Original Short Stories

Story One: New Concepts

Get up. That’s what he always told me. The last time he told me to get back up was ten years ago. I had been swinging in the big tire swing beneath the large oak tree, with the long, thick branches that reached to my window. Those were the same branches used to sneak out when I was thirteen. But that’s a story to tell another time. It was in late September, where the sunsets were red and orange; vibrant against the dulling green grass that we made sure to water everyday during the evenings. I had fallen out of the swing (I was six then), and had scraped up my hands and knees. I remember the throb, the stinging, the blood slowly enveloping the scrapes. My pained sobbing brought my uncle over, concerned as always for my wellbeing. Noticing the grass stains on my denim jeans, he told me to get up. I had shakily stood, slowly walking to him one step at a time. He always seemed to know what to do. He picked me up then, carrying me inside of our stucco house. This house had always been ours. My daddy was in prison, and my mom was somewhere in Vegas. My uncle was the one who was always there for me. He had put butterfly bandages on my scrapes, the special ones he kept in his bathroom cupboard behind the mirror just for me. It had been a Saturday, our day off from the hassle of everyday life. Not even a day after that he had died in a motorcycle accident, the result of a drunk driver. He had been hit with a pickup, a forward collision, while the drunk driver got out without a scrape. I found out the next day, in Sunday school. I had been with my grandma, where I lived half of the time. Her house was my second home. I remember running out of the room crying, in a long dark blue dress with a rose stitched on the side. He had stitched on that rose. I remember the day he did it, when I had come home from school after a long day of girls teasing me for wearing second hand clothes. He had gotten up, went to his office, and came back with a rose badge. He had sewed it on that day, on my favorite dress. He told me to never let those girls get to me, and I listened. I had had my hair loosely up that Sunday, but now it cascaded down my back in crazy curls. I remember the funeral, bursting out crying when our favorite song began to play. I remember us dancing around his living room while it had played, being silly, pretending to be someone else. Someone else with privilege, with a stronger roof and better food than just canned that we got from the food bank. With the extra cookies the workers gave us that tasted like stale chocolate. The time of his death was when I first understood the concept of it. I would never see my uncle again. That was ten years ago. And it still hurts.













Story Two: The Unknown

It was dark. It was a mentally cold, numb darkness. The only word that can describe this place is nothing. There was a frigid emptiness in that place above my face, and I struggled to remember where I was, or even who I was. None of my senses seemed to be working, and I was emotionless. I didn’t know how to feel. I walked into nowhere, the perceived ground strangely smooth like the feeling of hardwood. How did I know that? The place was surrounded in darkness but I could still see what should have been invisible. Do I have night vision? In the darkness ahead, I saw an extremely tall man that I don’t recall knowing. No recollection, no familiarity, this sensation was completely new. I felt like a new person, wiped clean of memories, feelings, and of all connections. It was just this man and I, alone. He was wearing a suit and tie, and his face was devoid of all emotion. He was handsome, brown hair and brown eyes. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five.

Is he like me?

He looks at me with narrowed eyes, as if I had just offended him.

“I am nothing like you.”

Holy shit. Mind reader?

The man’s voice reverberates in my mind.

“I am not a mind reader, and I am not like you. I’m above you. I am what you fear at night and what you pray for in the daylight. Call me the bane of your existence. Call me an alien. Call me Lucifer. I am a general presence of whatever evil you believe in. So what do you believe in?”

“Lucifer?”

His presence molds then, his figure evolving into something else. Something moves beneath his skin, and I shrink back in uncertainty mingling with fear and confusion. I hear bones crack as his form changes, changes from a man into an angel. I jerk, cringing at the sound. An angel of darkness. He’s beautiful, the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on. His skin is smooth, his eyes are wide and blue, and he has the largest wings. Each feather is white as snow, and his hair is white blond. He smirks at my expression of unbelieving, and crosses his arms.

“You were the one who searched for me. Are you not happy with what you have unveiled?”

“I want out!” I yell into the darkness, as I walk backwards.

Lucifer grins and snaps his fingers.

I sit up, gasping for breath. I’m on the floor beside my bed, tangled in the sheets. The covers are over my head, and I can’t feel anything. I scramble out of the blankets, and feel the ripping of earbuds out of my ears.

I deprived myself of my senses.

That was the result of sensory deprivation.

I made my nightmare a reality.

All of these things whirl around in my psyche as I try to make sense of all that had just happened. I flinch as someone knocks on the door of my room. Someone opens it, and I expect to see my mother there telling me it’s time for breakfast or that I need to get ready for school. Instead, I see him.

The man from my dreams.













