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Short Stories

Pain

Anonymous

“You useless brat!” One hit. 

“You shouldn’t have been born!” Three more hits. 

Warmth trickles down my back as new and old wounds open up. The shackles holding me up shake as my back arches with each new spike of pain that hits. 

             Eventually, my uncle leaves, leaving me still hanging. My head hangs as my nerves get shocked with ghost whips. Tugging at my bonds, my already raw wrists start bleeding. Dust rains down from the ceiling as the base of the chains loosens from the ceiling. I look up, noticing the chains. Pulling in earnest, the chains eventually fall to the cement floor. My arms fall to my side in pain and my legs crumple under me, weak from disuse. I quiet, waiting to see if my uncle heard the sound. Pulling myself together, I stand, my legs shaking like a newborn deer. 

              I gather the chains in my arms and creep towards the stairs out of the basement. Reaching the top of the stairs, I push open the door and peer out of a small opening. Looking around, my uncle is sleeping in front of the TV, watching a crime documentary. I push the door all the way open, trying to be quiet. Creeping out of the basement, I step into the house. The floor is carpeted and every surface is covered with cigarette holders, all full to the brim. The door is roughly six steps away. 

              I run for the door and push it open, running into the front yard. A full moon’s light falls upon my skin as I run into the street. Continuing to run, I reach a police station. The woman behind the desk looks up and as soon as she sees me she jolts up from her chair. “Oh my god, what happened? Are you ok?” 

              I open my mouth to respond when the world suddenly tunnels and goes dark. — — — 

 

              Waking up later, I’m laying on my stomach. The light in the room blinds me and I jerk, slamming my eyes closed. I hear a door open and squint my eyes open, trying to see who came in. 

             “Don’t move, it might reopen your wounds,” A deep voice says.

             It takes everything in me to keep still. A person comes to stand in front of me. I’m assuming it’s the owner of the voice since I can’t hear anyone else in the room. The person squats down to my eye level so I can see who it is. It’s a man wearing a long black trench coat over a suit. 

             “Can you speak? I need to ask you some questions.” 

              I open my mouth but close it immediately. My throat is dry and hurts. Probably from all the screaming. 

              The man reaches for a glass of water that has a straw in it. He holds the straw up to my lips and I take a sip. Once I finish, the man asks me a question. 

             “Who was it that did this to you?” 

             “My uncle,” I can tell I spoke but the voice I hear is scratchy and worn. 

              The man nods and then asks me more questions: Who I am, Where am I from, and what happened? I explained it all. 

              I explained that when my mother died, I was eight. My uncle took me in and started beating me soon after. I never went to school, and nobody questioned it, my uncle had claimed that I was homeschooled. The only time I got any reprieve from his beatings was when he was watching his crime documentaries, asleep, or at work. The man nods throughout all it. When I finish, the man puts down his pen and notebook and looks at me. 

              “My name is Detective Dave Swensin. You can call me Dave. Thank you for answering all my questions.” With that, Dave gets up and leaves. 

              Nobody else comes to interrogate me and the only people who come into the room are the nurses who check my wounds, help me eat and/or drink, help me to the restroom, and help me shower (it was more of a sponge bath but they called it a shower). 

Eventually, my wounds healed enough for me to be transferred to another room. After moving, another police officer and judge come into the room. 

               “Hello young man, I’m Judge Brown. This is Mr. James. We are here on behalf of Detective Dave. He has asked to adopt you. He thought that not being here would relieve the pressure of saying yes.” 

                Hold up, some dude I met probably a month ago wants to adopt me? I mean, it’s probably better than my uncle. I nod, accepting the proposal.

               The men leave and a week later, I’m cleared to go with Detective Dave. He picks me up from the hospital and we go to the courthouse so I can sign the adoption papers. Afterward, we go to his house. 

                I live with Detective Dave for a month before Dave starts to show his true colors. Every time he doesn’t have work overnight, he’d come into my room and hurt me.

Pigs

Anonymous

     It was a cold night and I could smell that it was about to rain. All I could hope was that it wouldn’t, my entire plan could be ruined if it started raining before it was done. As I stepped out of the car I heard the freshly fallen leaves crunch with each footfall. It was pure luck that my cousin was still out of town on vacation allowing me to be here, at his pig farm. With no witnesses to what I am about to do, to what I’ve already done. 

     As I reached my trunk I  realized I had left my gloves in the center console. After walking back to grab them, I opened the trunk, praying that the smell hadn’t gotten too bad. I slowly lifted the overstuffed trash bag out of my trunk and struggled to cut it open with my dull knife. Immediately after getting it open the smell of death hit me, I needed to get rid of it fast. Lifting the body carefully to avoid a mess, I tossed the body over the fence. The hungry pigs immediately shoved past each other to get their first meal of the day.

