Author's Note: While reading Great Gatsby, I learned that it was Zelda Fitzgerald who wrote large portions of the novel, and not in fact, her husband, the accredited author. I decided to rewrite a chapter of the book from a woman’s point of view, to honor Zelda’s contributions.

The following excerpt of Chapter III of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby is told from Jordan Baker’s perspective and written by Zelda Fitzgerald:

I was on my way to get rip-roaringly drunk when I passed a group of Englishmen on the prowl. Their eyes raked the crowds, as though deciding where to pounce. Well, they shan’t get me, I thought. Ah, there’s Nick, Tom and Daisy’s friend. Well, he won’t bite. Speak of the Devil! He was coming over to me. Nick gave a rather distracted smile, as I limply shook his hand. I glanced in the direction he was looking in. Of course, it was Gatsby. Making the polite small talk expected of me, I wondered why Nick was so fascinated with Gatsby. Before I had time to ponder further, two exceedingly familiar girls approached me. If only I could remember their names!

“Hello!” they cried together. “Sorry you didn’t win your golf tournament.” What a wonderful conversation starter; my failure. Their intentions were clear; to latch on to Nick like rabid dogs. Perhaps it had gone over their heads, but Nick wasn’t interested. It was quite odd, he kept looking longingly for Gatsby. I simply must discover this delicious little secret between Gatsby and Nick, I thought.

“You don’t know who we are,” said one of the girls in yellow, “but we met you here a month ago.” No wonder she didn’t know their names! They hadn’t been formally introduced.

“You’ve dyed your hair since then,” I remarked in my most snotty tone. Alas, this underhanded compliment fell on deaf ears, seeing as these two girls, who had yet to introduce themselves, walked towards more men. Honestly, those Englishmen were nothing compared to East Egg’s unmarried women. I placed my arm upon Nick’s pleasantly muscular one, and we sauntered through the twilight to an empty table.

Three ghastly men introduced themselves as Mr. Mumble. Since when did enunciation become so rare in men? The bar drops ever lower. At least I’m not desperately attempting to find a husband, unlike the rest of these foolish girls. Because that is what they are, mere girls, with no understanding of the world.

Making idle chatter with the girls in yellow, I returned to my pondering. Did Nick know Gatsby before they became neighbors? Does Nick know of Gatsby’s secret past? But more importantly, how do I gently coax this information out of Nick? Before I could ruminate further, one of the girls said the most outrageous rumor about Gatsby. A murderer? Well, that certainly spices things up. Focussing on Nick, who was engrossed in this outlandish gossip, I had the most fabulous idea! In order to prise Nick’s knowledge of Gatsby out of him, I would feign romantic interest in him. Sometimes my intelligence astounds me.

With a simpering smile, I clutched Nick’s arm and invited him over to my own party. My ghastly escort, Herbert DeLacy, gave me a come-hither glance and licked his lips in the most unsubtle fashion. As if I, Jordan Baker, would ever lose my way with a man like that! This tool thinks he can get his way with me, that I am too feminine and feeble to resist such charms. Tragically for him, I only used him to get to Gatsby’s party without causing a scandal. My number one rule when fraternizing with men is the following: beat the bachelor at his own game.

After spending half-hour engaged in the most inappropriate and wasteful conversation, I decided it was time to go elsewhere. Grabbing Nick’s hand, and giving Herbert a get lost now look, we made our way over to the bar.

“You’ve never met the host, have you?” I asked. The game was afoot!

“No I haven’t,” Nick responded questioningly.

“Well, in that case, it’s high time you met him,” I said, “shall we see if he’s at the bar?”

The bar, though crowded, did not contain Gatsby, much as I suspected. That secretive man, wherever could he be hiding? Perhaps in the study, I thought. Making our way into Gatsby’s cavernous home, we tried an important-looking door and walked into a high Gothic library, paneled with carved English oak, and probably transported complete from some ruin overseas. A tad bit gauche for my taste.

A flabby, middle-aged— if we’re being polite—man with tremendously large spectacles sat in a drunken stupor on the edge of a table. He then proceeded to give me a rakish up and down examination. He went on to say all this nonsense that the books in the library were real. As if a man as rich as Gatsby would ever buy anything less than a first edition copy of any book.

Several minutes later, we untangled ourselves from that odious man and went outside. Dancing had commenced on the canvas in the garden, and Nick brought me closer to the music. Grabbing my hand, we began to dance. Rather seductively on my part, and rather clumsily on Nick’s, we danced to the most tasteless tune.

After a little while, I spotted Gatsby, and I asked Nick if we could sit down. Other than Gatsby, a rowdy little girl was also present. Suddenly, Gatsby spoke. Apparently, he knew Nick from his days in the army, which explained Nick’s odd behavior earlier. Then, he invited Nick to go on his hydroplane the next morning.

I asked Nick if he was enjoying himself.

“Much better,” he turned to Gatsby, and said, “This is an unusual party for me. I haven’t seen the host. I live over there--” he waved his hand over towards his house, “and this man Gatsby sent over his chauffeur with an invitation.”

I was exceedingly puzzled, to say the least. If Nick did not know Gatsby through the army, then why had he been staring at him earlier? How very queer indeed.

Author's Note: This is a short story I wrote for my English IV midterm. I wanted to write a dark comedy with an emphasis on strong characters. My main inspiration was The Simpsons episode "Homer's Enemy," especially the character of Frank Grimes. I didn't copy Grimes exactly, but his hard-working attitude and his disdain for people who don't earn what they have shaped my protagonist Richard in a way.

When I was a little kid, my father took me to see Yale University. Back then I was a little smartass. I used to spend every minute of my free time studying and reading books. I never tried playing the Atari games my friends worshipped. I didn't try playing division 1 football like my brother, the greatest man to ever grace the bench list of Clemson University. That day at Yale, my dad showed me all around, and after we were done, he looked at me and said,

“Rich, one day if you apply yourself like these people, you’ll be just like them.” And being the little impressionable child I was, I listened to that. And oh boy, I applied myself. Did you know I was the valedictorian of my high school class? That’s right. I was in a big public school, about 2,000-ish kids all told. And I was smarter than all of them. It filled me with a weird sense of pride and satisfaction being elevated above 1,999-ish other people. Ironically, my father never got to see that, he died of a nasty case of pneumonia three years before that. He was a farmer, and he was out working in the rain, but that’s neither here nor there. I’m getting a little off-topic, so I’ll just start talking about Larry.

When I graduated from Yale in ‘91, I was a relatively optimistic guy. I had a girlfriend of 2 years, a house, and a fresh new job at a computer company in San Jose. I still remember that first day, I walked in the lobby of this huge building. It was beautiful, it really was. There were fountains trickling down from the ceiling. The company logo was enshrined on the front wall, and a gigantic marble desk was occupied by a cheery-faced secretary. The cold air was a welcome change from the scorcher outside that morning, and everywhere I looked I saw someone that reminded me a bit of myself. That same optimism, you know? I felt like I fit in there from the start. So the first thing I do is ask where my desk was, and the secretary looks at me and smiles. She said,

“Are you a new employee?”

“Yeah, I’m new. My name is Richard Stevenson. I’m supposed to be working in the design department.” She pointed to a nearby elevator and answered

“Eighth floor, cubicle 830. If you get lost just ask for Larry, he’ll show you where you work.”

I thanked her and brisked over to the elevator. I watched the world below me shrink as the elevator rose up to the eighth floor. As I walked out, business seemed steady. I followed the numbers of each cubicle until my search was interrupted from a howling cackle I thought could have only come from a madman. In a way, I was right, but that’s neither here nor there. I looked around and I saw some people sitting at the table in the break room. I instantly recognized the producer of that noise. What sat before me was a balding man who looked to be in his late forties. He was smoking a cigar that was too big to be real. And his attire was something else entirely. His blue button-down shirt was wrinkled and covered in mustard stains all over. He wore a yellow necktie, also stained. He looked at my bewildered expression and called out

“Who are ya?” I was shocked by his seemingly nonexistent levels of human decency. I was silent for a second, but I broke it with an answer.

“I’m Richard Stevenson,” I replied, “I’m new here.”

“Oh yeah? Where do you work, Dick?”

“Cubicle 830, if I’m not mistaken. Also, please call me Richard.”

“That’s three more down to your right. Just keep walking and you’ll find it no problemo.” I was a little surprised he was able to formulate a somewhat professional response, aside from that ‘problemo’ at the end. Either way, I just went about my business and sat down at my desk. I didn’t notice the other setup inside the cubicle until the man followed me inside moments later. I looked at him, puzzled, while he just sat down at his desk, still smoking that cigar. I took a look at his workstation with intrigue. It was a terrible mess, crumbs everywhere, a big ashtray with old cigars sticking out. He had a picture of himself holding a big fish I presume he caught, and a rather indecent poster on his wall that I won’t describe. The last thing I looked at was a wood placard with his name on it: Larry Clements. I couldn’t believe my eyes, this was the son of the CEO of the entire company. From all the stories I’ve heard about his dad, the hard worker and philanthropist, I couldn’t believe this was his son. I snapped from my momentary trance and got to work. Not soon after I started did Larry start… well, for a lack of a better term, being Larry. From behind my back I heard some indescribable noises, and I turned around to see he was chewing a big wad of bubble gum. Oh god, I can still hear it now. He chews with his mouth wide open all the damn time, and on account of my misophonia I couldn’t bear to hear it. So I asked him to stop chewing the gum, and all he said was,

“Hey it’s a free country, ain’t it Dick?” I was dumbfounded, and so I replied with,

“Sure, Larry, but I can’t stand the sound you’re making. Could you at least chew with your mouth closed?”

“Who are you, the Queen of England?” He cackled a bit when he said that, and at that point I figured there was no getting Larry to stop, so I grabbed my noise-cancelling headphones and went back to work. The rest of the day went about as well as it could with Larry there, so when 5:00 rolled around I bolted out the front door and went home. My girlfriend asked me about my day, and immediately I started complaining about Larry. I could tell it wasn’t the kind of news she wanted to hear, so the rest of our evening wasn’t too eventful.

The next couple of days weren’t a cup of tea. Larry kept finding new ways to get under my skin. He brought in a huge bag of peanuts to his office and kept tossing the shells over his shoulder and right on my keyboard. I had to clean so many pieces out of those keys, you wouldn’t believe it, but that’s neither here nor there. He practically turned our cubicle into Los Angeles, there was that much smoke. I asked him to stop, but I was once again met with his advanced philosophies about the Constitution. And he kept calling me ‘Dick.’ I concluded that he wouldn’t have any human decency, so again my quest to stop his Larryisms failed. Every day I would complain about Larry to my girlfriend, and she would always tell me that my boss might be able to figure things out for me. You would think so, but remember Larry’s dad was both of our bosses. One day about a month into my employment I actually tried that. I went right up to his desk and I asked him to give me a different desk away from Larry. He responded with a casual tone,

“What’s wrong with Larry? He’s a great guy.” I went on about all his intolerable mannerisms, only to be met with the most inane response possible. He told me,

“Just ask him to stop.” Instantly my mind jumped to his great catchphrase about the damn free country, so I just left. I walked right out of his office… and I went back to work where Larry was now eating a giant meatball sub. He spilled some of the sauce on his shirt, a welcome addition to the collection of stains on what seemed to be his only collared shirt. He reached behind him until he grabbed my notepad, and wiped off the stain. He smeared it all over his shirt and put the notepad back on my desk.

“Thanks for bringing napkins, Dick. The break room is all out.”

“Don’t mention it.” I gave out a depressed sigh and continued working.

A few weeks ago, both Larry and I had been assigned a big project: we were supposed to design an internet router that worked even faster than last year’s model. At this point, the whole thing was due by the next day, so up until then I had worked my ass off to get my job done. I initially checked in on him the first few days, but he would always tell me to “worry about my work and let him worry about his.” So, again, I stopped. At this point, I pretty much had to ask, so I turned my chair and asked,

“Have you finished your parts of the design yet?” He looked at me, puzzled.

“Design of what?”

“The router design. The big project we were given from corporate that’s due tomorrow?”

“Oh, that? See, thing is, I didn’t really know what I was doing, so I figured I would let you do all of the work.”

“How do you not know that? You’re a computer engineer! Y-you went to college for this, right?”

“College? Yeah, right. My old man just gave me this job a few years ago.”

“You… didn’t go to college. And you’re a computer engineer.”

“Pretty great, right?”

“NO! That’s not great! We haven’t finished and we’re supposed to present tomorrow!!”

