Tag Archives: writing

The Sleeper

Posted on by under Short Stories

Every time I fall asleep, one year passes until I wake up again. It started on my 18th birthday. That night was ordinary—cake with too-sweet frosting, laughter echoing off the kitchen walls, a wish made over flickering candles I barely remember. I went to bed thinking about college applications and crushes, about leaving town and starting something new. I closed my eyes with the weightless hope of youth and opened them to find the calendar read June 20, 2024.

My room was dustier. The posters on the wall had faded to ghosts of their former selves. The vines outside my window had crept deeper into the cracks of the siding, pulling the house back toward the earth. I stumbled into the kitchen, heart pounding, and found news clippings on the fridge: Local Teen Still Missing, Presumed Dead. My name. My face. My family frozen in an old photo, smiling like we hadn’t yet fractured. I thought it was a dream. It had to be. But then I blinked—and the world spun forward again.

I’ve tried everything—staying awake for days, flooding my body with caffeine until my hands shook, tying myself to doorframes, sleeping in hospital lights. But it always comes. That moment when my body betrays me. When exhaustion wins. And when I wake… the world is one year older.

My parents grieved, then grew distant. My mother’s hair grayed, my father’s eyes dulled. My friends moved on, their lives arcing forward while mine stuttered like a skipped record. Technology surged ahead. Fashion shifted. The slang changed. Seasons lost their rhythm—summer felt like winter, spring was hot and wrong. The sun started rising at odd angles, like even it was tired of keeping time.

By my twenty-fifth wake-up, the world had grown quieter. Cities had begun to erode. Streets cracked and were swallowed by roots. Trees leaned harder into broken buildings. My childhood home was boarded up, condemned. I wandered the neighborhood like a ghost until a neighbor—one of the few who hadn’t moved or died—spotted me.

“You haven’t aged a day,” he whispered, backing away like I was a specter. “They say you’re cursed.”

He wasn’t wrong. Eventually, I stopped trying to explain. You can only tell someone you’re a walking paradox so many times before the disbelief calcifies into fear. Instead, I began to plan my years like missions. I left letters in library books, hid instructions in vaults only I knew how to open, buried messages under stone. I studied languages. I watched how the world tilted—how solar flares impacted climate, how artificial intelligence reshaped the economy, how the sky itself sometimes flickered. I learned to garden. Not because I’d ever see the bloom, but because I wanted to leave something living behind.

Then, on my thirty-second wake-up, I met Aria. She was standing in front of an abandoned bookstore, painting a mural of a phoenix wrapped in clock gears. I watched her for an hour before she turned and said, “You look lost. Or late.”

She believed me—without flinching. Called me her Rip Van Winkle with a clockwork heart. She asked questions no one had before: What do you miss the most? Have you ever left something behind on purpose?

That day, we built a capsule together—filled it with pieces of our lives: her sketchbook, a photo of us, my notebook scrawled with maps of possible futures. We buried it under the old bell tower, sealing it with a promise: if we found each other again, we’d dig it up.

The next time I woke, she was gone. Only a note remained, brittle and faded like old leaves: If you ever wake again, find me in Florence. That was twenty-four wake-ups ago.

I’ve searched across continents. Florence, Italy first—then Florence, Oregon. Every Florence I could find. Some didn’t exist anymore. Some had changed their names. But I searched anyway. I asked about her in dusty towns and sleek arcologies. I studied old security footage, traced murals, found fragments of the phoenix in back alleys and gallery ruins.

I’m almost seventy now, though I still look eighteen. My bones don’t ache, but my soul does. I’ve watched decades pass by the handful. I’ve outlived my friends, my parents, and the future I once imagined. But I haven’t stopped searching for her.

Tonight, as my eyes grow heavy, I hold her last note to my chest. The ink is nearly gone, but I’ve memorized every letter. I whisper her name like a prayer, willing my dreams to hold steady. Because maybe—just maybe—next year will be the one I find her. Or maybe next time I wake, the world will finally stop spinning without me.

Reflections

Posted on by under Short Stories

On the other side of the mirror was another me. Smiling and happy. It wasn’t a dream. Not this time. I stood in front of the mirror in my cramped bathroom, toothbrush dangling from my hand, the minty paste half-falling from my open mouth. I hadn’t smiled in months—not a real one, anyway. And yet the man in the reflection looked like he’d just gotten a promotion, found the love of his life, and won the lottery in one glorious afternoon.

Same short black hair. Same crow’s feet forming at the corners of our eyes. Same five o’clock shadow. But the difference was in the eyes—mine tired and hollow, his alert and brimming with warmth. I blinked. So did he. But a beat late. I leaned in. He didn’t.

He just stood there, that warm smile like a secret. I raised my hand, slowly, like a mime testing glass. He did the same. This time, perfectly in sync.

Maybe I was losing it. Maybe it was the stress, the quiet loneliness that had sunk into my bones since Mira left, or the late nights spent scrolling job listings that all blurred into the same corporate-jargon soup.

But no, he was still there the next night. And the one after that. He waved at me once. And I waved back.

My name is Henry. Thirty-six years old. Insurance claims analyst. No kids. No pets. No real reason to get out of bed, most days, if I’m being honest.

The days blurred together like bad dreams I never fully woke from. My apartment was clean but sterile—no art, no plants, no hint that someone lived there. Just a series of polite spaces arranged for function, not feeling.

I’d met Mira in college. She had a laugh that could wake the dead and a talent for making the world feel larger, brighter. We made it six years before she walked out, said she couldn’t keep waiting for me to come alive.

“I feel like I’m dating a mirror,” she said once. Funny how that stuck. Except now the mirror was smiling. Now the mirror had the version of me she’d wanted all along.

On the fourth night, something changed. He waved again—but this time, gestured toward me. Beckoning. His smile widened. Then he pointed at the mirror, and made a pushing motion. Like an invitation.

“Come on,” he mouthed. I stepped closer. Close enough that the fog from my breath began to ghost across the glass. I pressed my palm against it, expecting the cool, familiar resistance. But there was none. My hand sank in. I yanked it back, heart pounding. A tremble ran through my legs, the kind that said this shouldn’t be possible. But I was no longer sure what possible meant.

That night I didn’t sleep. I sat in the hallway with the bathroom light on, staring at the door like it might open on its own.

The next night, I brought a notebook.

“What do you want?” I wrote. He stared at the page. Then, slowly, deliberately, mirrored me. His version of the notebook had a pen. He scribbled something. I leaned in.

“To show you what life could be.”

Night after night, I watched. Like some twisted long-distance voyeur. He had friends over for dinner. He laughed with them. He danced. There was a woman—same hair as Mira, but older, wiser. She hugged him, long and warm. A version of her, maybe? Or someone else entirely?

