The nights in Red Haven are never quiet. I have known that since I first arrived, yet somehow, the noise still finds a way beneath my skin. I lie awake on my cot, every shift of my body driving the rough wooden frame through the thin mattress of hay and cloth, straight into my spine.

Tonight, the city celebrates.

Through the iron grate of my cell comes a drunken chorus of laughter, a whoop rising from some distant alley, and the relentless pounding of drums from the heart of the city—the Grave of Kings. The colosseum towers above my cell, its foundations buried deep beneath the streets, its walls stained by the blood of those who came before me.

Tonight, I will climb into it’s arena.

Tonight, I will fight for the entertainment of thousands.

In Red Haven, they call it the Grave of Kings. Where people come to die.

I roll onto my side and stare at the wall ahead of me. The rough-hewn stone is bleak and uninviting, rising just high enough that I don't hit my head when I stand. Tonight I will be in the open, with nothing above me but the endless sky.

My thoughts drift, unbidden, to the brute in the cell down the hall. He towers over my smaller frame, all thick muscle and scarred flesh, and for the first time I find myself almost pitying him. Perhaps these living arrangements explain his foul temper. Perhaps they explain why he would do everything... Anything ...to earn his freedom.

Not that I am any different. Sometimes I wonder what the little girl I used to be would think of what I’ve become. I was a long way from the child who curled into her parents’ bed, terrified of shadows and thunder.

My lithe body and efficient brutality make me a popular competitor, particularly among the men who crowd the lower stands, eager to ogle me before the main events begin. They cheer when I enter the arena. They cheer louder when I bleed. Red is my colour after all.

I pull the scratchy blanket tighter around my shoulders, only for the bottom to creep upward and expose my toes. For a moment, the urge to fling the filthy thing across the cell overwhelms me. Instead, I curl tighter beneath it, tucking my chilled feet into the pitiful scrap of warmth it offers.

I learned early that energy was something to conserve. Escape was futile. Anger was wasteful. Hope was dangerous. And letting your emotions rule your actions was the fastest way to die.

Besides, I would be warm soon enough.

Too warm.

I press my shaking hands between my thighs and watch my breath bloom white in the frigid air. Thin plumes of condensation drift before my face, lingering in the cell for a moment before the cold desert air slowly pulls them through the iron grate and out into the street.

Then,

Jangle.

My ears twitch. Keys.

I sit upright. My freedom.

The sound grows louder as footsteps approach, measured and unhurried. I don't need to see who is coming. I already know.

Old Vos.

The keys rattle again as he stops outside my cell. I look up and find his eyes waiting for mine through the bars. There is something different in his expression tonight.

Something pleased. My stomach twists.

Vos has been my guard for as long as I can remember. A no-nonsense, cruel old bastard who seemed to take particular delight in making my life miserable, especially during those first few months, when I hadn't yet understood the finality of my circumstances.

When I still hoped.

My gaze drops to the whip hanging at his side. Iron tips glint beneath the low candlelight, each one catching the light as he shifts his weight. Vos notices me looking. A low chuckle rumbles from his throat.

His smile widens. “There’ll be no whip for you tonight, girl.”

His brown eyes gleam in the darkness. “Not if you perform.”

—

We begin the trek to the Grave.

The walls change first. The rough-hewn stone of my cell gives way to towering slabs carved with the faces of long-dead kings; their mouths twisted into solemn grimaces as we pass beneath them. The ceiling rises higher with every step, swallowing the flickering torchlight until the corridor feels less like a prison and more like the throat of some ancient beast. Perhaps one of the dragons from atop Kragspire mountains.

The hard stone beneath my bare feet gradually gives way to sand. First, only a thin layer, crunching softly beneath my steps. Then deeper, warmer, shifting between my toes as we draw closer to the arena.

I keep my pace unhurried. There is no reason to rush. After all, I am walking toward what may be my death. The guards know it. I know it. Even the silence of the corridor seems to know it.

Yet my heart refuses to race.

I've walked this path too many times for fear to make it unfamiliar. The drums grow louder with every step.

Boom. Boom. Boom. 

Above us, thousands of voices erupt into a distant roar. The Grave is waiting.

Title says it. If you would like to do a bi-weekly Poetry Challenge with me where I give you a prompt, and you write a poem (with a 2 week deadline), and we all vote on the entries, and critique and comment on each other's poetry, then please DM me.

I also have a Scene Sketch challenge where you write a glimpse into a fictional world using the given prompts (500 words max, can be lesser). Also bi-weekly.

So TWO conditions to join:

1. Participation. I would like you to join into every round. The rounds last 2 weeks.

2. Discord. My challenges are on Discord. You have to know how to use the app.

Please DM only if you can match.

(I haven’t written in years, I don’t even know what potential this has, I wrote it quickly, if you like the premise feel free to give me ideas for where to go with it)

There is a feeling in this place that I call home that makes me feel unfit. It’s a feeling that people ignore. We’re supposed to ignore it. I believe there’s something happening behind the curtain, or something is watching from inside.

There’s rules that have never been broken. Let no word bend upward. Leave no space in your statements and facts.

I don’t really remember what I did my first moment that day, just that suddenly I was awake. My skin was sticky with sweat. The bottom of my feet and calves were filled with pins and needles as I pressed my toes to the floor. I felt different. Something changed. I had a thought that didn’t find its end. Then it felt like my mind hit unpause. I said something out loud that had never even entered my knowing mind, “What’s happening?” I was alone besides my dog, her eyes beamed at me, and I spoke again without thinking what my statement would be, but what came out didn’t feel like a statement at all, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

That was my first time ever understanding what bending a word upward really meant. It made my thoughts bend too, until before I even realized my chest was beating so fast and so hard I could feel it in my throat.

Hey everyone,

Like many of you, I've been reflecting heavily on the future of the franchise. While the original 1996 twist of having two killers was legendary, the recent movies (especially Scream VI with its three killers) have diluted the boogeyman. Ghostface has slowly devolved from a terrifying force into a clumsy, emotional gang of dysfunctional teenagers looking for social media fame or generic family revenge.

I wanted to fix that. I wrote a "Spec Script" scene for a hypothetical Scream VIII that aims for absolute psychological terror.

In this concept, Ghostface is a single, silent, young, and physically dominant master strategist. No pop-culture trivia, no screaming over the phone, and no sloppy mistakes. He breaks the meta-rules by treating the mask as a primordial entity, rather than a costume.

This scene strips away Sidney Prescott's 30-year-old "Final Girl armor" and takes her right back to the raw, isolated terror she felt in 1996—except this time, there is no escape. The focus isn't on a fun trivia game; it's on a brutal, methodical degradation of a horror legend.

Key line that inspired this: "The mask is only one, Sidney. You were the ones changing it."

I paid huge attention to the camera work, the stoic nature of the kills, and a very specific focus shift at the end. Let me know your thoughts on this darker, psychological tone!

Here is the script:

TITLE: SCREAM VIII - THE LAST OUTLINE (FAN-SCRIPT)

INT. WOODSBORO HOUSE - NIGHT

A torrential downpour rages outside. Heavy rain violently pelts the massive, panoramic windows of a modern, minimalist house on the outskirts of Woodsboro. The living room is drowned in deep shadows.

SIDNEY PRESCOTT (50) stands by the window, holding a mug of steaming tea. Her face is weathered, deeply marked by decades of survival and trauma, but her eyes still flicker with that same, ironclad determination. She came back because Woodsboro is bleeding again. Innocent victims have been falling one by one. Every strike perfect. Every target left with zero chance of survival. Sidney believes her presence will save them, just like it always has.

Suddenly, a phone rings, shattering the dead silence. Sidney doesn't flinch. She slowly sets the mug down. Pulls the phone from her pocket. The screen reads: UNKNOWN NUMBER.

She clicks "accept" and brings the phone to her ear. She doesn't speak first. She waits.

On the other end, there is no frantic breathing. No pop-culture jokes. Only a deep, heavy stillness that paralyzes more than any scream.

GHOSTFACE (V.O.)

(dark, low, terrifyingly calm)

You came back as a savior, Sidney. You think you know this script because for thirty years, you won against foolish copycats who only wanted their five minutes of fame.

SIDNEY

(voice hard, professional)

I've heard this so many times before. Whoever you are, you will end up just like the rest. You'll make a mistake, and I'll be waiting for it.

GHOSTFACE (V.O.)

(no anger; speaking softly, with a terrifying, mathematical stoicism)

Mistakes are for people who needed partners and screamed into the receiver to drown out their own fear. I didn't come here for applause or notoriety. I came to close the chapter. Your presence here doesn't give them safety, Sidney... It gives me the perfect ending.

SIDNEY

(tightens her grip on the phone, fighting to sound confident)

You think you're special? You're just another psychopath in a cheap grocery store mask.

GHOSTFACE (V.O.)

(voice drops even lower, almost intimate, striking her deepest trauma)

The mask is only one, Sidney. You were the ones changing it. To you, it was always just a man. To me, it is an idea. Everyone I touched in this town is dead. They didn't run. They didn't fight. They accepted the blade because they knew the verdict was final. Your legend dies tonight in Woodsboro, Sidney. And no one is coming to save you, because everyone who ever believed in you... is already gone.

A hollow, dead silence falls over the line. The call disconnects.

The camera pushes into a tight close-up on Sidney's face. Her hard mask of confidence completely shatters. Her hand holding the phone visibly trembles. In her eyes, there is a genuine, primal panic.

A cold shudder runs down her spine as the icy gravity of his words hits her. For thirty long years, she faced these killers with a bitter smirk, treating them like pathetic fools. But right now, her throat goes completely dry. Her mind violently flashes back to that blood-soaked night with Billy Loomis—the exact moment her childhood died. She feels that same, suffocating helplessness clawing its way back to the surface.

Slowly, involuntarily, a single tear escapes her eye and rolls down her weathered cheek, wiping away three decades of the legendary Final Girl armor. She isn't the hunter anymore. She is just a frightened girl in a quiet house, suddenly realizing that the phantom of her past has evolved into something unstoppable. Something that has finally come to collect her soul.

Sidney violently turns around, scanning the pitch-black living room. Every muscle in her body is rigid. She waits for the attack. She waits for the chase, the stumble, the fight she knows by heart.

Nothing happens. Only the rain beating against the glass.

_____

INT. WOODSBORO HOUSE - KITCHEN - LATER

Sidney checks the heavy locks on the front door, ensuring they are tightly secured. Holding a pistol raised in her hand, she slowly steps away from the entryway, moving back down the creaking wooden floorboards toward the dark kitchen. She creeps through the shadows, remaining alert, trying to convince herself she won this round of the psychological game.

In that exact split second, without a single sound, HE emerges from the deep shadow right behind her.

Before Sidney can even turn her head to fire, Ghostface grabs her from behind. She tries to fight back, desperately kicking her legs out to break his grip, but he is too powerful. With sheer, brutal force, he spins her around and slams her violently against the kitchen wall. Her head strikes the hard surface with a sickening thud, dazing her instantly.

Before she can recover, the wide, heavy blade of a hunting knife flashes. Striking with mathematical precision, Ghostface drives the knife straight into her abdomen—right where the most vital organs are.

SIDNEY

(her breath is completely cut off; a muffled, quiet gasp escapes her lips)

Ah...

The pistol slips from her limp fingers, hitting the kitchen floor with a loud clatter. Sidney has no strength to fight. This single strike completely paralyzed her entire body. She drops heavily against the wall.

Ghostface doesn't let go of the hilt. He presses her against the wall, completely dominating her. He is young, strong, his movements flawlessly steady.

Time completely freezes.

Sidney stands pinned against the wall, staring straight ahead in a state of absolute, breathless shock. In the black, mesh eyes of the Ghostface mask, her wide, unblinking eyes are reflected. She sees her own death. There is no defiance left, only the chilling realization that the entity before her is the end of all things.

Ghostface looks straight into her eyes for a long moment. He doesn't rush. He celebrates the moment in absolute silence.

With a slow, almost ritualistic motion, he twists the knife inside her. The horrific sound of tearing tissue echoes through the room. Sidney's mouth opens wide in a piercing, silent scream of physical agony, dark, thick blood beginning to spill down her chin.

The killer pulls the blade out of her stomach. As Sidney slides down the wall, Ghostface grips her hair with his other hand, tilts her head back, and with a swift, fluid motion, slits her throat from ear to ear.

There is no rage. No blind hacking. It is pure, merciless, unforgettable perfection. The audience can almost feel the sharp steel on their own skin.

Sidney Prescott collapses heavily onto the floor, propped up against the kitchen wall. As she sits there, choking and gasping on her own blood, a devastating sob of absolute despair breaks through her shattered chest. Heavy, violent tears pour down her face. It is a pathetic, raw cry of pure, agonizing horror—a total breakdown stripping away all her legendary strength because she knows, with brutal certainty, that she is truly, finally dying like a common, helpless victim. Her body shudders violently, not just from the trauma of her wounds, but from the overwhelming, degrading weight of her own mortality. A second later, the heavy weeping gives way to final, silent convulsions. Her eyes remain wide open, glossy, fixed entirely on the empty space ahead as the twitching stops. Sidney Prescott is dead. The legendary Final Girl has been defeated.

A horrific, tomb-like silence falls over the house. Only the killer's heavy, rhythmic breathing can be heard.

Ghostface stands over her body. He slowly raises his hands to his head and pulls off the white mask, his silhouette concealing his actual face from view.

He bends down and, with an uncanny level of respect, places the Ghostface mask diagonally over Sidney’s head, gently hiding her vacant stare beneath the white plastic. The framing keeps his face hidden, showing only the dark fabric of the costume and his gloved hands moving with deliberate precision.

Wiping the blood off his blade with the hem of her light-colored shirt, he sheathes the knife and turns to walk out of the kitchen, stepping into the long hallway toward the front door where the dropped pistol lies.

As he moves away, a montage of rapid, flashing, almost subliminal frames catches the lower half of his face. In that fraction of a second, the corners of his mouth slowly rise into a subtle, chilling smile of absolute satisfaction. No madness. Just a pure triumph of intelligence over a legend. The smile vanishes as quickly as it appeared.

The camera focus now shifts completely to his retreating back as he reaches the far end of the hallway by the door. He remains perfectly sharp and crisp in the background as he steps out into the dark night.

Meanwhile, in the immediate foreground, heavily blurred and out of focus in the kitchen doorway, sits the side of Sidney’s head and her limp arm draped lifelessly across the floorboards, her open palm resting flat against the wooden floor.

FADE TO BLACK.

AN ABSOLUTE, DEAFENING SILENCE.

For the first thirty seconds of the credits, there is no music. Only the sound of the storm outside and single rain drops hitting the window, leaving the theater in a state of total, paralyzing shock.

I'm glad to discover this subreddit where we can get feedback for our writings. Would anyone read the following tale and then provide a simple feedback? It can be brief. Thanks.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

Arthur was a great talker. He sounded brilliant when speaking, but when it came to action, he simply couldn’t deliver.

He disliked hard work and actively avoided any job that required manual effort or deep thinking. The only work he ever sought out was the effortless kind.

Arthur had set his sights on Di Mattei, a diamond and gemstone trading company, because, according to him, diamond trading was the easiest job on the planet. In his mind, gemstones simply popped out of the dirt fully formed, radiant, and flawless. To Arthur, the entire industry was just picking up free, shiny rocks and marking them up by thousands of percent.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

Miraculously, Arthur managed to land an interview at Di Mattei. One week later, the big day arrived. Arthur adjusted his cheap polyester tie in the polished elevator doors, admiring his reflection. He marched into the interview room, his boots making a loud noise on the floor as if announcing that a VIP had arrived. Waiting for him behind an expensive-looking mahogany desk was Mr. Roberto di Mattei.

Now an elderly man, Roberto di Mattei had spent over fifty years in the trade, starting as a humble bench polisher and mastering every detail of the craft. Through sheer grit and lifelong dedication, he had built Di Mattei into the largest diamond firm in the country. Well past retirement age, he still worked every day alongside his son and grandson, scaling back from a six-day workweek to five only recently.

"Mr. Pendelton," Roberto said, scanning Arthur’s resume. "How are you? Please tell me—why did you apply for a position at our firm?"

Arthur sank back into his leather-and-oak chair, totally enjoying the comfort as if he were in a 5-star hotel’s VIP lounge—the only thing missing was a cigar.

"Honestly, Roberto? Because your whole industry is a total scam, and you need a guy like me!"

Roberto was stunned. "I beg your pardon?"

"Come on, let's be real," Arthur chuckled, waving a hand casually. "You dig up shiny rocks for... a dollar or two, at most, and sell them for millions. Nature does all the work, and you pocket the profit. A scam like this needs a smooth talker. You need somebody who can convince them that a glorified piece of stone is worth three months' salary. I’m your guy. I could sell ice to an Eskimo, and I can definitely sell cheap dirt-pebbles to rich ignoramuses."

Roberto frowned. "And how many years of sales experience do you have?"

Arthur shrugged. "None. But I'm good at it, believe me."

Roberto’s brow furrowed. He placed Arthur’s thin resume back onto the desk, shaking his head in quiet disapproval. His silence spoke louder than words.

Noticing a sign of rejection, Arthur’s smile vanished. He leaned forward over the mahogany desk, slamming both hands onto the wood and narrowing his eyes into a threat.

"Here’s a deal, Roberto. Hire me—or I go straight to the press. I'll expose your scandals! Once it's done, you'll be finished."

To Arthur’s amazement, Roberto’s face went pale. The old founder's hands began to tremble. His eyes darted around nervously, taking in Arthur’s menacing glare.

"What...what...what scandals?" Roberto stammered, his voice betraying genuine panic.

"Don't play dumb, Roberto," Arthur replied. "The dishonesty involving your precious babies!"

