sweater brushed his arm and she pulled him forward: he stepped before a twinkling stack of goldfish and guppy tanks. She pointed, taking his hand gently. “See how beautiful they are?” He saw.

He felt dizzy; small machines hummed from a wire rack. Flexible, vibrating tubes looped and curled into lidded containers. Colored fins and woolly clumps of weeds swayed like tissue in the controlled currents. A whiskered mouth sucked at a pane of glass. Porcelain castles and ships protected shy faces from human guests. He felt a pang of sadness and shame: he’d once had a fishbowl, long before he’d developed the phobia.

He remembered his mother and her lovebirds. He would be brave: he would do this for his mother.

“I like the bubbles – the darkness. Can we just stand here a minute?” The counselor nodded gently. She had been hosting interventions for years; she believed in confronting one’s fears.

He breathed deeply, counting in batches of eight, and stepped out of the aquatic room.

A parakeet lowered its head and gnawed at a chalky cuttlebone; he watched the wheels squeak stupidly in an aquarium full of mice. A fuzzy whey-colored creature crept through a green plastic tube: it looked like a futuristic moon camp for rodents. The counselor spoke words of encouragement as he watched the dusty thumping of a chinchilla.

“I might get a fish. Or lovebirds. Someday, I mean.” He laughed nervously as shuffled to the far end of the store. They stepped through the back door; he clung to her elbow and counted in the controlled breaths he’d been practicing for weeks.

He turned his face from the animals. They stepped through the exit into the soft, crisp safety of the October air.

K: I like the writing here and everything (and once again, you’re exploiting a fear of mine…good job, I guess), though it doesn’t have much in the way of story or payoff. It’s a slice of life that works alright as one, but it’s just a patient confronting a fear. Many of the stories had that, and most had even more.

DK: There was a lot of stuff I liked this week that I couldn’t medal, and this is another one. I do really think this is a pretty good, unique concept for a fear and the images it produced are strong.

Peter Bruzek, Brimley

It was Thursday. She would be getting worried if he didn’t show pretty soon.

Thursdays were their thing. She would bring the board. If Brenda was closing the night before, Larry would bring lunch. If not, it was enough that he simply show up. Larry would tell her the finer points of the King’s Gambit, Aria would tell him how her week was going.

The first time, the sound seemed merely an oddity. The pair was partway through their second game when Larry first heard it. A low, angry cacaphony – only just within earshot. His heartrate quickened, and he stood up from the table to try to pinpoint where the noise was coming from.

“What is it?” asked Aria.
“You don’t hear it?”
“Hear what?”
“There’s a whole swarm somewhere around here.”
“The bees again?”

The fear had always been, as far as Larry knew, completely without origin. No one in his family had been stung. No childhood pets had died from swallowing one. There was as little hope of explaining it as there was in escaping it. As Larry searched the area for signs of an underground hive, Aria just sat sadly and watched. After trying and failing for a couple minutes to get Larry’s attention, she left a note explaining that she had to get back to work, and left.

Things continued to get worse. On some fundamental level, Larry knew that there was not a giant swarm of bees in the park, he had even come to grips with the fact that no one else could even hear the sound. It still became a gradual certianty that halfway into their lunch, the noise would return, and Larry would be rendered conversationally useless until it was too late for lunch to be salvaged.

Last week had been the worst. It had started out so well, Aria was able to take the afternoon off, and Larry had been able to get enough food from work for a nice lunch. The two of them ate lunch and set up the board to play.
Then he saw it.

Buzzing around the board, taunting him. The sound was back and worse than ever. He had to get rid of it. Before he was really aware of what was going on, he had taken off one of his shoes and slammed it into the board.

“Jesus, dad, it’s just a yellow jacket. You didn’t have to break the damned board.” Aria snapped.

She apologized later, but it was obvious that she had no idea how to handle Larry’s ongoing problems.

It was Thursday. She would be getting worried if he didn’t show pretty soon. He wouldn’t fail her this time. Now, if only the hornet crawling on the door would just move long enough for him to leave his apartment.

K: This is another one that doesn’t have a real complete story attached to it, though the writing is nice and the relationship is an interesting one that nobody else tackled. I appreciate it for taking on the problems that family would face in such a situation, even if the story itself was somewhat ordinary compared to some of the field. BRONZE

DK: I found this quite poignant, and I thought the way Larry’s thoughts framed the evolution of the problem really amplified that. In a week with a few more fantastical (or at least line-blurring between reality and not) ideas, I found the naturalism here pretty powerful. GOLD

Jonathon Pope, Teo

“You’re nervous, aren’t you?”

