Tag Archives: short story


I sat by the fire, with my arms around my legs, trying to keep as much warmth in as possible. The baggy sweater from an ex-boyfriend helped with making me feel comfortable, and the old worn out jeans made it easier to move around. Eventually the clothes would be useless, and I’d either have to buy new clothes or make my own. Considering I had no money and couldn’t sew, I wasn’t sure how I would do either of those. I looked around the cave I was sitting in and started to think about my future.

“How am I going to do this?” I whispered, and it echoed off the walls. I put my head to my knees, and let the tears flow freely.

I heard the whisper of footsteps by the front of the cave and my head shot up. A tall man leaned against the mouth of the cave, with his shoulder on the cave wall, his arms crossed, looking relaxed. He was incredibly handsome, with dark brown hair coming down in waves to his shoulders. He had a full, bow shaped mouth, currently smirking, and almond shaped eyes, a chocolate brown. He was in almost all leather, which he pulled off to perfection. I stood up, feeling dowdy in my baggy clothes and running sneakers, and looked at him. I pulled up the sleeves to my sweater and my hands lit on fire.

“Can I help you?” I asked, more confidently then I felt. He just clapped his hands.

“Nice show. Put away the flaming hands doll, I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help.” He moved off the wall and came forward as he spoke, which made me nervous. I put my hands up and tried again.

“Listen, I don’t need help.” The flames started to crawl up my arms, so I had to get my anxiety under control before I went on fire.

“Don’t you?” He whispered, stopping right in front of me. I thought about my mother, who had called the cops one me; of my step father, who now had 3rd degree burns on his hands from trying to grab me; of the house that I had lived in since I was two, now burnt to the ground. What the hell was happening to me?

Suddenly his hand was on fire too, and he grabbed mine. “You have more control of it then I did, back when they first found me.”

I just stared at him in awe, and put my hands out, but his didn’t burn me. His hands when out too, and then I hugged him. He put his arms around my back and just let me cry.

“I thought I was the only one.”

“Oh no, sweetie. Not by a long shot. Come, I’ll show you.”

He stepped out of my hug, and opened his hand to me. I gladly took his hand, and he smiled. Suddenly I was in another place, a hotter place. Definitely not in Kansas anymore, Toto. Everything was either black or red, like a bad vampire movie.

“What is the place?” I asked of my handsome stranger.

“Welcome to Hell my dear,” he smiled again, devilishly. “Come, meet your father.”

I was pulled along the halls, into a great room. I felt like I was in a castle, which was odd since I was in Hell. Maybe I was just numb, in shock, hence why I was thinking about the walls of the castle instead of the fact that I was in Hell. Going to meet my father.

Who my mother told me was dead for the last 26 years.

Fantastic. Apparently he wasn’t such a good guy after all.

“Hello, your majesty. I present to you, your missing daughter, who is presenting all signs of your demonic blood, in her ability to burst into flames.”

My guide had bowed to the man on the throne. He got up, wearing all leather too, and smiled as he walked toward us. He looked surprisingly young for the devil.

“Hello, Ana. So nice to have you with me,” he said smiling.


Goodbye, my love.

This is the hardest letter I have to write, the hardest goodbye I have to say. We both knew this day would come, but we both ignored it.

I have no regrets, if you were wondering. Even though I will never know the taste of your lips, or what it feels like to be the center of your world, I do not regret a thing. Even though every time I hear our song, or watch our show, I will think of you, I do not regret it.

Even though it was unrequited, I do not regret loving you.

I will miss how excited you get over your comic books; how you smile at the corny jokes; how your eyes crinkle when you’re laughing until it hurts.

You are the hardest goodbye I have to make, because I know it is forever. There will never be another hug to cheer me up, or late night phone call because you can’t sleep. Never again will I hear your voice, and that’s the most painful part of it all. Eventually you will move on from me. You will first forget what my voice sounds like. Then you will forget the color of my eyes and the color of my hair. My features will fade in your mind, until you forget my name. 

