Short stories & poems

At first, it was a simple knock. Both occupants of the house, woman and girl, had been sitting at the dinner table that was placed in the middle of the tiny house.

The woman set down the tea cup that had been prepared by the other, approaching the door.

“Who is it?” She leaned ever so slightly against the door.

“Police.” Her heart skipped a beat. She forcibly ceased all motion in her body.

“J...

We live in a land where the footprints of ghosts linger,

A place where echoes whisper beneath the ground,

The past walks with us, silent yet near,

Fingers of memories, lost and profound.

Each step is traced by the shade of the past,

A world that moves forward but cannot let go,

The air thick with the things we’ve outlasted,

The shadows of lives we’ll never fully know.

We’ve danced with our demons...

She left the car.

The car with a broken windshield and a bloody dashboard.

Her husband, the only passenger left. Lying there staring with lifeless eyes, at life in the eyes.

She left the car.

Her feet dragged her own body. The empty street stretched on for a lifetime.

Her arms reached out to touch the end, but all she found were endless miles of a pitch black river, tugging her down it’s cu...

The frozen lake stretched before Elara, a vast, desolate expanse reminiscent of that icy purgatory described by Dante in his Inferno (though, I dare say, with considerably less infernal wailing and gnashing of teeth). Each brittle crack that snaked across the surface echoed in the vast stillness, a symphony of solitude that rivaled the melancholic strains of Mahler's Fifth (though, admittedly, wit...

**The Hunger Games: The Game of Shadows**

The sun had barely crested over the horizon, casting a golden glow over the arena. The trees loomed tall, their branches reaching out like skeletal hands, their leaves rustling in a wind that whispered warnings. The sound of distant birds was drowned out by the booming voice of Claudius Templesmith, the Capitol's voice of the Games.

"Welcome, tributes,"...

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**Elias Hawthorne’s Voice**

I watched her first with gentle eyes,

A governess with quiet ties.

Her life, so simple, neat, and small,

Yet in her heart, I felt a call.

Her grace, her smile, they beckoned me,

A mystery I longed to see.

At first, I hid, I followed near,

A shadow lost in quiet fear.

But soon, that fear gave way to need,

A hunger planted like a seed.

Throug...

Perspective one: Elias Hawthorne

perspective two: Arabella Sinclair

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Arabella Sinclair, a gentle grace,

Lives in order, in a quiet place.

At twenty-two, her world is small,

A governess, she minds the call.

With lessons, chores, and market’s plea,

She yearns for life beyond what she sees.

A restless longing, a silent door,

She dreams of something, something more. ...

**December 24th, 1963**

The beeping of the heart monitor filled the room, each pulse louder than the last, like a drumbeat that couldn’t be ignored. I stood by the bed, syringe in hand, my breath shallow, my heart racing. The patient’s condition had deteriorated so quickly—one moment they were stable, the next, it felt like everything was slipping through my fingers. The seconds were slipping by ...

The cries of Brian reverberate throughout the boxed-in bed frame of the truck. I tug and tug on the door handle. Paint chips embed themselves in the creases of my fingers. I let go, sighing in agony and utter to the boy “I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

Brian, no older than five, cannot hear me. There he sits in the corner of this box truck, hopeless, almost lifeless. The backs of his ha...

Wait a second, what you trying to saying is that it was me who took your belongings from the cupboard. Are you accusing me, coz then I have to call the police.

While all this discussion was going on, Peter my room mate, who just lost valuable things from his cupboard, rang the police to report about the burglary.

The police arrived after 10 minutes and enquired about the whole thing. They wrote d...