Short stories & poems

My friends warned me, why didn’t I listen. They told me not to come but I did. Its creepy and old, this house is broken and destroyed. Tiles creek and lift as I walk up the stairs. Carpets on the floor gone and destroyed, noises are heard coming from the attic. I look around the upstairs and walk into the kids bedroom, tired it is, there’s the bunk bed for twins with worn out stuffed animals on the beds. I turn and look into the mirror, my eyes burned as I felt my reflection shift in a way I didn’t. I ignore it and turn around to leave. Just then I heard a noise from the mirror. I turn around and nothing happened so I ignore it and go to leave. When in that moment something jumps at me from behind, a version of me. I barely got to see him for a second as I blacked out, and that was the last place I was ever seen, at least the real me. As I’m still trapped in this mirror for eternity.

The hospital room Mike was in after his heart surgery was quiet except for the beeping of the many machines around him monitoring his vitals. Mike was barely awake when he saw a bright light in the doorway to his room. He raised up slightly and saw a dark silhouette standing in the doorway.

“Who is that?” he mumbled. His strength was diminished due to the surgery, but he felt it start to return as the figure moved closer to him. He appeared to float across the floor towards him, and a fog seemed to follow him. “Who is that?” he said in a much louder and stronger voice, but still the figure didn’t answer. Then as it approached his bed he at last realized who it was. It was the one person people feared most and had been the subject of many a horror movie in his youth, the Grim Reaper.

“What…This can’t be happening I have to be dreaming?” he said. The Reaper looked at him and moved in close enough that he could see the light in his eyes and skeletal face with a wicked smile, and he finally spoke in a much friendlier voice than he expected, “Time to go buddy”. Mike felt himself become light and strong. He felt all of the wires and probes that were attached to him pull away, he was free. He stood up and felt better than he had in ages.

“Come with me my friend and I will show you wonderous things.”. Mike was more than happy to follow and began to follow his new friend out into the hallway where he saw the nurse sitting at her desk, with a look of panic on her face as she ran to the room he had been in. He then saw the doctors run with the crash cart. “Apparently there is an emergency,” Mike said as he laughed and smiled

“We have many things to see Mike,” Old Grim said to him, and with that, Mike found himself in what appeared to be a dive bar. There was something strange about the bar though, and he couldn’t put his finger on it till he stood up and ordered a drink. “I’ll have a whiskey and sour please.”. The bartender poured his drink and said “It’s on the house buddy.” and laughed.

Mike began drinking, looked around, and then figured out what was wrong here, all of the customers were dead people. In one corner he saw Mark Twain and Hemingway drinking together. In another corner, Jim Morrison tipped his glass at him and started talking to Marilyn Monroe. He just couldn’t believe this was what death was going to be like. He looked at his new friend who slapped him on the back and said “Drink up.” then tossed back a shot of tequila, “Don’t worry there are never any hangovers here…one of the perks since we never go to sleep.”

As the days went on the two of them traveled the world from Paris to London just to watch the people, they quickly became the closest of friends. They would sit on benches and laugh as the Reaper would pick out the next ones to join their group. They had Presidents, actors, and writers with them. The Reaper always said that Mike was his best friend.

He took him to all the great dead hangouts. The places he never took any of his other victims, though he preferred to call them his clients. He always said he was taking them to places they never would see in life and trying to make the transition easier…he really did seem to enjoy his job.

One day while they were sitting in Central Park, not too far from the hospital Mike had been they were enjoying one of the great New York hot dogs when all of a sudden there was a bright flash. A flash like the one the night the Grim Reaper had taken Mike. He felt this pull on his body and yelled “What’s happening?”, the Grim Reaper smiled and said, “I’m sorry Mike it just isn’t your time, but I’ll see you when it is.”

The next thing he saw were the lights of the nurse at the desk and the doctor standing above him. He let out a big breath and heard the doc say “I thought we lost you.” He didn’t pay much attention to that but saw his friend smiling behind him with that bony hand and bright eyes, and then disappeared.