"I...I beg you, Mr. Pendelton... don't go to the press! Don't expose our scandals! You don't know what this would do to my family, to our reputation! Please!"

A rush of triumph washed over Arthur. "I knew it!" he thought. "He really is running a massive scam, and he's terrified I've caught him red-handed!"

"I’ll... I’ll consider your application," Roberto pleaded, holding his hands up in surrender. "Just... give me time. Please, say nothing to anyone!"

Arthur stood up smoothly, buttoning his jacket. "You have twenty-four hours, boss. Don't make the wrong choice."

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

Seven days passed but Arthur heard nothing from Di Mattei. By 10 PM that night, Arthur’s impatience got the better of him. Driven by a desire to gather physical evidence for a scandal report and his own burning curiosity, he sneaked into the Di Mattei HQ building with a cheap flashlight. He reckoned, at this hour, nobody would be working, except thieves. 

He slipped through the loading dock and rode the service elevator up to the vault level. The floor was dark, but he heard the strange, rhythmic sounds of machinery coming down the hall: "Whirrrrr... clack-clack... buzzzz..."

"A scam operation in full swing!" Arthur whispered to himself, his pulse hammering against his ribs.

He crept forward on tiptoes toward a heavy steel door left slightly ajar and peered through the crack into the dimly lit room.

Figures in dark silhouettes were huddled over metallic tables under low, intense beams of light. They moved in total, eerie silence while the machines hummed around them. Nobody was talking. Nobody was laughing. They were working furiously over metal trays, their fingers moving with quiet, tense precision.

Eager to catch Roberto's fraudulent operation red-handed, Arthur slipped through the door, ducking low behind a tall equipment rack. He reached out to grab a heavy piece of evidence from a nearby sorting table—a dull, lumpy grey chunk of rock—ready to expose the whole business.

"I knew it!" Arthur smirked to himself, holding up the ugly rock. "Driveway gravel!"

Suddenly, a heavy shadow fell over him. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

Arthur whipped around, shining his flashlight into the stranger's face. Standing before him was old Roberto di Mattei, wearing a jeweler's loupe over one eye and a smudge of carbon grease on his sleeves.

Looking past Roberto, Arthur saw no scammers or criminals. He saw master polishers sitting at microscopic workstations, adjusting diamond facets with precision under halogen lamps.

"Arthur?" Roberto said in disbelief.

Arthur puffed out his chest, holding up the dull rock. "I caught you red-handed, Roberto! Look at this hideous pebble! You panicked in the office because you knew I'd expose this fraud!"

Roberto let out a long, weary sigh and tapped a monitor displaying a complex geometric 3D mesh.

"That 'gravel' is a 50-carat rough diamond from Botswana, Mr. Pendelton," Roberto said softly. "It takes three months of advanced mathematical modeling and high-tech ultrasonic imaging just to figure out how to cut it without shattering it."

Roberto set down his tools and pushed open a heavy set of double doors at the back of the room. "Follow me."

He led Arthur into the main studio of the master polishers. The room was dead silent except for the soft, rhythmic whirring of high-speed cast-iron polishing wheels rotating under extreme pressure. Under intense halogen lamps sat veteran artisans, working with agonizing precision deep into the night. Arthur watched in disbelief as one craftsman spent ten full minutes adjusting a single stone by a fraction of a millimeter under a microscope, inspecting a microscopic facet completely invisible to the naked eye.

Roberto walked Arthur down the line, stopping at different workstations to show him the same stone at every stage of production.

First, Arthur saw the dull, lumpy grey pebble sitting in its raw, unprocessed form. At the next desk, a stone that had been laser-mapped and cleaved, revealing its internal clarity. Station by station, step by painstaking step, Arthur watched the dull gravel transform—cut by cut, angle by angle—until it finally sat under the last lamp as a blinding, perfectly faceted brilliant gem.

Gradually... slowly... the truth began to sink in.
With every craftsman he passed, with every detailed geometric diagram and microscopic adjustment he witnessed, Arthur’s stubborn conviction began to crumble.

Looking at the old founder standing beside him at 10 PM—a man who had given 50 years of endless learning, research, and late-night labour to master this craft—Arthur realized Roberto wasn't running a scam. The entire industry was built on thousands of hours of intense, high-stakes discipline and master craftsmanship—a level of hard work Arthur had spent his entire life running away from.

The illusion shattered completely. Arthur's smug posture completely collapsed. The weight of his own monstrous ignorance hit him like a brick, flushing his face with burning shame.

"I...I...I..." Arthur stammered, lowering his head in shame. "I'm sorry... I thought it was a scam. But... if your business is completely fair and honest... why did you beg me not to go to the press? Why were you so scared when I threatened to expose your gemstone trading scandals?"

Roberto looked down, rubbing the back of his neck as a faint blush appeared on his weathered face. He looked deeply embarrassed.

"Because..." Roberto sighed, leaning weary weight against the workbench. "When you threatened to expose us, I thought you meant my son and grandson. They bribed examiners to pass their gemmology exams, and I gave them executive desks they didn't earn. They didn't grow up like I did. I was raised in poverty and had to struggle for every meal, but they were born into comfort—spoiled, entitled, and given everything without lifting a finger."

Roberto continued: "When you said you were going to the press, I was terrified you were going to drag my family's shame into the light...But what did you mean when you mentioned 'the dishonesty involving your precious babies'?"

"Selling stones at astronomical prices." Arthur replied.

The "grand scandal" he thought he had uncovered was nothing more than an old founder protecting his son and grandson who took shortcuts.

Looking at Roberto—a man who had spent fifty years mastering a grueling craft, yet was human enough to worry about his family's blunders—Arthur felt all his arrogant bravado evaporate.

"I'm leaving now," Arthur whispered, taking two quiet steps backward, stripped of every ounce of his former pride. "Sorry to bother you, I didn't know there was so much knowledge behind gemstones."

"You thought diamonds were born glittering?" Roberto said quietly, looking at Arthur with pity rather than anger. "No stone is. Only hard work makes them shine. And you thought I got successful by scamming? No. It was the result of relentless, honest work."

 "Honestly, Arthur, even after fifty years, I still have a lot to learn. The world that God created is so wonderful and complex, there is always something new to discover," Roberto added with a kind, gentle smile, and patted Arthur on the shoulder.

Arthur slipped out into the night, no longer marching like a conqueror, but walking with the heavy, quiet steps of a young man who had finally realized just how much he had left to learn.

A lot of time smells and sounds can wash a blanket of nostalgia over you when you least expect it. It creeps up behind us and pulls us back in time for a brief moment. In that moment, things felt much different than they do now. 

I look down at my hands. They are stained brown, and my nails have mud underneath them. I rub them a bit on my jean shorts and sit down criss-crossed on the yellowish grass near the pick up area. I run my hands through the grass, getting a bit impatient. I earned two new bug bites that day so of course I am trying not to scratch them but I do anyway.  I hear tires in the distance but it seems a little too early to be my mom, so I continue playing in the grass, dirtying my hands further. 

My mom works at a call center one town over from my summer camp. She works long days but I don’t hear her complain too much. I hear her say often, “The benefits are good.” to other adults when they ask her about it. As a kid, I wasn’t sure what that meant. All I really cared about was when she would be picking me up. 

I pick up my head and take a look at the sand makeshift parking lot. It’s a blinding reflection of loose dirt and sun and it hurts my eyes. I focus my vision and see a money green painted Avalon rolling into a parking spot. It’s Mom. 

She looks pretty, as always. Her curly brown hair is a little frizzy from the summer heat and she's wearing a brightly colored sundress. The sunlight catches her skin as she gets out of the car, and for a brief moment, I watch her walk towards me. I get up to brush the dirt off my shorts before walking toward her and when we reach each other, I get hit with notes of her coconut and tangerine perfume that linger in the warm summer air. 

We walk to the car together  and I climb into my car seat. It smelt like she just got done smoking one ten minutes before coming to get me. I feel so calm in the car with the AC going after a long day in the sun. I take a peek at my face in the rearview mirror, it's slightly red. I touched it and it hurt a little. I look around at the interior of my moms car letting my imagination run wild. The center console looks like it belongs to a space ship. All of the controls for the temperature and volume look like a jigsaw puzzle. The seats are a very light sand color and the wood that lined the interior was a burnt orange color. 

She reaches over and opens the glove box with her freshly done French tips, pulling out a plastic CD case. On the cover, there is a man behind a \[phoropter\](https://rieyeinstitute.com/article/eye-exam-tools-and-what-they-do/). The man is Justin Timberlake, and the CD contains his album \*The 20/20 Experience.\* At the time, I didn't know what a phoropter is so I just thought he was standing behind a bunch of weird glasses. She slips  the CD into the car and the car swallows it whole and spits out loud sounds in return.

 The first song on the album is “Pusher love girl” . I like this song a lot. The lyrics floated around the car like a cloud in the sky. I quietly laugh to myself about the lyrics even though I don’t understand what they fully mean. She looks at me and smiles in the rearview mirror. I smile back at her. 

Not long after a few songs “That girl” is up next. I sit up in my car seat anxious for the song. I don’t know why it's my favorite song but it is. My mom likes it too. I like the way the song changes the longer you listen. The music slows down and picks back up seamlessly. I don’t understand the lyrics on this one either but it doesn’t matter. I love the song no matter what. 

The big fields roll alongside the windows as we ride home. Mom has her window slightly open letting in just enough fresh air but also keeping the AC in. I watch the window, not thinking about much. I look at the cows as we pass by and see a Mom and baby calf standing together in the green grass field. It makes me feel warm. 

We make it to the driveway and the music stops. We get out of the car, leaving behind the cool air, smell of cigarettes, and whatever Justin Timberlake song that was just playing. 

At six, I don’t know anything. I don’t know how my Moms day was at work. I don't know what the lyrics mean in the songs we listen to. I don’t know how a memory can infiltrate the present. I don’t know that my Mom won’t be here to pick me up anymore. There will never be another afternoon like that one. I won’t smell her coconut perfume as she walks towards me. I won't smell her cigarettes in the car. I won’t see the car swallow the CD she puts in. I won’t hear the music it spits out. 

But every now and then nostalgia has a way of pulling you back in time. A smell, a sound, a taste. Or a Justin Timberlake song. 

And just for a brief moment, I’m six years old again watching the cows in the field as my Mom and I ride home together. 

On Friday afternoon, Elena- the cafe’s owner, handed me an apron and showed me a shelf in the fridge.

“This is yours. If you run out of room, tell me before you start putting cakes on top of the sandwich ingredients.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Nothing happens often yet. We’ve only been open two months. I’m trying to establish rules before I need them.”

There was something unexpectedly pleasing about having a shelf. An apron, too, and a hook behind the kitchen door for my bag. By the time she finished showing me around, I had stopped feeling as though I ought to explain why I was there.

The kitchen was narrow enough that we had to turn sideways to pass each other. Most of the counter was occupied by a mixer, a chopping board and a bowl of oranges. Elena moved the oranges onto a shelf to make room for my ingredients.

“Tell me if you need anything else.”

“Another kitchen?”

She looked around. “Put it on the list.”

I tied the apron and unpacked. The smaller lemon cakes needed less time in the oven than the ones I’d made at home, so I stayed nearby while weighing the ingredients for the macarons. Through the open doorway came the sound of the coffee grinder, cups meeting saucers and a chair being dragged across the floor.

At home, music usually filled the space around me when I worked. Here, the café did it. Every so often, Elena appeared with a question or an empty jug. Once, she stopped beside the mixer and watched the meringue turn.

“How do you know when it’s ready?”

I switched off the mixer and lifted the whisk. The peak held. “Like this. It needs to stand up, but I don’t want it dry.” I turned the whisk so she could see. “If it folds straight over, it needs longer.”

“And if you go too far?”

“Then I get annoyed with myself and start again. There’s usually a little swearing involved.”

“Good. You’ll fit in.”

When the cakes were cooling, she needed help with drinks. I washed my hands, left the piped macaron shells to dry and joined her at the machine. The afternoon passed between the two rooms. Coffee, oven timer, washing up, another order. A man wanted his cappuccino hotter. A woman asked for extra ice. Someone changed their mind after I had already poured the milk. That part, at least, was familiar.

Once the shells were cool, I paired them by size and piped in the pistachio filling. Elena came through as I was arranging them in a covered container.

“You’ve made more than twelve.”

“I wanted a few spare in case any cracked. These came out better than the ones at home.”

“So we can sell the extras?”

“Yes. Unless you’d rather keep them for yourself.”

She reached towards the container.

“Tomorrow,” I added.

Her hand stopped. “You offered.”

“I offered you tomorrow’s macarons. They need the night in the fridge so the filling softens the inside.”

She looked at them for another moment, then put the lid on. “I’m beginning to understand why they cost more than biscuits.”

Before leaving, I checked the cakes once more, wiped the counter and untied my apron. My feet hurt. There was icing on my sleeve and a little pistachio filling near my elbow, which I noticed only when Elena pointed it out.

We agreed that I would come at eight to help with the morning rush. She checked the time on her phone, then looked up with a smile. “So, back to mornings. Same time, same place tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here. Hopefully with less icing on me.”

“Don’t dress up. There’ll be more.”

Outside, the air had cooled enough to make the walk home pleasant. I passed the restaurant next door, where the owner was straightening the tables for the evening. He raised a hand when he saw me, and I waved back. It was a small thing, being recognised on the street. Still, I was smiling by the time I reached home.

Saturday morning brought customers before we had finished setting out the terrace. Elena arranged the cakes in the display while I warmed the machine. She had written their names on small cards, including the pistachio macarons, which looked more respectable behind glass than they had in the plastic container.

I kept glancing at them between orders.

“People won’t buy them faster if you stare,” she said.

“I’m checking they look all right.”

“They looked all right five minutes ago.”

“Yes, but now there are people here to judge them.”

She moved a lemon cake closer to the front. “Let them.”

The first one went with a takeaway tea. The woman barely looked at it before choosing, and I had to resist watching through the window to see whether she took a bite. The second went to a man sitting outside with a newspaper. After that, there were too many drinks to keep count.

By half past nine, the room smelled of coffee and warm milk, and my hair had begun escaping its tie. Elena worked at the till while I made drinks, occasionally repeating a table number because I was still learning which one was which.

A woman at the counter pointed towards the lemon cakes. “Are those made here?”

“Yes,” Elena said.

“They look homemade. I mean properly homemade, like something my mother would put out when people came over.”

I glanced at the cakes. Until she explained, I’d been wondering whether one of the tops was crooked. The woman ordered two and took them to a table outside. Ten minutes later, she returned carrying an empty plate.

“Who makes your cakes?”

I put down the cloth, trying to remember whether I could have forgotten anything in the recipe. Elena was counting change for another customer.

“What did you think?”

“Lovely. The icing isn’t too sweet.” The woman looked towards the display again. “My daughter’s birthday is next month. Does your baker take orders? Could I have their number?”

“I made them,” I said.

She turned towards me. “Oh! I thought you worked out here.”

“I do a bit of both. I’ve only just started.”

“Well, that saves Elena passing messages.” She smiled and reached for her phone. “Could you make something larger? My daughter loves lemon, but there’ll be at least twelve of us.”

“Yes. Was there a design you had in mind?”

She showed me a photograph of a cake covered in flowers. Her daughter wanted lemon, but her husband didn’t like anything too sour, and there might be eighteen people if her sister came.

I explained that the sugar flowers in the photograph were more elaborate than anything I usually made. We talked about a simpler decoration, then the filling and the size. She listened, asked another question and waited for my answer.

I caught myself speaking quickly, trying to explain everything before she lost interest. She stayed where she was, her phone resting on the counter between us. At school, I had learned to stop halfway through an answer when the smiles started. Later, keeping things to myself had become easier. This woman was asking another question because she wanted to hear what I had to say.

“I’d need to work out a price before promising anything,” I said. “If you send me the date and the final number of people, I can let you know.”

“That’s fine. I’d rather have something that tastes like this than a cake nobody wants a second slice of.”

Elena passed me a clean piece of paper, and I wrote down my number. The woman folded it carefully and put it in her purse. After she left, I stood beside the machine for a moment.

Elena looked at me. “Everything all right?”

“Yes. I just wasn’t expecting an order already.”

“You made something she liked.”

“I know, but there’s a difference between someone buying a little cake with their tea and trusting me with their daughter’s birthday.”

“She asked to discuss a cake, Andreea. You have time to breathe before you plan the whole party.”

I laughed and picked up the milk jug. There was another coffee waiting.

Lovely. The icing isn’t too sweet.

I remembered the words while pouring the milk. There had been no correction after them, no explanation of what I should have done better. A stranger had enjoyed something I made and come back to tell me. I wished that didn’t feel quite so unfamiliar.

A little later, the man with the newspaper came inside.

“Another coffee,” he said. “And whatever that lemon thing was.”

“Another lemon cake?”

“Yes. My wife will ask whether I tried anything, and I’d like to be able to tell her I checked thoroughly.”

“I respect your commitment.”

He nodded solemnly while I put it on a plate.

The macarons sold more slowly. People examined them, asked about the filling, sometimes chose a cake instead. Near midday, two women bought one each, then returned for four to take home.

By the end of my shift, three were left. Elena opened the display and glanced at me. “Am I allowed now?”

“Yes. Thank you for your patience.”

“I’ve been very brave.”

She took a bite. I tried to occupy myself with folding the cloth rather than watching her.

“More next week,” she said.

“How many?”

She considered the rest of the macaron. “We’ll discuss that after I’ve finished this.”

On Monday, my hand went to the right cupboard without searching. The cloths were folded where I expected them to be, and a customer came in asking whether we had any more of Saturday’s lemon cakes. Elena looked at me to answer.

