As the morning sun shone through the windows of the apprenticeship building, Emily could feel her heart pounding with excitement. It was her first day as an apprentice chef and she couldn't wait to get started. She had always loved cooking and had dreamed of becoming a world-renowned chef since she was a little girl. Emily had spent months researching and preparing for this day, and she was ready to make the most of it. As she walked down the hallway, Emily noticed that the door to the room that was her cooking classroom was slightly ajar. She peeked inside and saw that the room was filled with tables covered in strange objects and ingredients she had never seen before. Emily couldn't help but feel curious about what was happening inside, so she wandered closer. Suddenly, the door swung open and Emily was grabbed by a tall, imposing figure dressed in a long robe. She was dragged into the room, and before she could even protest, the door slammed shut behind her. Emily's heart was pounding in her chest as the tall, handsome man held her against the cold brick wall. Emily had never seen a man so handsome before. He had dark, short hair, bright blue eyes, and a muscular body that made her blush. His strong hands pinned her arms above her head as he leaned in closer to her. The dark room was lit only by candlelight. The flickering flames cast shadows on the wall and created long, sinister figures that danced along the floor. The man's long robes brushed against her thighs, the soft fabric caressing her legs. The man wrapped his arms around her waist, his strong hands grabbing her hips and pulling her against him. The man was wearing a long, black robe and a tall pointed hat. His muscular form was dressed in loose-fitting clothing, with a long strap around his waist, a belt, and a small pouch attached. The classroom smelled of smoke and spices, mixing with the heat of the flames and the heat of the man's breath. Emily couldn't help but notice that the man's robe was thin and airy. Emily could taste the adrenaline in the back of her throat. She tried to struggle against his grip, but he was too strong. Emily sucked in the moist air of the room, tasting the faint sweetness of the candle wax. As she looked up, she noticed that he was bleeding from a gash on his forehead. His dark hair was matted with blood, and his face was twisted in pain. Emily couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy for the man who was holding her captive. "What do you want from me?" she asked, her voice shaking with fear. The pounding of Emily's heart echoed against the wall, mixed with the scrape of the man's robes as he moved against her body. The man looked down at her, his eyes intense and searching. "I need your help," he said, his voice hoarse. "I need you to help me get out of here." Emily's heart skipped a beat. She didn't know what to say or do. Was this man dangerous? Was he going to hurt her? She "Let me go!" The figure chuckled, the sound deep and menacing. "I'm afraid I can't do that, my dear," he said, pulling her closer. Emily could feel his breath on her neck and she shuddered in fear. "Who are you?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. "What do you want from me?" The figure leaned in closer, his lips almost touching her ear. "I am the leader of a secret society, my dear," Emily struggled against his grip, but his strength was overpowering. She winced as he held her tightly, feeling trapped and afraid. "Please," he pleaded, desperation in his voice. "You have to help me. You're the only one who can save me now." Emily tried to shake her head, to tell him that there was nothing she could do. But he pressed a hand over her mouth, silencing her protests. Suddenly, there was a sound from outside the room. It sounded like someone was running, and Emily's heart leaped with hope. Maybe it was someone who could help her. But before she could react, the man tightened his grip on her even further. Emily struggled against him, feeling trapped and helpless. With a burst of energy, Emily let out a scream. But before the sound could escape from her mouth, he silenced her with his hand. As she caught her breath, Emily looked into his eyes, trying to find some spark of humanity there. "how did I get in this mess?" Emily wondered in silence. still looking into his deep blue eyes. The smell of death was all around him, coiling from his body like a serpent, reaching out to her. She could smell expensive leather and designer cologne and could barely breathe. Emily felt her jaw drop as the guy finally released her mouth. She stepped back and rubbed her sore lips, glaring at him with a mix of anger and confusion. He looked genuinely sorry, but that didn't change the fact that he had just forcefully silenced her. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice low and urgent. "I had to make sure you wouldn't scream." "Who are you?" Emily demanded, eyeing him warily. He took a step closer and held out his hand. "My name is Draco. And right now, someone is trying to kill me. I need your help to get out of this building alive." Emily stared at him in disbelief. This had to be some kind of joke. But the desperation in his eyes and the urgency in his voice made her heart race with fear. "Why me?" she asked, unable to keep the tremble out of her voice. Draco paced back and forth in front of Emily, his eyes trained on her face as he tried to figure out whether or not he could trust her. Emily met his gaze coolly, her expression betraying nothing. "I've been at the Witchery School for years, and I've never seen you there." Emily shrugged nonchalantly. "I just started a cooking apprenticeship," she said, her voice low and even. "I'm still getting settled in." she was confused since she was still trying to understand how from cooking school she ended up in a witchery school. Draco studied her for a long moment, trying to decide whether or not to believe her. "Cooking? he asked "We don't have a cooking apprentice program here" he was trying to understand "You must have gotten the wrong address" he added "Or are you lying?" "No," Emily said almost too loud "I'm not lying, this is the right place, I got an invitation in my mailbox two months ago. Some chef called De Lauret invited me" "There is no De Laurent chef here, this is a witchery school, no human is allowed, or even knows the way here without being invited by one of our principals" he crossed his arms "I'm not lying I can show you the invitation" She spoke too fast, worried that he would change his mind and kill her in seconds. "You don't look too shocked by the fact that I just told you that this is a witchery school and that I am a wizard" he crossed his arms trying to figure her out. "I'm more concerned about the fact that my life depends on you deciding to trust me or not" She backed up a couple of steps. he kept looking at her, it was a weird story, impossible actually, she was a full human, and someone, or somehow she found her way to the most powerful witchery school in New Hampshire. There was something about the way she held herself, something in the way her eyes flickered when she spoke, that made him think she was telling the truth. Draco sat across from Emily in the dimly lit room, his eyes fixed on hers. "I can tell," he said, his voice low and intense. "I can tell you're not from around here." Emily shifted uneasily, unsure of how to respond. Draco leaned forward, his gaze never leaving hers. "And right now," he continued, "I can only trust you." Emily's heart raced as Draco's words sunk in. She had always been a cautious person, but this was different. There was something about Draco, something in the way he looked at her, that made her feel safe. Draco reached across the table and took her hand, his touch surprisingly gentle. "You're different," he said softly. "You don't belong here. And somehow, neither do I." Emily looked into Draco's eyes and saw something there that she had not noticed before. Emily nervously approached Draco, who was sitting in the corner of the room, his eyes darting around as if he was expecting danger to burst through the door at any moment. "Draco," she said softly, "I want to help you. I feel that for me to be able to get out of here in one piece. I'm gonna have to help you survive whatever you're involved in. So what can I do?" Draco looked at her, his expression guarded. "You'd be taking a huge risk by getting involved," he warned her. "But if you're sure, there is something you can do." "What is it?" Emily asked, her heart racing. "You need to learn a spell," Draco said, his voice low. "One that can help me escape." Emily's eyes widened. "I...I don't know anything about magic," she admitted. "That's okay," Draco said, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I'll teach you." He beckoned her closer, and Emily knelt down beside him. Draco began to whisper instructions, and Emily strained to hear him. she didn't understand most of the words, but she could mimic them. "Iculopus energen,tranforem" He said multiple times explaining something about energy, a wand, and dark magic. but somehow, Emily kept losing her mind in his blue deep eyes. "Focus, Emily," he said, his eyes locked on hers. "You need to channel your energy into the wand." She nodded, trying to concentrate on the task at hand, but her eyes kept wandering to Draco's muscular biceps. Suddenly, she noticed a small trickle of blood running down his arm. Her heart skipped a beat as she saw a deep gash on his bicep. "Draco," she said a little too alarmed "What happened to you?" she looked up, and with her hand, she cleaned the blood now dry in his forehead. "Let's just say, that I played the wrong cards" He laughed. "Are you okay?" she asked softly, trying to sound as calm as possible. "Don't worry about that, it will heal" he said acting tough. Draco grunted in response, his face twisted in pain. Emily quickly ripped a piece of fabric from her sweater and pressed it against his wound. "Here, let me help you," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. Draco winced as she applied pressure to the wound, but he didn't push her away. Emily couldn't help but notice the way his muscles tensed under her touch. "We need to get you out of here," she said. "Just repeat the words, concentrate on the wand, and visualize a circle moving in front of you. open a portal. accept my magic as if it was yours" his words made no sense to her, but at the same time, they did. "How can you tell me all these things, I'm just a human, what makes you so sure that I will be able to absorb or manipulate your own magic as if it was mine?" she asked tired of so many failures in just so little time. "Because even humans can possess magic. they just don't believe that they can" his hands held Emili's tight. "I think I won't be able to help you" She closed her eyes. Emily was feeling frustrated as she stared at an empty space. She could feel warmth moving from his hands to hers. moving inside her veins, as if her blood had been frozen and suddenly it wasn't anymore. She practiced the hand gestures countless times, but the portal refused to budge. She sighed and ran a hand through her hair, feeling defeated. Draco noticed her distress and placed a hand on her shoulder. "What's wrong?" "I can't seem to activate the portal," Emily replied, her voice tinged with frustration. "I've tried everything, but it won't budge. I just don't belong here maybe that letter was just a prank or a mistake" Draco gave her a reassuring smile. "Just because the portal won't open doesn't mean you don't have magic, Emily. Sometimes it takes time to find your power." "You don't have time. I don't have time. I want to get out of here too" She looked at him "And somehow cant just walk out of this room and leave" She crossed her arms. Emily looked at Draco skeptically, unsure if she truly had the gift of magic. Or if he was just trying so hard because somehow he needed her. But something in Draco's eyes made her believe him. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, focusing all of her energy on his eyes. As Emily looked deeper into Draco's eyes, everything around her began to fade away. She could feel the energy swirling around them, pulsating with a force that was almost overwhelming. The magic between them was intense, and Emily knew that this was what she had been searching for all along. Suddenly, she felt a powerful surge of energy coursing through her body. Emily's body began to glow with an otherworldly light, and Draco's eyes widened in surprise. "What is going on?" Emily screamed "Don't let go" Draco said "This is amazing" he added "Are you doing this?" Emily asked "Is not me" he smiled "Who are you?" he looked confused while his eyes looked at her. As he watched in awe. "Why do I feel like this" She could feel the rush of power moving in her body. It was as if she had opened a floodgate, releasing a tidal wave of magic that she couldn't control. The air around them crackled with electricity as Emily's power surged out of her in waves. And then, it happened. The portals began to open, one after the other until there were five of them swirling around them in a dizzying display of magic. The portals were all different sizes and colors, each one leading to a different place and time. Emily had never felt so powerful before. The energy from Draco must have been more potent than she had anticipated. Draco stepped closer to Emily, and she felt her body respond to his touch. The two of them were lost in the moment, completely consumed by the magic that surrounded them. But before Draco could explain what was happening, a sudden gust of wind caught their attention. They both looked up, only to see a swirling black vortex materializing before them. Out of the portal, emerged a group of black hooded figures, their faces obscured by the shadows of their hoods. Draco immediately recognized them as dark wizards - the most dangerous kind. "Time to go little human," Draco said. spinning Emily protecting her with his back without letting go of her hand. Without warning, the dark wizards lunged at them, brandishing their wands menacingly. Draco knew he had to attack quickly. Draco stepped forward, his wand already drawn, and cast a powerful shield charm. The dark wizards' curses hit the shield and bounced off harmlessly. But the dark wizards were not easily defeated. "Time to go, Emily," Draco said Draco was quick to react, hurling hexes and jinxes at the wizards with skillful precision. But it was too many attacking them, they couldn't move or reach one of the portals. "What do we do?" Emily screamed. Draco pushed her behind him letting go of her hand. Draco's heart raced as he tried to defend himself with spells, but the dark wizards were too strong for him. "Delubux incantante" Emily heard a voice in her head, soft and gentle yet commanding. It whispered a spell. Emily closed her eyes and repeated the incantation, feeling a surge of energy flow through her body. She wasn't sure of what she was doing, but stepping forward, with her hand in the air, she knew what she had to do. "Emily step aside" Draco demanded, but she couldn't hear him " Emily" he screamed again. But she kept walking, and without hesitation, Emily pointed her wand at the dark wizards and shouted the incantation, feeling a powerful surge of energy flow through her body. The air around her crackled with electricity as a bright light emanated from the tip of her wand, engulfing the three dark wizards in its radiant aura. She heard screams, her name, and a warm energy surrounding her body. When she opened her eyes again, the world had changed. The air crackled with electricity, and the wizards were frozen in their tracks. in her ear, all she could hear was a deep high peach sound, and her head spinning. her mouth dry and in a blink of an eye, she felt the strength of Draco dragging her across a portal. When the portal closed on the other end, she was in a forest, it was night, and Draco was right in front of her screaming. "How you do that?" he screamed "That is not something a simple human could do" he looked mad. "I don't know," she said Draco looked at her in despair, confused. "I don't know what happened" Emily looked a her hands, they were red and hurting. "What happened to me?" she said in tears. but Draco didn't have an answer all he could say was. "You are not human" he stepped aside "Then, who are you?