     As the pigs ate, I grabbed the bag of clothes and the lighter fluid out of my trunk. After arranging the clothes, the empty trash bag, and my gloves in the burn pit, I poured half the bottle of lighter fluid on top, lit a match, and watched it all go up in flames as I dropped the match. When I stepped back to admire my work, I couldn’t help the overwhelming feeling of guilt, but I pushed it aside and remembered that it was for the better

Shaded

Abigail Johnson

     Deep in a forest of old sycamores stood an old shack, its old wood moving to the rhythm of the scarce wind intertwined with the trees. Its roof showed a color of a pale green, accented by gardens of moss. Ivy traveled as it wanted upwards the swaying speckled spruce wood. Flower beds stood pushed away from the walls with overgrown shaded herbs, searching for sunlight while the sycamores stood, grabbing it away from them. On one side of the house stood another plant bed holding dead or dying plants surrounding one pocket of light that surrounded a small flower; a black dahlia. Its colors showed to be darker than the night and its leaves stood as the strong winner for the only light that could reach the ground. 

     A small pathway seeming to be tread on by small feet with the surrounding barriers being eaten or pushed back to create room for something. Tufts of white clouds were captured on the old honeysuckles lining the pathway. 

     Movement sounded further out by the rim of the forest where sounds of humming could be heard. Soon a young woman glided through the pathway, her pale yellow dress occasionally snagging on the bushes and low branches. A few figures could be seen behind her; walking clouds. They drifted behind her, smelling each leaf that was passed and ingesting some if they seemed fit to. Four sheep followed the young woman through the pathway up to the old house. She was carrying a metal object, water slowly jumping out of it onto her dress creating a morning starry sky. 

     The girl started to pour the rest of the stars onto the plant beds surrounding the waving house, saving a quarter for her darling the dahlia. She gently poured the rest onto the flower’s crown and tillers. She then said goodbye to the small life till she could come back while the train of clouds followed her back through the forest trail.

The Thing

Emily Nei

It is watching me. Staring at me. Waiting for my parents to leave. My parents do not believe me, but it is there.
Watching. Staring. Waiting. My parents tuck me in, kiss me goodnight. They walk towards my bedroom door.
It is still watching. Staring. Waiting. I hear my voice cry out to my parents. They pause and turn to look at me. They smile reassuringly. I am not reassured.
Watching. Staring. Waiting. My parents do not see it. They say it is my imagination. They say it is not real. It is real. It is here.
It is right here. Watching. Staring. Waiting. My parents turn back to the door. They are leaving again. But they can not leave. It will get me if they do. They can not leave. They can not leave.

They leave.

 

It is no longer watching, or staring, or waiting. It is creeping closer, and closer, and closer. I barely register my scream. I can not hear it over the sound of my heart, beating so loudly I fear it will fly out. My parents come running in. It stopped.
It is once again watching. And staring. And waiting. I tell my parents. They still do not believe me. They believe I am making it up. I am not.
It is watching. Staring. Waiting. Right at the foot of my bed. How do they not see it? I see it.
They tell me to get over it. They tell me that I am too old to get scared over shadows in the dark.
It is not a shadow in the dark.
Watching. Staring. Waiting. My parents sigh. I feel bad. I am keeping them up late again.
Watching. Staring. Waiting. My hands shake as I reach out to them. Apology on my tongue.
Watching. Staring. Waiting. They look at each other, having a conversation with their eyes and
movements of their heads. Father leaves. But Mother stays.
It is watching. Staring. Waiting. Mother tells me it will be okay, just to wait a moment.
A few moments of it watching. Staring. Waiting. Father returns with a nightlight in his hand. He
walks over to the outlet and plugs it in.
Watching. Staring. Waiting. The room is lit up, but not enough. I try to tell my parents this, but
they laugh and kiss me goodnight once again.

Watching. Staring. Waiting. I beg them not to leave. Not to leave me alone with it. It does not move, but its gaze gives away a look of impatience. My parents tell me they will check on me in an hour or so. They cross the doorway. They leave again.

 

Once again it is not watching, or staring, or waiting. It creeps up the bed. This time I can not find it in myself to scream. Or make any noise. I am frozen in fear. Even my heart is silent now. I wish it was still watching, staring, waiting. That would be better than this. That would be better than it getting closer and closer. It would be better then it reaching out to touch me.
An hour. That’s how long it has to hurt me. That’s how long till my parents would come back.
An hour. I can’t scream, I can’t move, I can’t do anything. An hour. It can kill me much faster than that.

Dead Man’s Domain

Bailey Alt

     I went camping through Dead Man’s Domain. It’s an old forest supposedly haunted, but the only thing spooky about it is when the zoo closed, it was rumored the monkeys got out and escaped to here.  They got them all (at least that’s what they said) and put them back where they belonged like Guantanamo Bay or wherever their from. The point is, I went camping there and I took some friends of mine after I filled out my application to work as a ranger here. Since most of the people quit when they hear it’s haunted, there were a couple openings.

