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#5 Most Viewed Fiction: And What Brings You Here? (570 words)

I was always grateful to Micah for being the big brother I never had. I mean, I did have older half-sisters on either side of my families, and Micah was technically my cousin–But he had something that neither of my sisters did. He had something special that I needed when I was growing up, that my sisters couldn’t quite pull off.  My Mom said it was an attitude. My Dad, Micah’s uncle, said it was regrets.  But I just called it “The Micah Factor.” He got through to me in a way that a lot of people couldn’t, but I wasn’t sure why.

He was my best friend. I know that sounds weird, but he was. When good things happened—Well, I called my mom first because she was my mom and I’d never hear the end of it if I called someone before her. But after my mom had been debriefed, I called Micah. He was always excited for me or angry on my behalf, depending on what the situation called for.  Lizzie, my half-sister on my mom’s side, would get so angry when she learned something new about my life, only to then find out that Micah had known for weeks (sometimes months).

So—it was really hard to watch him get sick.  It changed him—messed with his mind and turned him into someone I didn’t know. And there were days that we went in to see him, and he didn’t know us either. To see a man who once knew everything about you—to have him look at you and extend a hand and introduce himself like you’d never met—that was hard.

He did know us, though. When we told him who we were he recognized the names, and you could watch him struggle to get to the memories and understanding that he had with us. I think that was worse than him not knowing us at all. I mean, I know it would hurt for him to not know me, but watching him struggle—I don’t know. Maybe if it were the other way, I would wish it were this way. The grass is always greener and all that nonsense.

Relief is the wrong word. But—release maybe? I don’t know. But I definitely felt something—happier than I thought I should have when I heard that he’d passed.  This was my best friend, my cousin, the closest thing I’d ever had to a brother. And I felt lighter at the news that he was gone. That can’t be right, can it?  I mean—I was heartbroken, don’t get me wrong. I cried for days straight. Even now, something will catch me off guard and I’ll want to call him and it kills me to know I can’t.

But I’m glad—and I know it sounds terrible—but I am glad I don’t have to walk into that hospital room anymore and watch him try to associate me with the girl he knows in his head and watch the two of them not line up. I’m glad I don’t have to watch my Dad’s face fall every time we leave, his heart shattering again. And I know I shouldn’t be because Micah is dead and I should not be glad.

So, I guess, to answer your question, I’m here because Micah died, and something in me broke. And I’ve realized that I cannot fix it alone.

 
 

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Fiction: Who Needs Sleep? (99 words)

She’d forgotten to fall asleep,  as silly as that sounded.  She sat down in her armchair with her new 3DS game,  and next thing she knew, the alarm on her phone was going off. It was time to get ready for work.  She didn’t drift off in the chair. Didn’t even feel tired. Just for one night she forgot she needed sleep.

She was sure she’d feel it when she say down at her desk and tried to process the first folder of the day.  But now she just chuckled queitly and set to getting ready for her shift.

 
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Posted by on March 16, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

Fiction: Skye’s Journal, Jan 8th (545 words)

Sunday, January 8th:

Well, Cameron and I did our usual church trip today. Since it’s a new year with a new journal, I guess I should explain what that means again, in case only one journal gets passed on to my family, or I become so old and senile I don’t know what any of this means again or—whatever. Visiting our church—It is not what you think of when you think of a church trip—but it’s ours.

See, when we were small, Mom was insistent that we all go to church as a family, so every Sunday we were all there, sitting in the same pew every week, Dad, Cameron and I more asleep than anything else at the early mass—but there nonetheless. After Mom and Dad died, Cameron and I tried to keep going, we really did.  In fact, we did keep going.  For about six months we were there, every Sunday, dressed nicely and as patiently as possibly enduring the “oh you poor dears” and the “your parents were good people”. But then the case went cold.  We were essentially told that they weren’t any closer to finding my parents killers then the day they died, and that they were giving up.  Since they told us that, I haven’t stepped foot inside the sanctuary.

At first, Cameron and I would still get dressed up in our Sunday best, and head to church.  We would meet people in the halls, stop and talk, let people know we were there.  But when it came time for the service to start, we would hang out in the nursery with the toddlers, or on particularly difficult days, hide out in one of the lesser used classrooms and possibly talk to each other, or just sit in silence. Somewhere along the line, we stopped going into the building altogether.  We would still get dressed nicely, but we would hang outside on the benches around the church, or sit on the swings at the playground.  Eventually, we stopped dressing up.  We just go out in Jeans and T-shirts and swing on the swings at the church playground, talking, and having true brother-sister family time.

It’s not that I don’t believe in God, or even that cliché that I’m mad at God for taking my parents away from me. I just don’t understand, and I am not in any position to be taught or made to understand, not yet.  Hopefully, someday I’ll be able to walk back into that room, and listen to what they are saying and hear it in English, instead of the pointless gibberish I heard for six months when I was thirteen years old.  Until then, I am perfectly content to sit on the swings with my brother, and stare up at the building that meant so much to my mother.

You know what, I’m going to make a promise to myself right here.  Before the tenth anniversary of my parent’s death, I will give at least two full-fledged tries to understand church again.  In the next six years, I will try to be a good Christian again.   Probably not anytime soon, but some time.

Alright, that seems like a good place to stop for the night.

Love and Such,

Skye Gibson.

