LISTEN TO THE DARK By Sherry Miller Sherice set the receiver in the cradle. She played roughly with her hands, wringing an invisible sponge. Go away, persistent ghost. Please. Stop haunting me, she wanted to scream. Hiding her face in her crossed arms on the kitchen table, she cried. Mind phantoms came only in the dark. At night. When it was the blackest. Phantasms from childhood looming over her bed. Always trying to grab her. Take her away. Probably to somewhere really scary. But right now, during the day, the monster was staring her down. At four o’clock in the afternoon. She unlocked her fingers. And replayed the phone call in her head. Such harsh words from Aunt Bess. She almost didn’t answer it an hour ago. But the brr-inng brr-inng wouldn’t give up. A deep breath had helped her cope. “Hi Bess. How was the funeral?” she mustered. “Why weren’t you there? He was your Uncle and you couldn’t even say goodbye?” “I didn’t feel well. Ooh, stomach’s still a little ah- “Can’t even talk to you, Sherice. You’ve always been stubborn, too - “- achey. Took some anti-acids, though.” “- independent. Right now, I need to, don’t know. I’m too - “I didn’t mean to let - “ - disappointed in you...” “- you down.” Sherice couldn’t get the sound of her Aunt’s hysterical sobbing out of her mind. “So disappointed.” And then...bang! Slam! On the other end. That spoke louder than her Aunt’s stinging words. Uncle Bo died last week. His funeral was today. His lights off forever. Laid in a casket. Ironic, wasn’t it? His funeral was today. But she couldn’t...just couldn’t go. Not after what he did. She was only seven years old. Sherice looked up, glared at the clock. 5:15 p.m. Slipping into evening. Too soon. Just then ...Fear, the ghost, decided to float in. Striking at her from a distance. Her keen ears always ready for this, she detected the faintest rumble. A storm. Almost here. Of course. Why not? Sherice glanced out the window. The sky lit up, showing tree shadows shaking wildly, furiously fighting off the stark whiteness around them. The blackness won. It always did. The next instant...Boom-mmmm rolled around the room, hung stubbornly to the ceiling, the walls in the kitchen, and thrummed-thrummed on Sherice’s eardrums. Like ice rubbing across her skin, she shivered, folded her arms around herself. Not now. Please. No storm. I can’t take it. Droplets formed, dripped down her nose and into her eyes, salty and stinging, her blond bangs brown and wet plastering against her forehead. Tears pooled in her eyelids. She tried to blink away the ensuing horror show. Outside, gusts, possibly forty miles per hour now...whining, squealing. She felt cold air slap at her. “Go away. Leave me alone,” she shrieked, hurrying to the window, ajar just two inches, slamming it shut. Smoky clouds roiled like water boiling in a pot out there. Going in mad circles. Churning. Faster and faster. How long would this storm last? One hour. Maybe two. No matter. She couldn’t take it. Not even for a minute. Every time one happened, she was certain she would die. LISTEN TO THE DARK - Miller 2 Maybe open the garage door. Get in the Impala. Drive away. Into the storm. Away from the storm. Whatever. Just don’t be closed in like this, Sherice thought. It was getting darker and darker. Can’t be stuck crushed by four walls when the brunt of the storm really hit. She was safer out there, wasn’t she? In open air. Where she could run. Hide. A knot formed in her chest and twisted. Self-conversing wasn’t helping. Soon it was hard to breathe. She gasped. She stared at the tiffany light over the butcher block table. All pink and blue and sage green. Grasping at a lonely cord tethered overhead. It swung ever so slightly. Its motion startled her. Did she imagine it? Lights flickered throughout the house. And the fridge made a moaning sound. As if it knew how she felt. At least there was some solace in an appliance here and there. A fridge that had a seemingly human reaction to black, white, black, white, on, off, on, off. A flash. Intense. Jagged in the sky. Like teeth about to bite. Stark. White hot. Chomping. Crack! Ahhhhh, ehhh. A scream flew out from deep within her knotted chest. Spit out her mouth. The thin membrane on her lips tingled. Aghhhhhhhh. Again. Her muscles tightened. Her eyes grew wide. Terror, yes terror inside. Eating at her. The storm...almost at her doorstep now. And...the lights flickering. On, off. On, off. Bright lines streaked like a wall breaking up, crackling, crashing to the ground. Sherice shook, began to count. One-one thousand. Two-one thousand. Three-one thousand. Thunder so loud, she covered her ears. Her lamps and Tiffany flickered again. “Don’t! Don’t go out! Electricity, stay on!” Okay, breathe. Like the Psychologist said. It’s not your fault you’re like this, Sherice. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Become one with the storm. Just hope the lights don’t go out. Because it will be dark. Real dark. It hit her. My God! What was she thinking? Fifteen flashlights positioned throughout her 1700 square foot home and none of them in her hand. The big one. That’s right. The sportsman LED lantern was in the pantry. Though light it gave off was eerie, it filled an entire room. At least 100 hours of the 200 left. She’d grab that one. More rumbling met her ears as she swung open the squeaky wooden door. It needed fixing desperately. Later. She forgot to snap on the light switch on the outside wall. Because the Tiffany did a good job blanching the small space. Only a minute. Only a minute in this stuffy place. Where was it? She scoured the shelves. There. She fixated on the grass-green base of the flashlight hiding among cereal boxes and Oatmeal. And her favorite chocolate chunk granola bars. Comfort food. Then...flash! One-one thousand. Explosive! Like a bomb hit. The wood floor vibrated under her slippers. Flick-flick. The lights. On. Off. On. Off! It felt as if the house shifted. The pantry door shuddered, swung, slammed shut. On! Off! Off! “No. No. No. Oh my God!” Sherice screamed as inky stillness swallowed her. She spun around. Faint orbs of gray undulated. Her eyes wouldn’t adjust. She thrust her arms out, feeling for the knob, anything. Pain lodged in her chest. The sound she heard couldn’t have been her own. It sounded like...like...a movie theater. Blood-curdling screams. Horror. The casket opens. The monster sits up. Jumps. Crusty fingers reaching...squeezing...around her neck. Words shouted. In the pantry? In her brain? “The boogeyman’s going to get you! Ooh-ooh, the boogeyman’s in there. He’s gonna get you!” Uncle Bo’s voice. Clear. Gruff. Giggling. She was seven years old. LISTEN TO THE DARK - Miller 3 “Let me out!” Her eyes darted about. Her arms flailed. Fighting. Punching. Someone was in here with her. Was going to kill her. Stab her. The boogey man. “Let me out!” Sherice crumpled to the floor. In the past. And now...here. In the present. Where was the lantern? It fell. On the floor. She fumbled around. Finally feeling the hard square base, she pressed the button in. Dim. Its safe light was dimming. So much for 100 hours left. But then... miraculously...the lights...On! Though she was locked in the pantry by a faulty door, light filtered in through the cracks. With all her might, she shoved at the door. It opened. Sherice touched her throat. Dozens of sharp pinpricks. She opened her mouth, forcing out “I screamed too hard. I can’t talk.” It sounded raw, scratchy. She swallowed. It was like a ball stuck in her throat. But...light. Everywhere. One-one thousand. Two-one thousand. Three-one thousand. Four-one thousand. Five-one thousand. Sherice smiled. The storm was bowling ball sounds now. Her family spent so much time at the bowling alley, it was comfortable to hear. The wind fell to a whisper. Sherice was suddenly hungry and tired. She poured a glass of Pinot Grigio, eyeing the shades of gray through the window. Night. And more darkness. She ate a piece of toast buttered with Nutella. More comfort food. She showered downstairs, soaping up, trying to wash all the terror away. She rinsed the glass, setting it upside down to dry. She slipped into her jammies draped over the rod in the downstairs shower. She walked out of the kitchen, turned, hesitated. Now...upstairs. To bed. Time for her usual ritual. Worse because it was the night of Bo’s funeral. Worse because Aunt Bess was hopping mad. Okay, here goes. Just do it. One by one. Then it won’t seem so bad. Sherice approached the bottom of the staircase. She pushed up on the toggle. The Tiffany went off. The toggle next to it slicked easily. The kitchen light. Off. Next, she ran up the stairs. Quick! In case the invisible monster was chasing her. At the top of the stairs, she flicked the next switch. The stair light? Out. She turned, dared peek into the darkness. Squinting. No one there. Right? She dashed to the space between the bathroom and bedroom. Bathroom switch. Up and...Out. She rushed to her bed, flipped on the nightlight. How she needed that. Ever since she was seven. She couldn’t sleep otherwise. One last one. The bedroom. Sherice touched the switch, waited a moment. She had to time it precisely. Give herself time to run. She pushed down. Hard. Bedroom. Out. On! The light came back on. By itself! Sherice froze. A voice. Deep. Swirling around her. A man’s. Distinct. Uncle Bo’s. “I’m sorry.” So weird. And strange. But a calm swept over her. Of course she’d keep the nightlight on. Always. “I’m sorry, too,” she whispered.