The Reserved dinner is placed in a captivating town. Expecting the tourism routed path. Set on foot several stragglers making it to the checkpoint. Taking all they could carry had nothing to being expected; as arrived. They were safe and let about their travel and expectations. Further details are informed committed to later details to further their accommodations. The director had passed unconcience the one and only holding further case of the planned escape. Clutched in hand and arms finding the visible encounter blaring and unaware of who they are expecting. Walking toward the counter in line person per customer. Given the greeting and a sense of torture held their breath. Getting past the first checkpoint, going against odds. Their grocery bags set along cleared counter space. Working on a late snack that can nourish their hunger. Making silence saving their breath of half to death misery. Staying quite while the door resumed a peering of who named faced could make of what can be explained. With the handover gesture giving a warm soup a welcome to your inlet and stay. A warm bath sounding exotic. The already furnished design would be restful. Reading near dark hours a quiet silent type of activity. Disturbed sleep was often from trauma of tiredness. Instant waking to a daily schedule had in mind the minded blown riff. And planning the escape by being captivated while a travel made by tourism agents. Unknowing they even made it to their accommodations. Unexplained planned off turn route to find their self disappearing leaving least unfriendly encounter of delusional voices. Unheard to everyone looked the same angry half-eaten breakfasts. Holding on to their hope nothing seemed to be communicating with them. All they catch up being seen to team up. They did pick up a few hikers going their way. Knowing they will be separated and held against their willing ability. And to study what would be critical to find themselves drawing apart; separated and going against each other. The negative insult, the crazed laugh manic ongoing about "let's get dinner started" Hung cage-like for captured animals feeding dwells for nourishing times to keep them awake. Noticing they can all be the same; looking grungy and savage torn and tattered faces and hair. making all sound hysterical to what they really are. Now the under greeting breath would leave the unconcience waking up being descriptive and told how time changes the status of how he appeared. His satchel sat perched in their backpack. Inspired by his own plans and hope to find his friends. Miserable to find hope still. Being taunted about how they will find their way out of here. The look of fresh hooved stature and figure. Keeps them hung drifting slowly draining their strength from their over heated life. Making sipping and weak voices someone drinking out of their souvenir cup. The footsteps slowed talking to in normal conversation ability. Hearing of trophes and stories ever needed to be heard again and again. So proud til this say and bloody sport breath. Unending making motivational speech and slurs and howls. His eye lids blinking and a diving hit to his head. Foot dragging behind him, dragging him away and he lay inside a darkend room. When he wakes they will find him and doing guess work of his movement. Maybe they have a warm heart and could just be mean. A sense of out going lights droning noises and lack of movement. Door jeering shut will never be opened he senses panick ridden in this room he will be in gone and ignored.

Sleep was lousy thing to do. Working off energy and keep picking at the edibles. Imagine to be freed and making tortuous attempts to be found again and again. Some never had left had hope to die. These given sacrifices to the only living to survive past. Hinges torn and antique looked rusted and over used to sit to glare at their immaculent scene. Over looking the dock and boats. The peaceful way to never go and struggle into down river heels and survive at their opposing techniques. The beauty of it all the falling branches and ingrown flowers brushing a path freely expressions for air and exercise. Baker and Grill neatly placed and used over and over. Hearty fault used menus by ongoing traffic stopping to catch up on the warmed brew of coffee and talk. Good fellow talk stoppers stammer sometimes and fall into tears of who they were. Going against their wishes ongoing about their own life to sacrifice. Sometimes they had it all. And still seek into their opportunity by skill and enough work to keep them and busy making it in life. The nonstop will never be seen and for it all became and sat unknowing of everything else in a better place. Serving customers is a must and keeping their home a place of their own. No one to change their music or their pace ongoing pages go blurr and give up into their fright and nightmares that wont go treated and hesitate all else to give any warm wishes to keep strong and going on how they will be finished. Its manic to see what life they had been to be understood unfairly and keeping their way hearty. To be understood is underestimated. Males keep their path haunted and hard to falsify and protected. Hunting and camping news to most set unidentified trails to keep their grill going. Nothing could ever go wrong. Men kept their warm gloves and coats as if keeping what is so important to them with them and never can feel their warmth. And ever has any food became a sense of living which their biggest wish came true. They won't change from leaving their old boots for what they really deserve and kept everything to their hearts and above their belt. They had lost all what their from and have been successful to prove what their ontaking hearts can be. Proving the nightmarish theme may their wishes go as planned. They have everything to lose and kept their bedside their place of unknown rest. Set off foot a travler might seem captive any unreality making his protruding thoughts more real. When tampered and found something hassled of theirs things go wrong and overturn this world upside down. They will never be happy and are tired of it all. "It always goes to hell" They can never do nothing and to prove they all had it coming. The End of the world suffers from it all will never cease, the blaring signals and death ill related to be again and again. Overall road kill hazards win over a look over again given another chance to breath. To keep trying to look normal hearsay to break the whitenoise and waking lights. Set along paths to deny any of it will go away. We mean no harm or scare. The least bidden is nighmarish to this world. Comfort of attraction and inset ongoing. Keeping interests in difference. Nothing can be retained to remain. The many interests set upon denial and deserve the worsened pattern. Going against many wishes living without any air are light breaking through walls. The tiring wails and cries paned the walls. Bloody walls covered in death sequenced many deaths. Anything was sacrificed not a wink; not a breath, or a drop of life detected. Needing interaction and truth of life and set in a difference paths lit for ongoing capture. Coaxed and ridden by lurking offensive welcome. Made to hesitate overall given to prove any claw markings engraved floors or wisps of lifetakings. Breaks my breath of what is not even spoken.