It isn't fair. You walked upon floors of shining gold and jewels, bathed in exotic spices and fragrant flowers. Your hands are as soft as silk, never daring to lift more than a silver spoon to coat your tongue with the honeyed fruits of my labor.

Hatred swarms my blood as the flies that plagued my broken body do. My tears are the only water I can drink, bitter and burning against my lips.

You will be immortalized within the palace walls; your porcelain body laid to rest. I will be a lump of dirt, a sacrifice to the Earth in hopes of a new life.

You could not take the one thing you desired, the last of my possessions. My heart is still within my chest while yours stains my hands in lovely shades of fury.

Yes, what a joyous sight it had been. You were as broken as I for a moment in time. Your castle was reduced to crumbling sand before me. I held what no other could begin to touch, and I had relished your pain as I destroyed it.

I wiped your tears when your favorite jewel was sullied. You laughed as my spine broke under your pressure. I searched the lands for the finest leaves in which to make your tea; you would not spare a cup of water. Your lips boast of great adventures and the highest finery, your throat spewing lies with ease. You claimed the Earth was yours if you so wished, no thing could escape your grasp.

When will you learn? I am more human than you. You are the one who has become a thing, a monster to prey on desperate souls. Pretty decoration to hide the blood in the cellar, no more use than a glistening rock. I am the ocean, sent to drown you. You filled your lungs with me, believing you could own me. Your hands grasped my waves, and I slipped through your fingers. I am the trees, I remember. Though my body may turn to dust my soul lives in the branches that saw your misdeeds. Take an axe to my bark and scream as I do not fall under your blade. I am the ground you wish to tread upon, daring to spit upon me. I watch as you fall through my cracks and laugh as your bones break upon my stones. You say there is no thing you cannot have, yet you forget I am not a thing. I am the fear that creeps down your neck, the hatred that sears your mind.

Yes. Sit pretty within your beautiful walls, light your incense and pray to your gods. The gods refuse to hear you.

No longer will my body be another unmarked grave, the only proof of your transgressions. No longer will your words destroy my mind as I beg for mercy on your golden floors.

As I lay dying, I feel no fear. No sorrow, no regret. You took those emotions from me as I took your sanity. Do you still believe I am the one insane? Perhaps I am. Is that why I laughed as you broke? The way you had broken me? If I am insanity, then you are destruction. You destroyed every good thing in your path.

I loathe you with every ounce of my being. I care not for a peaceful death; I wish for the world to mourn. I wish for the people to see the state of my corpse as I rot. The way you took every part of me. You took my eyes, so I could not see your wicked smile. You took my ears so I would not hear your evil schemes. You took my hands and feet so I could not run.

You asked why I had not left if it was truly so bad, but where was I to go? Beyond your rose-colored windows only death awaited me. Dirty streets and groping hands. No family nor friend would open their doors, they believe these marks upon my soul were due to my own faults.

Now, surely, you had learned your lesson. I had denied you my heart. Despite all your greed it is something you will never have, not even as you tried to cut it from my chest.

Your anger was expected, if not welcomed. My choice in the matter taken as your gold and jewels could do nothing to stop the flow of fate. My blood stains your floors, my cries marked on the Earth. "It isn't fair." I had whispered to no one but myself. Now, your expression is priceless, your pain is beautiful.

Is this what you felt? How truly drunk off of power I am as you fall before me, cries for mercy replacing your glittering lies. Oh, how sweet. I savor this. Your helplessness, your confusion. No promise of heaven nor threat of hell could compare, my bones dried in the earth yet my spirit standing before you.

Burn me to ash, call your priests and hold your holy books for they mean nothing to me. Feel my brokenness, feel my death and drown in my blood.

It isn't fair. How dare you walk where I once crawled, laugh where I once cried? Your glittering trophies adorn the walls that saw your sins. You drink of expensive alcohols that fuel your violence and laugh. How dare you? I lived as a broken shell, incapable of anything beyond surviving, and even that was stripped away from me. In life you escaped my revenge, your power over me steadfast. In my death I was given the power of the Earth and all her fury. I clawed my way back with every intent to rip your beating heart from your chest, and I did.

No one will leave flowers for my grave, yet dahlias bloom beautifully, a symbol. A warning. You paid no mind, but I did. I refuse to have died for nothing. It isn't fair. I will drag you over your floors made with gold and jewels, choke you with your spices and flowers, tear you apart with your silver spoon. Then I can rest. Only then will it be fair.


Caution swearing. Read at you're own risk... I loved my new glasses. The thick black frames lounged on my nose. The plastic arms touched, not clutched. The lens allowed my peripheral vision to relax. My eyes watered a little but they had to no longer try, try real hard to read. I could even see a large protruding, unplucked hair on my upper lip! I did not have to rely so heavily on my tactile sense or memory, or my hearing to inform me of my blurry world. After drinking a couple of coffees and finding my last cigarette filter, from crawling on all Fours, under the Cain frame of chair, I rolled my defiant cigarette, without washing my hands, and lit it. With my phone balanced on my left thigh and right hand free, I typed Reedsy Prompts into Google search, then password then reveal. The deal with the Devil prompt amused me! I chuckled. Near the outdoor furniture, an unfinished painting wanted my attention. I gave it some! The thought of phthalos blue crusts under dissuaded me. The stuff stains and dries slowly and hard to scrub off and out. The colour is transparent- beautiful- like the tranquil sea in the afternoon kissed by the sun. It's the sort of colour one can paint happy fish in, or mermids- whatever-

I wondered, did I want to spend a few hours writing a contentious story that would probably have the most righteous hitting my story and then sharing, to prove my unworthiness of having life and a different viewpoint. Also, then- there's the implications of some stupid person might go there, based on my supposition! Did I need to be responsible for that? Did I need all the Karen's stalking me and sucking my physical energy from their precipice of self righteous, rigid thinking? Looking up from my device, some sort of shadow seemed to forming in the corner of my right eye. As forementioned, my eyes were hypersensitive, learning, remembering, they had overworked and then upon recognition, telling my tactile sense it had over felt!

My notification bar, pinged. It was not a loud ping, but my hearing had still not conditioned to its new status, as my etes and tactile sense forgot to pass on the consensus! I was able to easy read, a Spam email- "Sell your soul" Once again, I was amused and to further my own merriment, I read it! I always read T's & C's. They say a wise person learns from their mistakes! Well, I learnt after loosing several hundred dollars twice!

Pussy-cat, seeing my mental focus, jumped for joy, squished my tummy and settled on my lap for a very reliable two hour sitting, or perhaps more? She always looked forward to that time- when I got passed the idea download, to a point of decisive action and then work. I guess any writer knows that sequence of ideas, of decisions and then real WORK! She widened eyes, at the expanding shadow, exhaling, muscles relaxing, purring, she happily welcomed sleep. One of the contract conditions was, "Write this week's Reedsy Prompt" I thought, "How fucking corny is that?" The other conditions sounded like a practical joke! By now, I realised that Reedsy was hacked!