My tired eyes were burning as sweat ran down my face. I felt my heart pumping loudly in my chest. My breath was shallow and harsh. My lungs hurt with every breath I took. The air was hot, and felt hostile, poisonous. I was overcome with fear, pure unadulterated fear. It was the kind of fear you felt when you knew your life was about to change for the worst. Few people knew this kind of fear, and I envied all who didn't. My hands were shaking and they felt foreign and clumsy as I clung to my camera. The scene before me felt unreal like a bad dream I would wake from at any moment. I wasn't looking for this. I told myself this, but I knew it wasn't the truth. The crossroads of my life had brought me here out of my own choosing. Now I had a choice to make. I had to admit I wanted adventure, thrills, and excitement when I left Kenya. Nature photography paid the bills, but every photo of a lioness creeping up on unsuspecting deer seemed so much like the one I took the day before. Pictures of wildlife never made it to the frontpages. Animals never offered enough value to be displayed as big news. I wanted to feel alive. I burned to feel an element of the unknown, danger even. Sudan appealed to me. It lured me with stories of conflict and depression. There would be many pictures that could tell frightening tales there. People loved the darkness that brewed there. I allowed myself to dream of the possibilities it could offer me. High class people could place the newspaper out of sight while having their high afternoon tea, but they would snatch it up again later once their guests have left and, yes, they would be enticed by the horrific stories these pictures told, my name in bold letters printed proudly below them. Men who met each other weekly at the barbers would chat about the images I had brought into their lives. Mothers in doctors' offices would tell their children to keep their eyes low and avoid looking at the shelves where the papers were displayed. How I longed to be a household name. This would be my chance. I would do what it took to make it happen. Decided, I started reading up on how exactly to get into Sudan. Time seemed to slow down, stop in fact, as I watched the figures in front of me. Unaware of my presence, the rebel threw the man to the ground. I realized this wasn't a man sobbing in the dirt, but merely a child , sixteen years old at most. He didn't deserve his young life to be cut short this cruel way. The rebel looked at him with such a hatred and disgust in his eyes that I knew this boy wouldn't get to rise from the dirt today, not unless there was an intervention. Making a decision is a strange process. You always think you'd know what to do. You assume you'd do the right thing, don't you? We all keep our heads high believing that if ever faced with a life-or-death situation that we'd do the right thing. Let me tell you, swallow your pride, my friend, because when that moment comes, it's not so clear at all. Right and wrong become blurred lines. A fly calmly walked over my righthand. Its confidence seemed to taunt me. My tongue felt fat and dry in my mouth. My head throbbed and my muscles ached. My entire body begged for a release from this tension that these last few moments brought. I was faced with a choice: Take the shot or interrupt. It was simple. A or B. Taking the shot would mean millions of dollars and the lifestyle of the rich and famous. I would be THAT person until someone new came along. I could interrupt the assault that was taking place in front of me. I could tell the rebel to stop. What good would that do? I would be a hero for a minute. Then the rebel would shoot me and shoot the young boy anyway. I'd be a hero to the young man only until he ate a bullet. Other than that no-one would be the wiser. People wouldn't know my name. My photos would never reach the front page. The boy was crying loudly now. Begging in a language that I didn't understand. His final words fell only on the ears of someone who hated him so deeply. I refused to think of his mother. I refused to think of the sadness that would consume her when she heard of her young son's death. I refused to think of what this boy looked like when he was happy, smiling and laughing while playing with siblings and friends. Just like the deer I had seen several times being preyed upon by lionesses, this boy's time had run out. Mere seconds remained. I had never interfered with the wild in Kenya. Animals needed to be left to their wild urges. Nature had to run its course, always. It's an unwritten rule. This boy before me, however, wasn't an animal trying to escape a predator on the Serengeti. He was human, and that justified interference, but at what cost to me? I closed my eyes and said a quick prayer. A prayer to a God that I wasn't sure was here, in this forsaken place and with a small sob, I reacted. My camera felt heavy when I got back to London. It seemed to cut into my neck, weighed with guilt. My conscience had manifested itself in the object that carried the proof that it was rotten. This was my last photo, I knew that the second I took the shot. I would be famous for a while. People would know my name, but my life ended in Sudan. My life ended with that final shot.


This is my first short story I feel is good enough to share anywhere. I'm not sure if it would go into the Misc. tag, but it's the only one I think fits. If you like it comment if I should make it into a full story. I hope formatted the title right lol. ANYWAY, enjoy.  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do this to him. I'M SORRY, OK! I NEVER WANTED HIM TO DIE!" Emeilia sobbed, holding Mark’s dead body. "SORRY DOESN'T FUCKING FIX EVERYTHING!" Elaine boomed, her face turned red and tears flowed from her eyes, "HE'S FUCKING DEAD, YOU DUMB BITCH! I JUST CAN'T WITH YOU ANYMORE! I just can't," Her voice cracked saying the last sentence. She fell to the floor a limp mess. "Eleine-" "NO! FUCK YOU! HE WAS MY EVERYTHING, AND YOU JUST LET HIM FUCKING GET KILLED! I-I TRUSTED YOU! I TRUSTED YOUR DUMB ASS! YOU JUST LET HIM DIE!" Elaine punched the floor as hard as she could, "I just wanted to leave this damned place with everyone. After Kenny and Lillian died, I thought I was going to kill myself. Mark was the only thing keeping me going. It's too fucking bad his own girlfriend would let him die," She looked up at Emelia, pure rage plastered on her face. "I'm so, so, so sorry, OK! I DIDN'T KNOW IT WOULD FIND US HERE! I THOUGHT I COULD JUST LET HIM SLEEP IN HERE ALONE!" Emelia screamed at Elaine, "IT'S NOT MY FAULT HE HAD SUCH A WORTHLESS, PIECE OF SHIT GIRLFRIEND. DO YOU THINK I FUCKING WANTED THIS?" Emelia wailed, pulling Mark towards her to cry into his bloody shirt, "I know you want your big brother back, but he's dead now. He isn't fucking coming back," Her muffled voice came from his chest. "Fuck you. Fuck you and your stupid decisions," Elaine said as she stood up and started walking. "What the hell are you doing?" "Leaving." "Why the hell would you leave? The thing is still out there!" "So what? You have shown that we aren't safe here." "You didn't answer me. Why the HELL are you leaving?" "I just want my big brother back. I just want him back," Elaine started to hunch over, "I just want to meet him again. What’s the point of living without my whole world?" Emelia could hear her soft sobs begin as she started to walk towards the exit. Outside the thing croaked, knowing it would soon get a meal. "Elaine don't you fucking dare!" Emelia said under her breath as tears began to build up in her eyes, "Elaine I swear, stop joking with me." When Elaine finally reached the exit, she turned toward Emelia and smiled through the tears, "Bye-bye. I hope you enjoy the guilt of killing my big brother. I hate you so, so much," the sound of the thing’s claws sounded from outside the exit, "I still hope you find a way out. If you do leave, tell my mom and poppa I loved them," Elaine waved and stepped backward outside. As soon as her whole body reached out the exit, the thing swooped her up with no noise. "ELAINE! NO! OH GOD NO! ELAINE PLEASE!" Emelia screamed as loud as she could, dropping Mark's cold body. She ran to the exit and stuck her head outside. She tilted her head down to see a single speck of blood from Elaine. "WHY ME? WHY ME? WHY?" Emelia screeched into the cool evening air, her voice echoing through the forest, "Why?"  Edit: Someone in the comments mentioned more context sooo here we go. A group of friends went on a camping trip and on the third day some frick frack happened while on a walk and they woke up some beast. The beast does stuff to make their lives hell for a week. The friends run through the forest trying to find new places to hide. The beast then takes away Lillian and Kenny and everyone that's left runs for another couple of days and finds a cave. Emelia left Mark, who came down with a fever and was feeling like hell, to rest while she went to get some free time and Elaine was getting food. The thing came in and fucking yeeted marks soul out of his body. Emelia comes back and finds him, and soon after Emelia Elaine walks in. This is what continues.


It was the last week of December that I and 2 of my friends decided to travel to another city. We were so excited about that. I got up early that morning, packed my clothes, and was ready to go. My mum was quite anxious about me and convinced me and my friends a lot to drive safely. We all assured her not to worry about it and we three left the city at 10:00am. It was a seven-hour drive from our city. It was a quite busy day and there was a lot of traffic on the roads so we expected that we would arrive even late to our destination. We had prepared a good playlist of songs to enjoy our drive. In the middle of the journey, after like 3 hours’ drive, we decided to have a stop at a restaurant. We had our lunch and refreshed ourselves. Then after like an hour, we started our journey again. It was quite cold outside and in winter, days are very short, it gets dark outside around 5pm. We took the motorway route to arrive as soon as possible before it gets too late because in winter it gets too foggy in the evening that it becomes hard to drive because visibility is too low. The motorway road was a quite long road and the drive was so peaceful. There were hills by the side and quite low traffic, so my friend was driving a bit fast. At around 6pm we saw a yellow light coming near to our car in the middle of the road. We thought it was just another car, so we took it normally. That vehicle was coming closer to us, I told my friend to keep the car a bit on our side of the road. It was already so foggy that the visibility became low. We were just wondering that why that vehicle had just one light blinking or maybe its other front light was damaged, that a massive truck hit our car and it went out of control. Our car got hit into the rocks on the side of the road and turned upside down. Both of my friends sitting in front of the car got major injuries as they got hurt by the glass of the front screen of the car. Both got fainted. I was sitting in the back of the car and so I got minor injuries, but I was completely numb at that time. I didn’t know what to do to save the life of my friends and felt so helpless, that time was the worst time I have ever experienced in my life. I was almost having a nervous breakdown at that time. But it tried to have control over myself and called the ambulance and the police. The ambulance arrived after like 15min and I took both of my friends to the hospital. They were injured so badly and I could see the blood pouring out of there bruises. I felt so helpless and was trying to save their lives at that time. The doctors immediately shifted them to the ICU and applied a bandage to all their wounds but both were still senseless. I was just standing outside the ICU room, cursing myself as I had nothing in my hand to save their lives, and I was just considering my survival as way more than a miracle. I called my parents as well as informed the parents of my friends about the accident. They all picked up a flight to reach as soon as possible to the hospital. The doctors were trying their best to save them. I could not stop crying as I could see the lives of two of my friends at risk. Our parents arrived about 2 hours later. We were all waiting outside the ICU room waiting for the doctors to give a hope of their survival. That was the moment I felt the guilt and sadness when you have the feeling of losing your loved ones, but I was completely helpless. The doctor came out and I was just waiting for his response. He told me that one of your friends has passed away as he got a severe head injury and had a massive blood loss while the other friend had chances to survive. My friend’s parents got fainted with listening to this and I was completely numb at that time. I had just lost the life of my childhood friend and I felt like everything in the world had just ended. I couldn’t control my emotions and was almost crying loudly. After like an hour my other friend came to his senses that gave a bit hope about his survival, but the loss of my other friend had left me entirely alone. As she meant more to me than just a friend. We had a relation that sisters share, and we stood against each other through thick and thin. I knew the space her loss had created in my life could never be filled. That was the moment I truly realized how we take things for granted and how precious lives are. The loss of a loved one in your life is never easy and that loss can never be replaced by anyone. I stayed at the hospital with my other friend for like 2 more days until she was recovered, then we all came back to our city. Those were the most miserable days of my life as I didn’t like anything at all.All my energy had drained away and by losing my dearest friend I felt like I was alone on this planet now. Our trip that I was expecting to be joyful turned into a nightmare. The loss of my friend changed my life a lot. I realized how precious every little thing is in our lives, but we don’t really appreciate those things and moments. We should always be grateful for all people and all the things we have in our lives.