“Okay, here’s the deal, Dick. I’ll present the project tomorrow to make it up. How’s that?”

“You know what? Sure, Larry. You can present the project.” At that point I couldn’t keep working, so I stormed out of my office into the breakroom.

The next day at 9:00, Larry was nowhere to be found. Nobody knew where he was, so that meant I would have to do the presentation. I had no notes for it, and it wasn’t done, so I knew nothing remotely good would happen to me today. Not too unlike the rest of my days here, mind you, but that’s neither here nor there. So I went to the board room and, suffice to say, it was an unmitigated disaster. At the end of the presentation, Mr. Clements lowered my pay and told me to go home early for blaming his son, who was reportedly sick. So I did, and when I got home I complained again to my girlfriend. After a peachy argument I turned on the baseball game- I'm a big fan of baseball, but that’s neither here nor there. The batter hit an easy knuckleball right past the left-field wall, and some yutz caught it and celebrated with his friends. Something seemed a little off. I took my TiVo remote and paused the game. On the screen is Larry. He caught the ball. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Honest to god I ran to the sink and threw cold water on my face, and when I came back, there was Larry. He was sitting right there, smoking his big cigar and eating a hot dog. On the day of his presentation. So I give him a ring, and he picks up.

“Hey Dick, sorry I couldn’t come to work today, I got a real bad fever.” I could hear his shoddy attempt to sound sick.

“I’m watching ESPN right now, Larry. I saw you catch that home run. You just cost me part of my salary.” Instantly the phone hung up. I was beyond furious, so I won’t include the details of what I did that afternoon.

That evening, I was eating dinner with my girlfriend. She felt really bad about what happened, so she made my favorite food: homemade fried chicken. I love that stuff, I really do. So we were eating dinner, and all of a sudden someone rang the doorbell. I opened it and, to my surprise, Larry was standing there. I would have rather stood and listened to a Jehovah's Witness than talk to Larry. He took his cigar out of his mouth and started to talk,

“Hey listen, Dick, I’m sorry I skipped work today. I had those tickets for a long time and I figured the fellas would’ve missed me a whole lot.”

“I don’t know how watching baseball with the ‘fellas’ is more important than presenting a project to the board of a major computer company.”

“I get it, you’re probably not much of a baseball guy. Hey, is something cooking in there?”

“Well if you must know, I was in the middle of eating some fried chicken my girlfriend-”

“I love fried chicken!” Larry practically shoved me out of his way and walked into my house. He followed the smell into my dining room and started eating the chicken on my plate.

“Man, this stuff is great! You’re a really great cook, lady.”

“Who… are you?” She asked, confused.

“I’m Larry, I work with Dick.” He resumed shoveling chicken into his mouth. I noticed out of the corner of my eye the ash from his cigar was spilling on my brand new carpet, so I asked him

“Can you please put out that cigar? You’re getting ash all over the floor.”

“Oh sure, no problem!” I was surprised that worked. He took one last puff of the cigar and tossed it behind him, right onto the wood mantle where I hung my computer sciences degree from Yale and my father’s old straw hat he used to wear in the fields when I was a kid. I went to grab it and actually put it out when I thought of something: the cigar is lit, and sitting on the wood mantle is a straw hat. Then the house caught on fire. Larry ran like hell out of the house and drove away, and I grabbed everything I could and made my way out with my girlfriend. I called 911 and watched as my house was reduced to cinders. Larry was gone, so when the insurance people asked about the cigar they came to the conclusion that I started the fire. And there went my insurance. My girlfriend looked at me and said,

“I’m going to live with my parents for a while. Goodbye, Richard. Don’t call me.” And so she took my car and left. In a single day, Larry had cost me my salary, home, degree, car, and girlfriend. I don’t remember what happened next that night, but I wound up in a motel with my life savings and a fire ax. I must have swiped it off the fire truck without anyone noticing. And I don’t know how, but I must have wound up taking it to work with me. I sat at my desk like normal, and Larry was sitting there. He was chewing that gum just like before, and I don’t know what came over me, but the next thing I know, the chewing just stops. Normally when Larry finished chewing his gum, he would stick it on the back of my chair, but alas, no gum. I look around for a moment, confused, until my eyes lock on the floor, and I see Larry. He was motionless, not breathing, not… chewing. For the first time in months, it was silent. Everyone swarmed around my cubicle, a few people cried, someone screamed. I just looked at them, petrified. I didn’t know what would happen to me, but in that moment, the silence was almost comforting. The next thing I remember was a police officer dragging me out of the building and shoving me into her car. After that, I got dumped in the slammer. I don’t really mind it here. I get three meals a day, a roof over my head, water, clean clothes, and there’s no more Larry. I don’t ever have to hear that voice ever again. Sure, I might see him watching me from the corner of my cell on occasion, but that’s neither here nor there- and hey, I might not have even killed him. He might have tripped forwards and dropped the ax on the back of his head. I don’t remember murdering Larry, and nobody saw me, so can you really prove I did it?

Author's Note: This story is originally from my dad. When I first came to the U.S., I knew nobody here and I felt lonely. This piece of mine is what my dad told me as consolation. Since then, I fhave elt more comfortable living and studying in the U.S.

In those years of poverty and backwardness, this is considered a grand opening ceremony for the upcoming school year.

There are many people crowded in the playground. A few small yellow flowers bloom quietly on the unevenly arranged trees. A few little birds chirp and mingle with the excitement of the students. “It’s so annoying.” He says, “It's a nasty opening ceremony again. The principal will only commend those students who do well in everything, but I have never been one of them.”

　　 Among all the students in the school, he is not outstanding or special. He is so ordinary, like a blade of grass on the vast grassland, insignificant and unremarkable. He hates this noisy ceremony, he hates all the teachers, he hates the sun shining directly on him, it makes him very irritable.

　　 In his life, there is no color at all; that kind of color is called good luck. He works hard every year. He wants to be awarded in front of the whole school. He is immersed in his thoughts, and he doesn’t care about the principal’s speech on the podium built on only a few rocks, the applause around him, or the singing of birds that has always been annoying.

　　 Suddenly, he hears the rough and slightly provocative voice in the front row. It is his enemy, Chubby, who shouts at him: “Listen, listen, the principal called your name, go, go!”

　　 He wants to be awarded so much that he steps onto the podium without thinking. He actually forgets how Chubby has tricked him before.

　　 The principal looks at him indifferently, and asks: “Why are you coming up to the podium? What do you want from me?”

　　 He is a little anxious. “I'm here to get the prize! You called my name, didn't you?”

　　The principal returns to the list again and asks him angrily: "Where is your name? Why don’t you ask yourself if you are qualified to be awarded? Fool! Now don’t waste other people’s time and go back to your spot!”

　　 He stands there awkwardly, standing in the focus of the eyes of all the students in the school and the sun shining on him is very annoying and he doesn’t know what to do and the whole playground becomes quiet. Tick, Tock, even the sound of a watch can be heard; no one knows how long it has been. 　　

Chubby suddenly starts laughing at him and points at him and speaks loudly to his surrounding classmates: “He believed it! He actually believed it! How funny!”

　　 This rough voice and his disgusting laughter echo in the playground. Then, more students start to laugh at him as well.

　　 The suffocating laughter mixed with whispered discussions, like arrows, penetrate his ears, stab his eardrums, and sting his self-esteem.

　　 He panics but still tries pretending to glance unremittingly at the surrounding trees that are touched by the spring breeze, and he sees Chubby's triumphant face.

　　 His face becomes flushed and then his ears become flushed and finally his eyes become flushed.

　　 He is embarrassed. He is in pain. He is angry. He wants to rush out of this school and never come back. But he doesn't.

　　 He sees his math teacher running up to the podium and she pulls him to the principal and asks: “Principal, I clearly remember that he is doing well in everything and he even helps me a lot. There must be a misunderstanding. Oh! I forgot to write his name on it”

　　 He is stunned, staring dumbly at the teacher who is anxiously defending him. His expression is full of gratitude, but in an instant it dims and becomes calm with a hint of complaint.

　　 His teacher pats his shoulder and smiles at him and picks a fountain pen from the prize area and puts it in his hand.

　　 A fountain pen is a very expensive item at this time. Everyone else is shocked. He takes the pen from his math teacher but doesn't say anything.

　　 However, after the ceremony, he studies harder and harder. He becomes the top student in his class, and the trajectory of his life changes accordingly.

Twenty years later, he talks to his wife about that ceremony. He claims: “I couldn’t believe my teacher, who was always careful, forgot to put my name on the paper. She made me so embarrassed." His wife smiles and seems like she understands everything, “Yeah, your teacher was so careful but how could she forget your name?”

　　 All of a sudden, he wakes up like a dream and realizes that the two decades of complaining and alienation is because of a misunderstanding from his math teacher. His teacher didn’t blame him for not showing gratitude explicitly during the ceremony, but rather his teacher kept guiding him to succeed. Without this realization, he may never consider teachers as angels; instead, he may believe that all teachers are devils. He looks up in the sky, the deep sky is dotted with stars, and a crooked moon hangs on the other side of the sky, watching him quietly, just like the way his teacher smiles at him. A gust of evening breeze blows, and the yellow leaves of the trees flutter and fall to the ground. He looks at the yellow leaves flying all over the sky and his vision gradually blurs as tears begin to roll in his eyes.

After a while, the moon starts to sink and the sun begins to rise. A ray of sunlight shines into his room but he is not angry this time; instead, he smiles. On a cold day, he seems to be warmed up by the sun.

He sits in front of his desk and sees the fountain pen from his teacher. The fountain pen that has been in the dust for twenty years is refilled with ink. Sitting at the window, he uses it to write a letter to his teacher and a crystal-like teardrop rolls on the paper, entrusting him with infinity.

Author's Note: This is a short story adapted from my childhood memory. When I was young, I could always see a woman sitting in front of the convince store across the street. I did not and would never know why she was there, but I can create a story to remember this event and evaluate my imagination.

An unknown woman was seen, in the dead of the night, at a convenience store on the most crowded street of the town.

Carrying a small traveling bag, she sat outside the store all day long, looking around at the people coming and going on the street. She told everyone who came to the store that she was waiting for her husband because she had gotten his promise. She sat there from morning to night, coming into the store when she was hungry and dozing against the shop’s wall when she was sleepy. People sometimes suspected her of mental illness, but she could respond with clarity when someone talked to her. The only time she behaved weirdly and kept silent was when someone asked about her hometown or her husband’s name.

For the first few days, she could be seen going into the shop to buy things, but, probably running out of money, she just stood outside the store and stared at the food through the window. But she would not accept money, and the only thing she would take was food from the convenience store owner. Obviously, her face became thinner, her hair greasier.

At first, some old ladies in the neighborhood seemed to express curiosity about her. They often came to offer her some leftovers and tried to convince her to go back to where she came from. However, the woman always replied: “I'm waiting here for my husband. He will definitely pick me up.” After hearing that, they shed their tears and left. Those old ladies stopped visiting a few days later, probably because the convenience store owner didn’t want a whole crowd gathered in front of his shop all day long or because of the woman’s horrible smell from not showering for a long time. Gradually, most people stopped caring about her and she faded into the everyday scene of the convenience store.

The woman drove the owner of the convenience store crazy because fewer customers came to shop, repulsed by her. Every time he blamed her, the woman just looked at him timidly and shrank into a corner away from the door. However, within an hour, she returned to the same spot. After seeing her again, the store owner always just smiled bitterly and continued to provide bread and water for her for free.

Late one night, when the neighborhood was asleep, a terrifying scream broke the silence. It turned out that some drunks were pestering her, and one of them almost tore her sleeve off. Desperate, the woman struggled, crying that she had a husband who would come to take her home. Soon, the noise awakened the entire neighborhood, and the security guard came out to see what was happening. As the crowd gathered, the drunks left angrily, and no one noticed that the convenience store door, which was slightly ajar before, closed quietly. Throughout that night, people could hear the sobbing of the woman.

Yellow leaves fell from the dry branches and landed on the woman’s hair. The weather was getting colder, and people were all wrapped up in their coats. The woman still sat in front of the convenience store every day, looking around at the people passing by. She usually stood up hopefully when a man appeared around the corner, but she always ended up with more desperation.

Finally, someone called the homeless shelter and the officers soon arrived. On that day, the woman’s screams reverberated in the whole neighborhood as she struggled: “I won't go with you! I need to wait for my husband here! He will pick me up soon…please…” The woman struggled so hard that two strong men could not move her. The convenience store owner stood there silently with a cigarette in his mouth, watching the disheveled woman. He spat out the cigarette, and after a deep breath, he came forward to help subdue the woman. Meanwhile, the owner muttered something softly that escaped everybody. Surprisingly, the woman calmed down immediately and submitted herself to the officers.