Meanwhile, my life was all plastic forks and cheap wine and rewatching sitcoms that felt more like lullabies than entertainment. The contrast clawed at me. He wasn’t just me. He was better.

I started skipping work. Calling out sick just to spend more time… watching. One night, I asked: “What’s the cost?” He looked at me for a long time. Then wrote one word.

“Choice.”

The night I stepped through, it was snowing. The apartment was silent, as usual. But my heart thudded like a war drum. I stood in front of the mirror, hands trembling. He stood there, too—smiling, arms open like an old friend ready for an embrace. I took a deep breath. And stepped forward. It was like falling through smoke. Cold and damp and weightless. And then—warmth. The smell of fresh-brewed coffee. The hum of soft jazz. Morning sun spilled across hardwood floors. I was standing in his apartment—but it was mine. Filled with photographs, cozy blankets, a shelf full of well-worn books. Behind me, the mirror shimmered. I turned. It was empty.

The days that followed felt like a dream written by someone who knew me. Everything just… fit. The coworkers were friendly. The job was meaningful—something about helping nonprofits with insurance reviews. The woman from before—her name was Ella—was kind and sharp and clearly in love with me. He’d set up a life that seemed effortless. People trusted me here. Respected me.

And for a while, I let myself sink into it. Let it wrap around me like a warm coat. I began to forget the cold, dusty corners of my real life. Began to feel like this was the life I was always meant to have.

But no story is perfect. The first crack appeared at a dinner party. Ella mentioned my mother—how she was glad we’d reconciled after “everything.” Except my real mother died five years ago, and I never reconciled with anyone. Then there was the co-worker who thanked me for covering something I didn’t remember doing—and looked puzzled when I asked about it.

Worst of all were the dreams. Flashes of another version of me—angry. Trapped. Screaming behind a pane of glass. He wasn’t smiling anymore. I returned to the mirror one night. It was quiet. Still. Then suddenly—BAM—a face appeared. My face, but not the smiling one. His eyes were bloodshot. His lips cracked. He screamed something, but there was no sound. He pounded against the mirror.

“Let me out.”

I pieced it together slowly. The version of me in the mirror had made trades. Bit by bit, he gave up pieces of himself to build the perfect life. An estranged parent forgiven with lies. A partner won over with omissions. A job gained through stolen ideas. And I had inherited it all. Worn his sins like a tailored suit. But he hadn’t just invited me in. He’d trapped himself. Or perhaps… I had. Because now the mirror wouldn’t open, no matter how much I begged.

I found the answer the way you always do: in sacrifice. I had to make a choice. I told Ella the truth—every twisted bit. Watched her face fall, the love dissolve. I left the job. Gave away the apartment. Found the mirror again, in a secondhand store on a forgotten street. And I apologized. Not to the world. To him. The glass shimmered once more, I stepped through.

Back in my old life, the apartment was still small. The job still dull. But I opened the windows more. Bought a plant. Called people back. The mirror now shows just one reflection. But sometimes… when the light hits it just right… I see him smile. And I smile back.

The Vigilante

Posted on by under Short Stories

She wasn’t beautiful, she knew that. But when she put on the mask and leaped out into the night, she felt invincible. Not in the way comic books promised—no bulging muscles or laser eyes—but in the way a blade feels invincible in the hand of someone who’s not afraid to use it.

In the daytime, Mara Lane worked at the city library, shelving books and dodging conversation. She wore oversized sweaters, kept her eyes low, and let the world pass her by like fog on a gray morning. People didn’t look twice. Sometimes not even once. But at night? At night she became Nocturne.

The mask was a simple thing—black, minimal, fashioned from an old ballet costume she’d dyed and sewn herself. It left her mouth uncovered, her hair tucked up, and her eyes like smoldering coals in the dark. She didn’t need to be beautiful. She needed to be seen.

She dropped from the fire escape, her boots barely whispering against the wet pavement below. Sirens howled in the distance—north of Mercy Street. That wasn’t her beat tonight. Her target was closer.

The alley behind Alcott’s Pawn, where Anton Ridgeway’s enforcers had shaken down a single mother the week before. She remembered the woman’s face—split lip, the way she clutched her purse like it contained the last piece of her soul. Mara had watched from the shadows, powerless without proof, without preparation. That night, she’d promised herself it would never happen again. And now, here she was.

Two of them stood near the dumpster, laughing—one lighting a cigarette, the other scrolling through his phone like the world owed him something. Neither saw her coming. They never did.

Mara struck fast. A baton to the ribs, a twist of the wrist, and the cigarette hit the ground along with its owner. The other man lunged at her, swinging wide and foolish. She ducked low, swept his legs, and pressed the edge of her homemade stun rod to his throat. He froze.

“Tell Ridgeway,” she hissed, her voice low and jagged, “this part of the city belongs to me now.” Then she vanished into the shadows, like a breath held too long.

Later, back in her tiny apartment, Mara peeled off the mask and stared at herself in the mirror. Same tired eyes. Same hollow cheeks. The city would never put her on a mural or name a street after her. She wasn’t beautiful. She wasn’t famous. But she was necessary. And that was enough.

TO BE CONTINUED

Mother Knows Best

Posted on by under Short Stories

She heard her mom yelling at her to get up for school.

“Emily Jane Carter! You’re going to be late again!” Emily groaned and burrowed deeper under the covers, pressing her pillow over her ears.

“I’m awake!” she shouted, her voice muffled.

“You’ve been ‘awake’ for fifteen minutes!” her mom hollered from downstairs. “Your bus leaves in ten!”Emily peeked out from the blanket cave, her eyes squinting at the clock. 7:43.

“Ugh,” she muttered, rolling onto her back. “Stupid morning. Stupid bus.”

With the grace of a sleepy walrus, she finally tumbled out of bed and stumbled toward her dresser. Her dark curls stuck out in all directions, and she only bothered brushing them back with her fingers. She threw on a hoodie, jeans, and mismatched socks—close enough.

Downstairs, her older brother Daniel sat at the table, smugly munching on the last granola bar like it was made of gold.

“You’re late,” he said through a mouthful of oats.

“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” Emily muttered.

Her mom was standing by the door, already dressed for work in a crisp navy blazer and heels. She held Emily’s backpack in one hand and her car keys in the other.

“You missed the bus,” she said simply.

Emily winced. “I can walk.” Her mom frowned. “Em, it’s cloudy. They said rain this morning, and you know the trail through the park gets muddy. Please take the long way—along the main road. And take an umbrella!” Emily snatched her backpack. “I’ll be fine. It’s barely misting!”