Story Three: Enemy In the Mirror

She sat in the chair, uncomfortably aware of the rope around her wrists, legs and torso. The material rubs and chaffs her skin, even through her long-sleeved shirt and denim jeans. She panics, and the only sound she can hear is her own labored breathing as she struggles to remove her bonds. The cloth gag in her mouth refrained her vocally, and she felt the door to her right open. Light splashes into the room, and she isn’t surprised to see that it's a basement, lined with concrete with no windows. She heard the person’s steps on the wooden stairs as black boots were revealed.

There she stood. She is her, and I me. We were one in the same, her and I. I walk towards myself, my boots echoing on the concrete floor. I knew that she is me, she's the enemy in the mirror that I have to see everyday, wearing my face. Wearing my identity. I was tired of being the same as her. I wanted to be my own person, without a doppelganger that I had to see all the time.

The same brown eyes, the same fine, bleached blonde hair. We are the same age, the same height, but yet we are so different. I am me. She is her.

I punch her, and feeling the skin move beneath her face, I feel my skin move and the pain flare. She cries out and flexes her hand, and I had no doubt that she as well felt the burning sensation in her knuckles.

I know at once that I cannot defeat her without defeating myself. Is it worth the pain to get rid of her and myself? Or should I move on and forget this ever happened? I might never get a chance again after this. I decide then to end things. I clench my jaw as I take the knife from my front pocket. Seeing the polished silver blade, she starts fidgeting, trying to free herself with wide eyes. I can’t help but admire the way she moves as she struggles. I tease her by licking the blade, the edge sharp enough to cut my tongue. The silver reflects in the dim light of the open door, and I grin eerily. I put my hand on the back of the chair, parallel to her face enough to make her deeply uncomfortable. I stab the knife directly in the wood by her eyes, making her jump. I slit the tool lightly across her throat, making a thin slice. Pinpricks of crimson blood slowly surface, and I lean in and lick them away. She shivers in disgust, and her eyes show displeasure and revolting anger. I finally stab her in the stomach, and twist the blade. I feel the fiery burn in my own stomach, and I grimace. I look down to see blood sporting through my white shirt, and blood through hers.

We really are alike..

No!

I stab her repeatedly, her blood running down the legs of the chair and pooling on the floor. I feel the blood running down my legs and my vision goes blurry as I pull the knife out for the last time. She’s panting, and I can observe that she’s having trouble breathing as I see her cough up blood. I swallow the blood rising in my throat, and gag. As I watch her bleed out, I collapse on the floor.

We both sit there, covered in our own blood. There are no wounds on my skin, but yet I am still bleeding. I see the light fade from her eyes as her head rolls forward to rest against her chest. She becomes dead weight in the chair, her binding the only thing keeping her upright.

That’s the last thing I see before everything slowly dulls into a senseless black.











Story Four: Sleep Paralysis Demons

I had just moved into my deceased mother’s house. The Victorian house had been built in the 19th century, and it was well taken care of. There was an aged willow tree in the front yard, a white fence, with a well taken care of lawn. My mother had been elderly by the time I had moved out, and here I was again, my childhood home now mine. At first everything had just been new, I had been finding old creaks and where the house settled at night when I was in bed. I didn’t notice that things were happening on their own and not unintentionally.

I felt like I was in some cliche horror movie, where the idiot family moves into a house that they know is going to be haunted because of deaths in the house. How stupid can you get? I didn’t realize that those things make sense when they actually happen to you. “Normal” things like electricity malfunctions, things falling off shelves, cupboard doors left open, and misplaced items actually made me realize that things weren’t normal.

It started out with my television. I hadn’t gotten it set up yet, I had just laid it off to the side so that eventually I could get everything set up and plugged in. I wanted the TV in my bedroom, so I had moved it upstairs. A week into the new house, I had began a nighttime routine of brushing my teeth, taking off makeup, putting on sleepwear, and pulling back the sheets to slide in and read a book. One night the television decides to turn itself on. I don’t know what was scarier: the fact that my TV suddenly blared static at high volume, or that I hadn’t even plugged it in. Spooky, right?

A few weeks later, things started getting hardcore. I was missing random items from drawers, that I swear had been there the night before. I would find drawers open, and let me tell you, running your hip into a drawer first thing in the morning is shitty.

It was another normal night for being in a house full of psychotic ghosts that like to mess with my sleep schedule, so I fulfilled my nightly routine like I did every night before. I lay down, closed my eyes, and faded off into sleep.

I woke up to some insane laughter that sounded like a child’s. My red curtains were slightly parted, revealing a beautiful moon that flooded pale moonlight through the window. My heart was beating fast, like I had awoken to something intentionally. I found then that I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed on my side, and I couldn’t close my eyes. I felt an impression weigh the other side of my bed down, and I unsuccessfully tried to talk. Afraid, I groaned pitifully as a million thoughts wracked my brain. This is a dream. It has to be. It doesn’t make sense. Is it a dream? I breathe heavily and stare wide eyed at the gray, mottled hand that reaches over my side and holds my waist. I feel a hot tear roll across my nose and I sniffle. I’m helpless. All I can do is watch this happen to me. I’m finally able to make a fist at my side with my fingers before a hand reaches below my neck to cover my mouth. The skin of the child-like hand on my mouth feels cold and moist, like a body fresh from the grave. The hand moves up to pinch my nose, and suddenly I can’t inhale. I can’t breathe. Before long, I can feel my lungs burning with the need to breathe.