PING, another email, this time from Reedsy! "We have been hacked! The site will be down for twenty-fours hours, while we update and strengthen our firewalls. Sorry for the inconvenience!" I checked the Reedsy Prompts for this week, sent two days prior.  Yes, there was one prompt called, "Making the deal with the Devil and unusual T's and C's..." When rethinking the generated Spam, I rolled my eyes, "Some smart asses out there!" I tightened my lips, now, what sort of T's and C's, the small print, would the Devil- if the Devil was real- Would (he) impose? And what would a person selling their soul want for such a cataclysmic idea?The notion of, THE Devil, singular, belongs to a paradigm. That notion of good and evil belongs to morals and the dogma- the daulistic third-dimensional reality. How could I write such a dinosaur idea? PING! This time, a Text! "Congratulations, Rose Lind you just sold your soul!" I was annoyed now! I'm really sick of hackers. I stayed cool when my phone company was hacked twice, taking all our personal data. I stay pleasant when having a few hours off work last month, lining up in huge serpentine lines, to apply for a new driver's licence. I shrugged my shoulders when the same phone company had an outage for twelve hours. I turned off the news, on my car radio, the uproar in Australia parliament as a result of the forementioned could be understood,  some people had medical issues, businesses lost money, hospitals were out! I answered that texted, "Fuck off!"

To my surprise another- PING- occurred! Email- "Compliance Communication! YOU HAVE VIOLATED CONDITION 15 (iii) " This was getting under my skin- I typed "Remind me please - " PING -another email! Breathing in and out a few times, I regained a quiet smile. The remaining muscle tension was channelled into a raised eyebrow! 'CONDITION 15 (iii), Thou shalt not swear!" I saw a contact tile at the bottom of the email and tapped it. On their site, I mocked, "Isn't the devil, the baddie? Isn't the devil the Jester?" Princess my customer service officer rolled, "..."- "..."- "..."- And finally an the automated thinking gave a reply, "I make the decisions, not you" I signed out. I really needed another coffee after that! But should I move and wake Jija, the cat? Would my normal musing writer ground to centre? I deliberately pressed both feet into the wet earth patch. It had rained yesterday and my feet were bare, as my old slippers in their dreary frumpy existence waited for their nightshift.  I imagined roots going deep to earth's core. I imagined fire burning away the emails and texts natter- disappearing! Pussy-cat cat feeling the regained vibe, purred deeper in her dream. Her little paws flickered like she was running. Maybe she was chasing a butterfly, or a feather on a stick. I dont know? What I do know was she was happy! I began to type, "Read at you're own risk!" I looked at the funny swirling mist in front of me and continued, "If the Devil really existed outside of a pluristic irresponsible, protectory, transferring, persecutory, punishing paradigm, then (he) would be the exact opposite of good. I reasoned- Mmm, sooo- if there were T's & C's- they would be the opposite of what you- your lower self- youre mortal physical mind-  would- umm- think of as good-" The mist turned to fluoro pink, green and blue! Persisting I wrote, "For example- You believe goodness is making your bed and ironing your clothes? Then you would be told to not make your bed every morning, or iron your clean clothes!" The annoyance of the Spam emails, texts etc returned to my mind, "So when you're dancing with Hell's domiciles, the talk of bed making every morning would be - leaving the sheets open allowing the sunlight and fresh air to destroy bacteria etc instead. OR- not ironing your clothes saves electricity and saves the Planet, thus,  forcing the state of allowance, to see human vanity" I realised, I needed a disclaimer- "Be careful- The Unseen world can be dangerous! The Devil may not be real to me, but to you- it might be! Tread very, very carefully, naivete still has beautiful soft flesh and bones to become a yummy dinner for something looking at you from another dimension! Protect yourself with whatever you believe in. Live in the guidelines of what your believed protection asks. And keep a strong mind- good mental health! If you need help chose the professional help of the path you choose!" My phone rang, "Accept or Deny" tiles gave a choice- speak or be spoken to? I chose silence. It rang through to message bank! A sound of a smashing glass mirror removed the sunspot from my eyes! The played recorded message spoke in some unknown tongue. I pushed Google translate, "You're application denied. We believe- you don't believe!"

Reedsy Site reappeared, I posted my boring story. 🐇


A misty, golden field of wheat, a periwinkle sky dotted with fluffy wisps of cotton. A light breeze ruffles the heads of wheat like an older brother ruffles the hair of a younger brother. Dotting this field of gold are random sparks of ruby and lilac. Rarer still are the shoots of emerald, blades and stems of support, defending the delicate petals as the mist comes to leave a chaste kiss. The sun, while it either rises or sets, as it is impossible to tell with no other landmarks visible, bathes the valley with iridescent beams of gentle beauty. There is some harshness here, as the brilliant beams cut through both mist and clouds. While surrounded by beauty and tranquility, there is an unshakable sense of dread. The stark contrast between the growing emotion, an unbridaled, rampaging beast seated in your gut, and the seemingly false sense of peace that permeates and drips off the surrounding landscape brings with it nausea. Suddenly the very earth is tilting and careening into an unforeseen oblivion, the anxiety a solid rock in your very fiber, your essence of self. All is very unwell, yourself overwrought with boiling, churning fear that rips up your insides as with hot knives. There is no peace for you here. Though you have not seen your tormentor, you know that he is here, torturing you even whilst in slumber. There is a fading glimmer of hope, perhaps tonight, you will wake before He shows himself. That you will not once again be forced to gaze on his likeness and drink the bitter cup of despair. The pain is unbearable, the dire anticipation of the evil that is certain to come draining away any semblance of vitality you once possessed. He is coming, with each step closer the life that once filled this humble place diminishes. The peace shattered, pierced in a manner that rivales the very sun. Even the light, once so warm, so inviting, has shriveled into a gray fog that clogs your nostrils, robbing you of your breath. Desperation, a clawing, frantic essence that possesses your very soul, seating itself, unbidden, into your heart. He is coming. Oh, for the sweet release of consciousness, the safety that rides the wings of the dawn. The precious relief of reality. There will be no salvation, He is close. There is no salvation to be found here, no deliverance from your fate. Your heart, as strongly as it had been beating before, seems to halt altogether. No matter how hard you try, your next breath will not come, as though your lungs have become concrete, filled in with gravel and dust, unable to function. Sweat, in large, acidic droplets, tear across your face. They sting your eyes, which are just now welling with tears that steal your vision. Suddenly, your muscles seize, frozen in an indescribable, primal fear. A horrible stench seeps into your very bones, corrupting you to the core. There is no escape from this fell torment, no relief to be found. Every night, for years, you have faced this demon alone. Each encounter brings with it the sinking realization that you are truly powerless, no comfort, no drug, no therapy can mount a defense against this monstrosity. He is here. There is no point in fighting it, resistance never yields any positive result. You learned long ago that any attempt to circumvent Him only delays the inevitable. There is no peace for you, no safety, no refuge to cower behind. The smell is so much worse now, rotting, infected flesh, bloated and green. Hot garbage is a pleasant perfume, a beautiful memory of days long past in comparison. The sounds, the godawful sounds. Like tossed bones in a wet, blood soaked leather bag, all sloshing around desperate to escape, free to bleach in the sun. Like when you step into a deep pit of thick mud, and try to lift your foot, only to lose your shoe to the suction, except you never leave that marsh. When He speaks, it is like gargling razors. A weak, lilting speech that makes your ears bleed, and eardrums burst, though even that does not cure your unease, and you hear him in your head. He is trying to take over, to control you as a mindless slave, bending and breaking you into his will. Shaping, molding your brain like putty with his words, which you cannot understand and are convinced are not any language heard in any mortal realm. He is upon you. His tendril-like fingers pierce your dwindling sanity, and he roughly spins you around to face him, holding you fast to his unflinching, unyielding gaze. There is silence now, but even that does not grant you solace. “I love you, Daddy.” This, this is what breaks you. You wake, tears streaming rivers into your cheeks, staining your pillow, as they have every night for the past thirty years. Not the terror, the insanity, the false sense of hope that all is right and everything is going to be okay. No, the endgame to your dread, the antithesis to your existence, is your dead son, who visits you in your sleep every night. He drowned, while you were at home with him. You’d taken a rare half day off of work, and went to create the best play day ever. Ice cream, water parks, go karts, and a movie while you put in the homemade pizzas to bake. You’d worked so much overtime lately, you must’ve dozed off. David, a rambunctious six year old with a love for all things water, had gotten a pool from you for his birthday, swimming lessons started the next day. He was a good kid, he usually listened, you’d filled up the pool for some last moments of fun after dinner, before the last sparkling rays of sun dwindled into nothing. You found him, facedown in the pool, an hour later, the pizzas burnt and smoke alarm blaring. It was so loud, it always made your ears hurt. You’d only just fallen asleep, the horror of what you saw never really kicked in until the funeral, when they laid that cold, unloving wooden box in the earth. There is no solace, no salvation to be found. Nothing can save you, nothing can grant you the relief that you’ve yearned for. Grief is a funny thing. They say that time heals all wounds, but you know that to be a lie. You know the real truth. Time is a merciless teacher, that shows people the secret of falsehood. The fake smiles at work, the sympathetic glances of coworkers, the oh poor so and so’s. The lonely nights, the empty days. The gloom that not even the dawn can shatter. It never gets better, but when you break down every night, you become an expert of building yourself back up, though it’s never quite right. You are cursed to long for peace, that will never come, not completely. Eventually, you change, and long for the release of a permanent unconsciousness, as the hope rekindles the flame in your heart, that one day, you will finally meet again.