“I’m serious,” her mom said, stepping in front of her. “No park trail today. And at least wear your raincoat.” Emily sighed loudly, already halfway out the door. “I’m not a little kid, Mom. I’ve walked to school a million times.” Her mom’s voice followed her as the door closed behind her. “That doesn’t mean you stop listening!”

The sky outside was smeared with thick gray clouds, but Emily ignored it. She tucked her hands into her hoodie pocket and made a beeline for the park trail—the one her mom specifically told her not to take. The long way added fifteen boring minutes. The trail cut that in half and went through a quiet patch of woods, down a sloping hill, over a creek, and out into the neighborhood behind the school. Besides, the puddles were kind of fun to splash through. At first.

By the time she was halfway in, the clouds cracked open and dumped cold rain straight onto her. The path turned to slush. Her sneakers started making embarrassing squish squish sounds. But Emily kept going, muttering to herself.

“Should’ve just listened, Emily. Nope. Too stubborn. And now—” Her foot hit a slick patch of mud.

“Whoa—!” SPLAT.

She landed sideways, her entire left leg sinking into the brown goop. Her backpack flew off her shoulder and rolled toward the edge of the creek. Her phone tumbled from her hoodie pocket and hit the water with a tragic plunk.

“No no no no NO!” she cried, scrambling forward on her knees. The creek was shallow but moving fast from the rain. Emily snatched her phone out, but it was soaked and completely black. She tried holding down the power button. Nothing. For a few seconds, she just sat there, dripping and defeated. Then she did the only thing that made sense—she walked home, crying.

The door creaked open and she stepped inside, shivering. Her mom looked up from her laptop at the kitchen table, eyebrows shooting up. “Emily? Why aren’t you at school? What happened—oh my gosh, are you hurt?!”

Emily’s lip wobbled. “I—I took the trail,” she whispered. Her mom stood quickly and grabbed a towel. She knelt down and wrapped it around Emily’s shoulders.

“I fell,” Emily said, tears spilling out now. “And the creek got my phone, and I didn’t listen, and—”

“Okay, deep breath,” her mom said gently, guiding her to sit down. “Let’s get you cleaned up first, then you can tell me everything.”

Once Emily had changed into dry clothes and was sitting on the couch with a cup of cocoa, she finally explained the whole thing—how she ignored the warnings, how the shortcut betrayed her, and how sorry she was. Her mom listened without interrupting.

When Emily finished, there was a long pause. Her mom took a slow sip of her coffee, then looked over at her daughter. “You know, I’m not even mad,” she said softly. Emily blinked. “You’re not?”

“No. I’m worried. You could’ve really hurt yourself.”

“I know,” Emily whispered, voice small.

“I get that you want independence. But part of growing up is knowing when to trust people who’ve lived a little longer than you. I wasn’t just being annoying this morning—I was trying to keep you safe.” Emily looked down at her cocoa. “I didn’t mean to mess everything up.”

“You didn’t mess everything up,” her mom said, smiling gently. “You just learned a messy lesson.” She reached for Emily’s phone and set it on the table. “We’ll try the rice trick, but no promises. Meanwhile, I’ll email your teacher. And you’re grounded from shortcuts for the week.” Emily managed a small, sheepish grin. “Fair.” Her mom leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “Next time, Em… just listen, okay?” Emily nodded. “I will.” And this time, she meant it.

The Call

Posted on by under Short Stories

A voice on the other end of the line spoke. “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” There was a pause.

“There’s someone in my house,” the girl whispered. “I think… I think he’s been watching me.” The dispatcher sat up straighter, fingers poised over the keyboard. “Ma’am, are you in a safe location?”

“I locked myself in the bathroom. I can hear him… walking.”

“What’s your address?”

“1025 Briarwood Lane. Please hurry.” As the dispatcher typed, the call went quiet.

“Ma’am? Are you still there?” No response. All she heard was heavy breathing and footsteps echoing. Then a different voice, deep and hollow, crackling through static: “She can’t come to the phone right now.” The line went dead.

Detective Sam Riley was on the scene in fifteen minutes. The air felt… wrong. The door was ajar, yet the latch wasn’t broken. He stepped inside, flashlight sweeping across dust-coated furniture and cobwebbed corners.

“Baker,” he called to the officer behind him, “no one’s lived here in years?”

“Records say it’s been abandoned since a fire in ’04. Girl died. Family moved away.”

“Then who called 9-1-1?”

The bathroom door stood open. No signs of forced entry, no blood, no girl. Just the landline phone on the floor. He picked it up. Cold. Recently used. The call log was open. The number clear.

“This is impossible,” Baker muttered. “There’s no power. No phone service.” Riley’s gut twisted.

The next day, Riley dug into old records. A girl named Emily Carver had died in that house at age fifteen. The fire had started upstairs. Electrical. Unexplained. Her parents had insisted someone was in the house that night, but no evidence was ever found. Riley found a photo. Emily had long, dark hair. Big eyes. The voice matched.

“Was there ever a suspect?” he asked the archivist.

“One,” she said. “Her uncle. Never charged. Vanished right after.”

Later that night, Riley sat in his car outside 1025 Briarwood Lane, unable to shake the feeling. The dispatcher’s recording played over and over. Then he heard it. Just behind the voice—beneath the whisper. A second voice humming, like a nursery rhyme.

The next night, Riley returned. He brought an old tape recorder—analog, the kind used before digital systems became standard. Something about the way the dispatcher’s recording glitched at the end unsettled him. He wanted to hear it live. The house loomed in the moonlight, skeletal and silent. As he crossed the threshold, the temperature dropped. He flicked on his flashlight. “Emily?” he said, unsure why he was speaking aloud. “If you’re here, I want to help you.”

A creak echoed from upstairs. Riley climbed the stairs slowly, every board beneath him groaning. At the top was a blackened hallway. The fire damage was clearest here—walls charred, ceiling peeled away in places. One door remained barely intact. Her bedroom. He opened it. The walls were covered in faded wallpaper—pink with faint clouds. The bed frame, twisted and melted, still sat in the corner. On the scorched floor lay a soot-blackened music box. He bent down and touched it. The moment his fingers brushed the metal, the lid sprang open. A slow, eerie melody tinkled out. Riley froze. It was the same tune he’d heard in the background of the 9-1-1 call. Then, behind him, a whisper: “Why didn’t anyone come?”

He spun around. Nothing there. He fumbled to turn off the music box—but it kept playing, even with the lid shut. He bolted down the stairs and out of the house, music box still clutched in his hand.

Back at the station, Riley pored over Emily’s case file again. That night, her parents had been out. Her uncle—Raymond Carver—had been babysitting. He told investigators he’d left to “grab cigarettes,” and when he returned, the house was in flames. But neighbors reported hearing screams before the fire even started. Riley ran a background check on Raymond. Dead. Suicide, ten years ago. Found in a motel, clutching a picture of Emily. The words “I see her every night” were carved into the wall above his bed.