"I-uh- am just really happy here." What was that? The 14th lie of the week, and it's only Wednesday. I can't even talk straight to the guidance teacher. "That's good to hear, Henry." She replies, handing me a slip of paper. "As you can see here, your grades are really super, but your citizenship is quite low." I nod, knowing this is true, but not wanting to fix it. "A really good way to fix this is to participate in class more. Raising your hand, asking or answering questions. Can you do that for me?" Oh gosh. She looks like a helpless puppy dog now. Hmm...How do I say this to her? I just really can't because I somehow can't talk in front of people without sounding like an idiotic fool. "Sure, Mr.s Genning." Well, crap. I'm screwed. I freak out whenever I talk even though there is a lot of stuff happening in my mind. And by that, I mean a lot. There's a reason I have good grades. Although, I can say I am very social as well. At least, I try to be. Most people think I'm that one awkward quiet kid who wants nothing to do with people in general. The only real person who knows my personality is my English Teacher, Mr.s White. Because I can actually write out my feelings without the fact of people watching me. I mean, technically they are, but once again, they don't really care about me. I only have one friend. And she only has one friend. That's me. Her name is Saprasong. Pronounced Sap-Ra-Song. Simple, yet complicated. She came up to me one day in the hall out of the blue telling me about her mind and the adventures in it. She also told her deep and dark thoughts, some gruesome and scary, but she seemed to enjoy it. May I remind you that this was in the first seconds of meeting her. She seemed to be good enough for me, and plenty helpful with issues, not math ones though, and so we are friends. Friends by meaning we have no classes together or lunches together. So we hang after school, usually me helping her with schoolwork. She is way too busy day dreaming to focus on the real thing, and that is achieving good grades. Her typical response to me giving her my explanation on how she should work hard in school is that school is "too stressful." I find myself being annoyed with it ever since. And her obscene clothing. She always puts her dyed white hair in a two mini buns, wearing a matching skirt and shirt every single day. With different, and what she calls radical designs on them every day. I can't find why anyone would wear such headache creating colors every single day, but I'm guessing she wants to be noticed..just in some really wacky ways. Regularly in the day she tells me how she loves herself, but hates herself. A confusing mind game that I can't figure out. But girls are very weird with feelings so it makes sense. Me on the other hand is what you can call the average teenage boy, wearing the varied items of clothes such as turtle necks and button-downs. Although I am definitely not as crazy as the other boys here. An example is my hair. With most boys hair being a great comparison to a mop, my hair is more tight and slick. Something you don't see now a days. Ha. With that phrasing I'm known, and called, a forty year old man. To be honest, it's more of an insult considering I'm only 15. Saprasong likes my stuttering. Even though I know it can get annoying. My mind has great wonders and activities in it, but I just can't get it out without seeming to be ill. That's why most of the time we text on out phones complaining and talking about our absurd world we live in. Now, we don't always talk about horrible things, but we do have a strange fascination with it. I guess that's why I don't want to talk out loud in front of people. My rant will most likely end up me talking about the decomposition process. Or I'll end up stuttering again. I don't even realize when the bell rings in my fifth period. It's only when the teacher barks like a dog to get out of his class. Saprasong has somehow managed to memorize my schedule so, there she is, standing at the door when finally get up. "You look absolutely quintessential in that mighty fine coat of yours, SpaceMan. Although I must say that it is rather warm outside for a coat. Wouldn't you agree?" She comments, but rather means some constructive criticism. SpaceMan is a nickname she has been calling me ever since we met. After constantly reminding her what my real name was, she put it behind her and continuing calling me the ridiculous second option instead. "Yes, I agree. But I'm always freezing in this dang town." Saprasong is the only person I can talk to where I can hold a sentence. She something close to therapy, but not quite there. I don't think anyone could help me with my problems. "Ah, but we are known for our freezing temps, and delicious hot cocoa! Even when it really is the beginning of the school year.." She gets a lollipop out of her backpack and starts to lick it. I don't even want to comment on her obnoxious snickering as she devours the sugar pop. "I wish I could reach the stars, SpaceMan. Not actually be a someone who goes to space, but I just want to touch them. I love looking at the lights of the world, even if disaster is everywhere else. It seems the stars have more feelings then I do. And they sure are bright, and from what I've learned in my Astronomy class nothing to bad is going on up there." She mutters this slightly, more talking to herself then me. She looked up the entire time during the statement, taking deep breaths between words. She clearly misses home. Saprasong moved from Japan. I'm not really sure where, but somewhere there. She lived there her entire life, and you can tell by her fashion sense and the random Japanese she works her into her sentences. She tells me stories of times she was running in the crowded streets, not having a care in the world. How she would chase tigers and swim with dolphins. All in her mind, of course. Song hasn't gotten that much education since she moved here. With her bad grades in Japan, she really never was accepted and got home schooled after just three years in the school system. She misses the stars there, and I can tell through her drafted and wistful eyes. "Cheer up girl, my mom is bringing us pizza for lunch today." I remind her. "Ah yes, the distinct greasy flat bread of Tony's Pizza. Do you think his name is actually Tony?" She shoots off topic. "Doubt it." My honest opinion. She laughs in response, slapping her knee and winking in odd ways. "Well, well, good sir. I think we should take out leave then to lunch. And we truly should speak in this fabulous accent while pretending we are in the 1900's! People will get quite the hoot out of it!" She pretends to smoke a cigar, breathing in and out. It does almost look real with the air showing around us, due to the weather, and as she poofs the air in and out of her mouth. "I-if you say so madam!" In my eager attempt to make a long and steady speech about the 20th century, the stupid in my head catched my breath, leaving me to say a simple phrase. Oh well. "Then shall we venture to the cafeteria where many people, who we do not know if I may add, ask for the flatbread." She chuckles slightly, her voice getting deeper and deeper as she consumes and admires the accent. Which is not very good. I cut the act, offended by her English. "You do know right that the word "shall" means we will go. Your not supposed to use it when asking someone to do something. The proper way to do so is say, "We shall!" So, we shall do so." The look on her face doesn't help with anything. She's using that one "I'm mad at you but not mad at you" face. "Oh deary! I'm sorry to say but I do not understand your so called "English," and I think we should just go on out merry way!" She rushed the end, thrilled to have some "american" food. "If you say so, my dear." I grumbled, leading the way for Saprasong. Me and her ate the entire pizza. She clearly ate more than me, with the tomato sauce smeared all over her face. Plus, the four crusts that laid on her plate which I know would never be eaten. "How are you so thin?! Do you really eat like this all the time?" I ask, actually concerned. "Me and my dear mother take afternoon strolls every morning and evening." She says, still using that ridiculous British accent. "Wow, how delightful." I speak, rolling my eyes. Looking at my watch, we should be heading out very soon. "S-so, are we going to go-" But, of course, before I can even finish my sentence, Song has already started one herself. "Oh my goodness!" A bit over exaggerated there. "We absolutely need to get going before the bells start to ring!" Even more exaggerated there. I smirk though during the entire statement. I grab the grease filled box and throw it away at the nearest trash can. Which just happens to be by Cammy. In my opinion, her name should be "Clammy" cause she looks exactly like a clam. And I'm not overreacting. I think my thoughts got the better of me on this one, because it's not only when I hear the "smack!" of the bread roll smack against Saprasong's face...when I actually realize that stupid girl hit Saprasong in the face with a bread roll . Silent giggles emerge from her, and her friends who appeared out of nowhere. I watch as Saprasong picks up the bread roll, and continues to throw it back at Cammy. Expect Song wanted to add the detail of dipping the roll into ranch from Tony's. With blood running through my veins and a large amount of sweat running down my forehead, I lose control. By that I follow Saprasong's lead and throw a random item of food I pull out of the trash can by me. Me and Saprasong are laughing as loud as hyenas, looking at Cammy's face covered in the strange goo from the cafeteria's garbage pit. What me and her didn't realize though, was that the principal was literally right there. Standing by the trashcans. Monitoring. "Miss Ito and Mr. Stevens! In my office now!" The entire school get here that announcement. And he just had to use my last name so everyone could know it was me. Well, I guess they would already know as we were escorted out of the cafe. But, still. Before I really knew it, we were in her office. Saprasong sat first, breathing in the smell of the dirt carpet. I soon followed her. The principal, Mr. Craven, got straight to the point. "What happened back there guys?" She sounded calm, but clearly tense. It was then I realized I had never been in the principal's office before. Sure, I've been in here to "study" before but never have I entered this place. I was still nervous and jumpy from what just happened, and I don't think I could get through this with not stuttering in front of Mr.s Craven. "Simple and sweet, Miss Craven. Our dear friend Clam-Cammy threw a roll at us. We were just having fun. So, in return I threw it back. Almost like a game, yeah?" She was good at lying, but not good enough for Mr.s Craven. "Please call me Mr.s Craven, Song. And I don't have time for this. I'm 100% sure miss Cammy will be on the phone with her parents to get a new set of clothes and explain what happened. I've been in this bis for more then ten years, Song. I can see a lie like I can see the clouds in the sky." "B-but it j-just wasn't f-f-air what Clam-Cammy did-" Oh gosh I sound like a broken record. "I understand, Mr. Stevens. But if you are being bullied you tell a trusted adult. And no more than that." She takes a sip of her coffee. "Like a "trusted" adult would do anything. A warning, no more, just like every time me and him get bullied. Sometimes you have to stand up for yourself." Saprasong grumbled, crossing her arms. "That is an excuse, and you know it. And I feel like you are taking advantage of your disabilities, kids. Just because you have problems doesn't mean you can throw things at other kids." She licks her lips, disposing of her smug coffee stash. I can already see the anger rise in Saprasong's face. Sadly though, she is all bark and no bite. "He doesn't like it when you mention his so called "problems." She says, swaying her head in my direction. "I've heard enough. You two will be suspended for two days. Although, you will have in-school learning. Just do it on your fancy do-dads at home. You two definitely need to catch up on your grades, so this will be a chance to get away from distractions. No objections or buts. Deal?" At lunch from watching a distance away, this girl seemed nothing more than a ruler to the school. Now she is the scariest woman I have ever seen in my life. I take a big gulp and grab Saprasong's hand. She doesn't want to go, but she really doesn't have a choice. As we walk out, you can see the disappointment on her face. It was rough having to tell my mom what I did, then my mom getting my dad to teach me a lesson. Which I didn't have time to listen to. I kinda was too busy crying. It turns out Saprasong was crying too. Her mom told her she would have to do homeschooling again, and that she didn't have a choice. As we looked each other in the eyes, are sad and misty eyes I knew we both just wanted to run. Run away from life and get away from all of it. Me and her has always talked about it. Running away together. I'm not sure if she knew, but I like her. I think it was always implied, and she likes me too. Although, we didn't want it to be "that classic love story," we wanted to share each others feelings and not care about what we say. Not to the adults. Not to the historical bullies. Just to get away for one day. One day by ourselves, leaving this world behind. It's not so bad, this world. But, not that good enough for me. Or for her. There's a reason she has depression. And a reason I have Panic Disorder. Maybe the world just wants to be hard on us, but I doubt it. Maybe we are just swallowing our self pity because we want to be special. She went up to hug me, gasping for air. "You truly are the best, Oliver." She called me by my real name, so I felt like some weight of my chest had been lifted. "I feel like I-I should tell you something." I cough, sweat dripping down my neck. "I-liked you." I stutter. "Liked?" She asks, curious to explain my wording. "Well, I can't like you now. But how about we make an agreement?" I say, still hugging her. She gently gets out of the hug. "Oh yes perfect! Me and my mother do this all the time. A thing we created you see. All you have to do is shake my hand, and say these words exactly: "I, SpaceMan Stevens, will always be thinking of Saprasong Ito through my entire life. By agreeing to this, I will find Saprasong Ito, whether her name has changed or not, in the next life." I laugh, but it does seem like a promising deal. "I, SpaceMan Stevens, will always be thinking of Saprasong Ito through my entire life. By agreeing to this, I will find Saprasong Ito, whether her name has changed or not, in the next life." I propose, sinking into her memorable words. Repeating one after another. And as we part our ways when my mother get here, a final tear slides down her cheek. "I'll be Japan next time you see me, SpaceMan!" She yells. You could hear it from a mile away. "SpaceMan?" Mom whispers, grabbing my backpack. "Ha, it's a long story!" I laugh, walking out the school doors.