In the next few days, people would always look at the woman’s old spot when they passed by the convenience store. The store owner would also turn to that spot when he came out to put up advertisements, but, seeing it unoccupied, shook his head and then went back to the store.

About a week later, the woman reappeared. However, this time, her bag was gone, her hair was cut short, her clothes were new, but the haggard look on her face remained.

After receiving reports about the woman’s return, the homeless shelter officer soon headed to the scene. This time she did not struggle or scream. Instead, she just sat there and let them pick her up. The woman’s mouth was open, but no sound came out, and her tears gushed out like springs. Then, with her mouth open and her eyes watery, she was taken to the car and driven away quickly.

Many old ladies also cried on that day.

Since then, the woman was never seen again, and people began to prepare for the New Year. It seemed that the happiness of the New Year left no place for her gloomy figure. Only the convenience store owner, who occasionally stood out in the sun, would sometimes recall having this kind of conversation:

“Do you regret treating her like this?”

“No, since our divorce, I have stopped having any responsibilities to her.”

“She has a mental illness, and you and this convenience store are the only things she remembers.”

“That’s why I’m going to call the homeless shelter to bring her away. She does not belong here.”

“But you haven’t.”

“I just need a little more time to think, so please leave her alone and never come again.”

“¡Micte! Yo sé que no estoy vivo pero ahora puedo ver con mis ojos a toda mi familia que murió antes que yo ¡Estoy muy emocionada por el día de los muertos porque va a ser mi primera vez celebrando cuando no estoy viva!” La abuela dijo a su amiga. Todos quienes conocen a la abuela saben que no pueden llamarla nada además de abuela pero Micte siempre la llama abuela, abuelita. “Si yo sé abuelita. Necesito caminar por la torre de velas para ver si alguien de mi familia está muerto. Vamos juntas y podemos hablar sobre lo que tu familia va a cocinar para ti,” explica Micte.

Unos minutos después las dos entran en la torre de velas y hay una vela que se está apagando y encendiendo como loca. “Ay caramba! ¿Quién no se puede morir?” grito Micte, “abuelita creo que es tu nieta que está un poco confundida.”

“¡Mi nieta! Pero ella es demasiado joven para morir! Necesito salvarla! Micte, dime dónde está mi nieta!” “Abuela, estás muerta, no puedes salvarla.”

“Por favor Micte, no podría vivir conmigo misma si no hiciera nada para salvarla…”

“...”

“Mictecacihuatl voy a conseguir todas mis chanclas y pegar tu alma de vuelta a tu cuerpo!”

“¡No! ¡Abuelita! ¡Por favor no! Si quieres salvar a tu nieta puedes convertirla en un alebrije, pero está en las reglas que no puedes regresar aquí,” dijo Micte con un cara muy triste.

“Entiendo… pero necesito salvarla.”

“Bueno adiós mi querida amiga. Ahora voy a mandarte al mundo de los vivos… te extrañaré un montón abuelita.”

Inmediatamente abuelita se encontró a sí misma en medio de las nubes. ¡La abuelita estaba volando! Estiró sus brazos pero cuando miró a su lado vio magníficas alas de muchos colores brillantes. Sus alas se sentían fuertes y podía sentir el aire en sus alas. Por encima de ella podía ver el cielo y por debajo de ella podía ver el mundo. Pero ese no es el punto. Necesitaba encontrar a su nieta.

“¡Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! ¡Ayúdame! ¡Alguien por favor! ¡La corriente es demasiado fuerte!” grito una niña que se estaba ahogando.

“¡Mi nieta! ¡Te salvaré!” es lo que abuela pensó que dijo, pero todo lo que salió fueron ruidos de pájaros. Abuela había buceado debajo del mar y levantó a su nieta pero cuando las dos aterrizaron su nieta ya no era su nieta. Era una alebrije! Era una alebrije que estaba en forma de un perrito.

“Ay mija, lo siento, no pude salvarte” lloró abuela.

“¿Abuela?”

“¿Puedes entenderme?” preguntó la abuela.

“Si, creo es porque somos alebrijes. Abuela, ¿puedes llevarme al cielo donde está dios?”

“Por supuesto mija.”

Unos minutos después, abuela y su nieta estaban enfrente de Micte otra vez.

“Bienvenido Blanca Rosa, estás muerta.” Dijo Micte. “Yo soy la dama de los muertos, Mictecacihuatl. Su abuela no puede regresar aquí porque está en las reglas que no puedes dejar aquí y regresar, pero tú puedes entrar.”

“Gracias Mictecacihuatl pero quiero quedarme con mi abuela. Vamos a salvar más gente en el mundo.” Dijo Blanca Rosa.

Hasta el día de hoy, Blanca Rosa y la abuela siguen viajando por el mundo tratando de salvar a la gente.

Author's Note: This was a work that I originally created as a short, messy vocab story. I found it again when I was looking for material to write my midterm final about. I was inspired, and decided to rewrite it with more detail and changing up the plot a bit. I also love using imagery in stories, so that the story seems almost tangible to the reader.

Hilltown was a small, sleepy village. If a traveler ever happened to come across it (which was very unlikely), they would find a tightly knit and proud community. The villagers were proud of how their grandparents had made uniforms for Union soldiers during the Civil War. They were proud of Johnny, the Smiths’ boy, who had been accepted into Yale University last winter. They were proud of how welcoming they were to those who did discover their village tucked away in the forests of Pennsylvania. They were proud of how patriotic their community was. They were proud to be Americans.

However, there was a short chapter of their history that they were ashamed of, and never mentioned. Woe be upon any traveler who asked about the barren summit that tucked the village gently into its shadow. They never spoke of the mountain. Any who asked about it were immediately silenced and told to never mention it again. Those who went anywhere near the top or kept asking questions were shunned by all. If a traveler were brave enough and curious enough though, they could disregard the villagers and climb up the rocky surface to the top. There, past the piles of mossy boulders and scraggly pines, the adventurer would find the empty shell of an abandoned villa. Its beautiful gardens, once bursting with flowers, are now choked with weeds and overgrown willows. Its intricate limestone architecture is bleached gray and covered with ivy. The once charming gable windows, void of glass, gape like empty sockets. The interior that had once been alive with voices now had only peeling paint and creaking floorboards that sang of past ghosts in the wind. The house would groan sadly, and if the weary wanderer asked kindly, it would tell its story as they sat on the front steps and rested their feet.

Creaking dreamily, the house begins its story with newlyweds, a rich man and his sweet wife. The man wished to build a small secluded palace for his wife, a mini paradise. When they found the small sleepy village of Hilltown, with its stately mountain rearing into the sky like some gargantuan guardian, it seemed the perfect place to build a villa. Although the wife was at first saddened by the rocky barrenness of the summit, as the construction of the house began it churned up the earth around the foundation, leaving plenty of fertile soil. She planted hundreds and hundreds of flowers everywhere she could find space, until the empty mountaintop was bursting with color. Then she planted willow after willow tree, scattering them amongst the flowers and lining the paths with them, so that the gardens were soon hidden in the comfort of their branches. The trees never suffocated the flowers, as their small emerald leaves still let the light in, which pooled in golden puddles at the bases of their trunks. Slowly but surely the villa took shape, and it seemed to come alive on the inside and out.

But this paradise hid a rotten tree in its center, fouling the earth and slowly but surely infecting everything around it. The rich man was jealous and selfish, and treated his wife like his most prized possession. He knew she was charming, smart, and beautiful, so he built this villa to keep her hidden from the world. The wife did everything in her power to make it beautiful and peaceful, so that the gardens felt like wide open fields and forests instead of land tamed by the human hand. But it was still her prison. The wife longed for adventure, and her spirit was a songbird stuck in a cage. She could only look at the wide-open world from her precarious perch on the windowsill, and sing of the freedom she saw through the bars. After enduring the imprisonment for over a year, she ventured to ask if she could visit the village and its market. She tried to make the request seem innocent and practical, making the excuse that she needed fabric for new curtains in the man’s bedroom. Her husband slapped her across her face, angrily berating her, using words like ungrateful and selfish to tear the idea of leaving from her mind. She never spoke to him about it again. Listening to her quiet sobs floating out from between the willow branches in the garden that night, the house creaked and sighed uneasily.

The rich man wasn’t just imperfect, as most humans are. His very soul, the center of his being, was charred and twisted like a burnt willow tree. He could feel his own emptiness, and it scared him. Having no beauty or life left in him, he craved the light and attention of others. His wife’s soul was a proud and wise willow tree, with arching roots and branches that sheltered those she loved. He invaded her inner peace like a vulture, flapping around drunkenly until he found a branch to land on. He sank his claws into the bark of her willow, making it shudder with pain. He trapped the songbird in the very branches of the tree that was once its safe haven. Her light, her love, her song, it was all his, and he refused to let anyone else touch it. He latched on and fed off of her love and attention like a parasite, until her light barely shone, the songbird's voice rusted over, and she felt like an empty shell.

Then the villa recalls the day the wife declared the exciting news. It remembers the astonished shout of the father-to-be, and then his wife’s laughter and sobs of joy from beneath the willows. The mother-to-be got to work immediately. She hand made every tiny piece of clothing, every stitch filled with love. With the help of the maids that worked at the villa she crafted a wicker cradle from the thin but sturdy branches of her willow trees, so that the baby could be held and comforted by the gentle keepers of her gardens. She painted the nursery a golden yellow, so that every morning when the sun rose the room was bathed in warm light. And secretly, deep down inside of her, she hoped with every broken branch of her soul that this would be the miracle that changed her husband. He would unclench his talons, spread his wings, and help her teach their baby to fly.

Yet when the man heard the news of his wife’s pregnancy, all he could feel was jealousy. A new voice crept into his ear, whispering dark and ugly thoughts to him. He saw how excited she was, and how much love and care she put into all the little details for her baby. The baby, another person that would get to live in the warm shelter of her loving soul. Why should he share his wife’s love with it? Why should he love the baby? All her attention would be on it instead of him. He grew more and more bitter as the months passed and her belly grew rounder. Though the physical exhaustion of pregnancy showed in the creases around her smiling eyes, there seemed to be a new, hopeful glow lighting her up from the inside and making her even more radiant than before.

One night the man sat down to drink, hoping to better his mood. In his own twisted and perverted way he still loved his wife and didn't want to spoil her excitement entirely. He opened a bottle of expensive wine imported by his company from Italy. Being wealthy really pays off, he thought smugly to himself as he sipped on his first glass in front of the fireplace. The dancing figures of the flames cavorted around the room, twisting his shadow into the shape of a hunched buzzard. One glass turned into two, turned into five, turned into an empty bottle rolling off the table and shattering on the floor. The man didn’t even notice. Deeply buried thoughts scraped their way out of the bottom of his mind and the bottom of the bottle, piercing deep into his brain like the shrill caws of a carrion bird. What if the child wasn’t even his? What if his wife had been unfaithful? No wonder she had stopped caring about him as much and only focused on the baby. A hot fury flared up inside of him, and the desire to teach his faithless wife a lesson crept like mold into his heart.

He lurched drunkenly from his chair, crunched through the broken glass, and stumbled unsteadily up the stairs to the second floor. From inside the nursery drifted the sound of his wife quietly humming. He hurled open the door, violently knocking it into the wall and leaving cracks snaking up the doorframe. He shrilly shrieked the incoherent and disconnected thoughts that had tightened their fingers on his mind, aided by the alcohol. His wife slowly backed away from him as he advanced, edging closer and closer to the wide-open gable windows behind her. She begged him to calm down, pleading and sobbing, promising over and over again his accusations were untrue. The man heard none of her words, as he was too tightly held in the talons of his own cowardice and spite. He lunged for her.

The quiet of the night was broken by a scream from the mountain seconds later. It was a primal sound, deep and hoarse with terror, horror and disgust. Everyone in the village rushed outside, and soon rumors ran wild between the people. They had heard from the maids at the villa of the man’s treatment of his wife, and a cold wind of dread swept through the town as they soon realized what had occurred. “Poor thing,” they whispered in the streets. “It was too soon” “What a horrid man” “She was expecting, too” “May she rest in peace”. For days they could see turkey buzzards circling around the summit of the mountain. None of them wanted to go up to the tainted house, they were too afraid of its evil energy touching their souls. That night occurred long before even the townspeople’s grandparents were born, yet the fear of mentioning this shameful history never left the villagers' minds.