“You can kick and scream all you want baby, but this ship is going dooown!” The demon howled joyfully as old-man-Ed scrambled on the floor of the empty McDonalds kitchen, like a fat rat having a stroke. By now, all his employees have escaped onto the streets. Not one wasting a second to help their obese abusive manager, who has been trapped in the inside of his fast food restaurant - at a very inconvenient time. “What the fuck is happening!?” Ed belched out between his fat lips. His round cheeks shined red below his forehead, dripping profusely of sweat. The panic and confusion towards the chaos erupting around him made him break out in pools of secretion. That, and the gigantic crack in the kitchen floor that seemed to have split open the earth beneath the shopping mall, omitting waves of heat that licked the surface. “My sweet baby Ed, it’s the final day - yeaaah! End of timesss, tribulation period over. D-Day is finally happening. Rapture ya- know?” The demon danced around the man and hopped onto the yellow counter to make himself comfortable with a fat cigarette and a pink milkshake. “Apocalypse now and all that fun stuff, you know?” Ed’s striped beige shirt was ripped open on the top, exposing a gold chain wrapped in curly chest hair. Some casualty buttons laid scattered across the dirty white tiles, while he fanatically clutched at his torso, breathing fast and heavy. “Who the fuck are you!?” he spat out, frightened at the site of this unnatural looking human creature, who had the face of an angel but topped with two small horns protruding from his soft locks of brown hair. His athletic body was dressed in the snazziest midnight blue suede suit. He also flaunted a pair of golden boots with black tips to finish off his ‘end-of-the-world-outfit’. “Moi?” The demon whirled his wrist in the air with a big smile. “I’m no one you should be concerned with right now. But, by the looks of it sweet-cheeks, we’ll be spending a lot of time with each other very sssoon. For all the getting-to-know-you-you-getting-to-know-me chitchats in the world” He happily replied. “Rather, you should be focused on more important things like the choices you’ve made throughout your life.” He blew a puff of smoke into the air. “What the fuck are you talking about!” Ed shouted in pain, “why is my leg disappearing?” “It’s not.” “Yes. Yes, it is I can feel it!” Ed tried to reach for the bottom of his left pant to lift up to see what’s going on, but his big belly pushed him back down on his back while the demon just slurped his shake and smiled. “And my eye! It’s. It’s going grey! I can’t see through it” he clasped his hand tightly over his left eye, hoping the pressure would stop the feeling that it was slowly being pulled out. The demon gave a satisfying burb and mumbled about how he missed the sweet taste of strawberries. “You see babes, today is all about the sssoul.” The demon dragged his long finger down his chest in a sensational manner while he licked his lips enthusiastically. “Today we’re all about finding out where our souls belong.” He winked. Ed let go of his eye and started to hit his head with the palm of his hand and commanded himself to wake up. “Wake up!” He yelled hysterically, “This is all a bad dream! Wake up!” “Oh, don’t be so dramatic” The demon tipped his cigarette ash on his chest. “This is just it. It’s every bad, selfish, fuckt-up thing you’ve ever done, comes down to this day.” He slurped some more, “But what makes you so special – why I had to really fight and beg to be the one to escort you back, is that near-death experience you had 10 years ago.” Ed’s eyebrows furrowed as he gulped like a goldfish out of water. “Don’t you remember sweet angel?” The demon’s ferret-like eyes closely observed his victim’s reaction and took another long drag. Ed remained quiet and pushed himself back up against the opposite counter, eyeing any options to escape. “You don’t remember, do you?” “Of course I do!” Ed snapped back, which made the demon grin. “It was that beautiful quiet night in September 2010 when you lied to your wife about a work function in Joburg,” air quoting the work function part, “But as I recall magoshas don’t do very well in giving strategic feedback on annual reports. Ha! More like anal reports. Am I right?” He winked and laughed. Ed snarled at him while he noticed sharp pains shooting through his back. “Sho, tough crowd” the demon smirked. “Anywhoo. Despite your colleagues telling you over and over again to not drive home, you ssstill insisted. Heck! You could barely hold your own balls up to shit straight. But noooo, you are big man Ed.” The demon mocked in gorilla-like voice. “And so, you got into your SUV, piss drunk, and sped down the M1 just to fall asleep at the wheel.” He licked his lips again, waiting for a reaction. “You woke up in the ICU the next day with half your body obliterated, remember?” He lingered again on the last part. “What do you want!?” Ed screamed hysterically. “Nothing really. I’m here for you baby.” Ed tried to get up, but gravity pulled his bowels back down and forced him to sit where he was and listen. “So!” The demon continued cheerfully. “What you chose to forget about that night is that you brutally killed a whole family, right? A sweet mother and a caring father to a baby boy and a 3-year-old girl. So pure, so innocent.” With those words he hopped off the counter and hunched down to meet Ed at eye level, his golden boots kicked open his legs to sit as close as he could – face to face. Ed could smell the sulfur breath and noticed a different gleam in the demon’s eyes as he stared into his soul. “But did it matter?” The demon asked softly. Ed gulped hard and tried to avoid making eye-contact. “Yes, actually!” The demon answered himself and bounced back up on the counter as if he was performing a hilarious skit at a children’s show. “Because ssince you were in need of a new eye socket, kidney and left bottom leg, the miracle of modern medicine and a convenient pile of dead family members - thanks to you of course - were able to transfer the parts to you. Did you know that? Ha! What a miracle that they had what you needed?” He smiled wide like a panting dog. “And you didn’t even get in trouble for that oopsie on the highway, did you? Just paid the man and made it all go away - you sssneaky snake you. I may learn a thing or two.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ed replied. “Oh. Well focus now honey, because this is important. You’re quite special since this was not the only transplant you’ve had, is it?” Ed grappled at his chest again. “Noo, you also have a new heart in you?” He giggled, “Because Mr.Tubby-wubby couldn’t control his brandy and coke intake, could he?” Ed moaned when he tried to move again but the tiles cracked underneath him as if an invisible force was pulling something inside him down. “Oh wait!” The demon exclaimed with a finger in the air. “That’s right, I just remembered what you told your brother the other day.” He cleared his throat and started to speak. But the voice that came out sounded exactly like Ed’s. “The only time a kaffer was useful is when this one died and gave me a new heart.” He even tapped his chest the same way Ed did when he joked about his new transplant from the African donor. The fat man screamed for help, but the demon just smiled and waited. In the demon’s own calm voice, he continued: “Fun fact, that donor was a doctor. Did you know that? One of those Doctors-Across-Borders type of guys, who sacrificed their lives for the sake of others. . . No matter what race or gender. I know, too fancy for my taste as well.” He smirked. “Oh, go fuck yourself!” Ed exclaimed. “Sweet baby, that’s the spirit!” The demon whooped like a drunk girl in a limousine. “It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there like you always say!” Ed finally slumped down completely on the floor, and felt his body being ripped apart in the different places where he had surgeries. Even though he couldn’t see anything happening he could feel the pain shredding through him as the invisible force tore into his insides. “Oh snap! Sorry sugar-tits! I forgot to tell you, silly me.” The demon got up onto the counter and paced it proudly like an actor in the spotlight. “I’m here is to tell you that our souls are sowed into every fiber of our bodies. Neat hey? So, it’s the rapture as you should have figured out by now, and that means it’s time for souls to travel to their final destination. Choo-choo!” The demon laughed hard. “You being you, of course - the oh so important Ed-magoo - means parts of you obviously don’t belong to you or here. And definitely don’t belong where you’re going. These parts, these foreign pieces of other people’s sweet souls, are returning to their rightful and righteous owners.