It is the dead of winter. Every visible thing is dismally bleak and cold. One can hear the bitter air whisper up the quiet, pallid beach, and circle around the welcoming cabin. The vacation spot is remote, and settled at the base of two soft white mountains. The cabin has been in *his* family for generations. I walk up to it and am greeted warmly by them. There are seven members total. Charlie, *his* older brother, Karen and Joel, *his* younger sister and brother-in-law, Rowen, Karen’s son, and of course Sarah and Kent, *his* parents. We all know each other well; I had spent time with them on more than one occasion, to say the least. I can’t keep my eyes off of *him*. I watch as *he* jokes with Charlie, *his* warm breath crystallizing in the stark cold winter air. *His* blue eyes flash, and dance around as *he* sheds a boisterous laugh. My love for *him* wells up inside of me, and I struggle to keep myself from attacking *him* with kisses. *His* muddied blonde hair is perfectly cut, and combed back, subtly emphasizing *his* natural wave. For the first time, I notice *his* growing beard. To my surprise, I like it. “A beard?” I say, running my fingertips through it. “Yes,” *he* says, “But I’m going to shave it off.” My hands stop fidgeting. “What? No, please don’t shave it off. I like it,” smiling, “Please keep it.” “No,” *he* says sweetly, “I’m shaving it off.” I huff and flash a look of unwilling compromise. Sarah mentions that she is too cold for her own good, so we decide to go inside. The cabin is huge. It has enough bedrooms for everyone, plus a large kitchen, sitting room (with a fireplace), four bathrooms, and a heated pool. *He* shows me to my room, I thank *him*, and close myself inside. I mosey over to the bed I’ve longed to cuddle with for a year, and start unpacking. Charlie bursts in. “Rach, we’re going for a walk in about fifteen minutes. You in?” “Sure Charlie,” I say, smiling, “I’ll be out in about five.” He nods happily, and leaves. I get some clothes out, and slip them on. Next, I dig for my hot pink makeup bag. *That is still the ugliest color ever*, I think. I take out my mascara; I never wear more than that, it’s too dark otherwise. Plus, *he* likes it light and natural. I tend to comply. Standing in the bathroom, applying the black gooeyness, *he* comes in and taps me on the shoulder. When I turn around, I see *his* shaven face with almost a nervous look on it. I smile at *him*, pat his smooth cheeks and tell *him* it’s ok, I’ll live. We share a look of love, and then are interrupted by *his* sister. “Hey Rach?” “Yes, Karen.” “Do you think you could take care of Rowen on our walk? It’s just that I haven’t spent much time with the big brother here,” pointing at *him*, “lately, so I’d like to have some time alone, if you know what I mean.” She smiles. “Where is Joel going to be?” I say with confusion, and almost desperation to keep *him* beside me. “He, Dad, and Charlie have already left. Their going fishing.” “What about Mom?” “Sleeping.” I can tell she’s starting to get frustrated. “Alright. I guess I can occupy his attention for a while.” I flash her a smirk and turn back to my mascara. I can hear her let out a little hot air and then leave the room. “Babe, you know Rowen loves you. It’s not that big of a deal.” “I never said it was.” It is silent for a while. “I love you,” *he* says as *he* lightly kisses my head. I grab *his* hand. “It’s fine, really. Spend time with your sister. I have months to spend time with you later. It’s ok.” *He* grins and walks out. I sigh and finish what I started. \* \* \* \* \* I’m outside, waiting for the others. *He* comes out wearing a red and black plaid shirt, dark jeans, and woodsman boots. *He* shuffles towards me and almost knocks me over with a bear hug. *His* large, stocky body engulfs my petite one. *His* cologne is thrust into my face, and its spicy sweetness burns my nostrils. *He* pulls himself away and looks into my eyes, *his* straight white teeth gleaming underneath *his* pursed lips. *He* mouths the words *I Love You*, and then kisses my nose. “Rowen, are you ready to go?” we hear Karen yell from inside the house. Within seconds, she and my little buddy are walking out of the door, snow coats on and secured. Karen was always anal about Rowen being warm. “Ya’ll ready?” she asks. “More than ever!” *He* answers excitedly. *He* turns toward me, smiles, and walks on. “Row, come here!” I call. His sweet little face lights up, and he runs towards me as fast as he can. He grabs my hand and says, “Come on Auntie Rachel! We’re goin’ on a walk! ALL THE WAY DOWN TO THE BEACH!” “Yes we are Rowen! You are such a smart boy.” I smile. He grins childishly at me. The four of us walk along the base of the mountain on large smooth stones laid by *his* ancestors. Rowen and I make a game of it, while *he* and Karen walk together in the distance. My attention is on Rowen, however, I cannot help but get distracted with *him*--watching how *he* moves--listening to *his* sweet voice--yearning to be with *him*. We reach the fork in the road where one either chooses to stay along the mountain’s base, or move to the beach. We take the beach, and before long we are walking on the ice cold sand. Little Row dashes here and there picking up shards of the ocean’s treasures. He runs back and forth from me and Karen, showing off his fabulous shells. We walk for about ten minutes, when all of a sudden Rowen screams with joy and starts running. After a few seconds, we realize what the commotion is about--Joel, Charlie, and Dad are seen just a few yards away. With Rowen long gone, I move a little quicker and catch up *him* and Karen. I wrap my arm through *his* and I can immediately feel *his* warmth seep into my body. Now we make our way to the edge of the earth where it’s met by the cold ocean water and melts away. \* \* \* \* \* I wake up, the whole left side of my face frozen. The sun is barely above the horizon any more, and stars are starting to peak through the blanketed sky. I smell a smoky spiciness, and hear soft murmurs all around. I open my eyes and see orange dancing flames throwing up great gusts of smoke. Aching just a bit, I lift myself up off of my “pillow”. “Well good evening Sleeping Beauty,” *he* says. I look up at *him* sleepily, and *he* laughs. “You look so ridiculous when you’re sleepy.” “Thanks babe. You make a girl feel so special.” “Sorry.” *He* smirks. I then stretch and make my way to the fire. I defrost my icy skin while Charlie and Dad start unpacking the s’mores ingredients. We all gather around the fire, with Rowen in my lap, and start roasting our marshmallows. *He* never leaves my side. *He* knows how I feel when I’m left, alone. When we’re done, *he* gets up, grabs my hand, and pulls me up. “Let’s go for a stroll,” *he* whispers. I nod yes, and we walk away. Holding hands, we mosey our way down the stretch of the beach. “I want to thank you for being such a good sport,” *he* says. “With Rowen? No, it was fine. I was just trying not to be selfish. I tend to be possessive of you,” I say. *He* squeezes my hand and continues to walk. “I want you to know that I believe you’re the one for me,” *he* says. I stop and turn towards *him*. “Really?” “Really,” *he* turns toward me. “And babe, I want to spend the rest of my life with you. So--” “I will.” *He* looked surprised. “You don’t even have to ask. I’ve known since the first time I met you that you were the one for me. I want to spend the rest of my life with you too.” *He* gasps happily. Within seconds *his* Paul Bunyan like arms are wrapped around me tight. *He* pulls himself back and then covers me with kisses. When the enthusiasm of the moment passes away, we connect hands tightly, and make our way back to his family.