Then the house would whisper gently to the traveler not to grieve. The traveler would notice among the gnarled willows near the villa’s front door, a limestone slab sitting lopsidedly on a slight, grassy mound. Upon brushing the dust off its surface, the traveler would see the words “Here lies a man” etched hastily upon the stone. The house then creaks heavily, and continues its tale. Though the husband was stronger than his wife, she saw immediately that he was drunk and couldn’t coordinate well when he barged through the door. She was able to dodge him and bolt for the open door as he barreled towards her. However, the man had launched himself at his wife at full force. Being unable to stop himself as she darted out of his way, he hurled himself out the gable window that had been directly behind her. She heard the crack of the bones in his neck splintering as his head hit the ground two stories below. She walked numbly to the window and looked down at his broken body. She sank slowly to the floor. From deep within her core ripped the guttural howl that the villagers had heard that fateful night. They had heard the terror, the horror and the disgust, but they had missed the deep sense of sudden freedom. The talons that had been constantly digging into and ripping at the branches of her willow were finally gone, leaving a gaping wound. But all wounds heal eventually. Her cage had crashed to the ground, and although she was a bit bruised, the door to the outside world, to freedom, was wide open.

The woman left the next night, after burying the body, using a limestone slab left over from building the foundation of the house as a makeshift tombstone. She carved it with a piece of broken glass, as the stone was very soft. She didn’t even bother putting his name. Taking all the money he had kept stashed in his study, she left in the middle of the night and walked the mile to the nearest train station. The sun rose ahead of her train, guiding it towards the city of Philadelphia. She never once looked back.

TW: Mention of trauma, suicide, and cannibalism.

I was only nine. My life changed forever. Pain became normal. Bodies littered the earth. Hope abandoned me. Do you know how hard it is? To have an empty smile, plastered on your face every single day? To feel isolated and alone hoping, hoping that someone will see through your lies and find the memories that torment your heart, mind and soul? Don’t you get it? I Don’t want your pity nor your sympathy nor your hand in friendship only because of my past. I don’t want… I don’t want to live any longer. Is that so wrong?

Every day is a burden that drowns me under memories, a constant reminder of what I did to survive. Every night is a portal dragging me back to my past, a constant reminder of what life is. Memories of my past are still fresh. In my mind the past is vivid as the sun. I can still recall the piercing sound of blood and the metallic taste of people’s cries. Gunshots rang in the air… chasing me deep into the forest. Deeper and deeper and deeper until.

I found a body. A boy not even in his teenage years. I’m sorry I did it. But I was dying of starvation and my mind was killing me. There was no other food. I ate the flesh off his bones I drank his blood. The war changed me. The soldiers came. They gave me drugs. Drugs that helped. Drugs that healed. I fought with the soldiers. They became my family. Then those dreaded doctors came and took me away. Away from my newfound family, away from my newfound home, and away from drugs. Those drugs kept me sane, they kept the demons in my mind from tearing me to shreds.

Author's Note: This is a very, very short story. It’s meant to be a quick, fun, and suspenseful read. It was based off of a small prompt I found online that was: “Start a short story with the quote “You’ll never know unless you try,” so I did, and here it is. Happy reading.

“You’ll never know unless you try.”

That’s what she said to me before we had boarded the plane that sent us 14,000 feet into the sky. My legs were dangling over the edge and I was gripping my harness like I had already started falling. The ground was waaaaaay down there, cars were small specks that were hardly visible.

“I don’t think I wanna do this anymore!” I yelled over the loud wind.

I felt a hand slowly grab my shoulder. I was slowly getting pulled back into the plane. My pleas were answered. I had honestly not wanted to go on this skydiving trip at all, but I did it for my friend.

“It’s a one way trip!” someone yelled into my ear.

All of a sudden there was nothing but air below me. Well, that and the ground 12,000 feet away now. My mind blanked, everything was jumbled up because I couldn’t process the force of the air that was pummeling against me. My arms were circling around frantically like windmills, and my legs were kicking wildly. I had little to no control over my body and it wouldn’t listen to me either.

10,000 feet.

My brain went numb as if I was given sleeping pills and my legs and arms stopped moving.

8,000 feet.

The ground was getting bigger and bigger.

6,000 feet.

I heard a distant yelling some ways above me.

5,000 feet.

Someone was next to me and yanked the cord on my bag, releasing the parachute.

At that moment, I felt all feeling return to my arms and legs and my brain started to whirr back into action.

Looking around me I saw my friend, breathing hard with a worried look on her face. We were floating down to the ground slowly and I–yet again–had a death grip on my harness.

I knew before trying that I had a fear of heights.

I knew before trying that I would hate skydiving.

But, I didn’t know before trying that we would be laughing about the whole ordeal as we settled to the ground.

0 feet.

Celia May Donoghue was, in no uncertain terms, fed up with the men of her family. Her husband John, whom she had abandoned wealth and status for, had transformed into someone she did not recognize. Gone was the hardworking farmer, dedicated father, and loving husband. John had become obsessed with potatoes, neglecting his other consistently bountiful crops, in favor of this fickle spud.

Her brother Kendall had most stupidly become involved in a group of Highland marauders. Sure, he was a young lad, but at his age, Celia already had a bairn in her belly and house to maintain. Her other brother, Jamie, heir of the family estate, was squandering the family money on racehorses.

Celia thanked the gods that her two sons were already twice the men their uncles were. But then again there was that business with Marcus. Her eldest son had gotten involved with a rather unsuitable girl, but Celia trusted that the relationship would end soon. Alas, something had to be done.

Heaving a freshly laundered basket of clothing outside to dry, she admired the rare sunny day that blessed the village of Dunry. Sun emerged through the perpetually gray clouds, its rays illuminating the fields below the house. Hanging petticoats, underskirts, dresses, shirts, and trousers on the line, Celia schemed.

Samhain was tomorrow, a day spent communing with the dead. Celia, her mother Imogen, and her daughters Isla and Annie were going to the cove. A place of great beauty and great pain, the cove represented all that Celia had gained and lost in her life. Her sister, Jane, had been taken by the sirens when she lost track of the tides. Now, it was time to call upon her and her fellow sirens to restore order to the family.

Walking back into the house, Celia began preparations for dinner. The boys were in the fields, tilling the crops. Isla, ever the tomboy, had joined them. Foolish girl, she’ll never find a husband at this rate. That left Annie to help in the kitchen.

“Annie!” Celia called. Shuffling and thumping ensued, and Annie appeared, red hair askew.

“What happened to you, darling?”

“Oh uhm, nothing Mum, I was just darning Markie’s pants.”

Celia raised her eyebrows, fat chance that Annie was doing Marcus’s dirty work. Those two got on like water and oil.

“Oh, I see. Well, start chopping those onions will you?” Celia asked.

“Of course, Mum,” Annie replied, heaving the basket of onions up to the pockmarked table.

Grabbing several healthy-sized carrots and three feeble-looking potatoes (all that her husband’s obsession had shown thus far), Celia joined her daughter at the table. Chopping away with the knives Celia may or may not have taken from her mother’s house, she pondered this new dilemma. Looking over at her daughter, Celia covertly inspected her for clues of her illicit behavior. With her hair pinned up haphazardly, some strands falling into her green eyes, and her cheeks tinted with a rosy glow, Annie was looking just a tad unkempt. What had Annie been doing? She’s a fine-looking lass, no doubt about that. And she’s at the age where illicit trysts are to be expected. Celia ruminated upon her own romantic entanglements of twenty years past. There had been that quiet well-mannered boy whose name she couldn’t remember, and that her mother had approved of and was willing to turn a blind eye to. Then there was John, oh how her mother had gnashed her teeth against him. John, with his disheveled black locks and sleepy ocean eyes, had charmed her from their first chance meeting in the cove. Alas, that boy made of dreams and hopes was gone.

Without looking up, Celia said, “Tomorrow darling, we’ve a jam-packed day. There’s the bonfire, and Gran wants to go to the cove.”

Annie furrowed her brow, and asked, “Why would Gran want to go there, especially on Samhain?”

“How shall I put this darling…Trouble is afoot with the menfolk, not your brothers mind you, but the rest of the family men.”

“Oh, I see.” Annie was used to her mother’s idiosyncrasies and rituals. While some in the village believed that magick was evil, Annie knew from the time she was a wee lass that her mother, grandmother, and ancestors past were not of that ilk.

“May I count on you to help prepare the cake in the morning? I’ve already collected the button, ring, and coin.”

“Oh yes. I do hope I get the ring this time around,” Annie replied dreamily.

“Well, darling, you’re only seventeen. It’s a bit early to marry yet. Unless you’ve got someone in mind?” Celia pried.

Annie blushed deeply and looked at her mother rather guiltily.

“That’s what I thought. Who is he?”

“Thomas Fenharrow.”

Well, it seems Annie has good taste. The Fenharrows were of solid, fair stock with land adjacent to the coast. Thomas, their eldest son, spent a great deal of time with the boys and had come to dinner on many an occasion.

“Well, I shan’t say nothing to your brothers, for I doubt Thomas would ever recover.”

A tear ran its course down Annie’s cheek before she wiped it away (whether tearing up from this thoughtfulness or simply from the onions she had just finished chopping, the cause was unknown).

The women of the house continued to prepare dinner with contemplative silence. Celia added a bay leaf (for protection and purity) and celery seed (for restfulness and mental clarity) over a boiling pot of soup, and thought over the day’s troubles. Annie, on the other hand, put bread in the oven and watched over the cooking of the roast, while hoping that Thomas had escaped unscathed out of her bedroom window.

Soon enough, the aromas of the meal dragged the men (and Isla) into the house. Passing through the entrance, affixed with a broom overhead to ward off evil, John, Marcus, Douglas, and Isla trooped in. Sitting down with a defeated groan, John propped his feet on the carefully laid table.

“Och, John! What have I said about feet on the table?” Celia said with exasperation. It felt like reprimanding a child, not a husband.

With a disgruntled sigh, John removed his dirt-caked workboots from the table. While soup, bread, and roast were passed around, Celia enquired after the day’s labor. Marcus and Douglas chatted happily about the end of harvest and Samhain. Isla piped in with her own contributions, she’d sewn haystacks together for the first time. John stayed stonily silent, with his eyes focused only on the plate he’d licked clean of food.

Once the meal was over, water was heated for baths, priority given in order of dirtiness. The boys went first, sharing the tub of steaming hot water. John followed, stomping off to bed without a word. Isla, while dusty, simply required a washdown with a rag. Celia and Annie had no need to bathe, so they merely undressed and put on their nightclothes.

Walking to the end of the stone corridor, passing by the boys’ and girls’ rooms, Celia entered her own chamber.

Modestly sized, the room contained a beautifully embroidered bedspread, an armoire, and several paintings and tapestries. John lay fast asleep, his cheek pressed rather sweetly against the pillow. Celia smirked, clearly the celery seed had taken effect.

The next morning dawned with a bleary overcast that Celia felt in her bones. John had already risen, off to help the other men chop wood for the annual bonfire.

Abandoning her cocoon, Celia went to wake the girls. Shaking Isla lightly, and Annie a little more forcefully, both girls cracked open their eyes with a groan.

“Chop chop. At this rate, we won’t have time for a little breakfast before we meet your grandmother,” Celia said kindly.

That was enough reinforcement to get Isla out of bed, and Annie followed suit. Their woolen-clad feet grew cold from the stone floor as they stood eating the leftover porridge John was fond of making.

Hastening to get dressed and put on their matching red cloaks, the Donaghue women made good time to the cove. They jumped over rocks and brambles, skipped through the fields of grass, and tumbled down the path to the beach.

There, red cloak vibrant against the graying cliffs stood Imogen. Her regal profile faced the ocean and the fading moon, as though searching for something unseen and unbidden. Her withered hands grasped at a wicker basket.

Celia knew better than to call for her mother. She would see them when she was ready. Turning slowly Imogen squinted and beckoned them over. Crossing the length of the pebbled beach, Celia, Annie, and Isla arrived at the entrance of the cove. It was low tide, and Celia could see that her mother had already begun the ceremony.

She had drawn a pentagram, and at each point lay candles, stones, and herbs. In the middle was a crude altar of sorts, with offerings laid out to each of the goddesses.

“Come, come, children. Celia, with your fiery temper, I think you should go south. Isla, go North towards the stones. Annie, you shall go east,” Imogen ordered, her voice husky. This arrangement left Imogen with the element of water, and one point of the pentacle was left for the spirits.