I wriggle my toes. I realize I’m slowly gaining my movements back and I flip around. The last thing I see is demonic, crimson red eyes.

I wake up, breathless. I pant, my loud breaths noisily filling the room. I pull up my night shirt to see marks on my waist, and I swallow the lump in my throat. I can’t tell if I did this to myself while I was dreaming, or if this actually happened. I find my answer when my bedroom door slowly creaks open. My breath grows taut as I stare at the wooden door, waiting to see what lies beyond.

Then I feel the hands on my mouth and nose, and everything goes black.












Story Five: Lindsey Green

Her long hair blows in her face, and she pushed it back with her slender fingers. Her tan, brown skin glowing in the bright sunlight overhead. The overcast grey eyes gazing at the orange sunset over the horizon. Her elven nose breathing in the scent of warm sand and salty ocean. Her full pink lips reveal white teeth. Lindsey pulled her dark brown hair into a loose bun as she watched a boat sail, causing ripples on the water’s smooth surface. She rubs the silent tears away from her freckled cheeks as she reminisced the day it happened.

She was on a white sail boat with her father, the gentle waves of the water rocking the rickety hull. He has the deepest brown eyes, focused on the fishing pole in his leathery brown hands. The wind ruffled his shaggy black hair. Lindsey’s big eyes surveyed the darkening clouds rolling in. In the midst of the storm clouds, thunder sounded loud enough to rattle her teeth. She laid her hand on her father’s bare shoulder, and he looked into her eyes with a recognition that they needed to get to shore and dock. A big gust of uncontrolled wind blew the sail as it started to rain, propelling the boat away from shore. Lindsey’s father — Jessie — stumbles a step as he attempted to reel in his line. The rain came in torrents then, hard and fast. Jessie couldn’t feel his line in, but he wasn’t about to let an heirloom go into the foaming sea. He had such a tight grip on the pole that his knuckles turned white with the strain he was laying on it. Lindsey yelled at her father through the thunder and churning waves, but Jessie overlooked her cry and pulled on the silver fishing pole one last time. His black hair was drenched and sticking to his forehead and neck. As he pulled and reeled, the pole suddenly gave way and Lindsey’s father was thrown backwards. The back of his legs hit the side of the small boat, and he feel into the grey, watery abyss. Lindsey screamed as she struggled to keep a clear mind to help him. She hurriedly grabbed the bright red and white lifesaver and hurled it towards her father’s head struggling to stay above the water. He choked and spit out the liquid as he tried to keep his body afloat, but he was moving with the current, farther and farther away from any help. All sense gone at the thought of losing the only person she loved that was left in her life, she jumped. She jumped from the boat into the deep water. She felt momentarily paralyzed as she hit the frigid coldness. She has only swam in a pool, and she felt herself sinking. She painstakingly swam to her father, and grabbed his hand. She didn’t see the large wave coming up from behind them both. Jessie didn’t get the words out as he looked at the wave before it crashed into them both sending Lindsey deeper underwater as she gulped in the sea. She felt the water filling her lungs as she choked. Her fingers were blue, and her lips were too. She gave up then, the tightness in her chest unbearable. She felt her back hit the sand beneath her, and she closed her eyes as she was enveloped into the darkness.

She woke up unaware to her environment. She felt different somehow, her hearing was invigoratingly fresh and crisp. She opened her eyes and gasped, and hurriedly covered her mouth and nose, holding her breath. Her sight had morphed, and she gazed extremely clearly at the watery depths before her. A fish swam by her head, and Lindsey examines the fish’s silvery blue scales dart into the kelp surrounded rocks and coral. She slowly took her hand away from her mouth, and took a small breath. She was completely shocked to discover she could breathe. She looked down at herself to find bright, shiny blue and purple scales caressing her skin. Her hands and feet were beautifully pale and webbed. She had fins, one on her lower back and a few webbed along her sides and legs. They were a stronger, more intense purple hue than her scales. In the shiny reflection of her arm scales, she could see her face. She had yellow eyes, the color of a streetlight in the dark.

It was then that she realized things would never be the same as they were before. She had no doubt in her mind that her father was gone because of her own actions. She vowed to herself that she would never feel this kind of regret again. She wasn’t going to let anyone close to her die like this. She wasn’t going to let anyone die in the water at all. And she will succeed.