“I’m making another batch this afternoon. They’ll be ready tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll come back, then.”

He ordered his usual coffee, and I reached for the cup. I had spent years doing things that were supposed to lead somewhere. Lessons, exams, university. There was always another stage beyond the one I’d finished, and someone ready to ask what came next. Here, a man wanted a cake tomorrow. For the moment, that was enough to be getting on with.

The woman at the table near the window had been there on Saturday too. A laptop stood open in front of her, with a notebook beside it and a drink she kept forgetting to touch. At first, I thought she was watching something. Then she played the same few seconds through her headphones, stopped, and pressed her palms against her eyes.

When I cleared the next table, she pulled one side of the headphones away. “Could I have another tea?”

“Of course. The same one?”

“Yes, please. This one went cold.”

“I can bring you some hot water if there’s any left.”

She looked into the cup. “No. I managed to drink it. I just complained to myself the whole time.”

“That sounds familiar.”

At the counter, Elena nodded towards her. “Athena. She’ll sit there until closing if nobody feeds her.”

“What’s she working on?”

“A film. I’ve seen the same man walk through the same doorway about thirty times.”

“That explains the expression.”

I carried the tea over and asked whether she wanted anything to eat.

“Is there a lemon cake left?”

“One.”

“Then yes, before someone else gets it.”

When I brought the plate, she closed her laptop. “Thank you. I’m Athena, by the way.”

“Andreea.”

She repeated it, checking the pronunciation, and I nodded.

“Have you been here long?”

“Nearly a month. Though I’ve only been working here since Friday.”

“That recently? You look as though you know where everything is.”

“The kitchen’s small. There are only so many places to lose things.”

“Are you staying nearby?”

“Behind the waterfront. There’s a little house with a balcony squeezed between two taller buildings.”

“I think I know it. Blue door?”

“That’s the one. The door sticks, so if you ever see someone throwing her whole body against it, that’ll be me.”

Athena laughed.

“Where did you move from?”

“The UK. I lived there for years.”

“And you chose here?”

“I wanted to be near the sea. Somewhere I could walk to it instead of planning a whole trip.” I glanced towards the bright pavement outside. “The heat wasn’t part of the attraction.”

“You came at the wrong time for that.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

“What made you leave?”

The question was ordinary enough. I still took a moment before answering.

“I’d finished university, and everyone was asking about jobs. I kept looking at them and thinking about staying there, doing the next thing, then the next.” I rubbed a little dried icing from my thumb. “I wanted some time to decide what I actually wanted. And to write.”

Athena nodded. “Do you think you’ll stay?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m trying to let that be an acceptable answer.”

“It is.”

She said it easily, then took another bite of cake.

I glanced at her laptop. “Are you studying film, or is this something you’re doing yourself?”

“Studying. Although this project is making me reconsider every decision that brought me here.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“How much time do you have?”

Elena called for two coffees before I could answer. Athena smiled and picked up her fork. “I’ll prepare a shorter version.”

We spoke again the next day, and the day after that. Nothing important at first. Whether the table near the window was too bright for her screen. Where she bought her notebooks. Which streets stayed shaded on the walk home.

She was making a short film and had reached the stage where every choice made three weeks earlier seemed wrong.

“Even the ones you liked?” I asked.

“Especially those. Have you ever worked on something so long you can’t tell whether it’s good anymore?”

“Yes. Usually that’s when I decide the whole thing needs changing.”

“Does it?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes I’m tired and should leave it alone.”

She looked at the screen. “I was hoping you’d say something more useful.”

“If I knew something more useful, I’d have finished my book.”

That caught her attention, but a customer came in before she could ask about it.

On Wednesday, she noticed my notebook. The café was quiet between the morning rush and lunch. I had ten minutes, a cup of tea and a sentence that had irritated me since the night before. The notebook lay open beside the till, where I could look up when someone came in.

Athena approached with her empty plate. “Is that the book?”

“Yes. Or the part of it currently causing trouble.”

“What kind of story is it?”

“Crime. There’s a murder in this scene, and I’ve spent more time deciding what happens around it than writing the murder itself.”

She glanced at the red page. “That explains the ink.”

“I always use red. It would be red if I were writing about someone’s lovely afternoon in a garden too.”

“Does anyone have lovely afternoons in your book?”

“Not many so far.”

She smiled. “How long have you been working on it?”

“A while. I thought moving might help me get somewhere with it.”

“And has it?”

“A little. I’m writing more. Whether it’s better is another question.”

Athena leaned against the counter. “I know a few people who could help with that.”

“People who’ll tell me it’s terrible?”

“People who’ll tell you which part is terrible. Much more useful.”

I laughed and capped the pen as a customer came through the door. She returned to her table, but before leaving she asked whether I’d be there the following day.

Thursday was quieter. During my break, I sat opposite Athena with a cup of tea while she ate one of the chocolate cakes.

“So,” she said, “do you ever drink the coffee you make?”

“No. It makes me feel bad.”

“Really? You don’t even taste it?”

“I used to, but it wasn’t worth it. Tea and I get along much better.”

“Then how do you make good coffee?”

“Practice. I know what I’m looking for when I make it, and people aren’t shy about telling me if something’s wrong.”

“Elena said you worked in a café in England.”

“During university. Some days it was easier to understand the customers than the chemistry.”

“You studied chemistry?”

I nodded.

“And now cakes and murder.”

“It’s been a change.”

She laughed and brushed a crumb onto her plate. “What made you start writing?”

“I needed somewhere to put everything.”

“What do you mean?”

“The ideas. There are always more of them than I know what to do with. A conversation, a scene, something I can suddenly picture while I’m supposed to be doing something else.” I turned my cup a little on its saucer. “Some come in my sleep. I wake up with part of a story, and then I want to know the rest.”

“Do you write them down straight away?”

“If I can. Sometimes I’m convinced I’ll remember in the morning, which is a very optimistic thing to think half asleep.”

“I’ve lost whole films that way.”

“I’ve probably lost a bestseller. Much easier to believe that when there’s no evidence.”

Athena smiled. “Does writing make it quieter?”

“A bit. Once it’s on the page, I don’t have to keep going over it so I won’t lose it. My head gets to rest.” I looked towards the counter, where my bag sat beneath the till. “Then I start wondering whether I can make someone else interested. Whether they’ll want to know what happens next too.”

“So you give the problem to the reader.”

“Exactly. Very generous of me.”

She laughed, and I found myself explaining a little more: how a scene could arrive almost whole, while the page connecting it to the next one took days; how sometimes I knew what a character would say before I knew who they were.

Athena listened. When I paused, she asked a question about something I’d said rather than moving on to talk about herself. I had almost apologised for going on so much. Instead, I answered her.

Then she told me about the group.

“There are writers, film students, a few artists. We meet in the park. Some people bring work to share, some just come because they’re stuck and need to talk.”

“Like your man in the doorway?”

“Exactly like him. Someone will probably tell me to cut that scene, and I’ll be offended because I already know they’re right.”

“Do people read out loud?”

“Sometimes. Or we read pages beforehand and discuss them. It depends what the person wants help with.”

“And everyone speaks English?”

“Most of us speak other languages too, but English is the one we have in common. You wouldn’t have to struggle through it in Greek.”

“That’s good. I can say thank you, but it would make for a short reading.”

“There’d still be someone with notes.”

I smiled into my cup. She explained that one of the artists helped people with covers and character sketches. Sometimes they worked together on something larger, though they were careful to agree on credit and permissions first.

“We have a written agreement for sharing work,” she said. “You can read it before bringing any pages. I can send it to you.”

“I’d like that. Could I come once just to see what it’s like?”

“Of course. Tomorrow evening, if you’re free.”

She told me where they met. I knew the benches; I’d walked past them on the way to the café.

“How many people?”

“Usually eight or nine. Don’t worry about remembering everyone’s name. I still get one wrong.”

“And they won’t mind me sitting there without reading?”

“No. Come and listen. Bring your notebook if you want, but you don’t owe us a performance.”

That made it easier to say yes. We exchanged numbers, and she sent me the time and meeting place while we were still sitting together. A minute later, another message arrived with the agreement.

“There,” she said. “Now you can’t claim I gave bad directions.”

“I can still get lost. Don’t underestimate me.”

After my break, I went back behind the counter. Athena finished her cake and returned to her film, but this time, when something frustrated her, she looked up and caught my eye. I smiled, and she turned the laptop a little so I could see the offending doorway.

That evening, the woman from Saturday called about the birthday cake. We talked for nearly twenty minutes. Her sister was coming, so there would be eighteen people. She had asked her daughter about the flowers, and apparently lemon mattered more than decoration. I wrote everything down, promised to send a price the following day, and stayed at the kitchen table after the call ended.

There were ingredients to calculate, a date to put in my calendar, and Athena’s message waiting on my phone. For a moment, I wanted to call home and tell someone.

Then I tried to imagine the conversation. The questions about chemistry. Whether café work was what I planned to do with my degree. How long this writing business would last. Perhaps they would have surprised me. I didn’t feel ready to find out.

I put the phone down and worked out how much mascarpone I would need.

Later, I turned back through the notebook until I reached the scene with the watch. The red numbers were still in the margin, two crossed out and one left standing. Reading it aloud made me notice a sentence that ran too long. I crossed out three words and tried again.

Outside the balcony doors, someone called to a person farther down the street. A scooter passed, and plates clattered in the next building. The second reading went more smoothly.

I wasn’t sure I would share it tomorrow. That would depend on the people, and on how comfortable I felt once I was sitting among them. But I marked the page before closing the notebook.

My apron needed washing. I rinsed the icing from the sleeve, hung it up and checked that it would have time to dry before morning. Then I sent Athena a message to say I’d meet her outside the café so we could walk over together.

She replied almost immediately.

Good. I’ll save you from the introductions.

I smiled and set the phone beside my bag. The cake order was written down. My notebook was ready. Tomorrow, Elena would expect me at eight, and Athena would wait for me after work.

I was still getting used to being wanted somewhere. For once, I let myself look forward to it.

Red Ink And Saltwater
When other girls were little, they wanted a prince to arrive on a white horse. I wanted a mafia boss to kidnap me and become so hopelessly obsessed with me that he forgot why he’d taken me in the first place.
I never gave much thought to where he would take me. Somewhere I could hear the sea, perhaps. That part mattered more to me than the prince, the horse, or, apparently, whether I went willingly.
In the end, I had to find the sea myself.
Three weeks after moving to Crete, I was waking before six without an alarm, which would have been unthinkable in the UK. Back there, I sometimes went to sleep at five in the morning, sometimes as late as noon, and woke at seven in the evening wondering where the day had gone.
I pulled on my swimsuit, took my sandals from beside the door and walked the two minutes to the beach.
The shore was nearly empty. A fishing boat was heading out beyond the harbour, and someone farther down the sand was walking a dog that kept returning to the same piece of driftwood. I left my sandals above the tide line and went straight into the sea.
After a few strokes, I rolled onto my back. The water held me without asking me to explain myself.
Above me, the sky was changing colour. I stayed where I was until the fishing boat became a dark mark near the horizon. Then I swam along the shore, turned, and swam back. Three weeks had been enough to learn where the sand dropped away beneath me and where it rose again. I was still learning the rest of the place.
I had rented my little house for three months because I couldn’t say how long I wanted to stay. I knew I had wanted to leave the UK. I’d finished my chemistry degree, looked at the jobs I was expected to apply for, and found I couldn’t bear the thought of building the next part of my life there. That was the most convincing explanation I’d managed to give anyone, including myself.
The water rocked beneath me. I picked out the place where I’d left my sandals and swam in.
By the time I walked home, my hair had soaked through the towel around my shoulders. I passed a bakery opening its shutters and a man hosing down the pavement outside a restaurant. He moved the spray aside to let me through. I thanked him in Greek, one of the few things I could say without first rehearsing it in my head.
My house stood in a narrow street behind the waterfront. The front door stuck when the weather was humid, one kitchen drawer refused to close, and from the balcony I could see a strip of sea between two buildings. I liked it more each day.
I showered, put the kettle on and took the macarons from the fridge. I’d baked and filled them two days earlier, then left them covered to mature. Two trays had come out well. The third had cracked across the tops, so I’d filled those too and kept them in a separate container for myself. Beside the good batch were six small lemon cakes and six chocolate ones.
The woman who owned a café near the park had agreed to taste everything this morning.
She hadn’t agreed to buy it.
I knew that. I had made enough to feed half her customers anyway.
While I packed the macarons, a Greek song came on my phone. I knew where to breathe, where the singer held a note a little longer than I expected, and how to find my way back in if I missed a word. I couldn’t have told anyone what most of those words meant.
Kira—that was what I called my mother—seemed to like hearing me sing. So did my stepfather. Sometimes I caught them looking at me, and for a moment I could pretend I knew what was on their faces.
We’re proud of you.
No one in my family had ever said that to me.
I caught myself thinking about it and reached into the container I’d kept for myself. One of the cracked macarons gave way beneath my thumb.
“Perfect,” I told it.
I ate the evidence and kept singing.
By eight, the cakes were boxed, the macarons were packed, and I had checked both boxes often enough to know the contents hadn’t rearranged themselves. My red notebook lay open on the table. I stopped to read the last paragraph before I picked up my keys.
The man in my story had gone into a room intending to frighten someone. I’d written the conversation three different ways and crossed out all of them. Each time, I had made it too easy for him to decide what happened next.
I reached for my pen, then looked at the clock. If I started writing, the café owner might decide I had invented our appointment.
I closed the notebook, slipped it into my bag beside my pen, and picked up the cake boxes.
The walk took me along the waterfront and up a shaded street towards the park. Even in the morning, I could feel the heat gathering on the stone. I kept to the side with the trees. I had come for the sea; the weather was something I was still negotiating with.
The café stood near one of the park entrances. Its doors were open, though only half the tables outside had been set. A man was carrying chairs out of the storeroom. He put them down so I could pass with my boxes.
Inside, the owner moved between the coffee machine and a line of waiting customers. She spotted me and raised a hand. I found an empty corner of the counter for the boxes and waited.
The man came in for another stack of chairs. He caught her eye, pointed towards the terrace, and she nodded her thanks. I recognised him then. He owned the restaurant next door.
They sold food and drinks a few doors apart. I’d assumed that made them rivals. Here he was, setting up her tables because she needed a hand.
Another reason I liked this place.
When the queue cleared, the owner came over. “You came.”
“I said I would.”
“We made that arrangement before eight in the morning. People promise all kinds of things at that hour.” She wiped her hands and lifted the first lid. “Let’s see.”
She tried a lemon cake, breaking a piece from the crooked one I had hidden at the back.
“What’s in the icing?”
“Lemon juice, mascarpone, and honey.”
She took another bite. “Less honey next time.”
I took my notebook from my bag and wrote that down. She tried a pistachio macaron next, then asked me how long the cakes would keep and whether I could make them smaller.
More customers came in before she had finished tasting. I moved the boxes aside while she took their order. One of them asked whether she was still alone today.
“My only employee called in,” she told him. “I’m beginning to think he knew you’d all arrive at once.”
The customer laughed. She smiled back, but she was looking at the cups stacked beside me. I passed her two, then another when she reached for it.
“You said you worked in a café during university,” she said.
“I did.”
“Can you still use a coffee machine?”
“Yes.”
She glanced at the queue forming behind the customer. “Would you mind showing me?”
The machine was different from the one I’d used in the UK. I asked her where she kept the cloths and how she wanted the cups set out, then made two cappuccinos while she handled the till. She watched me carry them to a table before turning back to the next order.
For the next twenty minutes, I made coffee. She called out what people wanted; I made it and passed it across the counter. When the rush eased, I wiped down the machine and stepped out of her way.
She looked at the empty cups waiting to be washed, then at me.
“Do you want work?” she asked.
I had come hoping she would buy my cakes. I hadn’t let myself hope for more than that.
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“I don’t know yet.” I glanced at the boxes. “It depends how much baking you want.”
That made her smile. She picked up the other half of the macaron and ate it.
“I want twelve of these on Saturday. Twelve lemon cakes too, a little smaller, with less honey. Come in Friday afternoon to prepare them here. You can help with the counter while you’re here, and we’ll talk about regular shifts after that.”
I wrote it all down. We agreed on a price for the baking, and she gave me half in advance for the ingredients.
When I stepped outside, the money was folded in my purse and the order was written in my notebook. I found a bench beneath a tree in the park and opened it to check the quantities again. My neat little list sat beside pages of red writing, most of it crossed out.
A fortune teller once told me this book would make me famous and give me somewhere I belonged. I’d laughed at the fame. I was still trying to finish it, and most days I couldn’t bear to read yesterday’s pages.
The other part had stayed with me.
I didn’t believe a stranger could see my future. I wanted her to be right anyway.
I turned back to the scene I’d abandoned that morning. I read it once, then crossed out the last page.
I had been looking for the moment my killer decided what to do. Sitting there with the café’s money in my purse and the sound of cups carrying across the park, I finally understood why none of my versions worked. He had made his decision before the other man entered the room. The conversation was his last chance to change his mind.
I began again.
The man spoke. My killer listened. When the man had said everything he came to say, my killer shot him.
I stopped writing. The murder was there, but the scene still felt unfinished. The killer had wanted an answer, and now there was someone else who would come looking for one.
I looked back at the dead man I’d put on the page. At his hand. At the watch on his wrist.
In the margin, I tried 3:40, then crossed it out. 3:45 looked too neat as well. I wrote 3:43 beside them and returned to the scene.
He took the watch from the dead man’s wrist and set its hands to 3:43. He struck it against the edge of the table hard enough to stop it. The face cracked, but the hands stayed where he had set them. Then he laid it face up on the man’s chest, for whoever came to find him.