Riley’s breath caught. He reopened the music box. It was silent now. Inside, wedged beneath the dancer’s platform, was a slip of scorched paper. He unfolded it carefully. It was a photograph—Emily, smiling. On the back, a scribbled message:

He’s still here. In the walls. In the wires.

Riley returned one final time—this time just before midnight. He set up the recorder again, this time in the living room. Then he waited. Midnight struck. The static came first. Then the footsteps. Not across the floor—but through the walls, as if pacing behind the drywall.

“Emily,” Riley called, “I know what happened. He hurt you. He never left, did he?”

The lights flickered. Then a deep, garbled voice snarled, “She was mine.”

The room exploded with sound—glass breaking, music box tunes warping into dissonant wails. Then silence. Riley stood in the middle of the room, breath shaking. “You don’t belong here anymore,” he said firmly. “She’s free.”

For a long moment, nothing. Then the lights went out completely. And in that darkness, a soft voice—Emily’s—whispered, “Thank you.”

The next day, the house was gone. Neighbors swore they heard a boom—like a transformer exploding. But no fire crews came. By morning, only scorched earth remained. No phone. No furniture. No foundation. Just ash.

Riley quit the force a week later. He keeps the photo of Emily on his desk, and the music box—still silent—on a shelf. Every now and then, when the night is quiet and the air feels too still, he hears the faintest melody and smiles. Because this time, someone answered.

Wrong Turn

Posted on by under Short Stories

He hadn’t a clue where he was. His cell phone was dead and the area looked dicey. Buildings slouched together under the weight of age and neglect. Crumbling red bricks and tangled vines told a story of abandonment. Faded billboards loomed overhead like forgotten gods, their messages lost to time. Somewhere in the distance, a siren howled—sharp, mournful, then gone.

Jordan’s fingers tightened around the frayed strap of his backpack. Every instinct told him to keep moving, to find light, people, something—anything—that felt familiar. But every street he turned down just seemed to fold deeper into the city’s forgotten ribs.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He had taken the 23 bus from campus to visit his friend Derek, who lived in the next borough. Only, he hadn’t paid close enough attention. One missed stop. A rerouted line. Then that “shortcut” through an alley that seemed to promise a straight path through the grid. That was an hour ago. Now it felt like he’d crossed into a pocket of the city not listed on any map.

He pulled his phone out again. The screen was black. He tapped it. Held the power button. Nothing. The battery had died somewhere between confusion and panic. The irony burned—he had portable chargers at home, cables in every room. But not tonight.

The sky had deepened into a bruised purple, clouds thick like smoke overhead. It would rain soon. Probably hard. A low hum reached his ears—streetlights flickering to life, one by one. Their pale amber glow stretched long shadows across the cracked sidewalk. A newspaper cart, abandoned, listed on one wheel. A neon sign flickered in the distance: OPEN. Jordan moved toward it. It wasn’t just about finding his way—it was about safety. This neighborhood had too many blind alleys, too many places to disappear.

The shop came into view—a corner store, its windows grime-smeared, barred with thick iron grills. The light inside buzzed fitfully. Rows of shelves stood mostly empty. The door was locked. Jordan jiggled the handle, peering inside. A payphone hung crooked on the back wall, its receiver missing. Hope drained from his chest.

Then came the crunch. Glass underfoot. Behind him. Jordan spun. Nothing. Only the empty sidewalk, the stretching shadows. And then—

“You okay, kid?” The voice came from across the street. A man leaned against a rusted lamppost, the cone of light above him flickering on and off. He wore an old flannel jacket, patched at the elbow, and a knit cap pulled low over shaggy gray hair. A cigarette burned between two fingers, its tip a tiny red eye. Jordan froze. The man raised a hand, half wave, half signal of peace. “You look a little turned around.”

“I’m lost,” Jordan admitted, voice tight. “Phone’s dead. I don’t know where I am.”

The man nodded like he’d expected that answer. “Figures. You’re not the first to wind up down here after dark.” He flicked his cigarette to the gutter and gestured. “Come on. Diner’s a few blocks up. You can warm up, get a charge, maybe call someone.”

Every red flag in Jordan’s brain started firing. Stranger. Night. Isolated street. But he looked around again—at the boarded windows, the dead silence, the locked store. And he followed.

The man walked at an easy pace, hands in his pockets. He didn’t speak much, just offered directions when needed. “Left here. Watch the curb. That building burned out last winter—don’t lean too close.” Jordan stayed a few steps back.

“Name’s Milo, by the way,” the man offered. “Jordan.” Milo gave a small nod. “You from the college?” Jordan hesitated. “Yeah.”

“Thought so. You’ve got the backpack, the look.”

“What look?”

“That look like you’ve been reading about the world for years but tonight’s the first time it bit back.” Jordan gave a tight, nervous laugh.

They passed a narrow alley that stank of wet garbage and rot. Jordan caught sight of a dark figure watching from behind a dumpster—but when he looked again, it was gone. His skin crawled. “You see things sometimes, in this part of town,” Milo said softly, not turning around.

“What kind of things?”

“Things you don’t want to see twice.” Jordan didn’t ask for clarification.

The diner appeared suddenly—like it hadn’t been there until they turned the corner. Old-school chrome panels, a flickering DINER sign buzzing in blue and white. One window glowed softly, shapes moving inside. Milo pushed open the door. A bell chimed overhead. Warmth hit Jordan like a wave. The smell of bacon grease and stale coffee wrapped around him, almost comforting.

The interior was a time capsule—vinyl booths, Formica counters, a jukebox in the corner playing a jazz track so low it was more memory than sound. A waitress with tired eyes and bright red lipstick stood behind the counter, cleaning a glass with a rag that looked older than Jordan.

Milo slid into a booth. Jordan sat across from him, watching the few scattered patrons—an elderly man sipping soup, a couple whispering in a corner. No one looked up. The waitress wandered over. “What’ll it be?”

“Hot coffee. And he’ll need one too. Maybe a grilled cheese?” Jordan nodded. As she walked off, Milo leaned back. “You’ll feel better with something in your stomach.” Jordan glanced at the outlet near the booth. “Mind if I—?”

“Go ahead.”

He plugged in his phone, screen springing to life. Three percent. Enough. He texted Derek:

Got lost. At a diner near someplace named Calder Street. Can you come get me?