​

      We all headed to the camp ground following the natural stairway in the path. It wasn’t going to be a stereotypical college party, although there were going to be red solo cups for having a good time. We set up camp and had a great time even though one of my friends Tiff told me she’s having fun so far but I don’t know. I have a bad feeling. Like when you don’t hold your breathe through a tunnel and you know something bad is just waiting to happen.

​

     Well we go to bed and I dream that I’m a King and I rule my own kingdom, but it’s interrupted. I wake up sitting up from my makeshift bed and the tent zipper is open. My tent buddy, Ian, wasn’t laying down. Oh well he’s probably using the bathroom. I close the zipper door and go back to the warmth of my bed rubbing my arms to get rid of the goosebumps from the cold.

​

     LOUD. A noise so loud makes jump out of my skin. It sounded almost like a motorcycle. It reminded me of home in New York City. I open the zipper to see what it is but the noise abruptly stops and I only see a type of dog, only it’s wrong. I don’t move. I’m frozen with fear, and my heart is beating out of my chest.

​

     I blink for only a second and it’s gone. Just my imagination. Of course it is, because that couldn’t be real. I lean back inside and zip up the door and sit down on a surface I wish was a comfy chair. Try to go to sleep. I try to think of the things that calm me down. The flower pot I made for my mother on her birthday. When I played saxophone in middle school. The stickers of doodle bob I would put on my neighbors car because it was fun, seeing him mad. Anywhere but here.

​

      Crunch. Leaves under someone’s foot. I know It’s real. Like sneaking in the house and accidentally turning on the blender, kind of real. It’s getting closer and closer. I hear the zipping of the zipper door and I close my eyes. I can smell cigarettes. I look up and see Ian. He must have gone out for a smoke. This sudden realization soothes me. I reach for my jellybeans I brought as a snack. Cold. I see Ians fingers wrap around my arm in a vice grip. Looking to his face and I see a husk of what was my friend staring back at me. Eyes sunken, almost non existent. I knew this would happen. This is my hell.

“Normal Life”

 Elizabeth Meier

     She was never allowed to experience a normal life, her dad never let her know what one was like. He was so sheltering it just controlling, even overbearing. The closest she got to school was online, never went out to eat, didn’t even know what religion was, only listened to the music from the loud neighbors and their crappy band next door, and the only routine she had was based on her dad’s sleeping schedule. Her life was just like a newborn puppy who hadn’t even opened his eyes before being put into a kennel with no other puppies, being given enough food, water, and attention to have a life that appears normal.

​

    He wasn’t abusive, most people often think that he was just protective of such a big length. She has always been raised by her dad, there hasn’t ever been many other people in her life overall, let alone another adult to help influence her. Hating her dad was never a thought in her mind, she didn’t have anything else to compare him to, she just never understood why he doesn’t let her do anything. She never understood until he didn’t come home from work one day. Not thinking much of it, assuming he just picked up another night shift, she was very surprised when the police showed up at their front door at 3:00 A.M. After explaining who they were, she learned that her dad had died in a car accident and since he didn’t have any close relatives that she will be taken to foster care right away. 

​

    Once she left the house she had began her new life. Of course, she’s seen the outside through her windows, but the way the breeze felt on her skin for the first time was a shock of electricity that gave her new hope. She couldn’t stop looking around, wanting to feel things, and nearly forgot that the only person who had ever been in her life is no longer with her. 

​

    As she arrived at the foster agency, she met so many kids who are her age that all came with a different story, some bad and others just… different. She read books growing up, it was a part of an online school that my dad never appreciated, so she knew how some lives were lived but never did she imagine anyone having to go through the story of these children. Others thought that her story was terrible, but she thought differently. 

​

    That was when she understood her dad. He never wanted her to know about the lives of others, good or bad. He gave her a neutral life, not much to consider good or bad. But now she disagrees, if she’s living she needs to be experiencing day-to-day things, things as simple as emotions. When she started crying over sad stories, she didn’t know what was happening as she had only read of the emotion of sadness in fiction books. She was adopted quite soon, had a good family, actually made friends, found interests, and continued her life promising to never stop anyone in her life from doing something new. 

The Fog

Bailey Alt

 

      The green fog swept over the forest with dense air and little light. The enhabitants knew what this meant. It was time for her to hunt. The Lady, beautiful and wise always came through the forest in dense fog. She wouldn't come anyother time. A little fairy boy knew this woman well for it was who he would talk to everyday near the old oak. The old oak tree was her home, but it was also the most sacred place in the forest. As tall as birds could fly, and as wide as a river was long, and she took care of all who lived under her branch but the lady lived under the bark, deep within. Looking at unsuspecting passersby, she stalked and followed, knowing her prey inside and out.

 

      The oak leaned against a mountain's shadow, so fog came within the dark, making for her hunt easier. When the little fairy boy would talk to her however, it wasn't like the stories, where she was brutal and cold to all other forms of life. She was full of life, and warm to others and she was always focused on what was important to her. The boy, however, didn't realise that the hunt was the most important thing in her life, and now she had a prey right inside of her reach. Waiting and watching, knowing her prey inside and out.

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