But I will never forget you. 

Know that I wish you the best in life, and that I will always love you. I would tell you to call me if you ever need anything, but it would be pointless. You’ll never call me again. 

So goodbye, my love, my friend. I will never regret falling in love with you, and I will never forget you. 


The Inevitable

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, and in yours I see everything.

When you laugh, it looks like there are tiny diamonds glittering. When you are angry, the brown in your eyes looks like molten lava in a volcano, ready to explode at any minute. When you’re sad, the turbulent ocean cannot compare with the hurricanes swirling in your eyes.

They say the eyes are the window to the soul, and in yours I see what you will not tell me.

You say you love me, but I can see you say it out of habit. Your eyes do not darken with lust, or glitter with happiness. Instead, I see the destructive hurricanes, ready to come onto land. I see the hurricanes that start as small rainstorms, and grow for months in the ocean, until the inevitable happens; they come onto land. Every day, my heart breaks as I see you pull away physically and feel you pull away emotionally.

But I’m selfish. I cannot end it. Even one more hour, one more minute, I can call you mine and know I’m yours, is better than living without you. I know you will leave me, I know you will be happier without me, but still I hope. I hope you will see me and love me again.

But, the inevitable is coming. Its like being in the middle of the Sahara desert with only a bottle of water, and a thousand miles away from any water source. You know you will die, but you still have hope. So you sip and save your water, hoping you will make it, but you will not. I am hoping, but I know we will not make it.

I will continue to sip and save my water, until the inevitable comes.

Better Than This.

Alex sat on the floor, trying to figure out what to do. On the left, sat a bottle of prescription meds. She could take them now, and end it all. End all the pain, end the suffering, the yelling, the crying. She could end the indifference. Sometimes she was so sad, in so much pain, she couldn’t breathe. Then, she would feel nothing. She knew a joke was supposed to be funny, but she didn’t feel it. She knew a movie was sad, hell she was sad most of the time she knew that feeling, but couldn’t experience it. It was an odd thing, to not feel anything. But then the pain would come back, and breathing became harder and harder to do.

Worse, she had to fake it. Her parents said “No one is happy all the time.” God, she would take being happy sometimes. But she was never happy. Ever. Her friends were worse. “I know exactly what you’re feeling! I’m so depressed too!” or  “What do you have to be sad about?” or her favorite “Just get over it! You’re fine.” Alex wanted to scream at them. Get over it? She wished she could. She wished she could wake up one day and just be fine. She would suddenly know what it felt like to be happy, to laugh at a joke that was funny, to smile because she just felt like smiling. They knew how she felt? What bull. She saw them, smiling for no reason, laughing with everyone. They were sad sometimes, they were not depressed. But “depression” and other neurological disorders had become a thing. Everyone had OCD, depression, anxiety, or bipolar. It was sickening.

People were suffering. Suffering! And nobody cared. Everyone over used the words to diagnose people with mental conditions and chemical imbalances in their brains to describe being sad, or neat, or scared to do something they probably shouldn’t anyway.

Just one more reason for her to swallow the whole bottle in front of her. Her mother told her she’d go to hell if she committed suicide, but almost anything was better than this. She would rather go to hell then go to her piece of crap therapist who nodded his head and prescribed more medicine that made her tired and sluggish. It didn’t make her better. But did he care? No. She hated him. She hated herself more. She couldn’t even tell him the pills weren’t working. She couldn’t tell her mother that her therapist was terrible. God, how she hated this life.

On the right side was a suitcase with clothes in it. Everything she would need was in that suitcase, including $12,000 she had saved up by dropping out of high school and working 50 hours a week for the last year. She never bought anything, she never did anything, so saving was easy. If she took the suitcase, she was leaving and never coming back. All her important documents were in there, she could get a new job, get a new life. She could try, one more time to be happy, to love her self, love the world, love someone else.

It was a long shot, but almost anything was better than this.

“Alex! You better clean up after yourself! I’m tired of picking up your shit!” Her mother yelled from the living room.