DISCO DANCING WITH SAINT BRIGID 

Jim does not hold your hand on the walk to the dance. You can see him following it as it swings low and loose between you, his eyes tracking it left to right, as if in a silent dare with himself. You wish he would decide one way or the other. Crossroads make you nervous.

At 6:59, no later, he arrived with two sharp raps on the door. Two is a good number for knocking. One, you risk the household missing the sound of it. Three, you sound demanding. Two. Two is respectable.

Jim is wearing his best suit. Navy. The fabric is stretched thin across his shoulders, showing the wear. It was his brother's wedding suit. And the older brother’s before. Two O’Connors safely danced, dined and eventually married in this suit. You think it is ugly. 

Jim always walks on the outside of the pavement, standing between you and the road. This would be very convienant should a car come and try- but not try too hard- to run you over. Your Mammy calls Jim a gentleman. His family run the Butcher’s, in town. His Father now, his Granddaddy then. Jim will not take it over, but he will probably work there, sharing the stinking counter space with Padraig the eldest. 

If you go to the Butcher, you can watch through the shop window for each customer to leave. Padraig and Jim’s heads will snap together to exchange whispers of idle gossip back and forth. You think they know more about the people of the Town than any of the old women famed for having their noses perpetually in other people’s business. 

Pádraig married Máire three years back. In May, she had her second baby. You rarely see Máire without a child in her hand now. You find children loud and worryingly sticky. Their house is a neat cottage near his parents. The little patch of garden out front is kept perfectly pruned, showing a colorful display of flowers. On a road of gray and cracking pavements, it is a sharp burst life. The browning grass of the other gardens a quick reminder of which neighbors were struck by the sudden close of the factory. Hard times do not leave much room for gardening. Money went on clothes, whatever could be scraped together for school shoes to fit the fast growing toes. Meat. There was always money for meat. 

Jim loves his brother. Beside you, he chats idly about his day in the shop. He recounts Padraig Óg, his nephew, getting his hands on the family sized tub of sudocream. The child covered his face in thick paste that took hours to scrub clean. Jim retold Padraig’s stories with such warmth. You like this about him. You are not very close with your own sister. There is nothing noticeably wrong in your relationship. She just never warmed to you.  She has a knack for fitting in you never quite learned.

It is not a long walk to the community centre. You hear the dance before you see it. A shuddering of music spills through the tall windows, which are opened as wide as possible in an attempt to move the heavy August air. You feel sweat gathering on your top lip. The night is still young. 

Inside, the dance is heaving. Jim holds the heavy hall door open for you and gestures you through. The band sits in one corner of the room, playing a mixture of traditional music and bad covers. The hall smells faintly of football boots from the year’s training. Mostly, it is a mix of perfume and sweat so thick you can feel it leaving a film on the inside of your nostrils.

Jim takes your elbow and guides you expertly through the crowd. He moves towards a small huddle of tables and pulls out a chair for you to sit. He sits beside you, scanning your dress. Your bare knees touch under the table. You pull your hem down to cover them. 

‘You look nice.’

‘Thank you.’

It is slightly too loud to maintain easy conversation. You nod your heads in time to the music. A shout comes from across the hall. A group of men hover by the hole in the wall that leads to the small kitchen. This is the sandwich station for funeral receptions. On an evening like this, it becomes a bar. They call for Jim, waving and nudging each other as they take in the two of you together. When you look back at him, he is flushed. He looks pleased. He is pleased to be seen with you, you think. You don’t know how to feel about that.

‘I’ll just-‘

Jim imitates drinking from a glass, and leaves across the hall to join the throng. You watch him go and breath out sharply. Beads of sweat are pilling on your upper lip and forehead. 

The main bathroom is busy. The women’s line twists around the corner, high heels click-clacking as weight is shifted from one foot to another. Evaluating the scene, you slip quietly through a side door into a dark corridor that leads to the dressing rooms. It is too loud. You need peace more than the toilet. 

Finding a hidden corner, you take refuge against the wall. You scoop your hair up, exposing the nape of your neck to the cool brick of the wall.

‘It can’t be all that bad.’ 

Máire stood in the doorway to one of the dressing rooms. No boy in hand, child or otherwise. You start at her voice. You are unsure how long she has stood there, watching you. Without overhead lights, her features are clouded. She is all sharp angles on a smooth plain of outlines. Her eyes glint, turning animal. A fox caught in a streetlight.

‘Máire, Christ, you scared me. Where’s Pádraig?’ 

‘Where’s Jim?’ 

You regard each other from a distance. Neither one makes to close the space.

‘Cigarette?’ 

‘You don’t smoke.’ 

Máire slips a smoke from her clutch and into her mouth. The striking of the match and responding flame cast a flickering shadow across her face. She looks tired.

‘I do actually. Don’t tell Jim.’ 

Don’t tell Jim, meaning don’t tell Pádraig. One never knew something long before it was passed to the other.

Máire begins to walk to you, her kitten heels softly click-clacking on the tiled floor. You find myself staring at her dress. The fabric swirls from around her waist like water.

‘You look nice.’

She says nothing further but leans on the wall beside you. Each time she inhales, you can see the ember from the bottom of her cigarette glow hotly. When she exhales, the smoke tendrils past you, stinging your eyes. You don’t flinch. You hold her gaze. You know when to look away. You don’t.

*********************

Animals can tell who the runt is of a litter. They are seperated from the herd. The first sacrifice. This anthropoligical fact was observed first hand in your year’s in primary school. You wrote with your left hand. The Devil’s hand. One sign of many that you were wrong. The backs of your legs were frequently bruised by the birch stick the Master kept leaning by his desk. While the other children learned to read, you would stare and stare at pages of letters that slipped and swam away under your gaze. You seemed to be constantly chasing something that came to everyone else with ease. 

At fifteen, you were preparing to leave school. You planned to finish the term and find work. An itch for money in your pocket. You spent days fantasising about a bus ticket to Dublin. You imagined stepping on the bus, finding a seat by the window. Watching your town’s familiar skyline grow smaller and smaller in the exhaust fumes. You never made it so far as to imagine what would happen when you get off. You did not worry about having enough saved to come back.

It was during one of these later classes Máire Sullivan joined the ranks. New. This had never happened before. Sometimes, children from the nearby travelling community slipped in and out of classes, but you grew up knowing their faces, their mother’s faces. Their father’s helped mend your roof.  This was a whole new person. Her father a Guarda, he had been moved to our local station in a promotion. Mammy had spoken about him. ‘A firm man, but very kind’, came her breathy verdict after he helped her carry home the shopping.

A new girl. You thought you might die of excitement. She was assigned the seat next to you. 

It was February 1st. The lesson was Saint Brigid.

‘She spread her cape, and God gave her the power to make it grow and grow and grow. The King of Leinster had promised her as much land as the cape would cover. This land she used to make the monastery up in Kildare.’ 

‘Bollocks.’ 

This was then first thing Máire ever said to you. She spent the morning in a sullen silence. Only now did you hear her voice, so slight you were unsure if she had said it all. She did not look at you, not really. She had turned slightly in her seat, giving you a private view of her face. Her hair very dark, it hung in loose spiralling curls down past her shoulders. Freckles spanned around her eyebrows, down her hooked and slanted nose. The side of her mouth closest to you was hitched in a trace of a smirk. She looked pleased to have shocked you. 

You were embarrassed to be shocked. It felt like a test you had failed, and who was she to test you? Irritated, you gave her a firm nudge under the desk, surprising yourself as you did so. But it only served to encourage her. Máire continued to whisper.

‘My Mam says that story is a load of nonsense. She says Brigid wasn’t a saint at all. She says she was a goddess.’ 

Then came your turn to scoff. Bollocks. Goddess, whoever heard of that?

She read the dismissal in your expression. You remember this quite clearly. The heat that built behind her eyes. Dark blue, except for a stark ring around her right pupil. This was light, yellow even. The mismatch between them was striking. You stared a beat too long.

You stayed longer in this town than you meant to. With Máire’s arrival came the finding of friendship. This elusive thing you watched for years on your road.  Kids who ran after one another and visited each other’s homes for tea. You watched the way they lit up in each other’s company. Then, Your Mammy could still make you do your night time prayers. You would kneel by your bed and pray for a friend. 

Máire became your shadow and you hers. You learned the softness of her hairbrush. She learned how you snore on your side. You wore each other’s clothes and soon spoke in each other’s voices. Sometimes you felt Máire knew what you were going to think before you thought it. Sometimes you thought you Máire’s thoughts better than her own. 

That Summer, before you began work at the shop on Main Street, you would meet each morning to cycle our bikes to the river. Máire would steal bread from home and you, ashamed to have nothing, offered to steal apples from the nearby orchard. She kept watch while you climbed the tree. You pretended it was something you had done before. You wanted her satiated. You wanted to be the one to satiate. 

Your Mammy despaired. 

‘Leave school and work, fine. But this is not working. She’s wild. And that mouth!.’ 

Máire earned a fast reputation for being ‘a mouth’. She was no gossip, well, not with anyone except for you. But she never knew when to be quiet. This skill that had been silently entrenched in every girl seemed to have just skipped her right over. Máire always said no when she should say yes. You loved this about her. 

‘We could go to Dublin together, you know.’ 

You sat side by side on the river bank. You had been swimming, and the water still glistened on your legs as you stretched them out on the grass. Her hair was soaking wet. You wanted to reach out and cup it gently in your hands. 

‘I would go to Dublin. I’ve a cousin up there, she’s a house and I’ve been writing to her. There’s a room. It wouldn’t be much. I think we could afford it together, soon.’ 

You had laughed at her. Máire had recently started to go out with Pádraig O’Connor. She had come home a few weeks ago to find him in her kitchen, drinking tea with her mother and father. Her Father in his full uniform still, not sitting at the table with her flustered looking Mother, but standing expectantly beside it. When Máire arrived home, late, he very clearly explained to her she would be taking the air with Pádraig this evening. Although she had done nothing but complain about this arrangement to me, you had felt certain of how it would progress. The same way you could tell with the garden which plants would take seed. It had roots. 

‘Dublin sounds great. I’ll let you have the window seat.’

************************* 

The Wedding came soon after. It was a small affair. You went as Jim’s guest, at Máire’s insistence. She had been pushing you together since her and Pádraig were engaged.

‘We’ll be like sisters. And our babies best friends too.’

You and Jim danced together throughout the night. He brought you a piece of sponge cake on a plate, carefully laid out with a napkin. He kept your glass of water filled and offered his tux jacket when the air turned with a bite. You felt like you were play acting. 

Máire looked like a porcelain doll next to her new husband. The O’Connor’s a good family, her parents were delighted. Her Father nearly shed a tear at his speech, so proud he was of Máire and his new son. So excited he was for their future together. Máire and her Father had not spoken much before the wedding. It had been decided by Mr. Sullivan they were a suitable fit, and when Pádraig asked for Máire’s hand he was quick to give her away. A man of few words, it did not take much to understand what was not being said in that house. You are too strange, too wild. Marry him and settle. Marry him or leave.

The pair of them looked comical as they floated around the room. Him a hulking stretch of a man, built wide and thick. Her frame lost each time he turned. You noticed her looking at you dancing. You looked at her back. She smiled at you and you saw a parting. You never made it to Dublin.

Jim kept coming back after the Wedding.  You kept working at the shop. It was an easy match. 

************************

Máire exhales smoke, this time straight into your slightly opened mouth.

 You watch her cigarette drop from her hand

The same fingers raise slowly, slowly to your cheek 

You find it very hard to breathe

You think more about swallowing than you ever have in your life

There is a spell upon you and you worry to break it 

You watch her face. Her eyes are so very wide. The spark becomes something else. Her fox becomes a wolf. You can find no words for her look other than this- she looks hungry. She looks starving.

This sudden closeness of her is overwhelming. You smell liquor mixing with tobacco on her breath and wonder where she got it from. Not from Pádraig. It is not respectable for a mother of two young ones to be seen to be drinking. On Jim, this mixing of scents was curdled. On Máire it is sweet. You want to bottle it. You want to drink it. 

Máire uses the thumb on her right hand to trace your lips. First the top one, right to left, then bottom, left to right. She repeats this circle once more. Your noses are sinking together, cautious and bumping. You feel a sudden rush of consciousness, aware of where you are and what you are doing. What are you doing?

Your stomach drops with the fear of it- the something more of it, the something more if it you can not quite explain nor even name. An old fear you had not realised was sitting in you all your years until just now. You move to pull back, to slip your face from her hold and to return to the safe palm of the Hall.  

Máire 

locks her fingers behind your neck and 

forcefully puts her lips to yours.

Oh.

You can’t move. You are becoming aware of each nerve, where it is, the extent to which it can experience a feeling. Your skin is hot and her touch is cold. It is brick wall on sweat. It is balm on burn. It is cold river water on hot summer day. 

You don’t know how long you stay there. Time has become melted and gooey. It oozes around you in decades. You are girls holding hands. You are old women kissing wrinkled necks. You are every age you have ever been and Máire is so beautiful.  

When she draws back, she walks away. She does not turn around as she opens and closes the door behind her. You find yourself outside your body, floating several metres above your head. Your hands find your knees as you double over in delayed shock. Your face is wet and it is from soft tears that have gathered on it. You do not know if they are yours or Máire’s. You wonder if her skin tastes like your salt. 

It is a while before you rejoin the dance. You can feel that she is gone without looking for her. You tell Jim you have a headache, and could he please take you home.

**********************

‘What did you mean about your Mammy and Brigid?’ 

Lunchtime, the day Máire joined the class, you wanted an explanation.

‘How could she be a Goddess?’ 

Máire had the knack of making you a co-conspirator with nothing more than a look. She signalled you to lower your voice. You stood to the side of the lunchyard. Nearby, the boys pucked a sliotar to each other, their school jumpers balled at their feet to form goalposts. 

‘My Mammy says that before the Church came to Ireland, we had lots of Gods and Goddesses all of our very own. It wasn’t just one God. And Goddess Brigid was one of the most amazing Goddesses. She was in charge of battle, and blacksmiths and fertility. There was a woman Brigid, who started the monastery at Kildare. That’s who the church calls the Saint. I can’t remember exactly why it’s all mixed up. But my Mam said that the real Brigid didn’t ever want to get married either. She stayed with her best friend, Darlughdach. They were inseparable. They were as one soul in two bodies. They went everywhere together and slept side by side. My Mam calls them anamcara.’

You were fascinated by her story. Both the words and the way she told them. Máire spoke quickly, and with an assuredness that was alien to you. You liked how wide her eyes got when she concentrates.

‘I’ve never really had a friend.’ 

You don’t know what drove you to the point of confession. You know the shame of it. The way honest words can taint the air between people with the stain of something you can not take back. To your surprise, Máire did not blink but kept a level stare. 

‘Me neither. Not like that anyways.’ 

‘It sounds nice.’ 

‘It does.’ 

submitted this for my 8th grd suspense narrative benchmark am I cooked
please feedback pls feedback!!!!!

I AM NOT PROMOTING MYSELF.

word count: 1600 ish

Before the Sun Sets

The sun rose up slowly, pulling golden yellow skies over the vast darkness below. Busy adults soon left for work, and naive children played on the field close by. At a nearby church, the 8:00 mass was about to start, while a few people rushed in in hopes of not missing the opening hymn. A kid sat on the wooden pew in the front row, wearing a button up flannel and looking put together. In addition, her father, mother, and brother  sit there, picture perfect; the ideal.

Across the bench, a young girl sits, distant, cold, and unmoving. Her eyes were fixated on the large wooden cross that towered high above the people inside. The idea of unwavering superiority made her question the line that she was never meant to cross.

“Excuse me?” a voice rang through the church. “You can’t be sleeping in here.”

The girl lifted her head slowly, trying not to nod off again. 

“Ah, sorry. I’ll be on my way now.”

“Wait!” the girl grabbed her hand abruptly. 
“Yeah?”

“Would you like to play with me and my friends if you’re not going anywhere?”

She turned around and shook her hand off and agreed, “sure.”

The girl grinned and led her out of the dim church.

Judas loved the sun, and she hated how the church shadowed the warmth. The church masked the light, like a cruel facade. Outside, she felt free, free from the constrictions of the incense that lingered, the walls that cut everyone off from the inevitable.

She spotted a small hill, and a group of girls around her age running around the grass playing tag.

One of them walked over, eagerly to Judas, excitedly greeting her. “Hello! My name is Mary! Eve, isn’t this the girl that always…” she trailed off, covering her mouth with her hand as if she had something to hide.

“If you have something to say, you better say it to my face.”

Mary was significantly taller than Judas, and when she looked down at her, she was even more terrifying.

“Judas, was it? You gonna sell us out before supper or something?” She snickered lowly while someone called everyone over to start the game of tag. She saw Eve’s smirk, but didn’t think much of it.

Judas stared blankly at Mary, who was talking with the other girls. She looked at the sky. Just how long had she been asleep for?

“Hey, let's just call you Jude. Are you fine with that?”

She looked at Eve. She was radiant, like the sun peering through the clouds on a rather dreary day. She liked her. She was nice to her.

“Yeah. I’d like that.” 

“Alright then, Jude! Let’s go!”

They both met the rest of the group on the hill. Mary was mumbling to the other girls under her breath, and Jude knew it was about her. She didn’t seem to mind, though. Mary walked over. 

“Since you're the guest, you should be it, okay?” Mary taunted.

Eve asked, “will you be alright with that, Jude?”
Jude nodded, and with that, the kids began to spread out across the grass. 

“3…2…1…go!” 

Everyone started running, but one girl turned around and was still chatting with someone else. She decided to run for her first, since she was the easiest target.

She ran up to her and reached out to tag her, until she felt herself colliding with something solid. 