After what felt like an eternity, the message sent. Jordan waited. No reply. “Reception’s weird down here,” Milo said, sipping his coffee. “Sometimes the messages take a while. Or never go through.” Jordan frowned. “How come?” Milo stirred cream into his cup. “This part of the city… it forgets things. Or maybe it gets forgotten. People don’t come here unless they’ve got nowhere else to go. Or unless they’re sent.”

“Sent by who?”

“You’d be surprised.”

The grilled cheese came. Jordan devoured the sandwich, his appetite was ravenous now that he was safe. Or at least safer than he was a few minutes ago. He checked his phone. Still no reply. He looked up. “Milo, why were you out there?” Milo didn’t answer right away. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, battered notebook. Set it on the table. “I help people who get lost. Been doing it for years.”

Jordan opened the notebook. Names. Descriptions. Dates. Dozens of them. One page caught his eye:

R. Harris. Found near the tracks. Said she followed a voice. Never made it back.

Then another:

L. Ortega. Claimed he saw the city breathe. Wouldn’t stop screaming. Disappeared from Booth 5.

Jordan swallowed. “What is this?” Milo’s voice was quiet. “People think when you get lost, it’s a mistake. A wrong turn. But sometimes… it’s a calling. The city has places that aren’t mapped. Places that pull. They find people when they’re vulnerable. Hungry. Scared. Lonely.”

Jordan leaned back. “You think that’s what happened to me?”

“I think you were close to something. But you didn’t cross the threshold. Not fully. And that means you can still go back.”

The bell above the door rang. A man walked in, soaking wet. Black hoodie. Pale face. Eyes wide, darting. He slid into booth 5. The same one from the notebook. Jordan looked at Milo. Milo just sipped his coffee. The man in booth 5 looked at Jordan, almost as if he was staring straight through him. Then he whispered, “You shouldn’t have come here.”

Leviathan

Posted on by under Short Stories

The rod pulled hard as he tightened his grip and began to reel in the line. Without warning, the reel shrieked, the line spooling out as though dragged by some terrible force from the depths. Jonah Thorne planted his feet against the wooden slats of his skiff, muscles taut, eyes fixed on the water’s surface where something vast and unseen twisted below.

For three days, he had hunted the shark. He had heard whispers of it in the docks, among old fishermen whose voices turned to hushed murmurs at its mention. They called it the Leviathan, a beast long as two boats, with eyes like polished stone and a hunger that never ended.

Jonah had seen what it could do. A week ago, it had torn through a whaling sloop, snapping oars, shredding sails, and leaving nothing but crimson streaks on the tide. He had seen the look in the eyes of the few survivors—men who had stared into the abyss and found it staring back, jaws gaping.

But Jonah was not like them. He was not running. He was here to face it.

The rod jerked again, nearly yanking him overboard. He braced himself, cursing under his breath. The sea around him was eerily calm, save for the black, undulating line that marked where the beast dragged his hook into the abyss. He let the shark run, let it feel it had won, until suddenly, he wrenched back, setting the hook deep into its flesh.

A moment of stillness. Then the ocean exploded.

The shark broke the surface in a frenzy of white water and spray, its bulk rising like a nightmare given flesh. A massive creature, nearly twenty feet from snout to tail, with scars crisscrossing its slate-gray hide like an old warrior’s map of battles past. Its eyes, black and hollow, locked onto Jonah.

A cold certainty settled in his bones. It was not just fighting for survival. It knew him. And it hated him.

The shark thrashed, its tail slamming the side of the skiff. Jonah held fast, his hands raw against the line, the salt spray burning his face. His heart thundered, but he did not waver. He had spent his life chasing ghosts of the sea, chasing something that would make him feel alive.

And here it was.

The battle stretched into eternity, the sun dipping low as the waves bore witness to their struggle. The beast dove deep, trying to wrench free, but Jonah held, his muscles screaming. He had come too far to let go now.

The shark turned, a dark shape gliding just beneath the skiff, and Jonah knew—it is not fleeing. It is coming for me.

A shadow rose, swift as death itself. With a roar, Jonah grabbed the harpoon beside him, lifted it high. The shark erupted from the sea, its maw gaping, rows of teeth like jagged glass.

Jonah struck.

The harpoon plunged deep into the beast’s throat as its weight crashed onto the boat, shattering the stern. The impact sent him sprawling, the salty depths rushing up to swallow him whole.

Darkness closed around him. For a moment, all was silent.

Then he felt it—the slow, fading convulsions of the monster beside him. Blood clouded the waters, warm and thick, as the shark’s body twisted in its final throes.

With a final effort, Jonah clawed his way to the surface, gasping as he broke free into the cold night air. His boat was ruined, little more than driftwood. But the beast was dead.

Floating there in the endless expanse, Jonah let out a ragged laugh. He had won.

Yet as he gazed into the black horizon, he could not help but wonder—what had he truly conquered? The beast? Or the abyss inside himself?

Out of Retirement

Posted on by under Short Stories

The printer began to whine as the paper jammed again. He grabbed the machine, gave it a violent shake, and pushed a primal scream through his clenched teeth. Every fiber of his being wanted to lift the printer over his head and throw it out the window. But that would blow his cover.

Caleb Trent, once more famously known as the armored guardian Vigil, now lived as Carl Turner, an insurance claims processor in the small town of Elkridge, Oregon. Every morning, he woke up at 6:15, ran two miles through the quiet, pine tree-lined streets, packed his son Ethan’s lunch, kissed his wife Amanda, and sat in a cubicle pretending to care about auto collisions and roofing damage. It was the quiet life he’d never thought he’d have. The one he never believed he deserved. And while he enjoyed being just another dad on the sideline at his son’s field day, a small part of him was slowly going insane from the lack of action.

Five years ago, he faked his death after stopping the megalomaniacal villain Nightmare’s bio-plague from reducing the eastern seaboard to ash. His final battle leveled a quarter of Boston’s industrial district. He’d emerged from the fight with four cracked ribs, a punctured lung, and a face that the world thought had been incinerated. As usual, the Agency was ready. They buried Vigil in the headlines, gave Caleb a new name, and hid him where no one would think to look, a sleepy town with no skyscrapers to scale, no shadows to stalk, and no one who had ever spoken about superheroes without either talking about comic books. Until the letter came.

At first, he thought it was junk mail. Or maybe accidentally delivered to the wrong address. It was just a bright red envelope; no name, no postage, no return address, no branding of any kind. But the detective inside of him made him hold it under a black light. That’s when he saw the word “Vigil” scrawled across the front in jagged handwriting. Immediately, his stomach dropped to his feet.

Inside was a single Polaroid photograph. It was of Amanda and Ethan, standing in the parking lot of the Safeway on Eastbridge Avenue. Ethan was holding a McDonald’s cup, smiling up at his mother as she loaded groceries into the back of her SUV. On the back of the picture was a handwritten time stamp from yesterday afternoon. Underneath it was a simple message: “Warehouse 16 tonight or I introduce myself to the wife and kid.” The envelope slipped from his grasp as he felt his entire world come crashing down around him.