In their places, which each corresponded to a different element, the women began to stomp their feet in unison.

“Luna, luna, luna, Diana

Luna, luna, luna, Diana

Bless me, bless me, bless Diana

Luna, luna, luna, Diana!” the women chanted repeatedly. The flames of the candles grew higher, eerily illuminating their faces with hues of gold and orange. When she was satisfied that the flames had risen enough, Imogen moved on to the next part of the ritual. Throwing salt over her shoulder, Imogen stepped forward into the altar space. Slowly, and with great effort, Imogen made her way into a kneeling position. Prostrate on the sand, Imogen brought forth her gift for the goddesses of the ocean and moon. Out of the wicker basket, she pulled out a set of pearl earrings that had been a part of the Donaghue clan for decades. Whispering words the rest could not hear, Imogen placed the pearls on either side of the anointed candle.

The waves grew louder, the surf hissed with forewarning, the mist grew heavier, and the sand seemed to skitter away from the water’s edge. Celia gave herself fully into the ocean’s rising power, hoping against hope, that her siren sister would heed their call.

Suddenly, and without warning, the hiss of the surf turned into something alien, something inhuman. Out of the water came her sister, Jane, luminous with the siren’s ungodly beauty and without a stitch of clothing to save her from the cold.

“You summoned me?” Jane said, her musical voice lulling Celia’s senses.

Stepping forward from the altar, Imogen let a single tear track its way down her face before replying simply, “Jane. Darling Jane.”

“I do not have much time, a few minutes if that. The ocean beckons me home.”

Looking saddened, Imogen said, “The men of the family are winding down an unforeseen path, blind to the faults in the road and whisperings of the hills.”

“Ah, I thought that’s why you called,” Jane said, her voice growing shallower.

Her eyes closed, and she seemed to fade away for a moment, before singing an unearthly tune.

“He who trots down the beggar’s lane

He who dances the night away

He who toils only to find disarray

One shall atone,

Another shall die all alone

And the third shall be dethroned.” With that ominous message, Jane receded back in the waves, and before disappearing from sight, she whispered, “do not meddle with fate, sister.”

Without faltering, Imogen went back to her place in the west and began to chant again, and the rest followed suit, closing the pentagram from visiting spirits.

Celia took a shaky breath and glanced at her daughters. Annie looked stricken with horror, whereas Isla’s blue eyes held a cunning look. Imogen began to blow out the candles and gather them, leaving the herbs and stones as thanks. The pearls had disappeared along with Jane. Waving her hand impatiently, Imogen made her way out of the cove, and water lapped at her feet as she clambered over rocks in a way that belied her age. Celia and the girls caught up with her, and their four red cloaks battled against the fierce wind. From the cliff above, they would have looked like four pinpricks of blood against the sand.

Celia glanced at her mother, and seeing her stony expression, asked the girls to go home and start making cider and apple cake. They left, in a flurry of billowing red, their footprints disappearing with the surf as though they had never even been there.

Without turning, Imogen said to Celia, “This is very bad indeed. But worst of all, nothing we do will change the outcome of their fates.”

Celia pondered her mother’s words and decided it was for the best that they go about life as though they had not heard a devastating prophecy. Walking in silence, the women parted ways at the path’s fork.

She made her way back home, following the winding hills. As Celia approached the farm, she could see the house teeming with townsfolk, some sobbing, others with faces far too blank to carry good news. When they saw her, they all turned as one, their voices dying out. A sea of gaunt faces greeted her, and Celia was overcome with a sense of foreboding.

Out of the crowd broke Isla, red cloak vivid against the tweeds of the villagers.

“Oh, Mama! Marcus has died…,” Isla cried, her face swollen and blotchy from tears.

It was a terrible tragedy, of course, Marcus had been walking on the coastline to his mesalliance’s house in the poorer side of the village when an errant wave overtook him. When he washed up on the shore an hour or so later, his neck was bruised purple, as though he’d been throttled and rejected from the ocean’s grasp.

But Celia felt nothing at all, her body and mind gone numb, as she walked through the parted crowd. As she reached the doorstep of her home, a little gust of wind blew by carrying the scent of the sea.

Author’s Note: Most of the spiritual/magical elements have been taken from Wicca and paganism. There are also some references to Scottish traditions for Samhain which I got from here.

Author's Note: Written at approximately 2 am on a Saturday

Another leaf falls to the ground, joining the other brown petals and pieces that litter my base. I feel the dull pat as it hits the dry dirt my body is buried in. No light can enter past the cracked window, except by means of one forlorn handprint left on the glass. It displaces the dust that is otherwise acting as thick a curtain, an ever thickening blanket of grime separating me and the outside.

Through the fingerprint ghosts of life, I can see the tattered outer world. Ivy has crept over the building across from me, leafy arms wrapping around the ugly edges of copy-paste urban architecture. The pipes have burst in the infinite identical cubicle homes, and mold has found those moist corners, eating away at what little real wood-corpse was used in their rushed foundations. Movement outside catches my attention, but there is only the maple molting its autumn leaves. It carpets the otherwise cold stone with glorious reds and fiery yellows, richer than gold. The concrete cracks under its persistent roots and the great tree breathes a sigh of fresh relief. Wooden fingers stretch cathartically, proud at the destruction of their former claustrophobic concrete prison.

Unlike that maple, my domestic roots have never known the feeling of a fresh world. I have never felt unfiltered light grace my leaves, nor known the taste of the clouds falling down on me. I do not know how it feels to grow without worrying what walls I will hit. From the first green to creep out of my cracked seed shell, I have lived my life in a ceramic bowl. I didn’t mind sitting prettily on this sill, waiting quietly to be pampered. But just across the street, the maple boasts of its hard fought freedom, and I’ve just been sitting here waiting and withering away.

The Earth has shuddered and the sky has burned. The streets have split open, revealing new depths of dirt for more life to sustain its reclamation. I can see the plants and creatures and world, finally free from the enthrallment of civilization, and still, I am left on this little ledge. At the beginning of the end, I still had hope the incessant rumbling would tilt my pot onto the floor, and there my roots would eat into the rotten wood, and miraculously I could live. But the Earth has stilled, satisfied she is cleansed of parasites.

Even if I had tottered and crashed my way to floored freedom, I know that I couldn’t have lived. I am only perched here, purchased and pruned half a world away from my ancestors. The only forest I know are jungles of concrete and steel. I am not like the plants I catch glimpses of outside, reaching for their independence. I am not strong and resilient like the dandelions, slotting themselves in what little room they have carved for themselves out of sidewalk streets, not as eternal as fungus. I was bred, born, and raised for pretty softness.

I have clung to life long enough to watch the world bloom vibrantly and quiet again, but I know I will not join them waking up from dormant hibernation. I will not watch the world rebirth itself next spring, phoenix-like emergence from the fiery oranges and sunsets of fall. My one bare brittle branch has turned gray, the memory of color and chlorophyll and full stomach fading.

My gaze finally settles on what had caught my eye earlier: a newspaper fluttering in the wind, caught on a protruding nail. A reminder of before, a memoir to the methodic manufacturing of the world. The headline advertises the end of the world. But really, the world still turns. The Earth still circles the sun, and the moon still pulls the tide. She has survived meteors and monsters, seen the rise and fall of eons, the world will not end for this.

Past the creeping frost covering my window, past the ivy blanketed apartments and the yellowed paper relic, I see the horizon sun dip behind the skeletal skyline, painting the city’s remains red as the falling maple leaves.

I would preface with this: Know that I am not the villain in this story. Know that my name is Delilah Espino. Know that there is no happy ending. Not really.

It was an average day in most manners of speaking. The weather was not hot nor was it cold. In the morning I bought myself an average cup of coffee and drank it with an average bagel. I walked to my average department store job to make an average amount of money.

I suppose you could call me bitter. Bitter that I came all the way here, one-thousand miles from home to get a degree. To find myself in a profession I love. To set myself some foundations, only to fail. And I blame him. Him and everyone who made him untouchable. Him and the police officer who looked at me and said “Prove it.” Him and the professor who told me to consider what an accusation like this could do to a young man like that. I blame him. And I blame myself.

My earliest memories of him are old. We’d lived next to each other all our lives. Had gone to all the same schools. We’d become friends quickly--not best friends but still, we went to parties and games together. He was always kind. Always at his mom’s shop. He wanted to run the business one day. Be the town mechanic when his mother retired. He loved that place. I didn’t.

I remember the day I mentioned my acceptance letter from NYU. He was so angry. I remember trying to leave and him grabbing my arm. I remember the bruise he left. He stopped talking to me for a couple months, right up until I was packing my Dad’s trunk for the trip to the airport. He’d told me, on the verge of tears, that I couldn’t leave. I’d wanted to ignore him. To go inside the house and lock the door until we were ready to leave, but we’d been friends for so long. I thought I owed him. So I told him it wasn’t his decision and left it at that. I was ready to move on. He was not.

When I arrived at the department store the doors slid open automatically at the presence of my weight, and I made my way toward the break room to put away my belongings. I walked through the door labeled Employees Only to find auburn haired Jolene Alaister, seated at the table. She looked up from her phone and smiled--like a breath of spring. “You excited?” she asked in greeting.

I shot her a grin. “I don’t think that’s the right word for this context,” I responded, “But, yeah, something like that.”

“Good.” Jolene had a very pleasant voice, like soft summer rain, with a light southern accent. She stood, slipping her phone in her pocket and clipping her name tag to her shirt. “Don’t forget, we gotta be at Tina’s at six. We’re still going together, right?” she asked, tilting her head back to gather her fiery hair into a ponytail. The action showed a thin white scar on her neck. Her freckled ivory skin made it hard to see if you didn't know where to look, but there it was, just under her chin. Jolene was so bright it was easy to forget she had a boy of her own. He didn’t hang around as long as mine did, but he left his mark just the same. I nodded to her question.

The morning went by quickly. Jolene and I took our lunch break together, eating at a sandwich place in the mall. Not once did I look over my shoulder, my eyes didn’t scan the crowd. I hadn’t done those things in a long time. It felt good. I looked up to find Jolene looking alarmed.

“I know that look,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I shrugged, giving her a small smile. She looked unconvinced.

“Just a few more hours, honey,” she said in a low voice. “A few hours and the past will be bleeding and buried.” I consider this for a moment.

“Did they stop? After yours?” I asked, remembering the way she looked when I met her. Her hair dull, eyes bagged and bloodshot. She’d stopped sleeping: an attempt to escape her night terrors. She was forgetful, easily irritated. Her skin was marred with attempts to stay awake…. or maybe they were attempts to feel something.

That is another thing we all shared. Evidence. Our wrists were adorned with little half bracelets, our thighs shredded, our pill bottles empty, our bodies in the middle of roads, or train tracks, or hanging from ceilings. In this way, I suppose most of America is my family. Bonded in the aftermath of fear and pain.

She considered my question for a moment, cocking her head. She didn’t meet my eyes as she said, “Eventually. With time,” another pause. “I mean, you feel better immediately, but it takes a while to really absorb it,” she explained, “If that makes sense.” Something about the way she said it, though, made her seem… unsure. I nodded despite this, choosing to believe her.

***

Tina lived just outside the city, in a big house in the suburbs with her husband, Jessie. Her home was beautiful, white and dove gray with a stone face. They had lots of greenery decorating their lawn. Hazel shrubs, and Bird's-foot Trefoil, and Oleander, and Basil.

Jolene and I exited the car and walked the stone path that led to the front door. I raised my fist to knock, but before I could the door swung open, making me jump. Ophelia Beltran smiled wide, her teeth a bright white against her olive skin. “Good, you're on time,” she said, hugging us in turn as we stepped through the door.

“Who is it, Ophelia?” a voice called from the kitchen.

“Lilah and Jolene,” Ophelia responded, leading us through the dining room. Christina’s kitchen was spotless. Following the gray and white color scheme of the house, it almost looked staged, blemished only by a spot of color on the island, where a ruby red pomegranate sat in a fruit bowl.

“Hey,” Christina greeted, pulling a knife from a drawer, her light hazel eyes glowing with excitement. She walked to the cutting board on the island and reached across it to pluck the pomegranate from it’s bowl. “Jessie has the car packed,” she continued, cutting into the blood red fruit. “We are just waiting for Heather, Michelle and Caroline. You want some?” she asked, motioning to the now cut pomegranate with her knife. We stood in a half circle around the cutting board, eating the seeds one by one, waiting for the last of us to arrive. Within five minutes there is another knock at the door.