“Huh?”

She opened her eyes to a loud commotion. All of a sudden, Mary sat wailing on the ground while the girls stood around and comforted her. Jude stood up in dreadful silence, feeling guilty as the girls eyed her in horror. She wondered why she was indifferent; numb. So much was happening at that moment, and she felt insane because all she could think about was Eve. How would she react? Would she decide not to talk to her anymore? Jude thought of her expression, that warm, radiant face and her sweet smile, crumbling as soon as their eyes met.

The caretaker who was sitting close by rushed over and led Mary to the office. It had only been a day since they’d met, and Jude had already ruined it all.

She took a seat on the bench not far away, just thinking. 

Not long after, she decided to close her eyes. She could only hope that nobody came to see her. She didn’t even want to see Eve. With the guilt on her back, she didn’t think she could face her. She dozed off for God knows how long.

“Jude, I thought you were different. I didn't know you were this childish, to hurt someone over something as small as that. Why would you do this? Why are you like this? I never want to see your face again, let alone at church.”

The sound of footsteps echoed as the yelling continued to ring through her head. 

“Jude?”

Hearing the sound of the familiar voice, She perked up, pulling her from that terrible nightmare.

It seemed that she hadn't been asleep for long, seeing that the sun was beginning to set.

“Eve? Why are you here?”

Eve hesitated. “I wanted to see you before I left.”

“You’re leaving?” Jude’s expression contorted, clearly showing her surprised look.

She held her hand behind her back, standing over Jude who was sitting down on the bench. “Tommorow.”

Jude was pained. She didn't want her to leave, even if they hadn't been friends for long, she still wanted her around. “Will I  ever get to see you again?”

Eve’s back stood against the fading sun. She couldn't see her face, yet she knew she was smiling. Or was she?

“Aren’t you fine here in Bellwood? Everyone knows each other here, and im sure you have a lot of friends here, so why–”

“Why do you care? I know I seem like a saint to you, but I’m not, and I never will be. We met earlier today. You might think that I care for you in your own fairy dreamland, but I pity you. Your parents are such tidy people, and you? You’re a disgrace to them.” 

As soon as she said that, Jude’s smile dropped. It was as if reality had hit her smack in the face. It wasn’t Mary, or Eve, or heck– even her dad. She was hoping for the reality that maybe she would have a shoulder to lean on.

It seems that she had wished for something imperceivable.

“What are you talking about? What have I ever done to you to make you feel this way!”

 “Because you're a–” she stopped abruptly. Her face had a tinge of disgust, but also that of pity. It seemed like she didn’t fully like her, but also cared. “You know what you are.”

“I don’t.”

“I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at me.”

Jude said nothing.

“You like me, don't you?”

Her stomach dropped.

“It's disgusting. I've been trying to be nice to you all day, and now I realize I should've just ignored you.” Eve and Jude just stood there in silence, averting each other's gaze.

“Why…why does this always happen…” Jude just stood there, the tears welling up in her eyes as she fought to hold back. “Yeah. I do have a crush on you. Who are you to care? I have nothing to lose. Just as you said, my family hates me and I have no friends.” Jude said, scornfully as she held back her tears.

Eve sneered. “You’re insane.”

She started walking away. The footsteps echoed like cymbals, and her heart was the drums.

The sky was completely dark. Not an ounce of light shown through the night, covered by the thick clouds. A streetlamp illuminated her path back home, but she didn’t want to go. She wanted to sit still and just stop thinking. She wanted to close her eyes once more and just–

“Hey, you’re seriously not going to stay out here all night, are you? You shouldn’t worry your mother.”

Jude stared at her for a second. “I’ll be on my way now.”

They slowly walked away from each other. 

Suddenly, the air felt thicker; heavier, all pressing down on her chest. She wanted more. She was crying, but it didn’t give her the release that she so desperately wanted.

The walk home was surprisingly shorter than she anticipated. It was when she stepped on the front porch did she realize the severity of her situation. 
She heard the crashing of a vase and the yelling inside the household as she appeared.

All of a sudden, the front door slammed open. No doubt her dad was drunk again. This is why she didn’t want to come home.

A face she knew all too well towered over her. The sky was pitch black. Then everything was.

She woke up once more to the feeling of cold, hard porcelain tiles. 

Jude laid there on her bathroom floor, feeling the rough, dried blood on her face and the bruises on her body that seemed like they would never fade. The small window high at the top of the wall in the bathroom was the only source of light. She stood up and stared at her body in the mirror that was covered in huge, purple-yellow blotches. 

She had nobody else to lean on. What was the point if her siblings, mother, father, and Hope no longer cared about her?

The knowledge that humans seek to discover will forever be theory, and we will keep chasing It until the world caves in. Until everything goes still once more, until nothing.

Whether ‘It’ is the desperation to be remembered, or the desperation to be loved, that is something that we will never be able to grasp.

The sun rose above the horizon, leaving the darkness behind, and the light anew. Perhaps, darkness was never meant to be the end. 

The world doesn't end when the sun goes down.

It begins.

Hi. So I recently tried writing a story my own way. I got inspired from years of content. I have written a short story. And got good reviews from my friends. But I want some honest, unbiased criticism. It's just a small extract, dm me if someone wants to read the whole thing. Here it goes

[word count=781]

The Last Dance

History is a strange thing. It remembers victories, records wars, and carves the

names of heroes who finally ended the Dark Ages and re-established order to our

lands. Yet it forgot the man who made it all possible. That man died with no witness

but me.

This tale is old. Back then, I was nineteen, maybe, I don't remember. A wanderer

travelling from village to village, collecting stories. Looking back, it was a bad

profession. In one of my travels, I saw him resting near a barely lit campfire outside

the village of Urff. I would have walked right past him if he hadn't asked for water.

I walked towards the campfire and offered water from my pouch. He took the pouch

from my hand. Standing close to him, I noticed his blood-stained cloak, torn beyond

recognition, and two bloodied greatswords. Blood seeped through the gaps of his

battered armour. Yet the way he sat by the fire, there was a strange calm about him.

This was exactly the kind of story I had spent my life searching for. "Mind if I sit?" I

asked. "Do what you want, kid. I don't care," he replied, barely looking up. I then sat

opposite him. The fire crackled. Neither of us spoke for a while. Seeing me stare at

his body, the man said, "Don't worry about it, kid." Then he coughed blood into the

fire. "...Huh, blood," he chuckled. "This is probably bad."

I finally mustered the courage and asked, "Good sir, may I know who you are?" He

looked at me as if I'd demanded his very soul. "I am a sellsword, I kill for gold," he

replied in an irritated tone. "Can I ask for your name..." I was asking when he cut me

off and said, "Forget it, kid. Let me be in peace for a while." Silence again. The only

sound I could hear was that of the fire crackling, and a slight heaviness in the man's

breath. The man was staring directly at the fire, but it looked like he was looking at

something beyond that. He was lost in his thoughts.

I tried easing things up by introducing myself. "I apologize for being so invasive, sire.

Let me first introduce myself. I am Ralph from the village Fleton..." He looked

towards me for the first time. "...I am a traveller. I travel to different places and do

small chores to survive," I continued. "I have travelled to countless villages, collecting

stories from different people, encountering many monsters, barely getting away with

my life." The man stared for a while. He finally spoke up, "Listen to me, kid. You are

either in the wrong profession or you were born in the wrong time of the world's

history." He turned his gaze back to the fire. "A word of advice, kid. Stop gambling

with your life and return to your home. I bet a mother is waiting there for you." I replied, "There isn't one. I am sure of at least that." He looked at me again. He asked,

"Is there no one?" "There is, my sister," I replied. Silence again. He looked up

towards the sky; it was almost nightfall. "Huh..." — a sigh. "Here's my proposal. You

are looking for stories. I will give you one, worth more than the rest of your life, if you

promise to leave this life of idiocy and return to your village, where someone is

waiting for you. What do you say? Do you accept my proposal?" I thought about it for

a while and then nodded my head. "Let's begin," I said finally.

Hello everyone, I'm currently a college student at EFSC and I'm try to be a better writer and reader. I'm currently reading Omniscient Reader. I want to make a short story & a poem based on the other books I've read this year. Please let me know how I'd should improve.

An apple has a shape, but hunger doesn’t. An apple can be tasted, but it was empty of hunger, because to him it was mud, sunlight, river water, and children.

Apple has soft skin. Shiny, yet uneven. People like apples without peeling them, but it wouldn’t be the same for a child that has a cold. You’d have to cut it in half and scoop out the flesh with a spoon, and slowly feed it to the child. The texture is kind of grainy, but really juicy. If you bite into the skin too, it’s kind of wrinkly. You’d also have to consider the mother's hands turning a bit yellow from the juice.

Is it the whole apple, or the apple cut in half? Is it the apple’s juice, or the mother’s hand?

There are also kinds that have never had an apple offered to them. Some mothers can’t afford it; there are those who choose not to buy apples. Some children, even if they’re bedridden, they will be tossed aside. And the ones that died, if they didn’t get care— there is no place in the world that hasn’t been torched by human memories. That is why there is nowhere in the world that hasn’t had resentment.

Hunger feels dry. It smells like soil/earth (there are many types of earth), but it was mud. You can’t escape it off because it’s aged. Mud with a little gravel and no sand.

What does hunger taste like? The children put the biscuits out in the sun, but there was nothing else for them to do, so they just stand there around the mud. So, children waiting for sunlight. Hunger was that: a child waiting for the sun. That was your poem.

Hunger has no form, no taste, no smell? That’s wrong. Hunger was mud, a river, a child, and thirst. MEMORIES. Eventually, resentment turns into bitterness. What is thirst? What is freezing?

POEM^

Spirit that evolve into a human. And his ball where able to influence other beings evolution.

Lived a normal life similar mine. Felt like the honored one

Saved a city from destruction by simply living and activated a train with him along side himself is 2 balls a new friend and another Spirit that evolved because it took his balls and cultivated and became a fully grown adult girl and the person that helped found him and raised him as his own.

Short Story^

Gathering Wood

Sometimes, I can still feel the sweat at my back. How it pooled in my shirt as the axe came down. It clung to my neck, and I could feel it in my hair. If I’d been given a single second, I would’ve tied it out of the way. God, I still remember that stupid shirt. 

The blade was old and dull; chipped where it should be smooth and brown where it should be red. It probably wouldn’t be around next summer. No, it’d fall victim to a first glance and be abandoned in the woods. Treasure for someone in the future.

Another miss. My fingers pulsed around the handle, white and aching for release. I felt splinters working their way into my hands with each thud. The axe got stuck in a few logs, and I had to slam them down into the stump. Camp White was hidden by stubborn wood. 

Another miss. It was the last one before Sam’s teasing got to me. I could see her there, in my periphery; arms crossed, holding herself up on one leg. All the quiet signs of impatience. I turned away from her and wiped the sweat off my forehead. It was always something with Sam.

“Talk about a swing and a miss, huh?” It was so hard to tell when she actually wanted me to answer. I usually guessed wrong. I ditched the axe, throwing it a little too far away. I could just tell Sam had some sort of face ready for me when I turned around. 

I flexed my hands. They were pale, but the pink was slowly coming back. I looked over at her. Sam was shouldering four logs with ease. The sun was at her back, coming past and blinding me. But her figure was unmistakable; even on a breezeless day, she put a chill in the air that wiggled through me. 

I had known Sam a while. We used to be campers here. Not that we spoke much back then. That was before her growth spurt. And the little tattoo behind her ear that disappeared when her hair was down. My parents would’ve killed me if I got a tattoo. She had learned how to get what she wanted. And making me seem puny was usually at the top of her list.

I walked around the stump and picked up the axe, grabbing what I managed to split, and could already feel the eye roll before my hand could block out the sun. 

“What’s the point in even bringing you to the Stump, Lawrence? I am not giving up a comfy chair just ‘cause your hands are baby smooth,” she said, already heading back down the trail. 

I just stood there for a bit. Tired inside and out. Where I'd tucked the logs at my side, they were soon against my hip. It was like my hand was daring me to let them drop onto the grass.

Sam looked over her shoulder at me, a quirk in her brow. Almost like she didn’t understand why I wasn’t right on her tail. Why I was too limp to join her. Why I’d barely said a word to her all morning. I had so much unsaid in my chest, my teeth. 

Sam turned to face me, both eyebrows raised. The grass brushed against my legs, and I felt a bead of sweat drip down the centre of my back. She was waiting. For me to say something, anything. But I couldn’t. I let it all out through my nose and hope the breeze would pick up and carry it away.

“I just don’t have the callouses yet,” I said in the space between those quiet moments. 

I kept my eyes off her, but I could feel her squint. Even though I was the one facing the sun. I waited for the jab like I was supposed to.

She turned around and carried on.

“Or the shoulders,” I heard in response despite the whistling trees and threat of nightfall. 

The sky was orange, and the air was warm. It was thick with that end-of-summer haze that always made my head spin. The kind that just dared me to leap into the lake and sink to the bottom. When I was a camper, I hated the lake. I hated the bugs and the squish of my feet against the bottom. Everybody else loved it, though. I even knew some kids who would sneak out to swim under the moon. If I'd had my say, I’d have left this summer without going in at all. But Sam had already acquainted me with the lake, with a push I was still feeling.

“My foot still hurts,” I said. I could sense her smile, even from behind. She glanced back at me.

“Shouldn’t have gone swimming then,” Sam chuckled back. When I was under there, I immediately felt like something was off. But the adrenaline made me numb. And the cold.

I still remember that trail. The sounds and smells of the middle of nowhere. The air that came off the lake was something I wanted to bottle. And I could hear bushes sway and the birdsong of summer’s end whenever I closed my eyes. 

Camp wasn’t too far from “the Stump,” but it was hilly, and I was slow. I think it sat at the edge of the prairies, where the fields gave way to rock and boulder. I didn’t like hiking even when I could walk normally. And yet, there I was, dragged along anyway. I was crap at chopping wood and last pick for any kind of labour. I guess Sam thought I had superhuman strength or something. I mean, it wasn’t summer camp that taught me; people didn’t expect much out of me. In most places, it was like I just happened to be there.

I was so beat that day—I could tell I wouldn’t get much rest from the moment I opened my eyes. Those woods kept me from any real sleep. As did Sam. She was like an early bird and a night owl at the same time. My sleepless nights: Camp White was mostly wooden beams and starry nights. I rarely caught the sunrises. 

The counsellors were set up in two wooden cabins on either side of the Mess Hall; they’d started coming undone long before my first summer there. The cobwebs looked like tacky Halloween decorations. But I never heard the kids complain about that sort of thing in their cabins. They were rundown just the same. And when you’re young, you don’t notice that sort of stuff as much. Or at least, you don’t mind.

Those little shits only cared about the lake. And we couldn’t blame them. We let them believe they weren’t so obvious in everything they did. Sneaking out, sharing looks. I played dumb, as did Sam. I could’ve used a blind eye or two when I was a kid

My ankle flared up, so I took a second to roll it. Sam must’ve heard the ground go quiet because I could feel her eyes on me. She was pulling herself up over a mossy rock. Her jeans were stained green.

“Let’s go, Lawrence.”

I never really understood why I put up with Sam for so long. I guess I liked how independent she seemed. I’m sure I told myself some pathetic lie, like she was just the kind of person who bossed everybody around. Or that she hauled all the other counsellors to the middle of the woods. But after the first few weeks, every time I looked over my shoulder, it was only ever Sam who I saw. 

She let everyone else slack off. Mike and Bill probably went the first month without having to say a word to her. And the rest of the girls seemed to keep their distance. I was sad when I realized why. 

She wasn’t always like that—so pushy and unrelenting. When we were kids, she was quieter, less action and more still. This year was the first time I saw her smile with her teeth. She never really said much to me when we were kids. The most she spoke to me was at the Arts N’ Crafts station. She asked for the glitter glue. Back then, I could catch her brown hair from the lake and watch the distance grow. I came to camp Senior year not expecting to be tied to her hip all summer.

I tried to fight it at first, even at Orientation. But I was never taught how to stand up for myself. Say no or more often, how to tell someone yes. It’d always been easier to let someone else decide. And so, at the end of every day, it was me doing headcount and checking beds. It was me keeping the kids from drowning while Sam sat on the sand, just smiling; daring me to say something, but I could never muster the courage. 

She had this air about her. Like it was breathing her instead. She seemed so suited to summer and the kids. And she worked like nothing was waiting for her in September. When I’d ask, she’d bring up the time or go and check on something that never needed checking. I asked about her family once, and she didn’t speak to me for the rest of the day. I’d only heard what anyone heard about anyone; not enough. I should’ve asked a different way.

There was this one time I couldn’t stay asleep. Maybe the cabin was too hot, or the woods were too loud. No clue. The forty-ninth day. I opened my eyes to this jagged, unsteady breathing. Curiosity took over, and I peeked toward it. At Sam’s bed. She was curled into a ball, knees drawn up, crying into her pillow. I froze. And after that, I couldn’t help but stare. At this girl. This woman I thought was all bark and no leaves, wracked through with pain with almost no sound. 

Something in me wanted to reach over; most of me, actually. But she thought she was alone with herself in that moment, and I had no place reminding her I was there. I closed my eyes and pretended I had no clue the next day. 

It almost felt like I was lying to her. And then I felt bad for being so curious about what someone like Sam would have to cry over. Someone with enough looks to convince anyone of anything. Then I wondered if the Sam who was dragging me through the woods all day was even the same quiet girl who avoided me when we were kids.

For whatever reason, gritting my teeth became enough, and whatever she wanted to do with me became bearable again. 

“You’re lucky I’m stuck with you,” Sam teased, eyes prodding at my tired body. I probably looked crazy. In my worn sneakers and sweaty T-shirt.