I knew we shouldn’t have come here but no one listened to me. The blood coating my and splattered on my new pair of white sneakers that I worry will never come out confirm my fear. There is a noise in the distance warning that someone or something is coming and we need to move. Panicking we gather our belongs, making our way back under the hole in the fence making the blood mix with dirt. I don’t think I breathed until we were back at the car, all of us panting while Ryan fumbled with his keys. The silence on the way back to campus was a silent agreement that we were to never speak of this night again.

The unused cold grill, was turning flaming hot Who knew if the guests, would show or not

Mother dressed in her usual black, with death lace Eyes were present, but there was no smile on her face

Father didn’t arrive, but watched from the window below Looking up at the skies raining, red blood of new snow

Granny who was pushing, a hundred and two scary years Was laughing and telling tales, bringing us spooks to tears

Woolfie or also known as, little furry rascal of a brother He was raised in the woods, and found by our mother

As we all settled, down around the blazing fire flames of heat Our visitors or company arrived, expecting yummy things to eat

Another day, another hunt.

Most families in our post-apocalyptic bliss spend their evenings snuggled together in the comfort of their own bunker. Telling stories of what once was, cracking jokes in attempt to lighten the devastating mood, or maybe even being so lucky as to read a book that they came across during evacuation.

But not my little band of psychopaths. We take the Zs head on.

“Last one to a dozen cooks dinner!” Yells Jess, my brother’s wife. She brandishes her sparkling machete, testing the edge for lethal sharpness. Despite being seven months pregnant, this woman is deadly.

“Deal.” My dad sniggers. A cleaver is his weapon of choice. Even at 72 the man is as lithe as a lion. It was probably all the multi-vitamins and fish oil. Or so he claims.

My mom, Carol, comes up behind him and kisses my dad on the cheek. “Well that’s not fair. Some of us go for quality over quantity.”

My mom would be right. Unlike the rest of us, the Zs she shoots down always stay down. There’s nothing more unsettling that one of those Walkers getting back up again once you thought you took its head off. I had one that was literally hanging on by a single tendon. Swinging from side to side like a pendulum. The heads gotta be clean off, otherwise the job ain’t done.

My younger sister, Clara, comes up behind me, shotgun at the ready. “Sun’s getting low.”

We all nod. Showtime.

“Do you like the cookies? I made them especially for you.” said The Mother. “I brought those napkins that you always wanted, the white and blue ones.” whispered The Sister. “Please put the fork down, Gabe…there’s really no need for you to use it, come on, son” pleaded The Father. Little Gabe’s eyes, those perfect green eyes, suddenly turned yellow in the sunset light. A mocking smile appeared on his face while shadows seemed to dance around their picnic table. One second later, Little Gabe was still smiling, while white and blue napkins were shattered in the air.

The intricate iron gate swung open, stirring the thick fog. The gloom threatened to swallow me whole, and in some ways I hoped it would. I walked along the cobblestone path, heading towards the towering mauseleom in the center of the graveyard, listening to the winter wind whip through the bare trees.