“I got it,” Jessie called from somewhere in the house. Seconds later he walked into the kitchen with Heather Nishant, Michelle Lenoir and sweet Caroline Naji in tow. The three of them raced to greet us, helping us pick at the last of the pomegranate seeds as Jessie made a beeline for Christina, throwing an arm around her. She smiled up at him, and I was struck by a pang of jealousy.

Christina is, perhaps, the most fortunate of us. The least scarred, I think. Because she was Jessie’s girl. Had him right by her side though it all. Christina’s boy was a friend of Jessie’s, before her Ordeal. And when she told him what happened, he believed her without hesitation. He helped her contact the police. They said they needed evidence and he lied for her. None of us had a liar come to our rescue, when our own word was not enough. I looked down before anyone could see my eyes. Notice how they burned with resentment.

***

A few minutes later we walked outside. Christina rushed to her car and hopped into the driver’s seat, reaching over to open the glove compartment and shutting it quickly. Five of us packed into her SUV. Tents, sleeping bags, shovels, a securely wrapped knife, and a change of clothes for each of us, were packed on either side of the trunk, leaving a space in the middle. In the car in front of us we could see Caroline’s frizzy-headed silhouette in the driver's seat, with Ophelia to her right.

“Okay, let’s go over this one more time,” Christina started. “We park behind the strip of shops. Walk around past the bowling place to get the restaurant, making sure Delilah is visible to bowlers though the window--”

“How, again, are we sure that he’ll actually be there?” Heather interrupted, fidgeting with a piece of her dark wavy hair and furrowing her thick brows.

“Ophelia heard him talking to his friends about meeting up here at this time. For someone’s birthday,” Christina explained. A few months ago we’d had Ophelia apply for a position at the gym he went to, hoping to catch information like this.

“And if he’s not there?” Heather challenged.

“Then we try again another time,” Christina responded with finality. Heather, seemingly satisfied, sat back a bit in her seat and Christina continued, “After our food arrives Delilah will walk back out the way we came, making sure he sees her. She’ll wait by the car and once he rounds the corner she’ll send a text to the group chat. Caroline and Ophelia will head out there, Lilah will chloroform him, and you two will help get him into the back. You’ll let us know when you’re ready, and we’ll head out.”

At this point, Heather put a finger up, starting, “Where’d you get the chlor--,” but a glare from Christina staved her off the question.

“Ophelia will take his phone, wallet, and keys and drive his car to his place, walk a few blocks away where Caroline will pick her up. The rest of us will have already gone to the campsite to start digging. And the last part is easy,” Christina finished with an eager glint in her eye. She looked towards me then. And I found myself smiling.

***

Everything was going perfectly. We’d parked behind the strip of shops and walked around to the front. The bowling alley was a small place, with a total of five lanes and around 20 people. Ophelia snuck a glance through the window of the bowling alley and, as predicted, he was there, sitting at the third row from the window. She laughed loudly and shoved Jolene, making her bump into the glass, and grabbing the attention of everyone inside. I made sure to stay toward the back of the group as we moved forward, turning my face to shoot an apologetic glance to the people closest to us. I didn’t need to look up to know he’d seen me.

Once we were seated at a table inside the pizza place the girls started making idle conversation. Though, if you knew to look, you could see the tapping fingers, and the bouncing legs, the eyes that held feral excitement, and the secretive grins. And I tried. I tried to be anxious like them, but I sat still, and I felt evil. The cloth in my pocket felt like a lump of hot coal, scorching me. This is what I’m owed I reminded myself, afterwards I could start over, I could be anyone, I could let go. I should be excited, glad. Glad I had this support, this family. So I made sure to grin, like they did, to sit on my hands and bounce my leg until the food came, lest they think me ungrateful. I was not, but maybe---

“Two pepperonis and a combination,” the waitress’ voice cut through my thoughts like a knife. Caroline smiled big and clapped her hands and Jolene was reaching for her fist slice before the waitress could set the pizza down.

I took two bites before grabbing my phone and leaving the restaurant, too nervous to eat any more. I walked past the bowling alley slowly. I looked up hoping to catch his eye, but it didn’t need to be caught--he was staring right at me. I stopped walking. I froze like a deer in headlights. I was taken back to a late night at the library, before I knew any of the women I knew tonight, Before I knew to be cautious. Maybe it was as much my fault as it was his. Because I walked to my dorm alone, because I wasn’t aware of my surroundings, because when he grabbed me I could have fought harder, because when he pulled me down a dark alley, I could have screamed--I could have done more. But I didn’t. And here we were.

Finally, I looked away and continued walking briskly toward the cars. I reached Christina’s SUV and turned to lean back against the trunk, phone out, text ready to be scent. I stood there for years, decades, centuries. I rotted away completely, turned to dust, and was blown away with the wind before he rounded the corner. My thumb rushed to tap the blue arrow at the edge of my phone screen before I slipped the rectangular device into the back pocket of my jeans. He walked towards me so slowly I had to hug myself to keep my heart in my chest. “Hey there Delilah,” he said with a cheerful tone, smirking devilishly. As if I were just a friend he hadn’t seen for a while. My heart raced faster, my hesitation was stomped out until only embers remained. How dare he.

“Hello,” I said slowly, trying to swallow a scream. “Long time no see,” I continued, forcing cheer into my voice. He nodded, smiling wickedly. I was going to throw up. I felt the pomegranate seeds rise to the back of my throat, ready to decorate the ground. I looked at him again and saw something move behind him. I casually slipped my hand into my pocket. “How have you been?” I asked, stepping closer to him.

He slipped his hands into the front pockets of his jeans smugly, eyes flashing with mischief, “I’m doing grea--,” I acted fast, taking my hand out of my pocket and shoving the white cloth over his nose and mouth. Caroline and Ophelia grab him from behind, helping me wrestle him to the ground. Christina said we’d need to make sure he inhaled the chloroform for five minutes, otherwise it wouldn’t take effect. He tried getting his hands free, thrashing to get me off of him, but the three of us held fast. He started screaming. I panicked for a moment before pressing my hand harder against his mouth, hoping to stifle the noise. We kneeled on the ground for what felt like ages before he finally stopped moving. I patted his pockets locating his keys and phone before handing them to Ophelia. “Oh, and this,” I said, unzipping his jacket and maneuvering it off his body before tossing that to her too. “Wear that and pull the hood up, just in case.” She nodded, her gray eyes glowing in the dark parking lot.

“Come on,” Caroline said, tucking her frizzy brown hair behind her ears. “Let’s get the trunk open.”

***

The drive to the campsite was silent and long. We seemed to stop at more and more lights the further we drove, our faces washed in red, like a beacon drawing us closer and closer to Hell. The air in the car felt sticky and hot and it soon started smelling like his cologne. I wanted to throw up all over again. I closed my eyes. Three, maybe four more hours, and that was all. Done. Easy. Or it should have been. My mind kept bringing up images of his kind-faced mother. All I could think of was the golden retriever he had when we were younger, and how much he loved that damn dog. Even as we went deep, deep into the woods all I could think was that the boy in our trunk didn’t deserve this. To be left here, to be devoured by the shadow monsters, visiting from Hell, poking their heads around the trees. To be forgotten, when he went unfound.

Eventually, Christina stopped the car. We got out, picked a random spot. We lugged his body out of the trunk. Christina brought two shovels. She took one and plunged it into the ground, in a clearing among yew trees, as I reached for the other. Michelle stopped my hand. “I got it,” she said, taking the shovel from me. She walked towards Christina to help dig the grave. Just past her I could see one of the shadows. I could swear it smiled at me showing long, sharp fangs that contrasted hardly with its dark, smokey body. When I looked back at Michelle, an identical smile adorned her face, as if she too were a monster from Hell.

I couldn't just sit and watch, so I got back in the car and drove a couple miles to where we’d be putting up our tents. I helped Jolene and Heather set up camp before heading back to Christina and Michelle. They were almost done with the grave by then. Both were covered in dirt, but while Michelle looked exhausted Christina seemed to be more excited than she was when we left. “Can two of you go try to get rid of the tire marks from when we started off roading? I know it’s a big ask, but we gotta cover our tracks,” Christina said, without looking up.

“Here,” Jolene offered, approaching Michelle with an arm outstretched, “Why don’t you and Heather go deal with the tracks.” Michelle nodded looking relieved, and she and Heather were off.

***

Jolene and Christina were finished with the grave thirty minutes later. And in that half hour I became so many things. I became a ghost. Insubstantial and without consequence, watching Hell open its arms towards me, singing sweet songs. I became a garden of lilies and hydrangeas, innocent and intoxicating. I became gentle rain, washing sins into sewer drains. I became the ground, solid and immovable. The women walked to either end of the boy’s body to lift him. He dropped into the grave with a heavy noise.

Jolene and Christina turn to me, having said something that I didn’t hear. “How do you feel?” Jolene repeats, looking concerned.

“I just told you, she feels fine!” Christina snapps irritably.

I stare at her through my lashes. “Can I be alone?” I ask. I feel embers become flame again. The two women look at each other and Christina nods, her dark curls bobbing with the movement. It makes me want to laugh.

I stand as she hands me an object wrapped in plastic. They disappear into the woods. A drop of water lands on my hand as I unwrap the knife, and for a moment I think it is raining. But rain isn’t warm. I bring a hand up to my face. It comes away wet. I am crying. I do not know why. I fall to my knees beside the pit. Time slowed, like the world was holding its breath. I cover his face with a plastic bag. I raise the knife over my head. I bring it down, hard.

It sinks into the soil beside his body with a satisfying sound. I sob. Behind me I hear someone scoff before a sharp ringing assaults my ears. I cry out, rolling to my side in panic and pressing my hands to my ears. I regain my hearing slowly, like a deep-swimming thing rising to the surface, witnessing sound become unmuffled. Panting, heart racing, I open my eyes to find Christina standing over me, gun pointed at the boy, barrel smoking. I hear someone’s footsteps rushing toward us and Jolene appears beside Christina, frantic-looking. She starts speaking but I don’t understand what she is saying. Christina almost looks bored.

“I helped,” she said with a shrug. Jolene stares at her, open-mouthed. A car pulls in from the direction of the campsite. Jolene walks toward it. I look back at the body. Heat rises to my face, filling it before trailing down to lodge in my throat. I whip my head toward Christina, suddenly angry. She just stares at me.

“Why did you do that?” I ask dumbly. I want to say more. To scream at her. But all I manage is, “You should have killed him,” and I can tell from the way her face tightens that she knows I don’t mean the boy in the grave.

“I didn’t need to,” she said after a moment of silence. “Justice was served.

“No,” I snapped. “Not for you.” I pause for a moment before my voice quiets with the realization, “That's why you did this.” Christina just shakes her head as she walks away from me, irritation in her step. Unlucky Christina, who took her boy’s freedom before she could take his air. I wonder how many of our boys she will kill for us, before she feels recompense.

I look back at the grave as I stand. I’ve stopped crying. I forget how to move so I just stare. I don’t feel sorry exactly, but I feel something like it. I stand here for minutes, eons, burning this image into my brain, before I find myself surrounded. Someone throws their arm around me, resting their head on my shoulder. Someone else is talking. Eventually, the group turns and starts to walk away. I find myself turning to walk with them, when I kick something soft. I look down, and in the darkness of the woods I make out a worn, brown wallet. It’s the boy’s wallet, the one I never gave to Ophelia, fallen out of his pocket. I consider picking it up. Burning it, or burying it. I consider what that brown square could do to us. I consider that it is a glimer of hope for this horrible, horrible boy. A small chance of justice. I consider picking it up. And I almost do.

Authors note: Although this piece can be enjoyed as a short story it also serves a dual purpose as the prologue to a novel that I am currently working on.

She woke up dazed. Her head was spinning, and a throbbing headache was stabbing at her brain, blurring her vision and thoughts. She had no idea where she was or how she had gotten there. She racked her brain searching for any recollection of her past, but any memory she had previously possessed had been completely erased from her mind.

She lay sprawled out on the floor of a small room, her cheek pressed against a soft, white carpet. She lay there, waiting for her bleary eyes to focus and when the fog across her vision cleared, she shifted her weight and tried pulling herself up into a sitting position. As she did, a searing pain shot up her left arm. She took a sharp intake of breath and bit back an agonized scream, trying to ignore the intense pain that crept its way from her fingertips to her collar bone.