I knew by the end of camp I’d walk away with freckles and burns, bug bites and splinters. And by the fifty-third day, I felt too bad about pestering the nurse anymore. She’d probably smack me for keeping my twisted ankle a secret between Sam and me.

I don’t really remember what we talked about on the rest of the hike back. Minus my speed. And Sam’s refusal to slow down. When we reached the fire pit, Sam was already grabbing the pathetic logs at my hip. I wiped off my hands on my legs.

Right on cue, as if she could sniff out the wood, Jackie strolled up to us, arms swinging through the dense air. They landed on her hips.

“Done slacking off?” She asked, pulling out her walkie. 

Jackie was our ringleader, and the whistle around her neck kept the peace to a minimum. She always seemed to have a clipboard against her chest and her hair tied through her cap. She was nice, if not a little much. She was the type of person who’d call relaxation a waste of time. That is, before we got her to smoke for the first time. 

Sam and I shared a look and breezed past her, opting for the padded lounge chairs around the pit before the others could claim them. We sank into them and felt the day ease out of us. There went my aching hands and twisted ankle, exhaled into the purple air.

Jackie got the fire going, and it became the only source of light left out there. Everybody gathered around the new sun and stopped being camp counsellors for a little while. We were just teenagers, miles away from home. 

There weren’t that many of us, and we didn’t all sit in the same circles. But nights like those, when the kids were asleep, and there were no PSA’s warning us that we were degenerates, we all found the company worthwhile. The beer bottles seemed to bridge the gaps between cliques. Each time I looked over, Sam’s beer was full again.

I was oscillating between three different conversations—with plenty of fail. Eventually, I just let my eyes close and focused on the heat at my legs. I liked my feet close to the fire, where the bugs were scared and the night was too. And because it was the only comfortable position. 

I could hear Sam shifting in her chair every so often, like she couldn’t get comfortable. I glanced her way. She didn’t meet my eyes at all. She was looking at the fire. I wondered what she must have been thinking about. 

And then I realized she wasn’t looking into the fire like a serial killer; she was eyeing up my ankle. I braced for a joke, or some quip that would’ve secretly hurt my feelings, but none came. What did come was a wide-eyed expression as she grabbed my ankle and placed it in her lap.

“Does it hurt?” She questioned, like I’d gotten a paper cut. Her eyebrows furrowed, like a glare was coming. I tried to free my leg, but she held on. 

“No,” I responded. It did hurt, a little. But I just hoped I didn’t smell.

“Now?” She pressed softly. She always gave me a hard time when I got a new bruise.

“When you do that.”

She rotated it, like any of that first-aid training stuck. 

“I think you’re faking,” she said, her eyes coming to meet mine. She smiled. The right side of her face was orange from the fire. Her hands smelled like cedar and metal. 

She wouldn’t look away. 

The muscles in my leg relaxed. Her lap was more comfortable than the ground. It made my breathing feel easier somehow. I didn’t know her eyes were green and brown.

“You only play nurse when Jane’s around,” Jackie called across the fire. 

The world stilled.

Sam seemed to disappear, like she’d wandered into the woods. She let go of my foot. It stung. I lowered it onto the ground. I kept it still and held my breath. All I could hear was an owl somewhere in the distance.

That and Jackie fidgeting in her chair, shifting around like a kid in trouble. For a long time, I thought she had been teasing Sam. And it took me even longer to wonder why Sam never asked anyone else to gather wood. 

I’m curious whether anyone here is from the Tri-Cities area. I’ve been trying to connect with a few local people who are into writing, creativity, philosophy, or just good conversation.

No big agenda. Just seeing who might be out there.

​

Watching the world around me now, and seeing how much has changed is truly breathtaking. The way one man’s mind can rebel against him and scream at the body, just trying to halt the endless march. Fueled by delusions, empty actions leave no progress. 

Forgive thy mistakes, for I am not one person. The mind, body and soul are all aware of this world's dangers, but morality is what keeps us in check. One side slips while the others have to dwell on the aftermath. Always wondering why, but never really finding solutions to any of it.

I am not a bad person… we are not a bad person. Just simply dipping our feet into madness, with no real care. 

This is a story I started working on this last Sunday. Any feedback or reactions you had while reading would be appreciated. (Be warned it’s slightly under 8k words long I believe). This is also NOT FINISHED and I’m giving you only 1 sub-chapter into chapter 3 to show you what comes next.

Where Does The Easy Wind Blow?
I

When it was all said and done, what was left? Was it the people? Sure, if you’re cliche. Was it the trees? Hardly, the trees have all rooted. Then what was truly left; when it was all said and done?

He probably didn’t bother with those details. No, he wouldn’t have. He would’ve taken control of his life by now. I’m not like him—I’m far weaker. I let misfortune and ease guide my life. If it is easier doing nothing then I should. I’ve always been like this—refusing to do anything with my life, that is. My father is supposedly a great adventurer; off finding treasure inside a new location. In other words, he’s probably dead.

My mother is a different story. About 4 years after I was born, and 3 years after my dad vanished, she died. I remember it being hard for my aunt—who now had to take care of a kid all alone. It wasn’t really hard for me, I was a kid after all. I barely remember anything with my mom.

I haven’t needed a reason to remember her; my aunt is plenty for me. I remember the long days she would care for me, whisking me away to a new adventure—I thought maybe I could find my dad that way. She would make me lunch before she left for work. Truly my aunt is great—I should call her mom.

I let the wind blow me. I don’t ask for more, and I don’t wish for less. I am perfectly happy the way I am. So why? Why is it that now, while I sit in my room alone, the easy wind blows in a new direction. Why is it that so much change happened so dramatically? And why do I look like this now?

It was sudden, like a jolt of electricity. If it didn’t tingle me slightly, I may have not woken up at all to witness it. When I felt the shifting of my body, the weight of what I was familiar with change, I rushed up and ran to a mirror. I watched as my arms grew hairier, and my canines grew larger—sharper. I’d thought I was a werewolf, but it was different. My body wasn’t menacing at first glance. No, it was almost like I was a mascot of sorts; cute, cuddly, bigger, fluffier body, yet my nails were now claws and my teeth were still sharp. My eyes glowed red and drool quickly foamed at my mouth as I panted. I’d not known what I’d become yet, but with my heightened sense, I could smell the easy wind quickly let up.

II

I try to keep myself out of danger—seriously I do. I’ve taken good precautions throughout my insurmountable life to avoid getting even the slightest of blows to my head—I’ve barely fallen at all in my life! So believe me when I say I’m the last person who rushes in when someone needs help.

But…

Do you know what blood really smells like? Have you had it dance around your nostrils and tickle the cells in your body? Or maybe, have you smelt true fear? Fear of your own death? Have you ever been trying to sleep and had those things flood your nose—a smell from someone else. Have you felt the guilt flood through you knowing if you let that powerful, painstakingly scary feeling overtake you again, you could save them; yet being too scared to help?

Have you..?

Tell me you have because it would make me feel a lot better…

I wish I was stronger. I honestly hate the smell that follows the next couple of days because I couldn’t help—it’s awful. Have you smelt it? The smell of a body rotting and returning to our Mother we call Earth? It’s awful. Luckily, I am able to keep my body separate from my human self and whatever that version of me is. Then I smell those awful smells, then I become that thing. So, I’ve been able to go to that secondary prison, college. Of course I’m right above average, slightly above to not fall behind, level in terms of grades. I don’t really care to pass, but I don’t want to fail. Things were easier until lately.

When I used to go to class, I could just shut up and block everyone out. Now, I can’t help but to hear what everyone is whispering about. My hearing has greatly increased since becoming whatever I am, so I can hear what everyone is whispering about. Honestly, school might suck more than night time.

It’s unfortunate. I don’t really know what causes my power, and I sure don’t understand what it is. I know in my normal human appearance I still have an increase in sense. I know when the smells start getting really bad I can feel the hairs stick up on my arms and legs and the fur start to form. Sometimes, when I’m really scared, I start to feel the transformation come on. Luckily, I live alone; no one's been able to see what I am now. But a part of me wishes someone did. I wish someone saw so they would ask me what’s wrong and try to help me.

But I fear they’d try to kill me instead…

I don’t know if people would necessarily welcome a big mascot-like creature with open arms; one that drools and pants with scary eyes and large claws. In fact, I’d argue they’d fear it—even if it was saving them! Yes, I know I would be feared; and I myself fear what happens when humans fear something. I mean, I can only begin to think what they’d do to me.

You probably are asking yourself something along the lines of “how does he know what a dead body smells like?”

Because I’ve seen a dead body…

It was recent; since awakening these powers. I was in bed, nearly asleep, when that horrid putrid smell crept into my nostrils. It jolted me up—I’d never smelt anything like it before. Because I was so caught off guard, my powers flared up. Before I knew it, I was a beast—a creature. I decided I should go investigate. If I had to describe it, it’s like when I close my eyes, I can see a cloudy thread that leads me towards the scent—I can still follow it with my eyes open, of course, I’m only trying to make this power easier to visualize for you.

Regardless,

I kept walking towards the smell. As I reached the source, my face began to scrunch up more and more. By the time I reached the body, the metallic smell of blood had vanished and was replaced with the putrid smell of decay. The body, someone who seemed to have been stabbed roughly 34 times; and female, was laid out seemingly reaching to the open land. I presumed they had been screaming for help, I would’ve been.

I stood at the body, wondering what possibly led to this girl's death—what step did she take wrong which put her on the fast track to death. She seemed no older than myself, in fact, I would believe it if she went to my school. It made me question; how long would it be before I ended up like this woman? My hand extended, screaming as my body is left to decay because no one heard my screams? Yes, I questioned a lot.

I decided making a grave for the woman would be appropriate. I felt bad that I wasn’t there in time, and I also subconsciously hoped that the dirt would block out the smell of the body—it did. As I sit and look over the schoolyard with an overcast, I feel terrible. The feeling reminds me of when I first found her. I think… Maybe I should've done something sooner.

Maybe she’d still be alive if I did…

III

For the most part, my grades haven’t dipped. Well, they have—just not noticeablely so. At this point, I’m convinced that the night I could smell that body was a one-off occasion. I haven’t smelt something like that again in nearly 4 days. It’s been nice, honestly! I mean, the constant overhearing of conversations is still really annoying, but I’ve pretty much gotten used to that. Honestly, it’s been pretty good as of late.

There are times when I’ll smell some blood and want to go lick it, or a bird will drop its prey and that slight smell of decay makes me want to jump, but all things considered, I’m managing. I think I’ve also just gotten more used to things—the urges that is. I’m not really itching to go investigate the smells anymore, and I’m not shifting at the seam at the slightest drop of blood.

Alternatively I’ve been scoring better in physical education as well. I’ve upped my mile time by about 3 minutes, and my various track and field activities have all improved too. While it’s nice to see improvement, two things have been in my mind.

The first issue; I feel like I’m cheating. I was given this strange ability randomly—for reasons I can’t explain. Now, it’s improving every aspect of my normal life. I can control my breathing better, I can see better, I feel lighter—quicker. I feel like I’m cheating.

The second issue; people are noticing. Specifically, my classmates. The track team leader came up to me, he said “Hey man, I think you’ve really been putting in insane effort to improve, man! You should think about joining the team, man!” And then pounded my chest.

It was really awkward.

But I’ve got to say, it’s nice being complimented by the cool kids—even if it’s unearned. However, I don’t like that people are noticing me. What’s more, they’re noticing me without knowing my name…

Annoying…

It’s like, sure, I don’t want to be known, but if you’re going to go out of your way to talk to me because you’re “impressed” then the least you could do is try to say my name. It would be nice at the very least; if you tried. But again,

I don’t want to be known.

I, personally, feel like being known leads to unwanted things. With my condition, I don’t want unwanted things. I actually want things to remain how they are. No one knows my ability, and no one cares to know me. This attention is nice but eventually, I'll become stagnant and people will forget about me.

Once people can forget about me, I think I’ll be happy. I don’t want to achieve something magical, I don’t want to be the next great leader. Actually, I’d really prefer being led and told what to do then having to even think about making my own choice. It’s way easier when you know what to do and what’s expected of you rather than needing to guess what to do and what’s expected of you. Regardless, I hope to make just enough money to be able to live peacefully.

IV

Well that’s what I thought at least, before I was running through the woods. I stayed late studying at school. But I could smell it, deep past the woods. And before I knew it, my body was transforming and I had to make it out of the school grounds. I had no choice—run into danger head on, or be exposed and let the danger come to you. I figure it’s better to get the jump than to be jumped.

I could smell it immediately after the sun fell—immediately could be a stretch. It was pretty soon after that sun vanished that the unmistakably putrid smell of fear and fresh blood rolled through my nostrils. I ran in, something I’ve never done before. I felt like I was going to faint, everything was blurry and my legs felt weak. Yet I ran through the woods as fast as I could, hoping I could reach the smell before it was too late.

As I ran, I fell–multiple times in fact. I thought nothing of it since it seemed that pain was reduced slightly in this form. If I had to guess, it would be because of how furry I am. I don’t believe I have ever run faster than I had at that moment. I bet if the track team leader saw this, he’d be impressed. Well, he might actually be afraid. I ran so fast that I thought surely I’d look like a blur–a pipe dream, but I thought it nonetheless.

Though it was dark, my beastly eyes made things surprisingly easier to see at night. As I ran I could smell something new, and the smell was approaching me. I could start to smell more things, a rusty, metallic smell; trailing was the unmistakable smell of death and the burning sensation of something else mixed in.

When I arrived, I saw a scene that I wasn’t positive I wanted to see. I guess, deep down, I was hoping I’d be late again. In all honesty, I didn’t want to confront something. Yet, as luck would have it, that thing turned and faced me as I stepped into the opening. It doesn’t matter if it was a leaf, or a branch that I stepped on, what mattered was I made noise. Below the creature, pressed up against a rock, was a girl. She was roughly my age–in fact I think she went to my school. She was clearly shaken up, more so upon seeing me. I believe she thought that another beast had come to feast on her.

When she screamed, the creature attacked me. It lunged forward. Fast. But for some reason, it seemed slower. I quickly moved to my left and watched as the creature stumbled forward slightly. I was shocked, I’m not sure what I looked like, but I was shocked. Unmistakably, I could smell the ever persistent smell of alcohol coming from the beast. I thought to myself it was strange; however, stunned at my ability to dodge and the strong order of intoxication coming from the creature, it whipped around and slammed me hard on my head. I went flying to the side–right into a tree. I could feel my brain move in my head. I hadn’t felt this before.

It was warm, the side of my head was. It was met by an intense pounding. What is this feeling? When I opened my eyes, I saw 3 of those creatures facing me. I tried to stand, but when I stood it felt like my knees were weak. I stumbled around before falling to a knee. I could feel a warm running sensation form in my nose. I’d never been hit before, and of course, my first time being hit hurt this badly. I tried to gain my composure, but I could tell the beast sensed my new found weakness. It rushed in, and I braced myself. It began wailing on my arms as I held them up to protect my chest and stomach.

With each punch, I could feel my arms grow more numb. I thought they were going to fall off, until I heard the unmistakable sound of a crunch. The crunch followed an intense pain, with my arm falling to the side limp. He had effortlessly broken my arm, and as my guard dropped, he delivered another powerful blow to the front of my face sending me slamming back into the ground.

I felt weak, defeated. It was a stark reminder that these powers were indeed given to me at random and that despite my new found power over the everyday college kid, I still had a ways to go before I could master it. I laid there, in immense pain, and terribly defeated. The beast knew this, and he turned to go finish off his original prey and meal. Each step seemed to move in slow-motion as I laid on the ground helpless. I crawled desperately towards the woman and the beast in hopes I could save her; pounding on my legs telling myself to stand up.

Luckily, there was light at the end of the tunnel. I could sense the wind again—almost like it was carrying me to the string needed to best act. All I did was close my eyes and bite the string, praying I could grab on. A blow; I held on. Another one; I refused to let go. The ensuing blows to my head felt more and more painful as they struck my head harder and harder, each hit seemingly more desperate as they attempted to make me let go of the windy string.

The string itself felt warm. It felt almost like jelly as I bit in, a squishy exterior and a gooey liquidy sensation as I felt that warmness drip into my mouth. I heard the beast wail; I knew not what for. I hadn’t the slightest idea what was going on around me. I just clamped down on the wind and prayed it would whisk me away, just like my aunt. The shock that followed as I powered my eyes open, to see my jaw clinched around the ankle of this beast—it was totally crazy. Eventually I squeezed my jaw so hard that I broke through the skin and crunched the bone. The beast jolted away once my teeth let up. He slammed my head down, but fell with his kick—he was unstable after my attack. I tried to get up, to whale into him myself, but as I pushed myself up, I screamed out. I had planted my already broken arm on the ground—a mistake. I should’ve remembered my arm was in no condition to be used, but subconsciously, I was in get up and go mode. After rolling in pain and howling—I would presume given my state—I finally gritted my teeth and stood up. Instead of going to the creature, I for some reason stood over the girl—my back turned.

The beast finally stood up, he looked at me, shook his leg. I think he was testing if he could continue. I think he enjoyed the fighting—he seemed bored beforehand. I watched his nose scrunch up and his teeth were showing. I tensed up, again, subconsciously protecting the woman, though I had no real control over my body at this moment. In fact, I think I was very close to passing out. Yet, I stood tall over her, sacrificing what could be the last seconds of my life protecting her, and worst of all, I didn’t know why.

She was a complete stranger, someone who I happened to run into because of my new powers. She was the gateway to my simple easy life being disrupted—yet, I’m protecting her… I want to protect her…

Why…?