Any feedback on this first chapter of this short story is welcome. I just want to see if this is worth continuing writing or not. Thanks! Chapter 1: There’s nothing out here anymore. Occasionally we’ll pass a car or two pulled off to the side of the road, but for the most part, it’s just fields and hay bales. We’re headed to Rainwood, North Carolina. Supposedly, there’s a safe haven there. My shotgun’s in the back seat, and I’m holding onto my pistol, only because David told me that you can’t ever be too careful out here. You never know when you’ll come up on something that can take your life in an instant. Especially if you’re in the situation we’re in now. Our gas tank is empty, and our car is stopped, dead. David turns to me. “Alright,” he says as he unbuckles his seatbelt and grabs his gun from behind him, “let’s go.” I reach back, grab my gun, and put my pistol back in the holster on my hip. Luckily for us, there’s a several car pile-up on the highway about thirty yards from where we are. Maybe we can find some supplies, some gas, or even better, another car. David slings his gun over his shoulder, and I do the same, and we begin to walk. The silence, aside form the slight buzzing of insects around us, is comforting. It makes me feel safe, like I know were alone out here. Like *they* aren’t one step behind us everywhere we go. When we arrive at the jam, David immediately tells me to start searching the abandoned cars for supplies. He walks to the semi-truck about a quarter mile away from me, and I begin searching the cars in front of me. There’s about nine or ten here, so it shouldn’t take too long. Or at least that’s what I thought until I opened the back seat of the first car. I stop, frozen in my tracks, staring. Toy cars, a teddy bear, a baby’s car seat… all covered in an unnatural amount of blood. I can feel tears welling up in my eyes, and even though it’s hard not to, I can’t cry. I have to be strong, or, at least pretend I am for David. I don’t want him to think I’m weak, or that he has to always protect this “innocent girl.” What the hell happened to the world though? “Stop.” I tell myself. “Stop questioning. It’s over. The damage has been done.” David always tells me that you can question all you want, but questioning isn’t going to get you anywhere. You just need to deal with the circumstances the way they are. So I need to let this one go, as fucked up as it is. This can’t be our fault like the preacher on the radio said though, can it? He said, and I quote, “Sinners. You, your friends, your family, all of you. You are the cause. You’ve brought this on to yourselves. Almighty God has judged you, and this… this is your punishment.” No, this can’t be my… our fault. There’s no way we can be blamed for the state of the world now. But when someone pins the blame on you like that, you feel bad. You feel bad for the death, the innocence, and the heartache that the world has come into. “David?” I call out, and he answers almost immediately, “Yeah?” “Come help me search the rest of these cars.” I say, and he walks to where I am. As he arrives, he sees the car seat and toys, and I can tell that he feels just the same as I do about it. “Keep looking.” He tells me. “I got this one.” I can tell he doesn’t want it, the sadness is in his voice, but as I walk away, I’m thankful that he’s there for me. I’m glad I don’t have to look through the mess in that car anymore, though I can’t help feel bad for him. I walk to a Nineteen-Seventy’s looking pick-up truck, and peek over the edge of the bed to see if there’s anything worth taking. A toolbox. That could be good for something, you never know. I hop in to the bed of the truck and look at the small metal box in front of me, hoping, just hoping that there’s something useful in it. As I open the lid, I glance at David, now searching some sort of two-thousand’s SUV. He’s got the same serious, concerned look on his face that he always wears. I look back down at the box, now open, to see a pistol with two boxes of nine millimeter ammo next to it. The next thing out of my mouth is a cheer. “Shhh!” I hear David from behind me. He’s right. Those things, the dead, could be anywhere. I cover my mouth with both hands. “Sorry!” I say in a whisper, and wave at him to go back to his business. In the normal world, back before the outbreak started and the virus spread, it was just some stories on the news. ‘Ya know, “A man viciously attacked another man at So-and-So Mall today, taking a bite out of his flesh…” or “So-and-So Prison was quarantined today after several inmates killed and ate two of the guards, displaying the same symptoms of those infected in Asia, Europe, Australia, Mexico, and America…” But after a while, things got more serious. The CDC called it a virus, religious groups called it the wrath of God, and apocalypse nuts called it the zombie apocalypse. Whatever it was, it spread like wildfire. Soon enough, ninety-percent of the world’s population (or, so reported the World News) was infected, and there really wasn’t any hope of a cure, or survival at all for that matter. The army moved in and they were overrun almost immediately by the infected. Civilians were told to stay indoors and wait for help, though it never came. Bombs were dropped on the streets, cities were devastated, highways piled up, and people were killed. So now we’re here. David and I could be some of the last living people on the planet. The rest are either dead or turned into those monsters. So we just try to survive. That’s our goal. Survival. Naturally, when we heard word of a safe house in Rainwood, we thought it was the best possible thing that we could do for ourselves, considering that, prior to this, we set up shop in the storm cellar of a farm house, living off of 1 can of sardines a day, split between the two of us. You could say it was pretty hard for the first couple of weeks. I pull the pistol out of the box, but immediately retract my hand when I feel what I know see is a sticky clear substance, kind of like saliva covering the handle. I don’t want to think about what that is or why it’s on this gun, so I just pull out my bandana and wipe the handle off. As I put the two boxes of ammo in my backpack and the gun in my belt, I hear David yell, “Sarah, we’ve gotta’ go, now!” Quickly, I stand to my feet and look toward where he’s yelling from, but I don’t see him anywhere. To my surprise, however, what I do see are the brake lights of a silver minivan. I hop out of the bed of the truck almost to excitedly, and run toward the van. I open the door, and sit it the seat trying to catch my breath. “Tank’s full.” David says, and I turn to him, smiling. He smiles back, and begins to drive. This is the first good thing that’s happened to us since this all began. As David drives, he asks me if I’ve found anything valuable. Without a word, I smile and pull out my backpack. “What?” He says with a chuckle. I know he’s going to like this. First, I pull out the gun and hand it to him. “Nice! Jericho nine-forty-one. This is good.” He says happily. “That’s not all buddy.” I say as I pull out both boxes of ammo. “What? Are you kidding me? This is awesome!” he says even more excitedly than before. He smiles and so do I. It feels so good to know he’s proud of me. Ever since this all started, and ever since I met him, he’s been the only person I’ve had, so it’s good to know that at least someone is. And that’s it, we’re back on the road again. We’ve got a good ten-hour car ride ahead of us. That’s four and a half states to cross through, and that’s only if everything goes smoothly. Rainwood, here we come.


Primis was playing with his legos when his mother called him through the dome speaker. “Primis!” yelled his mother with a fair bit of static. “Dinner’s ready!”. He was almost finished with the lego set his dad gave him last Christmas. Slightly faded with some pieces missing, it was one of the lego sets his dad played with as a child growing up on Earth. Carefully placing the remaining pieces at the front of his bed, he heard the howling sandstorm that had been engulfing the planet for the past two weeks. The high pitched, sometimes shrieking, sounds frightened him as a child. Not anymore. He had grown accustomed to the noises, finding them soothing as he slept. “Coming!” he yelled leaning close to the speaker. He sprinted out the room, through his transport tube, and into the kitchen where his mother was preparing dinner. Freeze-dried spaghetti with canned broccoli. No surprises there. Ever since his parents left Earth, they have grown accustomed to the limited, sometimes flavor-less, cuisine that was available on the planet. Primis’s parents took part in the last phase of the final migration to Mars from Earth, a now desolate planet. His mother, two months pregnant on departure, became the first woman to give birth on the red planet. Primis belonged to a new class of Martian born humans, humans that have never known life without a spacesuit or decompressed space domes. He often wondered what life was like for children growing up on Earth. He would get lost in the stories his dad would tell him of summer trips to the beach, trailblazing through snowy mountains, or backyard barbecues. “Not hungry?” his mother asked after seeing him play with his food. “He must be daydreaming again” replied his father showing a hint of annoyance. His parents had just returned from a full day trip to the Jezero Crater, spending most of the day looking for rare ores and metallics. As a former marine biologist who spent most of his life on the ocean, his father struggled to adapt to his new profession of “rock collecting” as he called it. “I’m just not hungry Mom” replied Primis, still swirling his food. “Can I be excused?”. His mother let out a sigh then looked up at his father. Rolling his eyes, he nodded to his mother. “Yes, but make sure you clean up that mess of Legos before bed. I had to pick them up all over the room last time after work”. Primis gave her a small smile and started carrying his dish to the kitchen sink. “Hey bud” his dad said with a more benevolent tone. “Guy from work got me another copy of National Geographic if you wanna take a look. It was one of the final issues before, you know” his dad paused to not bring up the migration again. “I left it on your bed. It’s all about deep sea diving with neat pictures of Phylum Chordata, you know uh, rare fish and sharks.” “Thanks dad” Primis, more elated now, started walking out of the kitchen. As soon as he was out of the view of his parents, he picked up his pace with anticipation. He loved these magazines. He would spend hours at his bed getting lost in the close up images of Dwarf Puffer Fish and Sawsharks. As he was sprinting down the space dome hallway, he caught a bright reddish light coming from one of the windows. Slowing down, he neared the window and smiled. He knew exactly what it was. It was the unmanned space vessels taking off one by one. He knew that these exact ships would soon be landing on Earth. They would fly right over those oceans his dad always talked about. These were the last missions back to the home planet, completely unmanned and automated. These vessels were tasked with gathering the last precious resources left on the desolate planet. With the sandstorm still raging outside, Primis made his way back to his room. Pushing the remaining legos under his bed, he collapsed and sunk his head deep into his pillow. He let out a sigh. Leaning slightly forward, he picked up the magazine his dad left him by his feet. Deep Blue Sea: Creatures Of The Unknown. Unknown indeed he thought. Skimming the magazine he knew these fish and sharks would always be what they are, ink on paper. He knew that where those ships were going is where you could truly experience what Earth was like. Remnants of the past. Where those ships were going. He kept repeating this in his head. He knew that he’d most likely spend the rest of his life on Mars, especially as NASA recently postponed the Solar System Exploration program due to budget cuts. Mars was the end destination for most people. “This is it” he said out loud. “This is my chance”. He knew the unmanned vessels would be a perfect way for him to see where he truly came from. Earth, up close and personal. Since the launchpad was only two miles from his family’s space dome, he could traverse through the sandstorm under cover, and sneak onboard the vessel before a scheduled launch. Completely undercover, completely undetected. The idea of having no helmet and staring out into the ocean made his heart race. He wondered how the fresh pure air would feel on his lungs as he breathed it in. He became lightheaded and stood up in his bed. He walked over and sat down at his desk. He knew his parents wouldn’t take it well, especially his dad. He really didn’t want them to worry and told them that he’d only be gone a few months. More importantly, he told them he knew which necessary supplies to take and that food was not an issue. He knew these vessels were used during the final migration and had enough food to feed fifty people on one mission. Feeling confident, he thought his parents had trained him well, well enough to complete a round trip mission by himself. He took a deep breath in. He was ready. “Love Primis” he concluded his note. An empathetic thought of the sadness his parents would feel crossed his mind. He knew his parents would not be happy and would worry endlessly about him. He planned to send them frequent transmissions to keep them informed of his well being. He thought over time they would understand. He envisioned himself describing his adventures back at the dinner table and imagined how excited his dad would be. After all, this is the home planet his parents longed to return to, just as much as he did. He started packing his backpack with clothes, his lego set, and few issues of National Geographic, including the new one that his dad had given him. The journey back to Earth would take a few months so he’d need some form of entertainment. The magazine would be a reminder of what was to come, and what to look forward to when he arrived. He never once thought about being alone - it’s something he’d grown accustomed to, spending hours, days, and years in his room within his family’s space dome. It’s all he ever knew. As he zipped his backpack shut, Primis started to feel something he’d never felt before. A sudden rush of euphoria and excitement. He was doing it. He carefully placed his note in the center of his desk and quietly closed his door behind him. He inched his way through his transport tube and back into the kitchen. He saw the dirty dishes lying in the sink, the faucet dripping, and the light shining through the crack underneath his parents bedroom. His dad would stay up reading the same magazines until he fell asleep, always dreaming about his life back home and the days he spent on the ocean. I’ll bring something back for him, Primis thought. He entered the code to the airlock and stepped inside to grab his spacesuit. He took one look back at the light under his parents bedroom door and put on his space helmet. He grabbed his backpack, adjusted the strap, and took one final deep breath in. He pressed the seal latch to enter the payload bay and took his first step out onto Mars’s terrain. He was suddenly hit with a strong gust of wind that nearly knocked him off his feet. He could barely see in front of him and used his arm to shield some of the sand blowing in front of him. He had only ever been outside during a sandstorm once with his father, when they ran late returning from a NASA training seminar. Luckily, he was able to keep his balance, hold onto his backpack, and slowly started to move forward step by step. He was slowly walking towards the bright red light of vessels taking off in the distance. The gusts of wind only seemed to get more intense after each step. It was like the wind was on a mission to knock him to his feet. Struggling to maintain his balance, he forgot to look up to see if he was going in the right direction. Starting to panic, he looked left and right and even behind him. He was unsure of his exact location and was not able to see his family’s space dome anymore. Primis began to breathe more heavily and heard the elevated heart rate warning go off in his spacesuit. He picked up his pace, now ignoring the fact that he was losing his balance with each step. What am I doing out here, he thought. Realizing that he might have made a mistake, he felt a sudden thump on his helmet and fell backwards on his back. Regaining his sense of surrounding, he looked up to see what he had hit. Through the thickness of the sand, he was able to make out two steel bars that led up into the thickness of the storm. The vessel ladder. He realized he had run right into one of the vessels without even seeing it. This must be one of the last vessels to be leaving tonight, he thought. He grabbed a hold of the ladder, took the first step, and started climbing. After climbing a few steps, he started to see the vessel in its entirety. On the front of the ship, he made out the giant logo plastered behind a white backdrop: *NASA - Mars Exploration, Vessel #4523*. These were the same reusable rockets that took the last humans from Earth. Now, it will be able to take another human back home for one last visit. He reached the passenger access hatch, turned the handle, and pushed it open. To avoid setting off any alarms, he quickly pushed himself inside the vessel, turned around and pulled the hatch shut. Catching his breath and letting his heart rate settle, he removed his helmet and laid it beside him. Looking around he could see the old instruction signs from the previous missions. As he got to his feet, he heard an automated message over the loudspeaker: “T-minus 10 minutes until launch” Realizing how close he had cut it to launch, he knew he needed to secure himself before liftoff. He had not actually been on one of these vessels before but followed the instructional signs to the passenger section of the ship. For the previous missions, most people had never even been to space. NASA did it’s best at trying to provide guidance on what to expect and how to properly operate aboard a spacecraft. Embarrassed about how little he knew, he found the signs and instructions helpful. He followed the signs into the passenger seating area and placed his backpack underneath one of the seats. He sat towards the back of the passenger area so he could get a good look out of one of the oval shape windows. “T-minus 2 minutes” . Feeling anxious and excited, he closed his eyes and took another deep breath in. He looked back out the window and could make out the lights of certain space domes in the distance. “10 seconds remaining”, echoed the loud speaker. Before he knew it, he was being propelled through Mars’s atmosphere, feeling the force of the rocket engines on his entire body. It was a level of intensity he never experienced before. I think I’m going to be sick, he thought. After a few minutes of fighting his nausea, everything suddenly got quiet. He knew he had reached Mars’s upper atmosphere and was now officially on the start of his journey. He loosened his seat strap and adjusted his spacesuit to get a better view out the window. It was the first time he could see Mars as a whole. The red barren planet, his birth planet. He turned away from the window and smiled. He was going back, he thought. Back to the home planet and for that he was grateful.