She endured the sudden excruciating spurt, millions of blinding, multi-colored strobe lights sparking across her vision, until eventually, the pain subsided into a slightly more tolerable ache, the glowing colors dissipating along with it. She reluctantly looked down at her damaged arm. It was covered in a sloppy mess of bandages wrapping their way like vines from her wrist to her elbow. The bandages were made of a coarse fabric, definitely not a material that had been intended to hold a wounded arm, much less the ever-growing starburst of red that had seeped its way through the abrasive fabric.

She looked beyond her arm down at her torn jeans that now revealed her lightly tanned, ivory skin, lying beneath a battlefield of bruises, scrapes, and blood. Her boots were falling apart and would only end up becoming a hindrance to her ability to walk. She kicked them off, ignoring the dizzying pain that seemed to stem from every bone in her body as she did so.

Once she had assessed the damage of her wounds and determined that all of her injuries were non-lethal, she looked up at the room she was in. Her eyes followed a trail of bloody scarlet that cut across the expanse of snowy white carpet, winding its way from the door to the place where she sat.

“That stain will never wash out,” she said grimly to herself, trying to lighten her mood. She let out a nervous chuckle but immediately regretted it, wincing, as another wave of pain washed across her body. She allowed the pain to pass before continuing to investigate her unfamiliar surroundings.

The room was narrow, with whitewashed walls and a high ceiling, giving the unwelcome illusion that the walls were closing in on her.

A bed with an enormous canopy alongside a small bedside table stood in one corner of the room. On the table was a glass vase of dead daffodils sitting in yellowed water. A large, antique mirror was hanging above the table, framed in gold and covered in a film of dust and grime. To the right of the bed, a floor-to-ceiling window covered one wall of the room with a set of heavy, vanilla-white curtains in front of its glass. One curtain was completely untouched and the other was jaggedly ripped and fraying at its ends, now only half-covering its section of the large window.

She looked down at her damaged arm, comparing the materials of the curtain and her bandages. She assumed that someone must have ripped apart a portion of the drape to create her makeshift dressings.

She drew her focus away from the curtains and towards trying to get onto her feet to further explore her foreign surroundings. She took a deep breath and, using her good arm, she attempted to stand, wincing and grunting as she got to her feet.

She managed to stagger toward the canopied bed, her feet feeling as if she were walking on cactus spines. When she reached the bed, she clung to the wooden bed frame until her spinning mind settled and she managed to regain her bearings. She weakly made her way across the room towards the door, pausing when she caught her reflection in the antique mirror to the left of the bed.

She wiped away some of the excess filth coating the reflective surface with the sleeve of her hoodie, studying her reflection and trying, for a moment, to recall anything about herself. Her long, layered, butter-blonde hair was braided and disheveled, highlighted by streaks of dried blood. Her face was messy, and when she wiped away the blood and dirt she revealed the light smattering of freckles across her nose. She examined her irritated and puffy eyes, dark crescents lining the bags beneath them. She leaned in closer to the mirror, searching for herself in the tangled root system of browns, greens, and blues, held back by her corneas. But no matter how hard she searched, all she could retrieve from her outwardly innocent doe eyes was an unnerving chill in her bones that made her shutter.

She decided that she needed answers, and so she slowly and painfully made her way across the room to the door.

The round, brass doorknob was cold to the touch, and she hesitated when her fingertips brushed the handle. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and she ground her teeth wondering where she might be, and what hostile things could be waiting for her on the other side of the paneled, birch door.

She finally realized that thinking about it was getting her nowhere. She took a deep breath, and, squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she turned the knob, forced open the door, and braced herself for whatever was on the other side.

Several moments ticked by and she waited for something to happen, but nothing did. Apprehensively, she opened one eye and then the other, gazing out into an empty, torchlit, and unwelcoming hallway. She took a cautious step into the passage, and sensing that no one was watching her she continued cautiously down the hall, staying out of the torchlight as best she could.

She glared suspiciously at every door she passed, each of them holding back stifled screams, hysteric sobs, or deathly silence. She vowed to herself not to succumb to her curiosity, as the struggle she faced to contain herself grew with every footstep she took.

Her mental barriers didn’t hold for long. After walking several paces down the hall, the floodgates holding back her curious mind crumbled as she came to a door that was opened just the slightest crack. The bright, glowing light from inside the room spilled out into the dimly lit hall, tempting her with its warmth and coaxing her toward the source within.

She peeked inside, astonished by what she saw.

Hidden beneath the hood of a simple brown cloak, was a figure, floating in the center of a small closet-like room. It hung suspended in the air, its cloak gently rippling and flowing in a phantom breeze. Below the figure, a tarnished dutch oven containing an unidentifiable material was licked by red-orange flames. As the figure started to chant, the flames that heated the large pot burst into a kaleidoscopic blaze of fluorescent shades of blue, green, purple, and orange. As if on cue, the substance in the pot began to boil with the sudden surge of heat. The light in the room faded despite the still bright and raging flames.

The figure raised its hands above its head, calling forth the shadows to its wrinkled and emaciated fingertips. The pitch darkness blanketing the room bubbled like boiling tar in an undulating and unseen containment.

From her hiding place behind the door she watched, horrified as her own shadow was drawn into the possession of the cloaked figure.

“This can’t be real,” she whispered to herself in disbelief.

She tried to grasp hold of what was happening, searching for any logical explanation. She took a step backward, trying to distance herself from the ominous scene, but the floorboard she stepped on creaked loudly, the sound echoing through the entire building, amplified by the cavernous architecture of the long hallway.

The door in front of her swung inward, its hinges creaking as it went.

The figure slowly dropped its arms and sank back towards the ground. The shadows burst forth, creeping across the floor and back to their casters. The phantom breeze vanished from the figure’s cloak, the liquid in the pot became stagnant, and the flames below snuffed themselves into wisps of smoke, turning the room dark.

The figure turned its head, the hood of its cloak concealing every feature of its face except for a scowl on pale, sallow skin, lit by the muted torchlight of the hallway.

Throughout the figure’s movement, she had been frozen to the spot, paralyzed by fear. But as the figure strode toward her, each foreboding step synchronized with the rhythm of her desperately pounding heart, she snapped out of her petrified state. She took a single shaky breath and, remembering she had legs, she took off running as fast as she possibly could go, adrenaline pumping through her veins, masking the blazing pain of her injuries.

There was a series of loud bangs and screeches close behind her, but she didn’t look back in fear for her life.

Her socks slipped on the slick carpet as she ran for the door at the end of the hall. As soon as she was in reach of the knob she flung the door open and ran down a spiral staircase. She dashed through several rooms full of angry residents that joined the chase in a thunder of footsteps and a tidal wave of people that pursued her.

“STOP THAT GIRL!” shrieked an enraged and raspy voice.

There was another large bang and something whizzed past her ear.

In the maze-like building, she didn’t know how she had managed to find the front door, but that didn’t matter at the moment. Nearly out of breath, thinking nothing on the other side could possibly be worse than the procession following at her heels or the overwhelming pain returning to her beat-up body.

She opened the door and slammed it behind her, hoping to buy herself a little extra time. She leapt down the front steps and ran out onto the dew-sprinkled grass. Thinking for sure that she was out of the woods, when all of a sudden she stopped dead in her tracks as she realized what was ahead of her.

She now knew that her assumption had been drastically wrong. What faced her now was much worse than any idea she had previously entertained.

She stumbled backward.

She stood there, terrified, splinters of memories rushing into her brain all at once. Her heart dropped and her stomach twisted.

She remembered everything now.

“I wasn’t-- I-- I didn’t!” she stammered, but she couldn’t seem to form the words.

She was trapped.

She couldn’t go forward and she couldn’t go back. She had sentenced herself to a fate far worse than any death she could have possibly imagined.

As the stampede in the building behind her burst through the doorway, she broke down into sobs. Now confronted by danger on all sides she howled out into the placid morning air. Her tortured wails, identical to the hundreds of other brainwashed victims that occupied the rooms of the building behind her. Their cries, left unheard by anyone who would care.

As the blood-red sun became visible in the sky, shining its rays across the mountainous peaks across the horizon, she knew it was over. She buried her face deep in her hands, feeling every ounce of her pain in her body, mind, and soul.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her warm breath visible in the chilled air, and with those final words her knees gave way, and she sank to the ground, six kilometres under the earth's crust.

Author’s Note: WARNING! This story depicts disturbing… stuff, so if you have a hard time handling that please do not read this. I wanted to test writing in the 2nd person and I think it went a little well, I don’t know, I tried. Anyways, enjoy.

You grabbed the cup to inspect it. It was shattered and some of the pieces you could see were scattered on the ground at your feet. They shone in the dim light and you noticed that one of them had a small red smudge on the rim, matching the tint of red on the rip of the glass in your hand.

A guzzling, slurping, gulping sound echoed from the living room, causing you to jump and snap your head up to face the direction of the noise.

You call out to your friend hoping they returned your call with their lovely soft voice. The chomping and ingesting sounds came to an abrupt halt. When the entire place was silent, even your breathing, you started to move towards the living room. You brandished the broken wine-glass with both hands, hoping that you were at least a tad bit intimidating. But, looking into the hallway mirror as you passed by, you noticed how scared you were and saw that you were actually trembling.

Why should you be trembling when this was your house?

Rolling your shoulders back, you hardened your look and tried to reassure yourself that the creeping feeling wriggling up your spine was nothing. The hairs on the back of your neck started to stand up the closer you got to the doorway that led to the lounge. Light was spewing out and illuminated the hardwood, oak floors that were silent beneath your bare feet.

Holding the cup between your white knuckles, you inched into the room. There was nothing to be afraid of. You saw your friend laying down on the couch in their pajamas, seemingly asleep. There was a liquid trail dripping down the side of the black leather sofa and dyeing the poofy white carpet a crimson red color.

Your lunch from a few hours ago started to bubble up your throat. Covering your mouth and dropping her armed hand to her side she inched closer to your friend. They were laying there with a gaping hold in their chest, exposing their partially mutilated lungs and what used to be their heart but now resembled a dry date. You felt your stomach lurch and at first you thought that you were about to barf, but then a sudden pain erupted in your back.

Whipping around you blindly swung the sharp glass and managed to slice whatever it was that struck you. That caused it to retreat back into the closet and away from the light. You gripped the glass with two hands yet again and held it out in front of you, your arms stiff and trembling.

What was that?

It seemed to change its mind about staying hidden in the dark closet because it slowly emerged from the hanging coats and stepped out into the light of the living room. You couldn’t understand what was standing there in front of you. It was horrendous, its looks and the smell. Its skin was a leather black that could be mistaken for the leather of the couch. You could see that it had glowing red veins popping out along its arms and legs and face, everywhere.

You took a small step back, then another. Its razor sharp teeth and absence of eyes scared you to a degree that all of your emotions were wiped from your brain. You couldn’t comprehend the feeling of fear. But when you suddenly fell back, coming face to face with the corpse on your couch, you were finally able to let out the screech you had been holding in the moment you had seen the massacre.

You must’ve had the same look as your friend did when the monster leapt forward, sharp teeth bared and ready to chomp down. Your eyes were wide as the jaw unhinged and wrapped itself around your small head.

The last thing you could see was the slimy inside of the monster’s mouth that had rows of teeth and mimicked that of a shark.

The last thing you could smell was the iron of the bloody organs the monster had been consuming only just a few moments before.

The last thing you could hear was your own screams echoing into your ears and the gurgling growl of the monster, about to consume you.

Then you died...

And that was it.

The snow had melted by the time the boy woke. He pulled the blanket over his head, breathing in the warm air that surrounded his torso. He rolled around under the blanket, twisting and writhing until he was consumed by the long pieces of cotton and woven wool. He lay there until he felt his heartbeat in his feet, but after a while, he noticed the grumbling in his stomach. It overpowered the slow rhythm that tingled in the tips of his toes. The boy pulled himself out of his cotton cocoon.

The cold air shocked his breath. He gasped. He sat up and put on his wool socks. Now he only felt his heartbeat in his chest.

The boy stood up and grasped for the familiar material of his curtains. He kept his eyes closed as he stretched his arms out, this was a game he played with himself every morning. Find the curtains. At last, he grabbed at the rough fabric and tore it open. His eyes adjusted to the bright morning; he gazed out of his frost-covered window. Winter had lasted too long, he missed the feeling of lying in the grass, the sun listening to his hums, responding to his songs with glistens and rays of warmth.

The boy felt like a stranger to the winter. His weak bones and delicate figure required him to layer his clothing until he looked like a small child who had just discovered his father’s closet. He lost weight in the winter, too. Since he couldn’t go swim in the lake, or play with Sister, or run through the golden fields of his family’s property, he looked ill throughout the winter.