“Promise me father.” A little seven year old boy started. “What?” Replied his father sitting beside him. “Promise me, no matter what happens. You will be by my side. By Mother’s side.” The moonlight cast faint shadows on the wooden floors of the porch. Small insects crawled in and out of the spaces between each individual plank. Father looked up at the wisps of clouds drifting along the sky and smiled. “Son, as long as the stars still shine in the sky, I will be by your side whenever and wherever you need me.” The stars themselves seemed to twinkle in response. Beams of sunlight hit his face as Chris woke up, groggily rubbing his eyes and checking his alarm clock. 08:14 blinked on its display. Panic took hold as he threw off his covers and rushed to the bathroom. The cold water of the shower hit his back as he realized his father hadn’t woken him up for school in time, as was usually the case. No time for that he thought, he probably was still asleep himself. In a frenzy, Chris had put on his uniform and was headed out. He went to kiss his mother goodbye but she seemed to be preoccupied on the phone. His eye briefly caught the golden light reflecting off the many trophies his father achieved throughout his career. With no intention of being any more late than he already was, Chris ran out to catch the bus in time. The day went by fairly quickly, and before long he had reached the end of the school day. Usually since he had extra curriculars, and often hung around for longer with his buddies, Chris wasn't able to catch even the late bus. His father drove him home. Today, he was nowhere to be found. While waiting, all kinds of thoughts rushed through his mind. What if his father had crashed somewhere on the way here? What if he’d fallen gravely ill? Maybe he had forgotten and was simply doing something else. An hour went by and Chris was the only one still roaming around the school grounds. Nothing. Feeling abandoned and slightly betrayed he started making his way home; 4 miles, and that was being generous. The weather slowly grew colder as he walked closer to home. Cars whizzing past became more and more infrequent. The afternoon was coming to an end and the streetlight flickered on the moment he stepped foot on his porch. The wooden floorboards creaked as dozens of tiny insects scrambled. Chris entered his home with a very annoyed expression on his face. He went straight to the kitchen only to find it completely empty. He ran upstairs to his parents bedroom. Mother was sitting at the windowsill. Tears streamed down her face. He went up to her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. They sat quietly as the chattering of the TV continued in the background. Chris looked up at the night sky, tears clouding his vision, the full moon glared back at him. Not a single star to be found.


“I’ll take a glass of your strongest drink, thanks” “It’s a bit early for that, don’t you think?” ... “Alright, alright. One moment.” He bounced here and there across the counter picking up this, that and the other. An array of sounds billowed up with each pour, a bubbling, then sizzling, then a crackling followed by the clack of ice being shaken up. Once the glass was full to the brim he slid it swiftly across the long countertop, a practiced and perfected move as it stopped perfectly in front of her. Her face scrunched in disgust as she looked down at the glass. The gooey liquid substance oozed with bubbles that quickly grew and burst, another forming in its place. Everything that shouldn’t happen with a drink seemed to be combined into this one making it a masterpiece of drinkable death, something only a witch could brew up. “What is this... you trying to kill me?” “You asked for the strongest drink, didn’t you?” He said with a smirk shifting his glance between her and the glass as he casually cleaned one of several empty glasses on the counter. Greenish pink fizz began to bubble over the top and drip down the side as she stared at it in contemplation. “I must be mad” she said, squeezing her eyes shut as she took several big swallows of the strange concoction, returning it to the counter with a slam as she processed the wild potion dancing on her tongue and down her throat. “What the- is that...” “Pop rocks” he interrupted with a smile. “What-” she muddled through her confusion as the tiny pops subsided, “what kind of- what kind of bar is this? This doesn’t even have alcohol in it!” He chuckled, leaving his cleaning and approaching her with arms crossed. “I think you missed the sign that says ‘alcohol free bar’ you know, it’s right next to the sign that says ‘closed’” He smiled and cocked his head to the side as her cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. “I’m so sorry, I’ll be going.” she said, shifting in her bag to pay and leave. “No no, it’s alright, I’ll make an exception. It is New Years after all.” It’s only now that she noticed his smile and kind eyes paired with curly blonde hair and nice features. Quickly, she shifted her face down at the glass hoping to hide her blush. “So tell me... what is a girl like you doing at a bar at 11 o’clock in the morning on New Year’s Day?” She huffed, “I think the better question is what kind of bar doesn’t serve alcohol!” “It’s for people like you, of course,” he said with a laugh. “What’s that supposed to mean?!” “Oh come on, it’s just, it’s supposed to be an alternative for people trying to get away from drinking, is all. Most people go to bars for the atmosphere and to socialize, this is meant to give the same feeling, just without alcohol of course.” Several moments of silence passed as her groggy brain processed his words. “Well clearly your business model isn’t doing too well” she remarked, glancing at the empty chairs beside her. “Like I said, we’re closed, you would know and remember that if you weren’t-... nevermind.... How is the drink?” “It’s odd, it’s somehow sour and sweet at the same time... did you just put candy in it or something?” He laughed, “no, it’s not just candy” “Well, what is it then?” “I can’t tell you that, that would take away all the fun” She gave him a confused, worried look. “Take it easy, it’s just a drink is all”, he said, and feeling reassured she tilted her head back taking another gulp, a new determination to identify everything in it. “Lime!” She shouted wide eyed. “Good” “Oh... why do I taste... shrimp?” “Hey, you’re pretty good at this,” he said with a nod. “Who the hell puts shri- is that mango juice too?” “You got it” he leaned forward now in amusement as she continued testing her skills on the odd bubbling liquid popping at the bottom of the glass. “It’s like- really thick too... what’s making it fizzle up like that?” He shrugged, unwilling to disclose anything. “Tell you what... you go on a date with me... I’ll tell you anything you wanna know.” She smiled, appreciating his forwardness, only taking a few seconds to ponder. “Y-yes... only so I can figure out what I’m missing” she remarked, robbing him of the satisfaction of mutual interest. “I should probably be going... to a real bar you know” she said, shifting again for her wallet. She held up a $20 bill, “Hopefully this covers it, you can keep the rest” “No no, it’s on me.” He said waving away her bill. “You really shouldn’t go yet... it’s only just begun...” He said, gliding his fingers across the register screen as receipts printed out. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, standing up and feeling a sudden wave of... something. “Well... let’s just say I could tell you were really hungover as soon as you came in, and drinking really doesn’t pair well with-“ “With what?! I’m not-!...” she sighed, lowering her tone and sitting back down, “I’m not hungover.” “Where do you think you are right now?” He said leaning over the counter watching as she finally looked around to observe her surroundings. The place was decorated beautifully with plants and greenery along the walls and corners, each sprouting buds and blooms of all different types of vibrant flowers she’d never seen before. The bar was fitted neatly with rows of drinks in unique containers and bottles, all confined between stone edges and glass windows covered delicately with draping vines. Twinkle lights flickered amidst the greenery and around the assorted bottles creating an ambient glow in the bar area. Her attention was drawn straight up above to the sky-light ceiling where the clouds drifted peacefully and she squinted, confused that the beam of the sun wasn’t burning her vision. Below the sky, wooden tables lay scattered in the garden-like space. Each table was equipped with red umbrellas and chairs stacked atop. Mesmerized, she stepped off the bar stool, reaching a hand down and running it through the soft grass below. With careful steps she wandered through the garden space, studying the flower blooms and up at the sky. With a long inhale she breathed in the lily flowers and fresh grass. She returned to the bar with a refreshing smile. “I must be dreaming,” she exclaimed. He laughed, “no... this isn’t a dream” The whimsical, fantasy like room began to move as she looked around more, her body swaying slightly. The soft grass made falling a non issue as she wandered again around the place aimlessly. With each minute the bar became more alive. The flowers moved around as if they were walking or dancing along. Watching the clouds float across the blue sky above was like entering a trance. Stumbling her way over to the bar, the bottles took on even stranger forms. One taking the shape of a frog while another looked like an instrument found in a science lab, the opening of the tube shooting up small puffs of steam in perfect small circles, like a chimney or steam engine at work. “Woah... can I get another drink?”


Her eyes were green. I would say they're like emeralds. Green, shining, beautiful. But an emerald is only worth something if it matters to someone. An emerald sitting quite still, all alone on an island, well, it's not worth a damn thing. It only took me one look into her eyes, one beautiful moment. She understood me, right then. And from then on, we were best friends and lovers. Being with her, I felt like air. Like I was unrestrained, unbound, free. I could move to whatever heights I wanted. She raised me up from dark depths. I felt so strong with her, and for the first time I mattered to someone, truly mattered. Sometimes it stings, something shallow, like I could just almost forget the pain if I tried hard enough. Sometimes it tears me apart, like I'm being burned from the inside out, and I can feel my skin melting and dripping down on my feet, and I have no strength left to scream or even to breathe. Sometimes it's more dull, not like being torn apart, but like being weighed down by an immense and unshakable regret. But it always hurts. Now I know what it's like to be an emerald, alone, on an island.