His instincts kicked in instantaneously. He sprinted through the house, checking every door, every window. He swiftly pulled the blinds closed. Then he went into the closet of his home office and pried up a handful of loose floorboards. Beneath them sat the remnants of his old life: two metallic gauntlets, still slightly scorched from the last time they saw action, an aluminum briefcase containing encrypted communications equipment, a USB drive wrapped in a cloth. His cowl and cape had been destroyed by the Agency as part of the cover up for his retirement, but the man it symbolized still lurked inside him. And now, he was begging to get out. He stared at the gear, his heart banging against his ribcage like a war drum. The air in the room grew heavy. Someone knew.

The Agency had promised the relocation was airtight. A complete and utter identity rewrite for him and his family. Background, education, digital trail, all scrubbed and rewritten. Amanda and Ethan were told that Caleb had been a “whistleblower,” he had agreed to testify against his former employer and given a new life in exchange. As far as he knew, only his handlers at the Agency knew who he really used to be. But someone else knew.

He fired up the encrypted laptop, accessed the ghost network the Agency had taught him to use only in life-or-death emergencies. The screen buzzed to life, and within minutes, he saw it. An old signal, an alias not pinged in half a decade. The name sent a shiver running down the length of his spine.

Nightmare had been his archnemesis. More than just a villain, a nearly unstoppable force that had almost cost Caleb his life on more than one occasion. He was a former Naval psy-ops agent and biochemical weapons engineer. He became infamous for using hallucinogens and neuro-tech to turn people’s deepest fears against them. He’d vaporized federal buildings in a number of different cities. Turned school buses into rolling bombs. Their battles over the years had left an indelible mark on Caleb. The last time they fought, Caleb dropped him into a reactor core. He had watched Nightmare burn. Or at least he thought he did. Now, the ghost of his past was whispering again.

That night, Caleb told Amanda he had to go back to work to finish a review audit. She kissed him on his cheek and begged him not to work too hard. Ethan was laying in bed, reading a book. Caleb went in to his son’s room and Held him a little longer than usual. Then he slipped out the front door and vanished into the night.

A few moments later, Caleb arrived at Warehouse 16 of Elkridge’s abandoned shipping yard. It reeked of oil, copper, and mildew. The streetlight above flickered like a dying star. He waited in the shadows, watching, listening. Then he heard it. That laugh. High-pitched, deranged, almost musical. From behind a stack of rusted crates stepped a figure: tall, slender, draped in a stained trench coat. His face was hidden behind a porcelain mask with a large crack running across the mouth. As if it had tried to scream but instead broke from the effort.

“I knew you wouldn’t stay buried, my old friend,” the figured cooed, spreading his wide as if expecting to being lovingly embraced. “No one with power ever does. We weren’t meant to live the quiet life, you and I.”

Caleb stepped out into the open, the soft glow of his power gauntlets pulsing in a dull blue light with each heartbeat. His makeshift suit was matte-black ballistic mesh with reinforced carbon Kevlar plating, far from the theatrical look he had become known for in his past life but it would get the job done. No cape, no cowl, no emblem. Just his motorcycle helmet with a balaclava underneath. Tonight wasn’t about inspiring people or being a beacon for hope. He was here to finish something he started five years ago.

“You should’ve stayed dead.” Caleb’s voice came out low, steady, brimming with rage.

“I tried,” Nightmare replied, “But I missed the fireworks.” At that moment, Nightmare was flanked by four mercenaries, each one augmented with cybernetic implants, their skin laced with chrome filaments, their eyes glowed like bloodthirsty wolves ready to hunt their prey.

“You’re older than I remember,” Nightmare continued, his voice distorted through the crack in the mask. “A little heavier in the shoulders, slower in the eyes.”

“I’m still fast enough to put you down,” Caleb growled through the helmet.

In a flash, the first mercenary lunged at Caleb. Years of training and experience took over in that moment. Caleb deftly dodged the attack, grabbed the man’s wrist mid-swing and gave it a twist. A stomach churning crunch followed, and before the brute could scream, Caleb drove a knee into his gut and followed it up with a vicious overhand right. The mercenary slid into the support beam a few feet away and didn’t get up.

The next came at him with a monofilament whip, the weapon sliced through an overhead steel beam like a knife through paper. Caleb ducked, rolled, and activated the magnetic tether in his left gauntlet. In the blink of an eye, the whip was yanked from the mercenary’s hand and tangled around his own neck. Caleb flicked his wrist, then a loud crack rang out. The man dropped right where he stood.

Just two more to go. Caleb fixed his gaze on the men. One had a shoulder-mounted railgun, the kind usually only seen on gunships in science fiction movies. Caleb dived behind a forklift as the weapon fired, ripping holes through steel. Sparks exploded everywhere. A shard of metal lodged itself in Caleb’s right arm, causing blood to spill out of the wound.

“He’s bleeding!” Nightmare sang out, almost gleefully. “The great Vigil is human after all!” Caleb pressed a small button on his right gauntlet. A short wave EMP burst pulsed out from his location. The railgun’s electrical systems fizzled. The mercenary’s eye implants went dark as he staggered, disoriented. Caleb didn’t hesitate. He charged in, slammed both gauntlets into the man’s chest with a kinetic discharge, and sent him flying backward into the wall. He didn’t move again. The final thug backed away, dropped his weapon, and ran. Caleb didn’t bother chasing him.

Nightmare clapped slowly, theatrically. “Bravo. Still the performer, I see. But you’re out of breath, and out of time.”

“You dragged my family into this,” Caleb snarled, “You have no idea the kind of monster you just woke up.” Nightmare pulled something from the pocket of his coat – a small vial of green liquid that had a sinister glow to it.

“It’s the same serum you stopped me from releasing five years ago, but a perfected version. Wanna know what it does now?” He threw the vial in Caleb’s direction, the glass smashed on impact. Instantly, the liquid began to vaporize. A cloud ominous green smoke began to fill the air. “It makes your worst memories feel real. Real pain. Real screams. Real guilt.”

As the mist spread, Caleb staggered, looking for a way to escape. He tried to hold his breath to no avail. He closed his eyes and prepared for the worst. When he opened them, he was back at the nuclear power plant. Back on that final day. The reactor melting down. Workers screaming as they ran past the charred remains of those less fortunate. His lungs seized. His heart pounded against his chest. He could feel the fire roaring around him.