I was looking at this sub's stats trying to get an idea of what does and doesn't do well here (each community is different) and chuckled when I saw the "Top Keywords" which are qualified as "The keywords that are most often used on this subreddit in particular, **relative to the global frequency of that keyword**." 1. gestured (898.8) 2. barked (652.1) 3. dimly (652.1) 4. chimed (480.7) 5. creaking (476.6) 6. beamed (476.6) 7. gleaming (459.8) 8. hurried (459.8) 9. groaned (426.4) 10. lunged (412.1) 11. fluttering (401.3) 12. blurted (376.2) 13. leaped (376.2) 14. ached (358.3) 15. sprinted (340.4) 16. lingered (329.2) 17. strewn (322.5) 18. sobbed (313.5) 19. shriek (304.6) 20. blankly (301) In a recent rereading of one of my novellas, I noticed I'd used "gesture" (or "gestured") 3 times. The uses aren't near each other so I think I only noticed it because I read the whole thing very quickly due to nearly no pauses to make notes or edits. r/shortstory's "Top Keywords" isn't all that similar to this sub's. "Gestured" is #2 there right behind "patted" which didn't make the list at all on r/shortstories. I'm not saying these words are bad to use or anything like that. But this metric drew my attention to the fact these words appear more frequently in short stories than they do in the rest of Reddit.


Imagination was outlawed in Steel City. It was as simple as that. Only the mention of the god-forsaken word could get you in trouble. This meant no bedtime stories, no creative games at breaktime and no fun. The Higher-ups' reasoning was simple; order as opposed to chaos, productivity instead of laziness, work instead of procrastination. So it was in a city like this that Jones woke up to, stone-faced and expressionless. Yet little did he know that this afternoon he would embark on an adventure that would change his city and himself forever. He would discover… Beep Beep Beep The deafening silence woke him up, and he yawned once, twice. As was routine. As was allowed. Marching downstairs in thirteen seconds, he sat down to breakfast. The familiar greeting of, "Morning, morning. Any dreams last night?" from his dad was what he heard first, and he saw the breakfast table lined with the necessary food; cereal, toast and water. Nothing better to start the day. "Not really," was the scripted response, the same each time. He sat down at the table and munched on some toast, ready to be reviewed. "So… You spent 12.87 seconds getting down here. A new record!" A half hearted smile plastered on his face, Jones resumed nibbling on the food and responded, "Yes father. I am proud of my record and will continue to strive for greatness." His father, one of the respected Higher-ups, had started training his son earlier. A thing would be unheard of if he did not possess such a title. Yet he did, and Jones developed quickly, outsmarting those in his schooling work. This was a mistake. Everyone was equal here. Everyone had the same abilities. Everyone had the same opportunities. Everyone was the same. And so it was written on the front gates of Steel City, named after the ore it was built on. It stood great and proud, as if a concentration camp (although this was - of course - never discussed) exactly the same height as the other cities. They had the exact same amount of letters. Saturn City. Spider City. Smiley City. All had the same letter too. So did the citizens. There was John, Jenny, Junifer, Junior (although this one was looked down upon) and Jannet. All the same. All the same. Yet Jones was different. Not that he liked to admit this fact to anyone. He seemed ordinary. Was ordinary in the eyes of all. Even his father. But he had one particular quirk that was undeniable… … He dreamt. Dreaming was never discussed in Steel City, aside from the morning routine. It was prohibited, punishable even. Nobody dared speak of imagination. However, Jones' father had made a mistake. A crucial mistake. He repeated sentences so much to poor Jones that he was bound to repeat them back, without questioning their meaning. One day, at school, he had said the following, "I'm starving." Obviously, his teachers had scolded him, correcting him. "You're not starving, God forbid, you're hungry. Repeat after me…" And so he did. Every day. For the rest of his life. Until today. Jones recalled the dream with a tinge of joy. He had been flying across the sky, the vast collage of blue his canvas. He would paint on it, his own presence. He towered above all others, and was the master of flight. He was like a bird. Free from the compound and chains of life, the shackles of society. He was air-borne. Of course, he did not say these things to his father. To think of the shame! Instead, he finished his morning breakfast, and right on the chime of the bell that resounded across the city, he opened the door of his home. As did the rest of the citizens, perfectly on time. Aside from one. One dared disrupt the serenity of Steel City. Immediately, guards sprinted up to him, delivering a hasty blow to the head with a club. The man cried out, not used to the burning pain that now flooded across his body. As was routine, all citizens nearby watched and egged the guards on. Shouts of, "Get em!" echoed across the town. It was the one time everyone was allowed to express the true nature of the human spirit, declare their differences without being punished. Jones excitedly retold the event at his school, whispering the news to all that would listen. His friend Jessica eagerly listened, and opened her mouth wide before snapping it back shut. "Then blood trickled down his neck, and he lay dead across the floor!" "Wow. That must have been exciting." "It was…" This would be a story retold for generations to come, all throughout his family. As would the story his father had passed on, of a builder who trapped his hand in machinery and had it snapped clean of. Violence was sensational to these people. Annual fights were hosted for all to come to watch. It was a phenomenon! Victors took their prize money, and gladly donated it to the Higher-ups, tallying it up in the national competition. Steel City was always number one. It was how the city proudly presented itself, so high up on the podium. High in the sky. Perhaps as high as Jones in his dream. He recalled it now, vivid in his mind, nearly as vivid as the violence he had viewed. Would he dare tell Jessica? No. Nobody must know. He marched in perfect strides to the science labs. Today, he will be learning about animals. 'Such a funny sounding name,' he thought. "Indeed," exclaimed Jacob, their tutor. Jones had not realised that his tutor was using a reading device. Reading devices were used to read someone's mind, as if a book (although the people of Steel City did not know what a book was). It enabled others to access your thoughts. For a split moment, Jones feared the worst. Had Jacob overheard his fantasies about his dream? But the tutor swept by, his dark cloak nearly folded behind his back, and assessed students on their illustrations of chameleons. "These wonderful creatures…" he began… " "Sorry, sir. Define creatures." It was Jessica. "Creatures refers to an animal with an unusual ability. This one, as if it was about to explain, can camouflage themselves. Does anyone know what this word means?" John, the smartest member of their class, answered. "Yes, my mother told me. She works on the outside…" He has proudly repeated this fact many times. "It means it can change colour based on its surroundings." A smug smile appeared on his face, correct yet again. He was always correct, and also the son of Jacob. No doubt had their tutor explained the answers to his precious child beforehand, so that he would have an advantage over the rest of the class. Such bribes were common in Steel City. So common in fact, the guards did not bother outlawing it. It happened, nobody complained, and nobody prevented it. It was as simple as that. When class had finished, the students promptly set out for break. They would not be allowed to play. Instead, it was a common sight for students to study in their spare time. It was what they came to school for, after all. Why not task themselves with completing homework? Yet Jones got curious, and ventured toward the outer edge of Steel City. A crack. In the wall. Jones braced himself, took a deep breath, and stepped outside the wall for the first time ever. For once, he would begin imagining to imagine.