I used to feel uneasy among cemeteries. I felt uncomfortable walking above the dead. I hated the idea of disturbing them and being disrespectful. Up until recently, I avoided the subject of death at all costs. As a child, I always was fascinated by the morbid and maccbre. I loved hearing ghost stories and learning about tragic histories. It’s gotten a little easier in the last few months. But walking among headstones always connected the stories too close to reality for me. Roaming amongst tombs and crypts reminded me that one day, I will die. And I try not to dwell on that fact.

Up until a year ago, I had no real reason to be in a graveyard. The pain of loss had yet to reach me, but now that it has, I feel a sense of commraderie with the dead. My grandmother was the most influential person in my life and my best friend. Our souls were cut from the same cloth and I’ve never felt more embraced by someone. Her death has changed my entire outlook on grief, the afterlife, and ultimately cemeteries.

Now, I find myself walking from headstone to headstone, picking up fallen flags for the veterans, turning toppled vases right side up, or pulling weeds from the granite stones.

Other times, I bring a book and sit beside my grandmother’s headstone. I have come to hope that my presence brings her and the other’s resting here some comfort, wherever they may be. I hope they know that they have not been forgotten.

The late winter chill in the air has my cheeks flushing so I fold my shawl in, burrowing as the snow begins to fall in flurries. Usually, I find myself alone here at this time of day, the sun drifting below the horizon. It’s uncommon for vistors to stay this late in the evening, but I feel compelled to wish the residents a goodnight.

The dark is the worst place to be alone. Somehow, I don’t feel alone here. I don’t feel as though I’m being watched, but I feel like I’m being looked after.

I lift my eyes to the nearby treeline, just beyond the groundskeepers cottage. A figure passes between the anciet oaks, sauntering along. As the snow begins to stick to the ground, I find myself wondering about the groundskeeper. What must it be like to work amongst the dead? Day in, and day out, to be constantly reminded of the inevitable end in store.

The figure begins to come to a stop beside the largest oak in the cemetery. I can make out his broad shoulders and black slicked back hair. He leans against the trunk, shoving his hands in his pockets. Under his stare I feel oddly comforted. Not being the only one out here for a change feels nice.

Placing my bookmark between the pages, I close the cover and stand. Maybe the groundskeeper would enjoy some company while he makes his rounds.

Kneeling, I gather the rest of my belongings and sling my bag over my shoulder. When I look up at the treeline again, the groundskeeper is gone. Puzzled, I beeline straight to the oak tree he was just leaning upon.

The fog is so thick, the snow becoming a dance of powder on the wind, I begin to wonder if I imagined him. He appeared so clear to me.

Once I reach the tree, I notice a piece of folded parchment is laid upon the largest root. I bend down to pick it up, brows furrowing. The note reads “We thank you for bidding us good night, kind visitor. Your beauty and compassion is never unnoticed by us that rest here. You are never alone here, for we are always protecting those that honor us. I hope to meet you someday, when you cross to this realm. - Sincerely Yours, Victor.”

As I finish reading the note, it feels as though icy finger tips gently trace my jaw. Beneath the oak tree, etched into the stone of the mauseleum reads, “Victor Cromwell - Dearly Departed”.

An arm where an arm is missing. My parents taught me how to knit. An eye where an eye is missing. I learned how to repair my dolls. A finger where a finger is missing. I was playing with my dolls. A foot where there is no foot. I heard a loud sound. An ear where an ear is missing. I saw a man run from the house. A nose where a nose is missing. My parents were broken. A tongue where a tongue is missing. I grabbed the thread. A lip where a lip is missing. Their parts kept falling. A leg where a leg is missing. So I replaced them with the ones on my dolls. A head where a head is missing. My parents were always there for me. A tooth where a tooth is missing. And now, I'm not going to let them go.

Kaya lights the candle at the basement door and waits the three seconds till it flickers red. Always, on time, Jana meows from behind the door, scratching down it with her paw.

Behind, Gale descends the stairs halfway, holding her bowl of chips. She’s never mustered the nerve to complete those stairs, unlike Kaya, who finds comfort in the screech, in confirming Jana’s life.

‘It’s almost time.’ Kaya hunkers to the door. She treats the screeching wood and yowling cat like promise. ‘We’re getting you out tonight, Jana.’