But these thoughts quickly left his mind, it was the first day of Spring! Although the air still had a chill, it was friendlier than the winter breeze. The boy grasped the latch that connected the window to the lip of the house and with a firm pull, the window opened. Ah yes, this was Spring air! Sweet and crisp, like biting into a fat, juicy apple. The boy smiled and stuck his head out the window. It was a good day already.

He walked down the narrow staircase lined with photographs of the family at every holiday and birthday, even photos of their chickens and horses, and his favorite, the one with the pig. This photo was at the end of the stairs. It was the biggest, too. The four of them, Mother, Father, Sister, and the boy sat on their old patchwork couch, with the pig in the middle, grinning. This photo always prompted a smile in the boy, it made him remember lying in the sun with the pig, laughing and singing.

He made it down the stairs as the smell of freshly cooked bacon met his nose. Mother was standing in the kitchen with Sister chatting over the sizzling strips of pork. Father was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the paper, sipping his coffee, which he drank with nothing but a dash of cream.

Every morning, the paperboy delivered the newspaper to their door. Although the family lived off of a long driveway, which was off of a long, empty road, the young man appeared each day, right after the sun rose. The family had gotten to know him well throughout his long journey to their property. He lived with his mother in the town, in a small apartment above a butcher shop. He would oftentimes stay for coffee in the mornings since the journey was so extensive.

The boy made his way to the kitchen table, he sat down next to Father, like always, and greeted him good morning. The boy couldn’t help himself, he was full of joy. He beamed while he waited for the feast to begin.

Mother had arranged the bacon on a white china plate, one they used every other day, as it had a special drying ritual. She said that to maintain its angelic glow, it must always have a whole day to dry. No one opposed this, not even the boy.

He was glad they could use this plate today, it was the first day of Spring. Maybe Mother remembered, the plate was special to her and Spring was special to the boy.

Mother and Sister sat across from Father and the boy, although the table was circular, the family arranged the chairs so that there was space between Mother and Father for the cat and between Sister and the boy for the dog. The four each took a turn stabbing the bacon with a silver fork.

Mother turned to the boy.

“Eat up, we’ve got to get you big and strong, you’re just too skinny. Girls like strong men with muscles, don’t you know that? Go on, eat up.” Mother always reminded the boy about girls. He hated it.

He looked over to Father who nodded in agreement. The boy accepted his fate. He picked up the fork and placed two more pieces of bacon on his plate.

After breakfast, Father told the boy about the sheep. It was the boy’s duty to feed the sheep every morning, and every morning Father reminded him.

The ewe was pregnant. It had been for almost five months, and the boy knew that a lamb was coming.

He left the kitchen table and walked down the hallway where the coats hung. The shoe rack was just beneath them. The boy pulled on his big bright red winter coat. Even though it was Spring now, it was still cold. He cautiously lifted his right foot into the air, and placed it into his boots, stumbling slightly, trying to maintain his balance. He repeated this with his left leg and then bent down to tie each shoe. His boots went up to his calves. The laces were long, and it required a surprising amount of focus to tie them correctly. If one boot was tighter than the other, the whole day was ruined. Luckily, the boy tied them exactly the same way this morning. He felt the fur that lined the boots hugging his calves, this meant he was ready for the final step. The boy seized his scarf and gloves from the cabinet next to where the coats hung. He threw the scarf over his barren neck and shoved his fingers into each glove. Finally, the boy opened the door and met the first day of Spring with a grin.

He walked along the stone path from the house to the barn. By this time, all that was left on the ground were puddles of water from the last snow. The barn was the biggest thing the family owned. It was wooden, a dark walnut color, like the color of Father’s coffee he drank every morning. The boy opened the door to the barn and greeted the sheep. The family had six sheep, fifteen chickens, two horses, and a donkey. The sheep lay in their pen, cuddled together to keep warm.

“Don’t worry, Spring is here! It will heat up soon.”

The boy smiled at his friends. He reached down over the pen’s door and stroked one of the wooly beings. He pulled down a bale of hay, tossed it into their pen, and walked to the far side of the barn to fill a big metal bucket with water. He returned with the container filled to the brim and delicately placed it into the enclosure.

All of a sudden, the ewe began to moan. They were long, pain-filled noises. She threw her head up towards the roof of the barn, closing her eyes and screaming. He had never heard such sounds before. The boy remembered what time of year it was.

“Father! Father! A lamb is coming!”

No response.

“Father! Help!”

Again, no response.

It was too late for the boy to run back into the house and find Father.

The ewe was writhing on the ground of the barn, and so the boy knelt down next to her, his heartbeat had crept up into his throat.

“It’s alright, it’s alright. I’m here.”

The boy had seen Father do a lambing before, but he had never helped. All he remembered was turning away when he saw the blood.

The ewe was bleating louder than ever. She rolled onto her side. The boy stroked her head and took a deep breath. He pulled off his big bright red winter coat, his gloves, his scarf and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He gently reached his hand into her backside and felt for the legs of the lamb. His arms were so slender that they didn’t seem to hurt the ewe. At last, he felt the knobby little hooves that attached to the skinny, slimy legs belonging to a newborn lamb. He firmly grasped the legs and pulled gently until he saw them exit the birth canal. A wave of blood followed his pulling, but he continued on. The ewe bleated and moaned, but the boy kept pulling.

“Push, girl, push!” he whispered to her.

The body of the lamb was starting to emerge. In a final push by the ewe, the boy pulled the mucus-covered lamb onto the floor of the barn. He stared at it in awe. His arm was covered up to his elbow in a deep red, and pools of blood surrounded him. The lamb began to shake and writhe. The boy wiped its nose, removing the mucus that covered its ability to breathe. He had seen Father do this before.

He lifted the lamb and brought it over to its mother. The boy felt a longing to stay close to it, yet he knew that the mother needed to meet her new offspring. She bleated and began to lick her new child. The boy reached back into the ewe, feeling for a sign of another set of bony, slimy legs. He didn’t feel anything. This was surprising. Normally, a ewe would produce at least two offspring. But the boy didn’t mind. He felt proud, prouder than he’d ever been.

As he crawled away from the ewe and sat opposite of her and the lamb, he felt the sweat on his forehead drip down his temple, to his cheek, and slowly fell into his mouth. This was the first time he had sweated since winter had begun.

The boy lay propped up against the edge of the pen and he noticed movement from the lamb. He remained still, frightened to scare it. And suddenly, it stood up. As its legs straightened out, it wobbled, similar to how the boy looked when he pulled on his boots. The boy began to cry. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. The mother had licked the lamb clean, so it now looked like a patch of freshly fallen snow.

The boy moved slowly towards the lamb. And the lamb stumbled towards the boy. He could feel his heartbeat in his whole body, like a buzzing all around. The lamb opened its almond-sized eyes. The boy stared deep into its soul. A feeling of overwhelming emotion enveloped him. He lowered his head so that he was at eye level with the lamb. The lamb moved even closer to the boy until their heads touched. The Boy could feel the warmth radiating from the newborn’s body. He wrapped his arms around the lamb. It bleated slightly and rested its head on the Boy’s shoulder.

In the following weeks, the Boy rarely left the lamb’s side. He slept in the barn every night, holding his new friend close. It was getting warmer too. The Boy would roam with the sheep, playing in the field with the lamb, running, singing, dancing. As the lamb grew, so did the Boy. The lamb was getting stronger, its legs were no longer frail. The Boy could feel his muscles strengthening, too. He felt new and free and full.

The Boy only ever left the lamb’s side to pick up the paper every morning. He had grown to enjoy conversing with the paperboy. He admired the young man’s eyes, a pale green, they reminded him of the tall grasses that grew just outside of the barn. He noticed the paperboy’s strong arms, the freckles that speckled his biceps. He liked the paperboy.

One day, when the Boy was in the town buying milk for the family, he stood in the small market, surrounded by shelves filled with vegetables and fruits and cheeses and loaves of bread. He was suddenly very hungry. He had never felt this hunger before, but he liked it. The Boy picked up a loaf of warm bread and the biggest block of cheddar cheese he could find.

As he approached the counter, his eyes met with those of the cashier. He suddenly felt his heartbeat crawl from his chest up, up, up into his throat. The cashier was beautiful. He couldn’t have been much older than the Boy, but he was taller. The cashier had deep brown eyes, like the color of the family’s barn, like Father’s coffee. He had the beginnings of a beard, with curly black wisps coming from his chin and a head of dark hair that matched.

The boy bought his items and slowly walked out of the market, still thinking of the cashier with brown eyes.

The next morning, the Boy awoke in the barn. He no longer slept with the woven wool and cotton blankets he had once longed for. He only used a small linen sheet, lightly wrapped around his skin. His body radiated a heat like that of the sun. He tore off the thin piece of cloth, slipped on his boots with grace, and stood up, welcoming the day ahead.

The Boy greeted the lamb, kissing it gently on the head, and made his way to the house, eager to catch the paperboy.

The Boy walked into the house and smelled the familiar scent of bacon. He sat down at the round kitchen table next to Father, who held his cup of coffee with a dash of cream in one hand and nothing in the other. The paperboy was late. This was unusual.

“Father, is the paperboy coming today?”

“He’s bringing us a goat” Father responded.

The Boy was surprised. He had forgotten about the other animals on the farm after the lamb was born. But he didn’t mind another animal joining the farm. He knew that the lamb would always be his favorite. As the family was sitting down to eat, the Boy heard a knock on the door. He sprang up from the table, knocking over his chair. He was eager to see his friend with the pale green eyes.

The Boy ran down the hall, past the staircase with the photo of the pig, past the coat rack, to the door. He flung it open, expecting to be met with the grin of the paperboy, but he found himself face to face with a giant goat. It was a brown goat, deep brown, even deeper than the barn, or Father’s coffee, or the eyes of the cashier at the market in town. It had two tremendous horns that curved out on each side of the goat’s head. Behind the goat was the young man holding a stack of newspapers under his arm. The Boy grinned as he saw his acquaintance. He stuck out his hand for their daily handshake. As the paperboy let go of the goat to grasp the hand of the Boy, the goat took off in the direction of the barn.

It only took a second for the Boy to react. He screamed and raced after the goat, running on the stone path towards the walnut-colored barn. The goat had already made it inside, the Boy had forgotten to shut the door when he left this morning! In a matter of seconds, the goat had chosen its target. The lamb. The goat froze, looking directly at the sweet, gentle lamb in front of it. At once, the goat charged the lamb, impaling its side with its massive horns.

The lamb screamed. The Boy screamed.

The Boy felt a sharp pain in his side. His knees buckled underneath him, he fell to the ground, surrounded by the familiar coarse strands of hay.

“No! No! What’ve you done?!” he wailed to the goat, who had run out of the barn. It was too late for the Boy to get his revenge.

The Boy crawled to the lamb and knelt down by its side. He lowered his head so that his eyes were level with the lambs. He gently touched his face to its downy head and sobbed. The lamb began to weaken. Its head grew limp, falling to the ground. The Boy cried and cried, wrapping his arms around his dear friend. The boy grew weak, too. At once, the Boy became hungry. He felt the hungriest he had ever been. He looked around the barn, searching for a stray carrot or even a drop of water lingering on a piece of hay. But he was too weak to push himself off the ground and search for sustenance. His stomach was urging him to eat anything, anything, anything he could find. The Boy looked down at the limp lamb.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” he sobbed, his tears falling on the body of the lamb.

The Boy pulled up his sleeves on each arm. He reached into the lamb’s stomach, the impalements from the goat’s horns had opened up the lamb’s intestines. The Boy began to consume the lamb’s body, shoveling its blood and guts into his mouth. The blood ran down his lips, streaking his neck and the collar of his shirt with the warm plasma. As he devoured, he wept, his tears mixing with the soul of the lamb. The taste was rich and satisfying, but the Boy was still famished. He ate and ate and ate, he couldn’t stop. The Boy ate so fast that his heart began to beat and beat and beat, he felt it beating in his arms, his toes, his fingertips. It crawled up into his throat and the Boy gagged, coughing up pieces of the lamb’s innards. But he still shoveled more into his gaping mouth.

The Boy felt for the heart of the lamb, the soul of the being he loved endlessly. The hunger was consuming him. He could feel an outer layer of blood drying around his mouth, still wet on his lips. He shoved the bloody heart, warm from resting above the ribcage of the lamb, into his mouth and ate it whole. Suddenly, the Boy took his last breath, collapsing in a puddle of blood.