Throughout the annals of history, many facts are long forgotten, or were never recorded at all. This can be very accurate when regarding the time us humans were only lurking in caves. Though it is quite unfortunate to think so, there are many tales of hardships in every corner of the world never going to be told. Cultures, traditions, sunk by the rising tide. Deities and beliefs comprise a major portion of these old bygones. One deity, an old deity, the first deity, was forgotten almost sixty thousand years ago in the lands of Eastern Europe. Yes, the first god. No name was given for him; people of this time had no use of names yet. Our first ever belief of a higher power, conjured up in some tiny village. It was near the beginning of winter. His village of worshippers had yet to supply enough for the season. They couldn’t hunt animals; it wasn’t the way he taught them. They were farmers, not slaughterers. So, his people, despite the dire consequences that’ll develop, will only eat the supplies of vegetation they could gather in time before winter. Many kept their hopes up, believing their god will help them in their inevitable struggle in the snow, but some in their community had their doubts. Winter came, and the harsh storms targeted their village. They snuggled inside their huts. The outside was now a trap of white blindness and frost they couldn’t enter. The people stayed in their beds, resting and eating whatever food that was supplied to them. That was their regular routine during all this season: waking, eating, then sleeping. One girl from the village woke up early. She yawned and grabbed inside the nearest basket of rations she’s had for store, and felt nothing. It was empty. She looked inside other baskets, but like that one, they had nothing inside. She had to think of a plan, so she wore the cloths of her bed around her, and headed out in the blizzard. She approached the home of her neighbors, asking for any bit of leftovers they might have. But they had nothing, just like her. For the sake of the neighbors’ child, they joined her into asking people from other homes. Once again, the next huts had no food. The entire village had nothing, they would all find out. Two months and the villagers consumed the remaining batches of provisions. Yet, the people remained vigilant, for their beloved god. But their vigilance in this belief would only further their desperation. Days and days went by. Their methods growing increasingly hopeless. Without a healthy source of food, people from the village usually had to go outside and pick anything edible from bushes and trees. Sometimes, they went outside and picked out the grass from the snow and swallow it. Other times, they’d actually swallow the snow itself. Ingesting this snow would be their main cause of sickness. They were hungry before, now they were starving. One man from the village reserved most of his meals for his younger brothers and sisters during the initial winter. He was now a pale, hungering sight of a man by the end of it. He lied motionless on his bed, he seemed almost dead. His eyes were shutting. He was using up any might he had left in his system to fight off the darkness encumbering him, but without anything to bite, sooner or later, he will pass. His siblings sob by the bedside, and meanwhile, a snow rabbit appears on their doorstep. An idea lighted up in their heads. They grab the rabbit by the neck, and look around for a pointy stick. They stabbed the rabbit in its forehead, and offered it to their dying brother. He was horrified by what he saw. At first, he refused to do such a blasphemous thing in front of what they cared so much for, a divinity whose enlightening practices made them such a wonderful and civilized people in his eyes. But the man feels the burning, excruciating pain of desire and hunger. Whether he liked it or not, or whether his god liked it or not, he had to consume the rabbit, for his own survival. He held the rabbit gently, as respect for the innocent little life his siblings took, then he munches on the rabbit like a savage with his bare teeth. From this one moment hinging on his life, he broke the codes his god applied. From a spark of miracle, perhaps from their own deity, the blizzard storm slowly but gradually waned down. It was still not a suitable terrain for farming, but it was suitable for hunting. They had to act quickly. They were no time for debating. This was the only chance they’ll get to make it through the winter. There’s no telling when the blizzard will strike again. The men, women, children, and even the elderly grabbed spears, rocks, and anything remotely resembling a weapon and moved out. They butchered every living creature stumbling in their way: rabbits, racoons, foxes, fishes, birds, and stags. Their old limited way of livelihood was futile and fruitless, they now believed. Ever since that one winter, they stroke out to never fool themselves ever again. The people despised their god for the many families they lost on that winter. In time, the memory of this deity faded, blending in with the dust. The first symbol of a higher power created and the first one forgotten. The first of many.


The longest journey of Marigold's life was four flights of stairs and a corridor. She came home early from work one morning due to a neighbourhood electricity failure. Marigold, a psychology student, was glad of it, because it gave her extra time to progress with her thesis, "Creative Repression as a Mechanism Against Trauma". She knew that she'd probably have a nap first though. Maybe watch a movie. Marigold's mother liked to say that the psychology of procrastination would have been a more appropriate subject for her to cover. Home was apartment 7 on the second floor of a three-storey private building, too large to be a house and too small to be a block of flats. Marigold liked the place very much. Mr. Bailey, the landlord, kept the front garden well-kept and she particular liked the thick vines of ivy growing up the front of the building, passing her bedroom window. For some reason it made her happy every time she saw it. She'd only been there a couple of months, but those neighbours she'd met were friendly, and Mr. Bailey, a small, busy old man who always wore four shiny medals on the lapel of a spotless blazer, lived in a unit on the ground floor himself. Marigold pushed through the front doors and was looking down into her handbag, rooting for her buried keys, as she arrived at the first flight of stairs. A polished shoe entered her vision. Marigold looked up saw Mr. Bailey and gave an in-motion smile/hi as she passed. The phrase "boys and their footballs" popped into her head from nowhere, which was random enough to puzzle her for a second. Up the stairs went Marigold, trainers sinking slightly in the light-green carpet. The carpet was another thing she liked, it made the place feel homely. But she didn't look down at it today. Instead, she looked forward, feeling a strong determination to have a productive afternoon on her project. Specifically, she had a new case study to work in. Winter, 1983, a shoeless teenager found wandering through the streets of Paris with no memory of where he'd come from. After a year of in-patient treatment Christian X had begun to build a life in the community and was becoming a cheerful and gregarious young man. But his continuing therapy pushed him to retrieve his memories. Turned out he was an orphan and former child soldier, and upon remembering this he promptly had a severe nervous breakdown. The question the case highlighted was, should some memories stay repressed? If you see something unthinkable, is it not better to not think about it? Maybe sometimes, when the brain blocks something, it's for our own good. Marigold reached the top of the first flight of stairs, a small landing with a framed photograph on each three walls. All three were black and white and botanical in nature - a daylit jungle scene at ground level, a closeup of a strange flower, and the last was a jungle landscape seen from above. It looked like a thick green rug over the land. As Marigold's shoe pressed into the carpet of the first step of the next flight of stairs and she wondered what it was like below that canopy, what dangers would lurk. A snake slithering behind, a panther pouncing from a shadow. What would happen if she were suddenly transported there, as is? How could she defend herself? Marigold's hand tried to instinctively squeeze the heavy bottle opener on her keychain and she realized that her hand was empty. She hadn't taken it out of her bag. Strange. Marigold reached the first floor and looked left as she passed. There were two flats on either side of the corridor - more like a long landing really - and more framed photographs of a similar nature. Apartment 2 held Tomasz, an accountant of some sort who had helped Marigold carry a bookshelf up to her flat once. In apartment 4 lived Sam, a writer with a cat named Wednesday. Marigold had shared a glass of wine with Sam shortly after moving in and liked her very much. Shame she was moving out soon. When Marigold turned her head back to focus on flight number three, a picture snapped into her mind, a memory clear as a photograph. Strands of Sam's wavy blonde hair venturing into her glass of red wine, the tips floating on the surface before being rescued with a giggle. It was a pleasant moment. So why did icy fear and sadness stab through Marigold's stomach, powerful enough that her next step had a little more of a thud? Her brows furrowed in confusion at the completely unprovoked panic response. Her next step was normal though. And the next. Something strange was happening inside her, her brain fighting something, her body somehow moving smoothly, relaxed and unhurried, an autopilot she'd never felt before, yet her heart thumped violently in her chest. Fourth step, fifth. Looking up she saw the next three photographs waiting for her at the next landing. Marigold had never given them any thought despite seeing daily. She knew they were all pictures taken by Mr. Bailey during his military service long ago, as he'd proudly told her when first she had met him. Now, she really saw for the first time. A twenty-something Mr. Bailey, sweaty and handsome in his dirty army fatigues, posing with a friend beside a table set up outside a tent. On the table were indigenous items: a spear, an axe, some jewellery, an arrangement of fruits, a shrunken head. Flight number four and the pictures were behind her. Her eyes locked on the top step above, a summit beyond which was the safety of her door. Her calm was protected by a wall and something was violently battering at that wall in time with the bashing of her heart, and it was screaming something, four words over and over and over. But she knew that to hear them was death. Step. Step. Step. Finally Marigold achieved the landing and before her was a mirror of the four doors below. She saw the shining silver "7" on her door, second on the left. Ten paces away. Her legs felt like jelly but they walked, and her eyes, her existence, locked onto that blessed number. Marigold's right arm knew that her keys were still in her bag and went inside, the hand the head of a hungry snake rooting for a mouse. It found the object, gripped, removed it, the left arm coming around the body to aid in manipulating the point of the key forward, so in the last three steps to the door Marigold's posture was of one carrying a holy offering. She arrived at her door at an angle too shallow, and knew that she needed to turn to face the door directly, but she couldn't because her body refused, and as her sweaty hands betrayed her and dropped the key, the barrier broke and the screams became clear. They were screaming “don’t look behind you". And as Marigold finally understood, a much calmer voice, real and close to her ear, said: "You’re home early, young lady.