It happened ten years ago, precisely on Kaya’s eleventh birthday. Now here they were, full circle, back again.

‘Have you ever heard of a twenty-two year old Persian?’

‘I still think this basement freezes time. She’ll be the same when she leaves.’ Kaya slides a fish treat beneath the door. The darkness snatches it up and devours it before she’s finished pushing. ‘Good girl. You must’ve been extra hungry.’

‘And you think we’re strong enough?’

‘Mmm.’ She stands and looks at Gale. Below, the light from upstairs dies down to a hush, killing Kaya’s radiance. ‘And if we’re not, we’ll find out.’

‘What do you think we’ll find out, though?’

Gale pictures Jana, bones and ratchet skin, laid across the ground, ripped in different places from the force that stole her that evening. Her tail dilapitated and frayed. A zombie cat, so old it should be put out of its misery.

Kaya twists a curl of blonde hair with her index finger. ‘Just Jana.’

‘And how will she look?’

‘The same.’ Kaya’s face darkens. ‘What’s with these questions? Are you having second thoughts?’

Gale the only other person who saw the basement door gape, its hinges squeal, and the blackness inside snatch Jana up when she got too close. When that awful boy at scared her down here.

‘No. I would never. But are you having second thoughts?’

‘No.’ Kaya smiles, brilliantly, pink lips spreading. She’s always been gorgeous, in a Barbie way, that incites the belief that Gale can do anything. But not this.

Kaya sprints up the stairs, touches Gale’s shoulder, and says, ‘Get the gun.’

‘Will a gun work against a shadow?’

Kaya shrugs again, adjusts her pink tube top, and flounces back into the living room. Gale knows she promised. But she’s shaking. Kaya couldn’t love a Persian cat this much, to wait ten years lying low to fight a light-murdering, basement shadow.

‘What if we saw it wrong? What if we’ve been holding that cat captive for no good reason?’

‘At least we’ll unseal the door tonight, if all goes well.’

Construction men couldn’t after the incident. The hinges wouldn’t come off. It broke their tools. Yet Kaya is convinced that she could do it. Gale adores her for believing two twenty-one year olds could do what a gaggle of contstruction men failed at. That the reason her house became a spectacle online for years—this indestructible basement—can be remedied.

Kaya pours them glasses of coconut rum, and spills in apple soda. Gale forces herself to walk to the other staircase leading up, and press the safe keys. She drops the bowl of chips on the safe as it sighs opens. Bends, grabs the gun, and tucks it in her short pockets.

‘Gale!’

‘Coming!’

Gale enters the living room to find Kaya sat on the couch, one leg crossed over the other elegantly. Kaya grins at her, hands her a glass, and clinks them together.

‘Liquid courage. We’ll need it.’

‘You barely do.’

‘Well, because I trust this will work. If it doesn’t, oh well. At least we tried.’ This is the same Kaya who trusted she could fly at ten and broke her leg.

‘You know what I said about not having second thoughts?’

Kara downs her glass, blue eyes sparkling when they meet Gale’s. ‘Yes. And I get that. You’re scared.’ She sets aside her glass and twines their left hands together, fingers tight. ‘I am too. But I also want you to know that no one else would go down some hungry basement for me. I couldn’t do it alone either. You’re the one making me strong.’

Gale wants to turn away, to not draw herself into this. A ten year investment and she wants to break it, now. Kara leans closer, her breath kissing Gale’s cheek, scented with alcohol and apple and the strawberry lip gloss she smears religiously.

‘Can’t you let me make you strong, too, Gale?’

‘You do,’ she breathes the words.

‘Then trust me. I know this sounds like a goodbye speech, but I’m not scared it is. I’m happy it’s not. Because it’s my birthday. And you’ve chosen to give me the best gift anyone can give. You’ve kept your promise. And you will for every other birthday I’ll have from now.’

‘Yeah,’ Gale whispers, ‘Always.’

‘I really love you.’

Gale’s heart stutters when Kara squashes her into a hug. She nearly spills her drink from the intensity of it. Almost falls.

‘You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.’

Gale swallows on the best friend part. She pats Kara’s tough shoulder and pries away before her heart bursts.

‘Okay, alright.’

At least Gale can say she struggled. But Kara always finds a way to win over her, whether she knows it or not.