But then, a memory overrode the illusion. Amanda’s face. Ethan laughing, drawing dinosaurs in crayon. Amanda reading a book in bed, her glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose. The quiet things he had grown to love. He shook free of the serum’s effects and saw Nightmare charging at him. Caleb let out a primal scream, launched forward, and tackled the villain.

They slid across the ground, Caleb’s fists pummeled Nightmare’s face, cracking the porcelain mask with a single strike. He snatched the remnants of it away, revealing the gaunt, smirking face of his foe underneath – burned, surgically held together.

“You’ll never be free,” Nightmare whispered, blood pouring out of his mouth, “You think you can just go home?” Caleb drove both fists into Nightmare’s chest, releasing another kinetic discharge, breaking all of his ribs.

“I am home,” he said as he rose to his feet. And he left him there, broken and writhing in a pool of his own blood and lies.

A few moments later, Caleb arrived back at his home. He came in through the garage, quietly. Ethan was still asleep. Amanda sat in the dark at the kitchen table, staring into a mug of untouched coffee. When he walked in, she didn’t say anything at first. She just looked at him – torn jacket, blood staining the makeshift bandage around his arm.

“Where is he?” She asked softly. Caleb turned to face her and removed the motorcycle helmet.

“Warehouse district. I called the Agency and told them where to find him,” Caleb replied, “It’s over.”

“You said that five years ago.” She stood up and made her way over to her husband.

“I know.” He winced as she examined the wound to his arm.

“I watched you come home every night for the last five years, pretending like you weren’t waiting for something, anything, to drag you back into the fight. You were never out, Caleb. You were just dormant.” He finally looked up.

“You knew. All this time?”

“I’ve always known.” Her voice softened. “You think I married an insurance adjuster named Carl Turner? No. I married Caleb Trent. I married Vigil, the man that jumped out of a third story window to save a bus full of kids. I’ve never needed the mask to see who you really are.”

He swallowed hard. “I never wanted Ethan to see that side of me.” But it was too late for that. Ethan stood in the hallway, eyes wide, his dinosaur pajamas hanging off his skinny frame.

“Dad,” he whispered, “Are you a superhero?” Instantly, the world stopped spinning. Ethan knelt down to look his son in the eyes. “I used to be.”

“Why’d you stop?”

“Because I wanted to be your dad more.” Ethan blinked, the nodded, like it all made perfect sense to him. “Well, are you gonna go away now?”

“No son,” Caleb said, “not if I can help it.” Amanda crossed her arms, tears quietly streaming down her face. “You need to decide, Caleb. Are you going back to that world? Or are you staying with us?” Caleb looked at both of them. His family. His real superpower.

“I won’t chase it,” he finally said, “but if danger comes to our door again, I will protect you.” Amanda studied his face, she knew he meant it. Then she lunged into his arms. Ethan joined the embrace, wrapping his arms around his dad as well. For now, their world was safe again. But in the closet, behind boxes of tax forms and dusty books, the gauntlets waited, quiet and ready. Just in case.

Friends

Posted on by under Short Stories

“You can’t start a story with a flashback,” she snapped, “And you damn sure can’t start it with dialogue!” Unfazed by her full on negative Nancy vibe, I kept writing. If there was only one benefit to being best friends for the last 20 years, it was knowing how to get under each other’s skin. I took pleasure in knowing I could aggravate her with nothing more than a glance or facial expression. The coffee shop smelled like roasted beans and nostalgia. It had been been our spot for the length of our friendship.

I stirred my cappuccino absentmindedly, staring at the soft glow of the computer in front of me. On the screen in front of me was the beginning stages of the first draft of my next novel. Beside that was my notebook filled with scene and dialogue ideas. Across from me, Claire sipped her drink, her sharp eyes scanning my notes with the precision of a surgeon.

“It’s not going to make sense!” I shrugged my shoulders as I kept frantically pounding away at the keys. I could see the anger and frustration bubbling up inside of her. I glanced up and caught her staring at all the people full engrossed into screens round us in the busy Starbucks. “So you’re just not going to listen to me at all?!”

I peeked up from behind my MacBook only to let her know that I wasn’t unintentionally ignoring her, then rolled my eyes at her. The look of disgust that exploded onto her face let me know that she fully understood my intentions.

“For someone who’s so damn smart, you act like a fucking idiot!” I pulled my hands from the keyboard and let out a heavy sigh. For as much as I loved getting under my best friend’s skin, I valued her opinion even more.

“Fine. Why can’t I start a story with a flashback? Or dialogue?”

She placed her venti half-caff caramel macchiato on the table in front of her and grabbed my laptop. “Well first of all, it’ll confuse the reader, right? How will they know when the story actually started?”

“That’s why they have to keep reading, Claire. Allow the story to develop. This is a novel, not the Sunday morning comics.”

“Well, I think it sounds stupid, but you’re the writer. I’m just here to keep you focused.” I hated it when she said things like that. It made me feel like one of those kids you see out in public that are on a leash. I didn’t need someone to reign me in. Just needed someone to bounce ideas off of.

“And this female lead of yours,” she started back up, as she thumbed through my notes, “She’s… what’s the word I’m looking for, Ethan? Unbearable!” Her newest critique landed with the subtlety of the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. I was rendered briefly speechless, only able to communicate through wildly blinking. “Unbearable?!” The word came flying out of my mouth like projectile vomit.

“She doesn’t feel real. She’s too perfect, too composed. It’s like you’re afraid to let her be messy, vulnerable, real. And don’t get me started on the dialogue.” I let out a slow breath as I searched for the right response. “Claire, you know I value your opinion, but…”

“Do you?!” Her eyebrow arched. “Because this feels like your writing a fantasy of a woman, not an actual person.”

I couldn’t help but frown, so I took a sip of my coffee to buy myself some time. Claire had always been brutally honest, it was one of the main reasons our friendship worked so well. She never sugarcoated anything, and she would rather die than allow me to slip into her complacency. Her words, not mine. But there were times that her bluntness was down right infuriating.

“I just think,” she continued, spinning the MacBook around to face her, “that you’re playing it safe. Don’t get me wrong, Ethan. You’re a wonderful writer. You weave these incredible worlds filled with spies and high-stakes drama, but sometimes your characters, especially the women, don’t always feel… fully fleshed out.”

I ran my hand across my freshly shaven head. “So what? You want her to be more flawed? More complicated?”

“I want her to be more human.” Claire slid the laptop to the side and leaned forward on her forearms. “You know what your best characters all have in common? They make mistakes. They contradict themselves. They don’t always say the perfect line at the perfect time. Real people stammer, hesitate, say the wrong thing, regret it later.”

I couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle. “You mean like us?”