The coughing was deep and relentless. The huffing noises from the ventilators was hurting my head. I worked in a dermatology practice to avoid this kind of medical work. The covid ward was too much for me to handle. I wasn’t sure I could make it thru my shift. A long time ago, my granddaddy used to say something like, “the old gray mare ain’t what she used to be”. That old mare would be me right now. The noise and deaths are breaking me. I am working insane hours. It’s nine o’clock on Friday and I still have two hours left. This is my sixth straight twelve-hour shift. Even worse, the shifts alternate between day and night hours without notice.  I need a good night’s sleep, without nightmares, and some regular mealtimes with nutritious food.  My stomach is making weird kitten-like noises from all the coffee I’m drinking. Rates of covid are so high in my town that the nurses in my dermatology medical group are all working in the main hospital. Appointments for our regular patients are cancelled until further notice. Apparently, I missed the fine print in my employment contract that stated the hospital had “broad employment discretion” over me during a medical crisis. Covid is our current crisis. My feet ached and were sweaty and swollen. My back hurt as I leaned over to check my patient. He was an eighty-year-old man, barely conscious. I put on my best smile thru my mask and face shield and spoke softly to him. There was no reaction, but I sensed he knew I was there and caring for him. Sadly, he reminded me of my deceased dad. I had been the primary caretaker for my dad when he was diagnosed with cancer. I tried to be the best daughter that I could be, and I began to read medical journals and anything I could find online about his cancer. I  discovered that I was particularly good at deciphering complicated medical information and then explaining it to my dad. I was able to help my dad thru some of his worst days. Nursing my dad thru his cancer was awful, but it inspired me to study and become a nurse. I wanted to be a nurse, but I didn’t want to work in operating rooms. I thought perhaps pediatrics or oncology might be good specialties. I loved children and I had learned a lot about oncology. Before  graduation, I received an offer to work in a prestigious dermatology practice. I gladly accepted the offer complete with a sign on bonus! Now, after fifteen years in the practice, I never complained about my job. The hours and office location were perfect. I enjoyed my lowkey schedule working Mondays thru Fridays from nine to five. Most of the patients were very pleasant and reasonably healthy. This was in stark contrast to my current position. In the covid ward, the thought of tomorrow’s activities was keeping me going. I was babysitting my baby niece and nephews, ages nine and seven, for the weekend. My sister and brother-in-law were finally attending a friend’s wedding, postponed twice already due to covid. The bride’s family decided to have the ceremony and reception at a friend’s large house near the water. This meant overnight travel for my sister and brother-in-law. At this point in my life, I wasn’t sure if I was ever going to meet someone that I wanted to start a family with. For now, I loved my niece and nephews as if they were my own children.  As soon as this exhausting shift was over, I would rush home and get a good nights’ sleep. Amazingly, I slept deeply for six hours. I jumped out of bed as the sun peeked thru the window blinds. The local weathercaster promised it would be a beautiful, sunny fall day. The kids and I would be able to spend lots of time playing outside in the fresh air and sunshine. I couldn’t wait for our special weekend.

When I arrived at my sister’s house, she was dashing from room to room, checking the piles of kids’ clean clothing and diaper supplies. This was the first time they were leaving the baby overnight, and both seemed stressed. The baby had just turned one. To ease their worry,  I reminded them that I was a nurse and they had nothing to worry about. Besides, the kids adored their only Auntie.

I scooped the baby out of her playpen so my sister could gather the last of her belongings and pack the car. My brother-in-law was scoping around the outside of the house, checking that things were in order.  He casually mentioned that the boys had been playing hide and seek all morning and were full of energy today. No worries, I was taking the kids to the park and spending lots of time outdoors. Forty minutes later, I was relieved when we all waved goodbye and blew kisses.

The baby promptly fell asleep minutes into our ten-minute walk. We began our adventure at the playground at the local elementary school. There were kiddie swings and a huge jungle gym surrounded by a green fence. The ground was covered with protective rubber to keep everyone safe.  It was a perfect place for the kids to play and for me to keep an eye on everyone. The boys had a blast climbing and jumping off all the different levels of the jungle gym. They were excited to show me how well they could go up and down the small climbing wall by themselves. Everyone was having fun and using up lots of energy. The boys asked if they could leave the park to play hide and seek. I said no, but let’s go home now, eat lunch, and continue our adventures. Back at the house, we had delicious peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with fruit. Now fully awake, the baby had cereal and sweet potatoes. After everyone made a mess at lunch, I helped everyone wash up.  We all sat in the living room to watch some TV. I enjoyed being off my feet for a change. After about an hour of cartoons, I suggested we go out and play in the fenced backyard. Once outside, we blew bubbles using lots of different wands. The bubbles came out in different colors, shapes, and sizes. The kids filled up small pails and dumped water all over the yard. We were making quite a mess with water, soap bubbles, and dirt. The baby got especially grimy and needed a bath.  I asked the boys to wash up and change into some dry clothes. I told them very clearly to meet me  in the dining room when they were done changing. It took a while longer than expected to get the baby cleaned and dressed. She wiggled every which way, and I was not used to getting her into her diaper. Finally finished, we went downstairs to meet the boys. I called out to them, but there was no answer. Figuring they had started their game of hide and seek, I went along with it. I said loudly to the baby, “ I wonder where your brothers are?” She just looked at me. Carrying her, we walked slowly to the sofa. Except for some dust, there was no one behind or under the sofa. I continued my little game of asking the baby where are the boys? Are they behind the chair? NO! Are they in the toy chest? NO! I walked all over the first floor calling out for them, but no one answered. I went down to the basement with the baby. I flicked the switch that put on the lights. I searched  behind boxes and chairs.  I opened the tops of the washer and dryer, but they were empty. I found only frozen beef and chicken Inside an extra freezer. There was not a sound. There was no sign of the boys in the basement or the rest of the house. I had hoped to hear them giggling by now.

Lugging the heavy baby back up the steps. I retraced my steps. I went back into each bedroom and bathroom.  I opened and shut hampers, peered inside the tub, and swung open the shower stall door. I got down on the floor and looked under every bed and the crib. I checked every closet in the house. Nothing. No boys. I decided to try a different strategy. I would lure the boys with ice cream. It was their favorite dessert. I shouted, “Who wants an ice cream sundae?” And “Last one at the table is a rotten egg!” Silence. No one came running. Now, my heart pounded loudly in my chest. I heard a door slam and smelled the faint aroma of smoke, but I didn’t see anything. Was my imagination running wild? Returning quickly to the kitchen, I opened every cabinet and looked under the sink. I put the baby in her highchair and took out four sundae cups, a scooper, and a big box of chocolate ice cream. As I put the ice cream into the cups, I tried to maintain my normal voice. Talking loudly to the baby, I explained that I was going to cover the ice cream with sprinkles and whipped cream. Just as I was topping the sundaes, I realized I hadn’t looked on the front porch. I went out and looked around and under some tables and chairs, but there was no sign of the boys. I thought to myself, my sister is going to kill me. The phone rang, and it was my bother in law. He was calling from the car to get an update on how things were going. “How’s is everyone?”, he asked. I couldn’t lie. I told him things could be a lot better. I said, “we had lots of fun at the park and in the backyard. Lunch was good, but now we have a problem”. I explained that the boys seemed to be playing an extended game of hide and seek. I hadn’t seen or heard from them for almost an hour. Surprisingly, he didn’t seem that concerned,  but he did think it a little weird that they were playing for so long. He asked if I had looked in the shed out back. Wow, that was one place in the yard that I hadn’t looked at yet. I thanked him for the suggestion and told him I would look and call him right back.

I ran outside and opened the door to the shed. Inside it was dark and musty. There was a slight smell of smoke. I pulled on the metal chain that turned on the single low wattage overhead bulb. Smack in the middle of the shed, I could not believe what I saw. There were two piles of neatly folded boys’ clothing. They were the same ones that I had last seen them wearing. I felt like I was going to throw up. I realized I had left the baby alone in the house in her highchair. I hurried back and the phone was ringing. This time I didn’t recognize the number. A strange man’s voice asked if I knew where my children were? I froze and yelled, “Who the hell is this?”. The phone clicked. My hands were shaking as I called my brother-in-law. He sounded relieved because he thought I was calling back so quickly because I had located the boys. Instead, I could barely talk thru my tears. I told him I hadn’t found the boys, and that I had just received a terrible call from a man asking where my children were. I told him I checked the shed and the boys’ clothing was there, but not the boys. He told me to call the police right now. They were turning the car around and coming home. Just then, I  looked at the highchair. It was empty. Now, the baby was gone too. Two police cars pulled up to the front of the house with their lights on. Then a third police car pulled up right behind them with search dogs. The Officers tried to calm me down and get my version of what happened.  The Officers with the dogs asked for articles of clothing recently worn by the children. Was it possible that all three children were gone? I went upstairs and grabbed the boys’ dirty pants and socks off their bedroom floor. I picked up the dirty short set that the baby had been wearing before her bath and gave it to the men. I was sobbing. They were asking for descriptions and height and weight information about the kids. I looked around the house to find recent school pictures of the boys, and some pictures of the baby. I told the officers about the terrible phone call. They were looking at me as if I were crazy. They informed me that I was now a suspect in the disappearance of my niece and nephews. How could I lose the boys? How could I lose the baby? This could not possibly be happening. My sister is going to kill me. I am hearing sirens, dogs barking, and I am smelling smoke again. Where are the children? I begged God to please help us to find them.  I am cold and going into shock. I am going to pass out. I hear my sister calling out to me and the boys. She is crying, “Where are my babies?” She cannot believe that now the baby is missing too. I cannot comprehend that I am the primary suspect. Everyone is looking at me with disgust and disbelief. Did I have something to do with the kids’ disappearance? I can’t think straight. How can I convince them that I am innocent? Everyone tells me to sit down on the sofa and not move out of their sight. I can hear the dispatcher calling out police codes and locations on the radios all around me. The radios are beeping in between comments. Now the sirens are blaring full blast. I keep hearing beeping and beeping. It won’t stop. The beeping is my wake-up alarm. “This is my worst nightmare.”