Trigger Warning: Verbal abuse I was fourteen years old when I left my mother. Or rather, when she abandoned me. It was a wet spring morning when Mother called me to her room. I passed my father’s-no, Lord Heo’s - quarters, already bustling with servants readying his carriage for the day. Then, I softened my steps to slink by Lady Heo’s garden, as she would be on her morning walk, and she would be furious as a rabid dog if she saw me. To my surprise, she wasn’t there. Finally, I arrived at Mother’s room. Dread had hung over me like a cloud all breakfast --despite the honey cookies that had been served-- for today was testing day. My week went thusly: for the first five days, I memorized a handful of books in which I would need to know for the Provincial Exams; the exams which would allow me into the Royal Academy. On the sixth, I would revise everything I had learnt and deciphered. Today, on the seventh, Mother would pick a random verse from my books, and I would have to recite its interpretation. If I was lucky, I’d be able to return to my quarters without an incident. Rubbing my eyes, I ran over all I had studied last night before bed. I never woke up fully rested during these days' mornings, which only worsened the anxiousness clawing at my insides. The feeling of terror reached its peak when I had finally made it to the room, and my hands hovered over the door-ring. Had I practiced enough? Would I be able to keep my calm this time? What if there had been something I’d let slip past my fingers? Should I run back and do one last quick review? No, Mother hated it when I was late. Besides, this was good for me, or in the very least, would be good for me. If nothing else, it would drive me to study harder in the future. Slowly, I straightened out my clothes and opened the door, bowing my head and keeping my eyes trained on the ground, “Mother? I hope you’ve slept well?” She only said: “Haesol. Have you prepared?” I hesitated, then answered, “I think so.” It was followed by a terrifying silence, and I knew I had said the wrong thing, “You’re far from confident,” Mother scoffed, “And I assume there is a reason behind it. But we must digress.” I slowly raised my head. Mother sat in the middle of the room, her black hair slicked back into a tight bun, an austere expression on her face, and with a stack of books to her side. Most notably, a thick wooden cane was in her hand. She liked thumping it to create a beat to go along to the rhythm of her speech whenever she read to me, but in times like these, they also served as a quiet threat. Opening one of the books beside her, she instructed coldly, “Explain to me the meaning behind ‘The stillness of the sages does not belong to them as a consequence of their skilful ability. All things are not able to disturb their minds--it is on this account that they are still.’” Oh. “Could you...repeat...” Looking at me with one brow raised, she spoke it once more, and the shred of hope I had had was gone. This line was completely unfamiliar to me, and I had no idea what to say. Should I try making something up? But Mother would know. She always did. That fact, however, did not stop me from attempting to salvage the situation. “I...it means...it means that sages are not... peaceful because they are skillful...but...uh...” Every nerve in my body was screaming, as my two hands shook violently in front of me. And yet my head felt numb, as if it was filled with rocks. Perhaps it was, given how slow I was to respond. A slam of the cane against the floor made me flinch so hard, I almost fell over. “Are you a man or a mouse? Speak louder, and with confidence!” She demanded, “From the beginning.” “It means that sages are not peaceful because they are skilled, b-but skillful because they are peaceful!” I managed to stammer out. That...was enough, no? My eyes flickered to hers, and I knew the answer. “Be honest-do you understand what is coming out of your mouth?” “Yes! Yes I do, I just need one more chance-” “The verse means to teach that a sage is not tranquil because he is skilled in the worldly and spiritual, but rather, because he is tranquil, with control over himself, he allows himself to absorb knowledge and improve.” She sighed sharply, looking down at the ground, “Have you ever even looked at your books? Why do you even try if you’re this inept, hm? I might as well die here and now if this is what I must witness for the rest of my life!” She hollered at me, her voice bouncing off the walls and piercing my ears, “I spend every waking hour to give you food, shelter, and an education others only dream of. And yet, you spend your days doing nothing. You had honey cookies during breakfast, did you not?” “...yes, Mother.” “And what exactly have you done to deserve them?” “...I’m sorry, Mother.” Despite my best efforts, I felt tears pricking at my eyes. But that would only make her angrier, so I tried to hold them back. I failed. “How many times must I tell you?” Mother whispered, rubbing her temple. Her voice quickly rose as she continued, “ You are illegitimate --if you don’t work twice, thrice as hard as others to silence them all with talent and diligence, you will never be anything worthwhile.” She then looked down at me- me with my swollen red eyes and a running nose and pathetic hiccups -and looked away, as if she was disgusted, “Seeing as though you sorely lack talent, the former is your only option.” Suppressing a croak climbing up the back of my throat, I nodded, “I will do better.” With shaky legs, I tried to get up, but Mother held out her hand, palm down, and gestured for me to stay, “There is another matter in which I must discuss with you.” She began in a slower voice, “The Lady Heo has given birth to a son.” Mother then met my eyes, her gaze steely as it was cold, “You know what this means.” I did--Lady Heo was the official wife of my father, meaning her son would replace me as the heir. In turn, this meant I had no use here anymore. But I didn’t want to leave, “I’m...not ready--” “Follow the foot trails to the capital- join a traveling group, lest there be tigers and bears- and once there, ask for where to take the Provincial Exams,” Mother continued, as if I had never spoken, and rose to her feet, “If you pass, then your food, lodging and education will be free of charge. If you do not, then whatever happens next will be your own fault.” Out of desperation, I grabbed the tail of her dress, willing her to stay beside me. It might have been my vain hope, but I think she hesitated, just for a moment, “If anyone demands a fee, ignore them. It’s a fraud. The only payment you need to make is on shelter and food.” Her gaze suddenly sharpened once more; though I wasn’t sure as to why, “If you lose all your money, don’t bother crawling back. There’s nothing I can do for you now. Understood?” “Yes, Mother.” “Then go.” ****** I was twenty when I saw her again. That time around, I’d long since passed the provincial exams and become an official student of the Royal Academy. Everyday at daybreak, I rose for breakfast, dressed myself, attended class, read in my room and- “Haesol!” -waited for Riyulen to knock my door down. With a soft smile, I replied, “It’s unlocked.” Not a second later, a boy of fourteen with ruffled hair and a book clutched to his chest entered with a squeak of the hinges, “Haesol!” he said again with a wide grin, “I need you to read something for me!” Clicking my tongue, I gestured for him to come closer, “And I need you to wear your clothes properly,” I said lightly, adjusting his collar to its proper location and tapping him on the forehead, “Alright. Show me.” Plopping down next to me, Riyulen began to search through his book, “Here,” he said, pointing to a line, “ ‘The stillness of the sages does not belong to them as a consequence of their skilful ability. All things are not able to disturb their minds--it is on this account that they are still’ . What does that mean?” “Well,” I began, mulling over how to explain, “What do you think it means?” Riyulen shrugged, “I don’t know. That's why I’m asking you.” I gave him a look, and he sighed, “Maybe...sages like standing still...or something?” “Riyulen, stop being cheeky.” “I really, really don’t know.” After giving it some thought, I asked, “What would you call a focused man?” “Someone who can ignore distractions?” “Good. And what of an accomplished man?” A grin tugged at the corner of Riyulen’s lips, “Someone with a lot of accomplishments?” Undeterred, I pressed on, “Who comes first? The focused or the accomplished?” “The focused one, I think?” “Because?” “You need to be focused to get accomplishments.” I cracked him a slight smile, “Do you see it now?” Slowly, a realization dawned on him. With a giggle, Riyulen nodded fervently, “I do!” Riyulen exclaimed as he grabbed the book from my hands, “Thanks!” With that, he was scrambling towards the door. “Don’t rush! Walk slowly,” I called out after him, but Riyulen was already out the door and running out of sight. Letting out a chuckle, I opened my own book and began to read once more. But not a minute later, my door swung open once more, and Riyulen poked his head inside, “Haesol! There’s someone looking for you!” Furrowing my brows, I slowly rose to my feet, “Who?” He shrugged, “Not sure. Just a lady.” When I went outside, Mother was standing there. She was smaller than I remembered her to be, with slouched shoulders and a hunched back. Her once-black hair was now thinning and streaked with gray, and her face had more creases and folds, like an old, forgotten paper ball. In her hands was a bundle of cloth. Her dark eyes met mine, and she smiled. For a moment I did not recognize her. How had she made it here on her own? She wouldn’t have had the means to afford a carriage or horse, and the roads certainly would not have been kind to a woman of her age. Where had she slept when there were no inns or houses to take her for the night? On the ground? Did she even know how to start a fire? Continuing to stare, I managed, “...Mother?” “Son.” What could I say? What was there to say? Only the expected response, “Would you like to come in?” “Yes.” So we sat down in my room, letting a suffocating silence pass over us. Drumming a finger against my knee, I desperately searched for something to say, but she spoke first. “Have you been eating well?” For reasons unknown to me, it felt as though her voice had become softer. That I could answer, “Very well. You?” Mother hesitated, then nodded, “You’ve made me very proud.” She then added on, “I’ve missed you dearly, during these past years.” Six years ago, that would’ve been the greatest compliment she could have paid me. But as of now, there was a strange hollow feeling where elation should be, “I’ve missed you too.” Another bout of silence passed, as I pretended to pick lint off my sleeves. The corners of my mouth hurt from trying to maintain my smile, but I persisted, “I hope your journey was easy?” “It was- I was so excited to see you, nothing could’ve damped my mood,” she replied cheerfully. I wasn’t quite sure what to say back, and mother seemed to notice. Lifting her bundle onto her lap, she began untying the knot holding it together, “I brought something for you.” “That’s very thoughtful of you.” With a wide grin, she lifted up a small wooden bowl with a silk covering. When she unveiled it, I saw that there were a dozen or so honey cookies inside, “I remember when you used to eat them every hour. You looked so happy whenever you did,” she said with a content sigh. Placing the cookies down, she reached over to a pile of fabric, neatly folded into squares, “And I’ve sewn some handkerchiefs for you too-” “Why are you here?” She went still, “Why would a mother need a reason to visit her child?” “Most mothers would not, I suppose,” I shrugged, wondering if I should finish what I’d been about to say, and deciding to, “But you’re not most mothers.” “...you don’t hold a grudge for what happened almost a decade ago, do you?” I pressed my mouth into a line, then tried for a smile, “Of course not. Shall I fetch tea?” With that, I propped up a knee and began to rise. But Mother held out her hand, palm down, and gestured for me to stay. It made me anxious. She opened her mouth, and while no words came out, I still felt my shoulders tense. Sometimes, the anticipation was worse than the blow. “You’re angry with me,” Mother said after some pause, and I caught a hint of surprise in her voice, “You resent me for making you leave.” My mouth went dry. She was right, as she always was, but a part of me didn’t want to admit what we both knew. I couldn’t say why-- just that the words stuck to my throat and didn’t move. Mother sighed and looked down. I thought that she might yell, but instead she spoke quieter than a mouse, “...you were my first and only child,” she began, “I was terrified that I would ruin you. That my idleness would lead you astray.” She then smiled up at me, tears glistening in her eyes, “It was, and still is, my first time being a mother.” The first thing that came to mind was to be a good son and comfort her. Mother had rarely smiled, let alone cried. How much had she been suffering alone, through all those years with a helpless, stupid little boy by her side? I wanted to hold her hand, let her weep on my shoulder, and tell her that what he had done had been enough. That I’d come to understand her as I grew. But that was soon overwhelmed by a primal sort of anger. One that had been rooted deep inside me for some time. In an instant, I was on my feet, glaring down at her, “It was your first time being a mother? It was my first time being a child! Yet that meant nothing to you! ” I screamed. I don’t know how I did that- it’d been years since I’ve even raised my voice -but it sparked a fire that I couldn’t put out, “While you were terrified of leading me astray, I was terrified of you!” Did she think she could hide behind the guise of inexperience? Did she expect me to wave away the mistakes she’d made in good faith, when she hadn't ever forgiven one of mine? Why hadn’t I ever gotten the same grace she was expecting-- demanding --of me now? It was Mother’s turn to be silent. She stared down at her hands, unmoving and unresponsive. It made it even more difficult to continue yelling, but I was far from done, “For years, I’ve been justifying everything in my head. And if it hadn’t been for Riyulen, I might’ve actually deluded myself into thinking you were a decent person! ” Before I could think twice, I kicked her gifts to the side, sending cookies and handkerchiefs flying against the walls, “I thought that it would be so, so hard not to spew insults at a little boy. That it would take everything within me to not berate him until he cried. Because why else would you have done it? But I’ve come to realize that it’s not difficult at all. ” When she still didn’t respond, I pointed towards the door and lowered my voice, “When he’s sad, I’m worried . When he cries, I want to stroke his hair and comfort him. And when he’s scared or confused, I want to tell him that everything will be alright while holding him in my arms. But I’m not furious that he dares to feel that way! ” With a trembling bottom lip, Mother finally spoke, “I only wanted for you to be strong.” Her voice was airy and unstable, as if she’d burst into tears at any moment, and I wished I could care more, “Strong enough to take on the world.” The back of my throat began to burn as I croaked out, “Why did I have to be strong enough for the world at fourteen, when you weren’t even strong enough for your son at thirty-five?” Smoothing my hair back, I looked away and tried to catch my breath, “I don’t think this is good for either of us, Mother. You should-” “I love you, Haesol.” There it was again-- the pull of sympathy. Perhaps I could apologize to her, and we’d embrace and then cry. Perhaps she’d even apologize back. But I wanted to win against her. Just this once. “I understand you. But I don’t forgive you.” Sharply turning around, I walked out the door, “Please leave.”