Right, she couldn’t leave a mess…

“Don’t worry mom,” she whispered. “You’ll never clean up after me again.”

Alexandra Jane grabbed her suitcase, left the bottle of the pills on the floor, and left the house she had lived in for the last 17 years. She never turned back again.

Note from the author: All those living and suffering with depression, anxiety, OCD, bipolar, or any other mental illness, know there is help out there for you. You are loved, you are appreciated, and you can overcome whatever you set your mind to. Please, get help if you need it. 

– 1 (800) 273-8255 The National Suicide Hotline Number

Please call if you need anything. Do not let your battle win. It’s a daily fight, but you can do it. 

Just a Few More Pounds

Maria laid on the floor doing her nightly workout.

Fifty crunches, thirty push-ups, fifteen burpees, one hundred jumping jacks, thirty mountain climbers, two sets of twenty second planks.

It was rough but she was dedicated. She had already lost fifteen pounds, she just had to lose thirty more and she would reach her weight goal. She was being very careful, making sure to only drink water in the morning, and only eat celery in for dinner. She told people she was on a cleanse. Most people said she didn’t need to lose the weight, that she was fine.

But she wasn’t. Nowhere close to it.

She didn’t want to be fat anymore, she hated the way she looked. She hated her muffin top, the way her stomach fell over her jeans like she was pregnant, how her chest was sagging, how her arms flapped when she moved them, how her legs jiggled when she walked. She hated everything about herself, but soon she would love herself. Soon.

Just another thirty five pounds to go.

Once she was done, and drenched in sweat, she looked at herself in the full length mirror in her room. She thought she could already see a difference, but she knew she had to keep going. She was already getting compliments on her weight loss. People were telling her that she was glowing, that she looked better than ever, and Maria was very happy about that.

She couldn’t wait until her stomach was concave, her arms were muscular, without being to much like a body builder, until her hip bones jutted out just a little, until her thighs had space in between them. There were many things she was looking forward to, but mostly she was just looking forward to being skinny.

Just another forty pounds to go.

Maria went to the bathroom to take a shower, but first she had to weigh her self to make sure she did not gain weight that day. The scale weighed her at 101 pounds yesterday, and today she was 101. Although she was disappointed she hadn’t lost anything, she was also glad she hadn’t gained any weight either. Her cleanse must be working the way it should.

One day, Maria thought, I’ll be skinny. Forty five more pounds, and I’ll stop. 

Before Maria started her rigorous workout and strict “cleanse” she was around a healthy 120 pounds for a young woman somewhere between 5’3 and 5’5. No one could pinpoint her height since she seemed to grow and shrink on a day to day basis. But she was never satisfied with herself. She was always looking at the models in magazines, at the way her stomach looked like she had a beer gut. People always hit her thighs, joking around about the way they would jiggle. Her family would tease her about the way her arms would flap whenever she moved them. “Chicken Wings” they called them. She hated her chicken wings. Everyone asked her to workout with them, and she knew it was because she was fat. Obese. Giant.

As Maria laid in the tub, letting the hot water spray over her, she imagined her life as skinny. Men would say hi to her, maybe even flirt with her. Maybe she’d go get a boob job so she could be skinny and have big, perky boobs. Women would be jealous of her body, of the way she looked. Maybe she would try being a model. Sure she was short, but she could wear high heels and look tall. Of course, she would have to get a face lift to get rid of the wrinkles around her eyes. But hey, plastic surgery could fix the other stuff. For now she just had to lose the weight.

Maria left the tub and went into her room. She could smell the Chinese food her roommate ordered, tempting her, calling out to her, to eat it. No! she told herself sternly. Do you want to be fat again? She shook her head gently, scolding herself. No, she would never be fat again.

She stood in front of her mirror, naked, pulling at the loose skin, at the fat still left on her body.

Fifty pounds to go and she would be happy.

The Yellow House

The real estate agent stood on the corner of the street staring at the house that she was supposed to sell. She had tried many times to sell it, but for some reason no one would buy it. She had shown it to many people, and many had made offers, but just as the offer was about to be accepted, they would back out.