“Exactly like us!” An enormous grin pushed her cheeks up to her eyes. “Look, I’m not saying its bad and you know how brilliant I think you are. But sometimes, you hold back. I’m not really sure why. But if you hold back in storytelling, what’s the point of doing it?”

I let out a heavy sigh and stared down at my notes. Claire’s words stung like a bitch, but they also settled somewhere deep in my subconscious. And that’s when the voice in my head decided to chime in. She’s right, you know. I took a breath, closed my notebook, and slid it across the table to her. “Okay then. Show me where she falls apart.” An even bigger smile exploded across Claire’s face as she cracked her knuckles. “Oh, you’re going to regret this.”

Regret

Posted on by under Love & Relationships, Short Stories

I was sitting on the couch watching TV when there was an unexpected knock at the door. I paused the movie I was watching and made my way to the front door. “I wonder who it could be,” I said to myself as I bent down to look out the peephole. To my surprise, it was Elise, my ex-roommate’s girlfriend.

“Hey Jonah, I’m sorry to stop by like this.”

I stepped back from the door and paused for a moment. For the life of me, I couldn’t think of a reason for her to be outside my house. We hadn’t been particularly close when Matt and I lived together, kind of just existing on the edges of each other’s lives through him. But I decided to open the door anyway.

“Come on in. You want something to drink?” I heard her close the door behind herself then, softly reply, “No thank you.” I went back into the living room and slumped back into my spot on the couch. She shortly followed and sat down right beside me.

“We missed you at the funeral.” My heart sank to my feet as I took a good look at her. She was dressed in a modest black dress with her hair pulled back into a ponytail. Matt’s funeral was today and I had completely forgotten about it. Even though it had been a few months since he moved out, the two of us remained close. I stumbled over the words of my apology before she finally told me it was okay.

“I figured you probably weren’t gonna come, but I thought I’d stop by and check on you anyway.” She briefly gave me a run down of what happened at the funeral. She said the entire scene felt a bit suffocating – too many people, too many condolences that felt rehearsed, too much silence that would’ve drove Matt insane.

When she was done, we sat in awkward silence for what seemed like forever as we each tried to decide how to navigate the uneasy tension that had fallen on the room like a wet blanket. Eventually, I convinced myself to go into the kitchen and fix myself a drink. To my surprise, she was right on my heels.

“Great minds think alike, huh?” I nervously joked as I poured some vodka into a glass. We both let out a small chuckle that seemed to let some of the air out of the room. We went back into the living room and talked for a while. As she talked, I could tell that it was weighing on her. With the deft precision of a blunt instrument, I tried to change the subject to something a little less emotionally draining. Instantly, she was mass of sobbing humanity in my arms. I squeezed her tightly and did my best to console her through what was obvious an inconsolable moment.

“I’m so sorry to come over here and dump on you like this, but I didn’t know where else to go.” The stream of tears running down her cheeks was reminiscent of the Mississippi River. I didn’t say anything, I just hugged her tighter as my eyes began to spring a leak.

After what felt like eons, we released our hold on each other. But something else seemed to be drawing us closer to one another. I wildly shook my head, as if trying to free myself from a hypnotic trance. “Another drink?” She forced a smile for my sake and eagerly nodded as she handed me her glass. I decided to grab the bottle and return to the living room.

We drank in silence at first. Then came the stories – small fragmented pieces of Matt that we were clinging on to. We laughed, but it was the kind of laughter that cracked at the edges. But the third drink, Elise had stopped laughing. By the fourth, she looked at me with something unreadable in her expression and said, “I don’t want to go home.” And I knew what she meant, even if neither of us said it out loud.

We got up from our seats on the couch and slowly made our way towards my bedroom. Not because we were drunk, but because of the unspoken hesitation that I felt between us. Maybe it was a warning. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was too much vodka playing tricks on me.

When we reached the door to my bedroom, it was like something snapped. Elise reached out for me, fingers clenching at the waistband of my sweatpants, pulling me into a kiss that was all teeth and desperation. It wasn’t soft nor sweet. It felt like her grief had turned into something tangible – something she could sink into, drown in. I quickly lifted her up, my hands gripping her thighs as I kissed her harder than she had kissed me, like I was trying to erase the taste of vodka and sorrow from both of our mouths. She hooked her legs around my waist, pulling me closer to her. We fell back on the bed while Elise’s fingers fumbled with my drawstring, tugging at it impatiently before dragging her nails across my back. It hurt, but maybe that was the point.

In an instant, our clothes were a mess on the floor, and the only sounds between us were sharp breaths and the rustle of bedsheets. I unsteadily traced my lips down her neck, over her collarbone, leaving a trail of gentle kisses that would have almost been reverent if it weren’t for the vice grip I hap on her hips. Elise pulled me closer, her body arching into mine as if she needed more of something, anything. Every touch, every kiss, every movement between us felt like a plea – don’t stop, don’t think, don’t feel anything but this.

We moved together with the kind of desperation that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with forgetting. Everything about it was rough, feverish, our bodies colliding with an urgency that left no room for hesitation. Hands roamed freely, nails left marks, teeth grazed over skin – small, fleeting reminders that we were still alive, that we could still feel something, anything, even if it was only for the night.

Afterward, we laid together, our bodies slick with sweat, the air think with something neither of us wanted to name, let alone acknowledge. Elise laid on her back and traced a path across my chest while absently staring at the ceiling overhead. I laid beside her, my arm draped above my head and stared blankly at the TV mounted on the wall in front of me. The room smelled like a mixture of vodka, sex, and sweat. But the air between us had shifted, thickening with the weight of what we had just done. I could still feel the ghost of her skin on mine, taste her lips on mine, but the comfort our actions had given us both was already fading. There was nothing left now but the cold, creeping realization that it wasn’t going to make either of us feel any better.

“This was a mistake,” she whispered. I let out deep sigh, relieved that she said what was bouncing around in my vodka soaked mind. “Yeah.” But neither of us moved. The silence stretched out between us. But unlike before, there was a weight to it, much heavier than before, almost to the point of suffocating. Eventually, we lost our individual battles with sleep.

By morning, the feeling of regret was unbearable. It almost felt like Matt was standing in the corner, casting judgement on us. I woke up first, but pretended to be sleep so I wouldn’t disturb her. When she woke up, her hand immediately covered her face, I can only imagine that she was replaying the previous night’s events over in her head. She slipped out from under the covers in what I suppose was an attempt to not disturb me. Then she quickly got dressed and bolted for the door, never looking back to see that I was watching her the whole time. Maybe I should’ve tried to stop her, or at least said something. But what exactly? The only reason I didn’t do the same thing was because we were at my house. Once I heard my front door close, I quickly got in the shower and tried to scrub away the guilt and regret.

And just like that, we became strangers again.