At first, I thought it my ears playing tracks on me, but when I entered the kitchen, I noticed the backdoor was wide open and I caught a glimpse of something large in the yard, which looked almost like a meteor, but I didn’t hear anything like that this morning or the night before. It had a rippling layer of gold over a transparent shell of green. Sharon, my wife said something and turning my attention to her, I asked. “What did you say? And what’s that thing outside?” “Eraluth meg’ath nousth,” she said, smiling to Stevey, who sat across the table. Stevey, who was dirty and I assumed he got that way from playing outside that morning, returned the smile and replied, “Asouth de’ath aggilth’b.” “What are you guys saying? Is this one of those made up languages to fool me?” I asked, looking from my wife to my son, confused. I had taken French, Spanish, and even some Latin in college but what they spoke seemed to be so obscure, so odd, that I recognized no dialect of any language. She looked up at me and said, “Acum’th uonagg tura-tae’ggth” and Stevery, cheerily, faced me and said, “Manjeuth ujjothyine nagith.” There was something about their eyes I noticed. She had crystal blue eyes, something that caught my attention when we met in college, and my son had gotten my brown ones, but the blues of my wife’s eyes were tinged green and gold, while Stevey’s were a bright hazel. Maybe it was just the way the sun hit their ears? but... That doesn’t explain why they’re speaking like this? “C’mon, stop joking around. We have some stuff to do today and I can’t have you speaking gibberish, the neighbors will think we’re crazy.” Stevey looked at his mother, and said, nodding. “Uejith neugg brujth.” I felt a throb in my temples and I dug my nails into my palms. It was fun at first, but now it was becoming annoying. It was too early for something like this, especially when we had a day planned to go out to the park with the neighbors. “All right, cut this out now. It’s not funny anymore.” Stevey turned to me, repeating what he said to his mother. “Now quit it!” I roared, slamming my fist on the table. “If you talk like that one more time, you’re grounded for a week!” Sharon said, grinning. “Houg’th nyuaeth blougfh.” I quickly turned towards her. “And you too, Sharon! Don’t fucking play along with this! You’re a parent, too!” They both suddenly stood up, their chairs toppling onto the ground. Stevey stood with Sharon, who began to walk towards me. I stumbled back, nearly falling against the stove against the wall. Incessantly they droned in unison, “Suoth’in jus’goi noijgus.” “Stop! For the love of god stop this!” I moved away from the stove to the wall, where it seemed they jerked forward at a speed I didn’t quite see, as if I blinked and they teleported. They stood before me, not moving, smiling. “Stop, please!” I begged. “If you don’t, God help me I will do what I have to do!” I didn’t want to hurt them, they were my family, but the way they were acting was driving me insane. Sharon placed a hand on my shoulder, and the frustration I had pent up seemed to explode inside me. Before I knew it, I punched her in the stomach. But when my fist connected with her abdomen... it felt like I had punched a stone wall. Immediately I felt the sharp pain of my fingers breaking shoot up my arm. Tears erupted from my eyes and I quickly pulled my hand band and cradled it against my chest. I slid down the wall, sitting on the floor. “What are you? You’re-- you’re not my family.” I murmured. Sharon leaned forward, placing her face an inch before mine. Her wide eyes seemed to grow beyond human capabilities, and the green and gold inside her beautiful eyes began to twist, to turn, to swirl around in her cornea. The snaking colors sprung from her eyes and everything went black, as a sudden, burning pain exploded over my body. Read more of my stories on my . Purchase my work on .


For some reason, they always knew she would let them in. And for some reason, she always did. They would turn up with the face of someone who looked familiar, but not, like a memory distorted. They smelled of fresh leaves and musty fungus. They had glittering obsidian eyes, and ragged, patchy hair. They always wore red. They would come to Eve’s home, and once they were installed she almost never saw them. Merely upon waking she would notice a lamp had disappeared or a rug replaced by woven winter moss. Dozens of smaller changes she only wondered about. (Had the aloe been turned, just so?) One night she returned home to find the fridge unplugged and in the direct center of the kitchen. The next day, her sink was filled to the brim with ice, which she chose to take as an apology. Certainly, everything was as she chose to take it. These silent creatures, often unseen but felt, never speaking a word. How to take it when her mirrors were all covered with thin, rough sheets? What was meant when her books were all turned spine in, or when her apartment had smelled like apples for four days? Then abruptly one day she would wake and again the birds would be singing, and the air would be light and free. She knew when she opened the door to the spare room, a mound of sticks and twigs in the bed would be all that remained of her elusive guest. And she would tidy it and then close the door again, to await the next visit. Today, she heard the knock on her front door once again, a soft little pat-pat-pat against the door. She opened it and there stood someone new looking like someone else, in a berry-red cloak like Little Red Riding Hood. Its eyes shined a deep black, peeking through brown straw hair. Eve stood aside and the creature crossed the threshold. A quiet stretched from it to engulf the whole of the house. She led the way to the guest room and stood at the doorway as it advanced past her. The click of the door was inaudible. Eve looked up. She was sitting on her couch, but the light had changed. It was almost evening. She remembered letting in her neighbour... no. But it had looked so much like her. Then, what next? She remembered the scent of old, rotting logs and petrichor. She needed to clear her head. She left her apartment, and immediately the noise of the world resumed. The hum of the lights, the distant clanking of the elevator. It was easy to forget how loud even a quiet hallway was in modern life. It was like stepping from the inside of a book out into a busy, bustling existence she couldn’t have guessed was out there. Not just any book, but a thick old tome that closed with a SLAP. That had always been the weight of the silence in her home while her guests remained, and if anything, this time she felt it all the more intensely. Eve wandered over to the market and bought a container of prepared soup. She trailed through the streets near her home like a tourist, admiring the small park and its fountain, the little stores closed, but with colourful window displays. She idled, drinking her soup and staring at the moonless, starry sky. Eventually she had to go home. She unlocked her door and stepped back into the pressure of the quiet. The old woman, for she was old, older than she had initially appeared, sat on the couch. She was still, so still and unmoving, like a shadow frozen and flat. The details of her hair and clothes were hard to discern, and after a moment Eve turned and went into her own room. She slept peacefully, deep and without dreams. The days rolled past, similar but strange. The rest of the world knew to leave her alone during these times. Her phone ceased to ring, and her friends declined to visit. The world knew when her house was occupied, and knew better than to disturb her. Eve left her home less and less, cocooning in her room, in part because time slipped away so quickly. She woke with the sun, but blinked and it seemed to be setting. She didn’t remember eating, but she never felt hungry. The only thing she missed was the sky, and sometimes this yearning drove her out from her den, to wander the dark streets as she stared at the stars. One such night she came home to find another creature in her house, this one a tiny writhing infant set carefully upon her coffee table. The hush pressed against her ears, the force of it made her head hurt. The table itself seemed different, darker, a slab of rough grey stone. Eve’s vision blurred, and the infant doubled, tripled, then melded back into one. It had ceased its movement and stared back at her, black eyes wide and unblinking. Eve backed away, the ground soft and giving beneath her feet. She returned to her room, the silence pulsing, the scent of rain and rot pervasive even in her bed. As she lay there, the covers themselves seemed to tighten around her, pulling her down, down through her bed and into a cavern of darkness she’d always known. She closed her eyes, willing time to pass, waiting for that bright sunny morning, to hear the birds once more. This time when she slept, her dreams were full of shadows and the creaking of ancient trees, their deep roots fed by sacrifice. She was in the centre of the world, and the eternal tree stretched its limbs far past the limits of the sky, reaching to the heavens and beyond. She was the centre, the roots speared her body and fed, fed, fed with an unquenched hunger. She heard a cry, the wail of an infant, and then she fell. Eve opened her eyes. A robin twittered from her windowsill, and Eve could hear the faint, forgotten sound of traffic. She pushed back her rumpled covers, moving slowly, feeling an ache deep in her bones. She shuffled down the hallway, and rested her hand on the cool doorknob of the guest room. But, for the first time, she was afraid of what she would find there.