Cal was. “I don’t know if I can do this, Angelo. The elevator is going to be a problem.”

“You’ll be fine. “

Angelo was used to his partner’s problem. It was mostly a matter of distracting him from the facts.

They were heading downtown to pitch a reality show idea called “Baker’s Dozen,” and so far Cal hadn’t even caught on to the pun. They had meetings all day, and this was Cal’s time to shine. He was the best pitchman in the business. But he was a little nervous himself. Shorter buildings were fine, but taller buildings were a problem. Like Cal said, the elevator was going to be a problem.

“What floor are the new offices on?”

“14. I checked it out ahead of time. It’s fine, Cal.”

“If you say so.” Cal took a deep breath as the elevator door opened, and they walked on. As they began to move Angelo started in on his usual routine.

“Tell me how you’re going to get this deal, Cal.”

Cal started to talk, getting more animated with each word. “I’m never going to let them think. I’m gonna keep pitching until they’re too confused to say no. I’m going to give them the old razzle-dazzle until they can’t figure out which is razzle and which is dazzle. I’m going to keep them looking left when they should be looking right. I’m…”

The elevator doors opened. “OK, Cal, you’re ready. Let’s go.”

It was a typical pitch, with a bunch of network executives ready to say no to everything, and a catered lunch that was embarrassing. Cal never cared about the food, or any of the other trappings. Once he started his pitch, Cal was mesmerizing. Angelo was pretty sure that they got as many meetings as they did because just watching Cal perform was a hell of a show.

Angelo was helping himself to a couple of pastries and thinking about food when something felt wrong.

Cal’s tone seemed wrong.

“This show is called Baker’s Dozen. It follows a Nelly, a baker with a shop on Melrose, her husbank Mark, and their eleven, uh… eleven…” Cal looked a little green. His voice dropped nearly to a whisper. “Cal?

What’s a baker’s dozen, anyway?”

Angelo’s stomach dropped. “It’s a dozen, Cal. With one extra.” He needed to distract Cal, but Cal looked at one of the executives.

“What floor is below this one?”

“12. Why?”

Cal looked terrified. “I thought we were on floor 14.” He looked over at Angelo.

“We are, Cal. It’s ok.” Angelo knew the pitch was over. He grabbed a napkin to wrap up his pastry as Cal slowly collapsed into a ball.

“Anyone want to give me a hand? I just need to carry him to the elevator.” The executives just looked on. Angelo slung Cal over his shoulder and grabbed another pastry on the way out. This was a problem that he’d hoped to avoid.

Cal started to recover once they hit the sidewalk. “Sorry man. I didn’t… I was trying…”

“I know. Let’s just get to the next meeting. We’ve got some time, we’ll work on the pitch.”

“Can we change the title?” Angelo cringed. He liked the title.

“We’ll talk about it on the way.”

K: This one effectively sets the stage, and it actually pours on so many obvious mentions of the number 13 that it’s funny and effective foreshadowing rather than tedious and obvious. I wanted to see this firecracker of an ending. Sadly, the ending sort of fizzles. I really wanted the razzle and the dazzle. BRONZE

DK: I think I liked seeing a guy described as this brilliant a pitchman laid low by such a mundane thing a lot. Maybe I like it too much, but it got me to respond and that’s almost always what I’m looking for. SILVER

—————————————————————————————————–

Were you not entertained? Hell yeah, guys. Ass slaps all around. Weeks like this make me dislike the medal system more than some of you do. I had at least four devastating moments where I couldn’t medal a story I really got into, despite whatever flaws it may have had.

But, we march on. Well, a dozen (not a baker’s dozen) of us will, anyway.

WILFORD BRIMLEY’S PERSONAL DEATH SQUAD: 4.25
MANTI TEO’S DEAD GIRLFRIEND: 2.50
PERENNIAL LYCANTHROPES: 2.20

Good Lord. Are we really going to three four-person teams? I need a cigarette. Get these votes in by tomorrow night at 7pm because otherwise I’m not likely to get anything out to you for several more hours.

Sorry, Lycans. I legitimately enjoyed all five of your stories. This is where it gets tough, though I know it’s not nearly as tough as your upcoming vote , and you have my sympathy. Cheers, Survivors.