But not even the real estate agent knew of the demons that lived in the house.

By looking at the house that took up the entire corner of Viscount and Ryding, no one would be able to tell the evil that took place inside. The pale yellow paint that covered the house’s exterior bellied the tortures that existed inside. The bright white door and porch contrasted the darkness that was a constant friend to those who lived there.

The house had been stayed for over 100 years, but even without being kept, the house managed to stay pristine on the outside. It was finally federal property, so it was being sold.

Those more prone to feeling the energies and auras of spirts long departed cannot be in the house for long without the terrifying screams finally getting to them. Mediums and psychics have deemed the house untouchable, since they cannot get within one mile of the house before they feel the pain those have endured living in that house. Those who have no inclination towards the undead, and have no extra feelings, get bogged down by the sadness that comes with being within one foot of the house. When the neighbors walk by the house, they get a chill that runs down the back of their spine.

The history of the town mysteriously has nothing written about the house. The history of the house is the best well-kept secret in the country.

There was a man, a rich man, whose name is unknown, from England, who wanted to build his own house. He hired carpenters and construction companies, and they built the lovely Victorian style home. It was large, four bedrooms, one master bedroom, two full bathrooms, a large living room, a kitchen and dining room. But, the most important part of the house, the basement.

It is longer and wider than the house itself. It had a special purpose.

At this time, almost no one lived in the small town. So the man could go about his business with no one noticing what he was doing. He came over from England with a bevy of servants. Upstairs maids, cook, housekeeper, and downstairs maids, but oddly, no butler. If someone were to watch the comings and goings of the house, they would notice only females coming in and out, working, and never any males. The man had no friends who visited him, no one to question his business.

On the outside, the house looked lovely. On the inside, the house was hideous.

At night, the man would walk down the stairs to the basement, where another group of women lived. They were not servants, nor were they illegal slaves. They lived in the basement, never seeing the sunlight. When the man would walk down the stairs, all 10 of them would immediately get on their knees.

“Welcome home, Master,” They would whisper. Master didn’t like loud noises.

He would slowly strip down, so he would not destroy his clothing. That’s when the women knew their torture was about to start.

Unspeakable crimes were committed in that house. Crimes no one knows about. The history died when the Master did. The girls, not knowing what to do with themselves, having lived with their Master for so long, waited in the basement of the house, screaming and crying, some even killing themselves. The servants had all died along with the man, who, when he realized he was dying, poisoned his staff so no one would know the details of his heinous actions.

None survived.

And still, the real estate agent took one step towards the house, and for some inexplicable reason, decided to come back another day to fix the house to be sold.

“Do you want some more tea, Susan?”

Five friends sat at a table in their favorite country club. Dressed in all white, they looked as if they were getting ready to play tennis, but they never left the table. Their conversation was just one of many in the dining room, and was similar to the conversations they had at the same table, every day.

“Would you like some more tea, Susan?”

“Linda, stop giving me that look!”

“Tina, maybe you shouldn’t put that much sugar in your tea.”

“Oh where is the waiter? I need some food!”

“Are you sure you want to eat again, Mikayla?”

One woman in particular stood out. Her short brown hair was tied up in a ponytail, her shirt was a little tighter on her body, her pants a little baggy. One could almost see her eyes growing larger as her head moved back and forth, trying to follow the conversation.

Of course, she stood out because she was the only one there. She wasn’t even there where she thought she was. She was in the Bergen Regional Mental Institution. She was sitting on a cot, in a padded room.

The nurses could hear her talking outside the door, and every once in a while would check inside, for it seemed there were too many voices coming from the one room.

But no, it was just Susan, talking to herself. Her straight jacket keept her from harming herself, as she had in the past. Anyone who looked into the little window on the door would see her head as it bobbed back and forth, her hazel eyes growing wider as she tried to follow the conversation she was having with herself.

(Listen to this as you read the story, it makes it better.)