I had heard the story dozens of times, no hundreds. Don’t tell grandpa that though. He had dutifully repeated the tale every time we visited him. And with such an uncanny vigor as if a new audience had manifested itself just for the recital. I love my grandpa, don’t get me wrong for one second. He was a retired policeman and a gentle soul. But my goodness gracious did he have a way of boring us teenagers half to death with that story of his about our great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather. On his side of the family, of course. My sister and I were visiting for Thanksgiving. Dinner had concluded. Everyone else was in the kitchen cleaning the aftermath. We were sitting in the living room on opposite ends of the big couch, the football game on the television. Grandpa was a Jets fan and they happened to be playing that night so he was mildly interested at least initially. But as per usual, the game was awful with the Jets trailing by three touchdowns at the half. I could easily tell Grandpa was getting restless. I turned to look at my sister Sarah. She, like myself, was helplessly glued to her phone, the only way we could possibly hope to survive this harrowing ordeal. She looked up, flashed a smirk at me. Instantly I thought, what now? Uh oh. Grandpa had shuffled over to the liquor cabinet and was pouring himself a drink. Undoubtedly necessitated by this pitiful game. He opened the sliding door, took a seat outside on the deck, and took out a cigar from his front pocket. It was a cool autumn night, the sky clear and the moon shining brightly. There he sat for a while, drink in hand, cigar lit and billowing smoke like a chimney. I glanced back at the television. A muffed punt had led to another touchdown, the Jets were now down four scores. And there was an entire quarter left to go. From the couch I called out to Grandpa, “Always a thrill a minute this team ,eh?” He was caught in some sort of nighttime reverie, his eyes transfixed on a mystical point out in the distance. Still staring, he at last replied. “You know Billy, it’s like anything else. Don’t have any expectations and you’ll never be disappointed.” He turned to me and smiled. After a short while he came back inside and closed the door behind him. He poured himself another. Some sort of Irish whiskey being tonight’s elixir of choice. He took a seat back on the couch and took another sip and with his face aglow and eyes twinkling he asked, “Hey did I ever tell you two about your great-great-great-great grandfather?” I hesitated for a moment trying to think of a polite way out of the painfully familiar trajectory that tonight’s discourse was headed towards. Suddenly, of course, my sister blurted out, “No grandpa, I don’t think you’ve told us before!” I grimaced and glared at her from across the room. And she returned to me an obnoxious wink. I snatched my phone, my thumbs engaged in a furious flurry as I sent her a message, “I Hope you’re proud of yourself! Egging him on like that. Now here goes an hour of our life that we’ll never get back.” “Oh not to worry.” She replied. “A friend of mine is picking me up to go shopping. You will tell me how it ends, won’t you?” I put my phone down in disgust. Here I was a helpless thirteen-year-old stranded on my Grandpa's couch with a one-way ticket punched full steam ahead to an evening in 17th century England. Sarah got up from the couch and said, “Grandpa I have to go but it was great to see you again. Love you.” “Well, if you insist on leaving. Fine. But You’re missing out on a great story let me tell you!” She hugged him before smiling at me one last time before leaving. And so it began. “Now you’re great-great-great-great-great-”, he paused suddenly eye-brows furrowed intently he stared at the ceiling a moment before stretching out his hand and counting out his fingers, he then nodded affirmatively and continued “great grandfather was a carpenter in Worcestershire. Or was it..Warwickshire? It was one or the other I’m almost certain. Anyways, he was a carpenter. Oh yes! William, I think that was his name, could make anything. Anything! Stools, chairs, tables, benches, anything with wood he could make it. And legend has it he once made a wicker basket for his neighbor. Can you believe that? A carpenter making a wicker basket. Now, you know there wasn’t WiFi in those days so communication was just a little...” Stop it. Really no WiFi? Not even 3G? “...slow back then. You know with the mail and what not.” He paused for a moment in mid-breath and looked up at the ceiling. Once-again his eyebrows furrowed in intense thought before at last snapping his fingers in triumph, “Nope it couldn’t have been Worcestershire, it must have been Warwickshire. I’m almost certain. I’d bet your life on it. I’m kidding! I’d only wager your sister’s life on it. Don’t tell your mother I said that. Anyways, where were we?” “Something about Worcestershire I think.” “Ah, right, right, right. So one day a courier or man servant for the Duke of Worcestershire made the rounds saying the Duke’s treasured pet cat had gone missing and there would be a substantial reward if it were found alive. This particular Duke, actually he may have been an Earl. I’m not sure. In any case he wasn’t a baron that I’m certain of. And I think if memory serves me right he went by the name Walter, his friends called him Wally for short. Anyways, as it turns out the Duke never made any important decisions when his cat was not present. So this had proven quite the quandary. In fact, Wally was locked up in his lair and refused to leave until his cat was returned to him safely. If you ask me, things made more sense back then. Anyways, back to your great-great-great-great grandfather, he used his mettle to construct a trap to capture this cat. Unfortunately though he didn’t have enough wood to build a door for the trap. Would you believe it, the great master carpenter had run out of materials for such an unbelievable undertaking?” The old man got himself another drink, apparently deeming it necessary to wet his whistle as we approached this tale’s denouement. I quickly texted my sister, “Let me tell you, you are missing quite the ripping yarn.” “Now this is the amazing part...” He stopped for a second, mouth agape with his face flexed in a look of utter perplexity. He collected himself and nodded his head a few times. “No, no, no... come to think of it the Duke’s name was Hubert. His middle name was Walter. Anyways, you’re great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather just so happened to have in his possession a tome of charms that he had won in a game of horseshoes. Another thing that your ancestor was adept at. Billy you should know you come from a pretty proud and historic lineage. Anyways, the book was full of old magics you know, sort of like witchcraft or voodoo. Anyways, one of them was a charm to help find things that are lost. He was smart enough to know a wandering cat wouldn’t just sit nicely in a doorless cage and wait nicely for someone to fetch it. No Sir! So he found within this book an enchantment. It would have made Merlin himself blush. So he recited this enchantment. I used to know the words to it..” He stopped for a moment again and scratched his head. “Ah, I think there was something about a tree, thread, nail, and... a frog. Or was it a salamander? No, might have been a newt or one of those slimy things. Anyways, he recited it and placed some food inside the doorless cage to lure the cat in. I wonder what cats ate back then. No canned goods. I’ll have to do some research. So he put the cage outside in the woods near his house. And would you believe it, the very next morning he went out to inspect his handiwork and there was the cat, asleep in the cage. He picked up the slumbering beast and went to return it. But as it turns out it was actually the neighbor’s cat who in a remarkable turn of events had also gone missing at the same time. Amazing, eh?” “That’s putting it lightly”, I replied. “So, what happened to the Duke’s cat?” “No one knows, but decisions had to be made so the Duke was forced to get a new cat. As you know, affairs of state cannot wait. So your ancestor was an ingenious carpenter who had almost found the Duke’s missing cat.” And so the tale came to a close. Grandpa went back to get another drink, returned to the couch, drained it, and immediately fell asleep leaving me in an all too familiar state of unenthusiasm.


Let me know what you think. A friend suggested I should write more chapters on this. \ I feel the fine hair on my arms stand on end as I gaze out at the dark parking lot outside of the bar where I work. It’s three am and we’re finally closing up. The night wasn’t particularly rowdy, but I’d come to think of something one of the regulars said the other week. You ever get the feeling, like you’re in a movie or in The Sims or something, and you just know that something’s going to happen eventually? Like there’s actual foreshadowing in your real, physical life? The guy had just said that he wanted me to *stay safe since I usually lock up and it’s kind of isolated here*. He’d just looked out into the dusk, after popping in for a pint after work, and said that. I don’t know. It didn’t stick at the time, but my mind wandered and - you know? And now, my skin is tingling for no reason. I’m probably just working myself up, but the wooden bar seems colder than usual, like it’s been bleached and now has a grey tint to it. I put the last of the cups to dry, make sure that the back door is locked, and hear a creak from the one creaky floor board in the front room. I think I hear someone curse under their breath, but it could just be the ventilation that just kicked on. My stomach sinks and I immediately become aware that the fire extinguisher is exactly twelve feet away, so my best bet is to unlock the door and safety lock on the backdoor and make a run for it. Not like a fire extinguisher is a great weapon anyways. At least mom and dad always told me to run if I heard or saw something out of place. Take no chances, just go. You can replace things, but you can’t be replaced. The adrenaline causes me to fumble with the keys and suddenly, every hair on the back of my body stand straight out, like a dog raising its hackles. I turn around and wince involuntarily when I see a man standing there. My brain starts working, feverish, desperately trying to remember if I have seen him before. My blood and muscles scream that he shouldn’t be where he is, and by the look on his face, I’d rather be anywhere else. Then, I see the handcuffs. My eyes well up involuntarily, and I hear the keys hit the floor before I even realize that I have dropped them. The man has this sick smile on his face, like he’s not too drunk to remember this tomorrow, but just drunk enough that he’s willing to explore That One Fantasy and he’s definitely strong enough to overpower me. He takes a step and I hear myself whimper, and I instinctively try to back away only to find myself planted against the back door. Sensing triumph, he tilts his head to the side, popping his neck, and rolls his shoulders. I hear the chain on the handcuffs jingle. How does a person even have real handcuffs? “Please don’t touch me.” The pathetic sentence escapes me, almost lacking my consent, little more than a whisper. I shiver with shame. Really? That’s my plan? Beg for mercy? I’m not going to find my hidden Kung Fu talents and smash him to a pulp? Why can’t I get a superpower like everyone else? My heart steps up the pounding a notch. It sounds like a spring flood in my ears. He still hasn’t said anything. He’s just got that same deranged grin, like he can’t believe his luck. We can hear cars passing by on the busy road a hundred yards away, zipping by. At least, I could have if I could hear anything past my own pulse. I taste salt. I’m crying like a helpless child, and he’s walked closer. He’s only a foot away and he towers over me. I squeeze my eyes closed, not that I know how that will help. I sob a single sob as he leans in slowly, savoring the moment, and sniffs my neck. He moans his appreciation into my ear. Disgust fills me like a glass full of bile at my inability to protect myself, and I feel his finger touch my wrist. Suddenly, I feel nothing. Not in the way where you are emotionally numb, but I literally feel nothing; not the air around me, not the man’s presence, not my own skin. I realize that the world around me, even through my eye lids, has gotten dark. I open my eyes to find that I am outdoors, on the other side of the door. The locked door. I am sitting on the asphalt outside the bar, dumbfounded, too surprised to feel any relief. Then, I hear loud swearing from the other side of the door, a very faint jingle, and the clicking of the locks as he undoes them, securing his passage to his desired prey. The surprise causes my body to phase back into solid, normal-human-being form. The wind on my skin is cool, not cold, and I am still stumped at being outdoors, so it takes a second before I realize that I need to run. *He’s about to open the door. Run, and run fast.* I stumble to my feet and turn towards the road right as I hear the door open. I run as fast as I can, propelled by some primitive instinct, but I hear him gaining on me. I’m almost to the road when I feel the air pressure shift and know he’s going to grab me. I shout, “I said don’t touch me!” and feel my body phase out again into nothingness. He misses a step, expecting to catch me, and has ended up with his upper body out in the road before he can stop. A semi, unable to dodge, clips his head at 70mph, disintegrating it in a mist of bone and blood. I am safe. I haven’t told anyone except the police what happened. Everyone thinks it’s cool that I can phase out and keep pestering me to tell them how my so-called superpower triggered. I wish I felt the same way.