V

This feeling was new—I’d never felt it before. I felt like I was going to die; the moment I close my eyes, that’s it. Yet I was standing, panting, looking far more like a beast than I did a human. Behind me was a girl, smaller than even my human form; tiny, it seemed. She clung to my shredded clothes that draped around me after my transformation, shaking, clearly afraid. For a moment, I blushed at our close predicament. I shook my head and focused back on staring down the beast. My arm hung loose, and my eyes were nearly swollen shut, but I stood tall and eventually, he retreated. 

I presume I shifted back, back into my human form because the pain felt more intense than a moment ago—maybe the adrenaline just wore off. Regardless I could feel my legs give out and my vision blurred as I fell back. The last thing I remember seeing was the girl gasping and running to my aid.

Why is she helping me..?

As I had my eyes closed, I felt a pull deep inside me. It felt like something was trying to drag me somewhere—like they had something to show me. Eventually, after what felt like hours of moving through still water, I felt ground beneath me. I looked around searching for an answer as to where I'd landed.

But I never received one.

I waited for what felt like hours, before eventually, I heard a voice. “Well,” I heard it boom out, “you’ve finally decided to speak to me in-person now, have you?” 

What?

“Don’t act surprised… have you thought this to be a terrible dream?”

What do you mean?

“Seriously? Are you so foolish—no clearly you are. You have this enormous power, yet you’ve barely managed to scare off a Hare…”

Hare?

Power?

“Fool… Do humans typically become beasts at random?”

As I heard the voice boom, and degrade me, I listened as he laughed in mockery. He laughed devilishly until saying he’d see me next time. And like that, I was alone—floating in the still water. Only this time, I’d no wind to blow me in the direction to go.

I’ve Needed My Hero

I

Hiiii! My name is Abigail Brauke. I am 24, five foot three inches tall, a dirty blonde, and SUPER in love with the occult—and anything supernatural! If I had to say, I’ve loved it ever since I was a kid. I would do ANYTHING to see a ghost; or a demon. Or maybe a—well, maybe not a demon. That sounds like bad luck.

I don’t really like to harp on it because, well, it’s not really my personality, but my childhood could’ve been better. I remember my dad was loud, really loud. He would come home and scream at my mom—I think it was because he was drunk; or maybe it was moms gambling addiction. Ehhh it’s hard to say, I really try to not busy myself with the details. I chose to busy myself with the occult!

I still remember my first introduction into the occult. It was a magazine that my mom picked up and left on the table—I snatched it up when dad was busy “taking care” of mommy—that’s what he would say at least. I ran up to my room, shut the door and hid under the covers. With a flashlight, I began to read all about aliens, Bigfoot, ghosts, demons, werewolves, the Loch Ness Monster—even the Chupacabra!

I read it all.

It was a pleasant distraction to my life. I felt like that, since my life was already really crazy, then these things would surely have to be real.

So, I searched for them.

I searched my home, abandoned buildings; at sleep overs I’d make my friends ghost hunt their houses with me—I stopped getting invited to those things, whoops! I was obsessed—still am! Like I said, I would do anything to see a ghost… 

Or maybe Bigfoot…

II

College life is sooo boring. Like, I have to sit in these classes for what essentially is a nine to five job and I don’t even get paid for it! What’s worse, I pay them! You know, as someone in social justice, this whole capitalism thing has gone too far! Why should I pay to learn?!

It really is so annoying though! Ughhhh I’m sorry, I always go on these rants. I guess the one thing college has done for me, besides giving me massive debt, is make me more passionate; I’m passionate in every aspect of my life! I’ve recently been searching for aliens every night—going high up into the mountains and sitting on the ledge watching the stars for hours praying I see something.

I try to stay out late enough to where my parents will be asleep by the time I get home.

My hope is, when I open those doors, I’ll be met with a silent house—no one awake. If you asked me why aliens have been my recent obsession, I’d tell you it’s because they’re really funny looking. If you asked me for my real answer…

It’s because I want them to take me to their planet.

I want to be away from all the noise at home. I’d miss my friends, of course, but I’m sure the aliens would let me come visit—once we can communicate with each other, that is. Then, I wouldn’t have to worry. No one would really miss me either that way, I’m sure of it! Then the public life I worked so hard to build would remain the same!

Yay, go me!

Of course, I know it’s largely a dream. If anything, the aliens would just probe me and put me back at my house, letting me repeat my loud, everyday cycle. Thanks, aliens.

III

My grandmother used to tell me it’s best to wish on a star because a star won’t switch on you throughout your lifetime—I think she was tired of being backstabbed by her exes so much… But you know, it kind of stuck with me. It does have some usefulness layered in my grandmother's grieving. Wishing on a star is nice because it is almost like you know it’ll never turn its back on you—it’ll always hold you accountable. That’s why I’ve enjoyed watching the stars despite the lack of aliens.

I make fun of my grandmother's lack of love life, but I actually love her, a lot. I love her so much that I was pretty devastated when she died. She was always there for me when I needed someone to be there. When mom and dad got in one of their moods—she would always come and take me out to go on a new fun adventure! Truly, she was the savior I had always been looking for in my life.

When I think back to the time with my grandma, I always look back at one specific memory. It was when she took me to the lake; a slight hike through the mountains. When we arrived at the lake, it was more beautiful than anything I had seen leading up to that very moment. The way the stars glistened in the still, crystalline water; or, how the mountains seemed to keep us secluded from the rest of the world. The birds would chirp overhead as they flew over us to investigate the new creatures in their domain. Coyotes would laugh and snicker as they watched us from the dense onslaught of the swarming trees. And as I sat there, completely amazed at such an absolutely beautiful view—grandma for some reason looks ahead and says “This is where I saw that beast…” Like, as if it wouldn’t TOTALLY capture me! Ugh grandma, I miss you…

But she died when I was around 16, so it’s been a while now. Like I said, I try not to dwell on my home life. It’s easier at school because a lot of people don’t know me—my personal life; what goes on at home. I would prefer people not to know; ask questions; treat me like a fragile flower. I really don’t want to be pampered—yet I wish someone would whisk me away on an adventure. Take me to see a beast, something supernatural, something I’ve never ever ever seen! I pray someone grabs my hand and takes me away.

Boredddd. B-O-R-E-D. I’m so freaking bored! This class is so unbelievably boring; and every student in here is boring to the extreme! Ughhh I’m so bored. I want to go on an adventure, like right now! I don’t want to listen to this lucture—I can literally see the mountains from here!

I had waited patiently, and watched the clock slowly tick down. Eventually, the bell rang and a few of my friends came and met up at my table to talk to me. That in itself felt like such a drag! In reality, I just wanted to go on an adventure.

IV

After what felt like forever, my friends finally all separated and we went our different ways after waving. I pretended like I was going home, but took a turn down a new path. I’d seen it on my way to school today—the trees overgrew the path, making it feel like it’s own secluded section. It was like it was hiding a secret just for me to find.

And I was going to find it, duh!

I began walking down the path; searching for a new rush to make my overly boring day seems exciting when it ends. Plus, I do not want to go home yet. Dad recently lost his job, so going home means I’d see him—I don’t want that right now. So I’ll keep walking down this path, and hope I wind up in a new country, a new plane.

I could probably start my chapter over that way, maybe not have to wear so much makeup or such long sleeves. I wouldn’t have to hide away the physical signs of my unstable household because no physical signs would exist. I would be free. I would be like a bird who floats and glides through the sky; touching the clouds with my wings and letting the fresh air fill my lungs. I want to be free like a bird.

I worry however, someone would see my beautiful free form, found new on the grass as I napped. I worry they would clip my wings and watch me struggle to fly off again and I’d be forced to live the life I already live. I worry that we are naturally attuned for one purpose in life, and if we stray, we are meant with the hard reality that we actually have not the slightest bit of control over who we are.

You start feeling like this when you aren’t free.

But right now, I feel so freaking freeeee! I’m not going to bother myself with depressing crap when I’m sitting at the edge of this mystical looking lake; all alone listening to the birds chirp and the wildlife rummage. Gosh! This place sure is pretty though, maybe I just need to shift my perspective! Like, I totally am not understating how messed up things are for me, but like maybe it’s not so bad! I could be dead!

Ha…

Okay not funny Abby. People seriously do die from abusive parents, don’t they? I put my hands up to my cheeks and smashed them good, puckering my lips as I pouted to myself for getting internally scolded. I decided to not let the details bother me and walked along the edge of the lake. I seriously could not get over how pretty the view was!

After walking along the whole edge, and once I could see the stars shine back at me; I  decided to go home. I walked along the lush green path, like I had in the evening, only at night things felt much more eerie. But that was good, I like eerie; I thought at least. Something felt off, however. Like, I don’t know, the wind felt… Heavier?

It was like, maybe a sea current? Like it’s trying to take you under and drown you—but it feels awfully warm. Maybe describing it as your least favorite relative gives you a hug and you feel stuck but also hugs are nice sometimes. Regardless, it felt off.

As I made my way home, I stopped and looked up. I hadn’t noticed it before, but the lights went out on the street lamp on the way to my house. I watched it flicker. On, then off. On; then off. Until eventually I shook my head and continued on home. As I entered what felt like the world’s longest pathway ever, I reached my door. I opened it, slowly—I was trying to avoid making it creak.

When I dipped my head inside, I immediately wanted to vomit. It smelt horrid—foul. Like something had been left out for too long. My face recoiled; I felt my esophagus contract to hold back the looming puke. I put my fingers across the bridge of my nose and pinched it slightly to block airflow. I walked deeper into my house, nervous.

Dad…?

I called out to my father, I couldn’t hear anyone—see anything. All I could do was walk deeper into the smell. That’s when I stepped and heard a splash, I looked down; my foot was red. Around my foot, a puddle. It was red. I felt everything quickly collapse into my rib cage, my heart nearly stopped.

Is this… Blood…?

I called out for my dad, panic setting in before turning the corner. That’s when regret flooded through me, sadness came over me. Unable to process what I had felt I fell to my knees. I put my hands over my mouth as tears flooded my eyes.

In the kitchen stood a tall hairy beast-like creature. Where he stood laid another body. A woman who seemed like stress had ran her life. Her hair was misplaced, and bags formed under her eyes from long sleepless nights. I closed my eyes and choked a sob as I thought about what I had just seen. 

On this night, a beast had killed my mom.

V

I was completely frozen; I’d not a clue on what I should do. It was really frightening, the worst part was, I’m pretty sure that thing was my dad… I started to blame myself at that moment. I cursed myself for ever wishing to be taken away, and I cursed myself for taking what I had for granted.

The memories of my family all flooded in at once. The times we were able to be happy—be what we should’ve been, it all flooded in. I opened my eyes, tears streaming down, to see my dad turned at me. For a moment, I accepted what was about to come. I held my arms out and asked my dad for a hug. But when I bore down his eyes, I couldn’t even recognize him. I quickly realized the only defining thing about this beast to indicate it was my dad was the alcohol and the fact my usually lazy dad was nowhere to be found.

I pushed myself out of the way as he dove in to slash me down. He grazed my leg causing me to bleed slightly. I grimaced in pain as I pushed myself up and began running. I could hear him chase after me, of course, I took precautions by weaving through fields and homes to avoid his sight. I let him use his nose until I made it to the forest. The forest would be harder to hide in so at that point, I’d have to hope I got a good lead and run until I couldn’t see him anymore.

I wished for this; I wished to be free…

No, stop it. I slapped my hands up to my cheeks full, slapping the thought out of my head as I danced around uproots from trees on the ground. I kept running. I didn’t want to stop; I couldn’t stop. I knew stopping meant I would certainly die. And I knew stopping would also mean getting to experience the things I’d been searching for. But I kept running. As I ran through an opening of fallen leaves and stones, I jumped various rocks before ultimately failing to see a root sticking up slightly in the ground. As my knees scraped the ground and my palms bruised up, I turned around and faced the thing chasing me, my dad, and could only look on in fear. I was alone—I’ve been alone. I was going to die alone now as well.

It broke me, I started to cry. I pleaded to my dad to fight the control and come back to me; he didn’t. He kept closing in. I was like the prey, he was the stalker. And he’d finally caught up. I closed my eyes and as I did so, I heard a branch break. Opening my eyes led to my mouth immediately dropping further. Stumbling from behind the brush, a slightly taller than a tall human creature stumbled out. The unobservant may have pointed out it looked cuddly and cute. But if you looked harder, you would have seen its sharp claws, steamy breath, red eyes, large canines, and foamed mouth. It was panting, like it was hungry. And it immediately looked at me—and dad at it. Without hesitation my dad lunged at the beast. I grew more horrified. I was now caught up in a battle of two beasts trying to kill me.

As my dad lunged forward, the other fluffier beast dodged. For a moment Wolfie (that’s what I’m calling the cute one)  looked almost human in that moment. He seemed shocked he didn’t get hit—dad didn’t care. He used his boxing skills he learned from when he would fight to earn money to use as a new beast and sucked around and slammed Wolfie’s head hard to tree next to them. Wolfie then tried to stand up, at some point, due to how human he acted, I internally started to cheer for him. I watched Wolfie fall to a knee. I watched his nose bleed as he seemed to try to collect his belongings. For a big beast he seemed awfully clumsy.

That’s when my dad rushed in to close the gap. On the defense, Wolfie threw up his arms to keep guard but dad didn’t let up the assault. As he kept wailing I eventually heard a noise that made me turn my head and scrunch my face; I also covered my ears. It was the unmistakable sound of bones crushing. When I looked back Wolfie was already laying on the ground again, arm hanging loosely on his side has he howled in pain. As he started to sit up, my dad delivered one last powerful blow to Wolfie’s head sending him crashing back down. 

My dad was over having fun and turned back to me. He walked in slow motion. I watched him slowly walk up to me, and behind him was Wolfie crawling and pounding on his legs. I wondered if maybe Wolfie was like my dad, a human who turned out like my dad but kept more of his human head. I closed my eyes, ready to accept my fate once in for all. This time, it felt easier. Someone—something had come to my rescue, even if they didn’t mean to, and even if they failed.

It was at a scream when I opened my eyes. Wolfie was on the ground around my dads ankle, and my dad let out a cry of a howl. Wolfie attempted to stand but planted his sore arm on the ground proceeding to roll on the ground in pain. Eventually he stood up before my dad, who had previously fallen trying to hit Wolfie in the head after biting his ankle, and stood over me. It was strange, this beast was fully committed to protecting me—it was too human. I didn’t question it, in my panicked state I grabbed onto Wolfie’s clothes and held on tight. He felt like the only thing there to ground me in that moment. My dad stood up and shook his leg, I think he was trying to see if he could plant his pivot foot or not. After a while, he eventually scrunched up his face and left.

A part of me was relieved. I was happy to know my dad wouldn’t have to die—maybe I could find a cure and…

It won’t change the fact that mom’s gone…

But before I could revel in my recent loss, Wolfie suddenly collapsed, he fell over and as he did, something happened that was certain to change the trajectory of my life. As he fell, I rushed over, and to my utter surprise, a boy, roughly my age with tattered clothes that I had previously held on to laid before me. A boy who looked familiar yet didn’t at the same time.

The beast who saved me was a boy my age.

It’s Really Nice To Meet You

I

Abigail quickly rushed over to the boy who was once a beast without hesitation. She wasn’t sure if she was doing it out of curiosity, or gratitude but she started to very poorly patch up his body. The boy, however, remained still—he was breathing, but he was still. Abigail said to herself “Please don’t die on me, especially after you saved me!” As she found herself pleading with whoever may here to keep her own newfound hero alive. Questions around who he was, where he went to school, and how he became how he is flooded her mind but above all else the biggest question on her mind was “How do I get you out of here?”

As Abigail’s panic began to set in, the boy began to sweat and turn in his slumber. As this continued, Abigail searched desperately for ways to calm him down; thinking he was only having a nightmare. The assessment of a nightmare isn’t necessarily wrong, but the details got lost. In reality, the boy was currently delved deep into a realm unattainable by most, certainly by the average human.

Unknown if this was the result of his power, or another unfortunate random occurrence, the boy floated, and floated. Until a voice boomed around him in his head. It terrified him. And Abigail had no way of knowing what he was dealing with. The cold, damp, dark liminal space he found himself floating through after his encounter only left him feeling smaller, and further away from the human he was. Though he was just defeated moments ago, he had begun to feel victorious—he had just saved this woman whom he hadn’t known, and done so managing to stay alive. Yet, at the pinnacle of his high, reality came in catching him in the middle of his hit. And it came screaming.

The forest seemed to disappear around Abigail, and the earlier disturbance of her father all but an after thought. All she was focused on was keeping his arm together, and his bleeding lessened. She was panicking, but also flooding her mind with questions. “What is he?” “Who is he?” “What just happened?” “Am I dreaming?” All valid thoughts that flew through her mind. Yet still, she remained at his side, tending to the boy to ensure he lived.

It was 2, maybe 3 hours that went by and Abigail started to grow restless. The boy remained asleep, tossing and grunting. However, for the boy, it felt like mere minutes before he shot straight up. “What?!” He blurted out as he jolted awake. “Hey!” Abigail shouted back. “Don’t just jerk away like that dude! You really scared the crap out of me!” What followed was an awkward stare between the two.

Two strangers who haven’t met before, looking each deep in the eyes. One, fascinated; the other, nervous. In the cold stare between the two Abigail spoke up, she said with a fake laugh “It’s really nice to meet you, Wolfie” She dragged out the word as if to tease the boy. The boy himself blushed and looked away. Not acknowledging the given title he says softly, “What did you see.” It was to the point, cold if it weren’t for the desperation behind the strain in his voice. As if it just happened his face changes, he looks at her with a slightly annoyed expression, “My name isn’t ‘Wolfie’ either.” It annoyed him more than he wanted to admit, internally he had hoped she would say he was indeed scary—not give him some cute nickname!

“I pretty much saw it all,” Abigail said casually. She saw no problem; she had witnessed it; she knew she could keep a secret. However, Wolfie did not have such belief in her. Panic immediately set in his head—apparent in his expression. “What do you mean all of it?” Wolfie once again blurted out once more. The scene that played out was funny—under normal circumstances one may even laugh.

But the lightness in the wind would let up as Wolfie grimaced in pain. He clenched towards his arm as thoughts of his fight flooded his head. Upon seeing this, Abigail rushed forward, her tone changing noticeably so. “Are you okay?” She asked as if her voice was made of a cloud. “Yeah…” Wolfie quietly responds. Though he wouldn’t admit it, he was scared. He didn’t know what this meant for school tomorrow, or even his life as a whole. He sat there staring at the ground avoiding both eye contact with the girl in front of him, and the world itself.

Rate my poetry , suggest changes and share personal opinions you cutiessss :)

🌅 SUNRISE , SUNSET AND COLOUR PALLETE IN BETWEEN

He's the sunrise of my life .

He makes me do things ,

Makes me live for another day ,

Awakens me .

But he says ,

I'm the sunset of his life .

Beautiful.

Good to see , hard to touch.

Pied , sacred , luminous

Short-lived sunset .

The beauty before the darkness decends upon him.

Sunset - The End.

Before he retreats to his cottage ,where his Lilly waits for him ,

He captures the sunset in his wide arms,

Lilly taking the backseat in his mind.

Grasps my colours

the golden turns pale yellow.

I'm happy losing my colours if

He makes a cottage from where he sees me.

And when he's done ,

He paints me black.

No moons , no stars

Just the darkness of a locked house -

Forgotten.

Still from within

He rises .

My Mourning Star !

do my tenses make sense? I usually write in first person so I'm trying something new. Also, any critique's on the work are welcome! Format when to Sh1t when I copy-pasted, sorry!

“Mrs. Taylor, I need the loo,” a small voice said from somewhere in the middle of the classroom. Bridget looked up from her red pen and stack of papers on her desk to see John’s hand waving frantically in the air. 
“Yes John, please be quick,” Bridget replied, tucking a loose strand of gray hair behind her ear before returning to grading the children’s spelling homework –

\*C-O-N-F-L-I-C-T\*
\*H-I-D-D-E-N\*

\*R-E-L-I-G-I-O-N…\* A prickly heat began to creep up the back of her neck. 
Bridget felt a hand grip hers tightly before it jerked her away from the window and down onto the wood floor.  
“Bridie, get down NOW!” Her sister Niamh whispered sharply. “They’ll see you and then we’ll both be done for!” Niamh squeezed her eyes shut, as if that would make her invisible. Bridget’s heart was pounding so hard she thought it might make a hole through her chest. 
The angry mob was outside their house now. Bridget could hear them shouting, “Come out you fecking taigs!” followed by the sound of breaking glass. She smelled smoke. Molotovs. 
Bridget kissed the gold cross that always hung around her neck, reminding her of who she is. The adrenaline kicked in. Niamh moved fast and low to remain out of sight. She reached under the bed, pulled out an AR-18 and shoved it into Bridget’s arms. 
“On three,” Bridget said as they slowly lifted their heads, peering out the window. “One, two…” An alarm was going off somewhere but Bridget couldn’t place it. 
“Mrs.Taylor! The fire alarm!” the children were calling out. 
“Right, everyone line up with your partner at the door and stay calm, it’s only a drill, not to worry,” Bridget said in a cheery voice. She was back in her classroom, back in England and safe, for now.  

First time posting. A flash piece about a diner night shift worker whose estranged sister visits at 3 AM.

Looking for:

• Does the pacing work?
• Is the ending earned?

I'll comment on others' work tonight. Thanks.

The bell hadn't rung in years, but Marlene still looked up.

"Hey, Mar."

Twenty years, and she still knew that voice.

"You look good," Diane said, sliding onto a stool like she belonged.

"You look like you need coffee," Marlene said.

Diane laughed. Same laugh. That was the worst part.

"I'm not staying. Just... wanted to see you. Before."

"Before what?"

Silence. Marlene poured her a cup anyway. Black, no sugar.

"I'm sorry," Diane said. "For everything."

Marlene wanted to be angry. She'd been angry so long it felt like armor. But watching her sister's shaking hands, the armor cracked.

"Where have you been?"

"Around. Nowhere. Everywhere."

"That's not an answer."

"I know."

Diane stood. Pulled out a creased photograph — two girls on a beach.

"Found this. Thought you should have it."

Marlene didn't take it.

"Will I see you again?"

"I don't know. But I'm glad I saw you now."

The door closed.

Marlene traced her sister's face, slipped the photo into her pocket, and waited for the sun.

"I'm so fucking tired John"

Her breaths are staggered and strained through deep sobs. I don't know how to respond.I wish I could say my voice caught in my throat. I wish I could say my hands reached out, as so many tests suggest. Her sobs pulsed even heavier and I could only breathe.

The vibrations crescendoed into me. My chest cavity began to pulse. I didn't feel anything of my own, but I could vaguely feel her. I suppose I felt nauseous. I worked to keep my eyes open focused.

Why is she doing this? How do I fix this?

I want to feel.

"Are you fucking listening to me??" Her eyes are a sopping, wet mess. Her voice chokes on the air she desperately seems to collect. I take a deep breath.

"we are almost out of garbage bags" I stutter out. She screams. A banshee realizing their own mortality. It cuts me deep into my soul. A simple sound, magnified into absolute horror. Did I do this? Was I the cause?

I look down to my bloodied hands. This isn't normal. This isn't me. This ain't us. I choke back a tear. She needs the blood.. I do this for us.

"Do you love me?" She whispers. Her voice is deeply piercing and I feel nauseous. How did we get to this point?

Yes baby. I did once, maybe I still do? Please tell me.. In through the nose, out through the mouth. I calm myself for a moment before the vigorsus flatter of her chains and screams break me from my thoughts. "Fucking feed me you piece of shit! I will fucking tear you apart!!!"

"Yes I. Love you baby, til death do us part, please.. I love you so much" I choke out, my voice rancid and breaking like waves on a salted sea. The tears begin to heat and blur my vision. "I love you so much'.. her screams illuminate the darkness and shatter my tears. Why am I doing this? She needs so much blood.

She fights against her restraints. Are the chains enough? it's just a matter of time before she eats me.

What would you do fam?

4. Broadway Jungle

The Manor boys spill off the bus and make their way toward the Crest, seven of them moving together with the easy swagger of lads who've talked themselves into believing tonight is going to be theirs.

Once, the place was the pride of the town. Built in the 1920s as the miners' welfare hall, it still carries traces of that former glory if you know where to look — green metro tiles lining the entrance walls, worn oak floors creaking under decades of footsteps that have long since stopped counting. The grandeur hasn't disappeared so much as grown old alongside everyone who still comes through the doors.

The lads climb the broad staircase. With every step the music grows louder, pressing down through the ceiling and into the soles of their feet before they've even reached the top.

Then they reach the double doors.

Billy pushes one open, and a wall of sound hits him full in the chest.

Broadway Jungle — Toots and the Maytals, the bass filling the hall and the brass ringing off the high ceiling. The music doesn't just play in that room. It consumes it.

Billy stops dead just inside the doors.

He's never seen anything like it.

The dance floor is alive — properly alive, in a way no youth club back home has ever managed. Boys in sharp two-tone suits and trilby hats move through the crowd like the music is something they were born already knowing. Others wear Fred Perrys and Crombies, loafers polished to a shine Billy suddenly feels embarrassed by. Girls weave between them with the same easy confidence, laughing as they dance, nobody watching the door for teachers or dads banging on ceilings.

Everyone in that room seems connected to everyone else. Moving together. Up, down, side to side, almost choreographed, like they've rehearsed it and simply haven't told each other.

Billy drifts forward, completely mesmerised, and doesn't notice he's stopped walking until the crowd parts and another record drops.

Hurts So Good — Susan Cadogan.

A girl steps into the centre of the floor.

Josie.

Billy forgets to breathe.

Dark curls fall beneath a blue Beat-style hat. A sleeveless white shirt hangs loose over cropped trousers tied at the waist. Saddle shoes glide across the boards like the floor owes her something. Strings of beads and small crosses swing gently at her neck as she moves.

She isn't showing off. That's the thing that gets him — she looks completely at home, every movement smooth and unhurried and unmistakably ska, like she'd dance exactly the same way if the room were empty.

The whole room watches her.

Billy watches more than anyone.

Then the record changes again — On My Radio, The Selecter — and Billy knows every beat of it without having to think. His feet find the rhythm before his brain has properly agreed to it, and he steps onto the floor.

He's all right. Not polished. Not spectacular. Just a lad from the Manor giving it everything he has, and finding, to his own surprise, that everything he has is enough to keep him on his feet.

Josie notices him. She smiles, and Billy feels his heart do something it hasn't done before, something that has nothing to do with the music at all.

Then someone slips between them, effortless as breathing.

Gal Burn.

A few years older, immaculate in a two-tone suit, dancing like the music belongs to him personally and always has. Within seconds he's alongside Josie, matching her step for step as though they've rehearsed for years, and the crowd roars its approval.

Billy can't take his eyes off them. He hates how good Gal is. He can't deny it either — it's brilliant, and that only makes it worse.

A hand lands on his shoulder.

Phil.

"We've got to fuck off, mate."

Billy doesn't look away from the floor. "What?"

"Come on."

"Look at her," Billy says, nodding at Josie, not moving an inch.

"I know. Gorgeous." Phil is already scanning the room, though, eyes moving too fast to be admiring anything. "But we need to go. Now."

"What the fuck for? We've only just got here."

"Pete Fur's turned up."

Billy frowns. "Jammy said we were all right."

"I don't think so."

"Jammy's a lying little git."

Phil nods toward the far side of the hall. "Look."

Pete Fur has arrived, and the room seems to bend slightly around him the way a room does around something dangerous. Six foot four, broad as a wardrobe, completely shaven head. Tear tattoos sit beneath each eye. A tight white sleeveless vest strains across his shoulders, bleached jeans, a black studded belt, cherry-red eighteen-eye Dr. Martens that look like they've been broken in on somebody's ribs. Across the back of his neck, tattooed in heavy black letters: ONCE A SKINHEAD... ALWAYS A SKINHEAD.

Jammy strolls toward him with the confidence of a man who's talked himself into believing his own lies so thoroughly he's forgotten they're lies at all.

"Alright, Pete, mate."

Pete looks him up and down like he's pricing him for scrap. "Who the fuck are you?"

"It's Jammy."

Nothing. A blank stare.

"Remember?"

Pete shrugs. "Borrow us a quid."

"What?"

"Borrow us a quid."

"I... I haven't got one."

Pete steps closer, close enough that Jammy's confidence visibly begins leaking out of him. "If I empty your pockets and find one... I'll make you eat whatever else I find."

Jammy's face drains of colour. He fishes frantically through his pocket and produces a pound coin, which Pete takes without comment.

"What you doing in my place?"

"Just here for the dancing, mate."

Pete's expression hardens. "Call me 'mate' one more time... and I'll batter you."

Jammy shrinks visibly. For one hopeful second he seems to think he's got away with it.

Then Pete turns to another lad standing nearby, apparently at random. "Oi. Borrow us a quid." The terrified kid starts searching his pockets before he's even fully understood the instruction.

Jammy exhales, relief plain on his face — right up until one of the Crow Bars shoves him back toward Pete.

Pete smiles, cold as the floor tiles. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I'm a mate of Gal Burn's."

Pete laughs outright. "No you're not. Lying little twat."

Jammy points desperately across the hall. "He goes out with our Julie."

"The little tart from the Manor?" The Crow Bars burst into laughter around him, and Pete lets the moment breathe before he adds, almost gently, "He finished with her this morning. Said she cried her bloody eyes out."

More laughter. Jammy's face collapses.

Pete glances across the dance floor, following his own thought. "Looks like he's already found someone else."

The whole group turns to look. Gal Burn is talking to Josie now, close enough that one of the Crow Bars mutters, "Fit bird," with real appreciation.

Pete's eyes drift past all of it — past Gal, past Josie — and settle on Billy. Then on Phil. Then on the rest of the Manor boys, who've already started edging quietly toward the exit without quite admitting to themselves that's what they're doing.

His smile widens. "There they are."

The Crow Bars turn as one.

Billy sees them move. "Go," he says, and then there's no more time for saying anything at all.

Without a word the Manor boys break and run, crashing through the fire doors and out onto the staircase, the opening bars of Night Boat to Cairo exploding out of the hall behind them like the building itself is cheering the chase on.

Boots hammer on the old wooden stairs. Somewhere above, a voice shouts, "Get 'em!" and the Crow Bars burst through the doors in pursuit.

Tomo looks wildly between two corridors. "Which way?"

Phil doesn't hesitate. "This way!" He dives into a narrow passage and the others follow without question, the music fading fast behind them, replaced by the drumbeat of feet and shouting.

The corridor twists through parts of the building nobody uses any more — dust-covered offices, broken chairs stacked against walls, paint peeling in long strips from ceilings that haven't seen a decorator in a decade. Rooms that have been forgotten so thoroughly they barely seem to belong to the same building as the dance floor above.

Billy glances back over his shoulder as he runs. "What about Jammy?"

"Jammy'll be alright," Phil says, not slowing. "He always is. It's us that's fucked."

The Crow Bars are closer now, boots ringing off the empty corridors. Phil bursts into an abandoned office where a stack of old desks leans against the wall beneath a large sash window.

"There!"

They throw themselves at the furniture, wood shrieking across the floor as they drag desks toward the door and slam them into place just as something hits it from the other side with a crash that shakes dust from the ceiling.

Another crash. The old frame groans under it.

Billy looks at Phil. "Come on!"

Phil hauls the sash window up and cool evening air floods the room. One by one they scramble through, Billy last of all, and behind him the door finally gives way with a sound like a gunshot.

"I know you!" Pete Fur's voice fills the room. "I fucking know you!"

Billy swings one leg over the sill just as the door bursts open behind him, and drops.

He lands hard in a narrow back street, stumbling before he finds his feet, and by then the others are already running, nobody looking back, sprinting through the alleyway and across the side streets toward the main road, toward the bus stop, toward home.

Behind them, somewhere in the dark, Pete Fur is still shouting — but the distance between his voice and Billy's feet is getting wider with every step, and that, for the moment, is all that matters.

We looked upon a path only larger than ourselves. We crawled for a while until the path started to grow larger, and in kind, we were allowed to rise from our knees to a hunched walk. With more time, the path gained shape as a wide and large hallway with doors on either side, five feet apart. So now we were allowed to walk but with this newfound freedom, we couldn't help but run. And so we did: running, talking, laughing, living.

Then one boy grew tired. Opening up a door to rest, he walked in never closing the door, but never returning. And then me, two boys, and a woman continued, but because of our false hope in the first boy's return, we slowed to a jog, in hopes that he would one day return.

After jogging for a while with no sight of the boy, a second boy grew curious of what lay behind the door. So he slowed. We looked back, egging him on, but once he caught sight of what resided behind the door, he walked in without looking back and closed the door behind him.

After the second boy left us, we slowed to a walk and with each door passed, we lost more curiosity and invigoration for what lay ahead.

We walked for a long time, talking and telling stories of the boys that had gone on. Until, after many more doors, the hallway began to narrow once more. At first, we paid it no mind. But as the hallway continued to narrow, we had grown to fear it.

The last boy was the tallest of us, so as the hallway continued to shrink, there came a time where he had to dip his head. But with more time, he crouched more and more until he couldn't take it any longer. The boy said his goodbyes and left the hallway with a clear head but an ailing body.

Me and the girl were left, and as we walked, even we began to crouch. We walked, but almost to taunt us, the hallway continued to shrink until only one could crawl.

The girl couldn't bear to continue, lest she see the end, so she opened a door and attempted to crawl inside. But the hallway cursed her once more, for good measure, and she was unable to make it through. Though I heard no sound, no scream, and lest I get trapped as well, I continued to crawl.

As I did, I would, from time to time, look back and see her final form lying there. But the hallway had not forgotten me, and soon enough the hallway was too tight to even look back anymore.

This did not escape my notice, but I had been crawling, then walking, then crawling again for a long time. And as I slowly shimmied and scraped my way down the hallway, I feared it no longer as one day, the hallway would take me too.

Hey all! I am trying to create an analog horror and my idea is for a “miracle pill” that cures you of mental illness. The idea is that the pill is the one stop shop for all your mental illness issues from depression to schizophrenia. There is obviously something more sinister beneath the surface but at first I want to make a commercial for it. The vibe is a 80s/90s info-mercial. The medicine is “Latecin” and pronounced “Lat-eh-sin”

“Do you remember what it’s like to experience happiness? True happiness that isn’t bogged down by worries or problems outside of your control? For millions of people, anxiety, depression, and other emotional disorders make every day life feel insurmountable, but what if there was an answer to this problem? Introducing Latecin. With Latecin life doesn’t have to be a struggle. Latecin is an all in one remedy for mental illnesses including but not limited to depression, anxiety, bipolar, ADHD, ADD, OCD, narcissistic personality, borderline personality disorder, substance abuse, ptsd, multiple personality disorder, schizophrenia, antisocial personality disorder, and more. Side effects include lack of dreams, upset stomach, dry mouth, drowsiness, or headaches. These symptoms are normal and should not raise concern. Ask your doctor if Latecin is right for you. Life doesn’t have to be a struggle. Get back to being who you were meant to be.”

I would also love to discuss story ideas more as I have no one to bounce ideas off of but I would like to get some help on the commercial first.