 
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Posted by on March 6, 2017 in Stories, Uncategorized

 

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Fiction: No Answers (651 words)

They were all there in silence, waiting for one of them to think of something to say. Cindy sat on the couch, sitting gingerly to not upset the still rather sore spot on the back of her head and neck.  James was leaning against the wall near the door, his face covered in half shadow, listening for anyone who might be coming up the front path.  Matthew paced slowly and soft, back and forth along the length of the couch, his mouth moving in silent argument with himself.

And, as usual, Matthew pulled it all together first. “Okay.” He whispered it, but it sounded like a foghorn in the silence of the room. “Apparently, Cindy is also immortal.”

“Yeah, how is that?” Cindy asked, just a bubble of panic at the edge of her voice, “I’m almost ninety-five percent sure that I had a fire axe in the back of my head two days ago, and I don’t know too many people who can walk and talk after receiving that kind of treatment, present company excluded.”

“She couldn’t be a…” James asked from his shadow, trailing off before mentioning what Cindy might be.

“No, no, absolutely not,” Matthew answered without hesitation, “we would know. We would feel her presence. She must be—something else immortal. Something we haven’t run into before.”

Matthew turned and studied Cindy carefully, eyes slowly moving up and down her body. If anyone else was looking at her like that she would have slapped them across the face and informed them in one way or another that she wasn’t just a piece of meat. But she knew that Matthew wasn’t looking at her like a woman—he was looking at her like a mystery. So, instead of slapping him she just shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, hoping that any second he would stick a finger in the air and declare that he’d figured out why she was still alive.

But after a long time, Matthew straightened up and uttered his least three favorite words “I—Don’t know.”

Cindy suddenly felt heavy, like she was suddenly deep underwater and there was pressure coming in on all sides.  If Matthew didn’t know, if Matthew didn’t even have a clue—then she might never know. “I—I think I am going to go to bed.” She stood up slowly, careful not to jar her head too much and make herself light headed all over again.  “Does anyone mind if I go take a nap on the futon?”

“Yes,” James stepped out of the shadow, his face showing no emotion at all. “You may sleep in my room, and I’ll keep guard outside the door.” Cindy’s face must have fallen, because James continued to explain, still with no outward emotion. “This goes one of two ways, Cindy. It’s either that you’ve never uh,” He made a small gesture with his hands, “not died before, so we don’t know what kind of reactions that you might have, and someone should be nearby if something goes wrong. Or you know exactly what’s going on, you aren’t who you say you are, and someone should keep an eye on you.”

The tight, heavy feeling increased around Cindy. She couldn’t even protest about him not trusting her after all this time, because she didn’t know if she could be trusted yet. And Matthew didn’t know what she was. “Okay,” she answered quietly, not able to look James’ expressionless face in the eye, “I understand.”

“Sleep well,” Matthew offered as Cindy made her way to James’ room.

“Thanks,” she offered weakly. She was grateful that the pain and heavy feeling were going to help her fall asleep instantly. If she had to try to set her mind to being still, she might never get any sleep again. But as soon as her head hit James’ pillow, her eyes were closed and she was out. For now.

 
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Posted by on February 28, 2017 in Stories, Uncategorized

 

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Fiction: Threesome (99 words)

This is easily the best night of my life. They are friends. They both think I’m attractive. They are sober at the moment. They are asking me if I’m busy tonight, because they would like to hang out and get wasted in their hotel room. They have informed me of the color of their underwear and asked me to guess who is wearing what.  They are saying that this has been a lot of fun, and maybe would could make this a more regular thing if that’s okay with me.

This is easily the best night of my life.

 


What? Did you think I was going to be subtle? ❤

 
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Posted by on February 22, 2017 in Stories, Uncategorized

 

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Fiction: Legal Theft Project–Waking Up Woes (362 words)

The most irritating aspect of coming back from the dead was that no one believed you hadn’t gone evil. Everyone has to run through the usual tests. And I do mean tests, plural. There is the possessed by a demon test, and the vampire test, and the zombie test, and the evil version of myself from another dimension test, and the evil clone created by bad people test, and…I could go on, but we’ve all been there—we know how it goes.

And of course, no one can believe anyone else’s results, because they may or may not be in on the evil deeds, so all the tests have to be re-run after you meet anyone who knew that you had died. No matter how many people have proven you are not a demon, vampire, zombie, evil clone, etc, etc, the tests have to be run again.  If I never touch garlic of holy water ever again, I could be quite okay with that.

Of course there are other annoyances as well. Eating takes a while to get used to again. Balance requires some practice. And it’s really hard to go to sleep again, because there is always the fear that it will be another five or six years until you wake up again—if you wake up again at all.  The idea that you might lay down to take a nap and wake up with your younger siblings even older than you—that someone else will have been lost while you were gone—that the world will have changed in ways you can’t even imagine and everyone looks at you like you shouldn’t be there—when all you wanted was a couple hours rest.

But somehow, the fact that those are just between me and myself makes them a lot easier to handle.   Besides, another fear as you start to fall asleep is that when you wake up you’ll have to go through the garlic and holy water all over again. So—yes, I stand by what I said.  No one believes you haven’t gone evil.  And maybe in part it’s because you’re not sure you haven’t gone evil yourself.

 
 

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Fiction: Princely Save [Part 1 of 2] (532 words)

King Martin’s childhood is no secret. Everyone knows the tale of how Queen Margaret went into hiding and gave birth to a little boy away from court as his father’s kingdom was attacked. She left the boy to be cared for with a sweet family while she returned to join her husband  in his captivity under the False King. They say that he was raised by a poor, peasant family, but that’s not quite true. He was raised in a poor home, but it was my eldest sister who raised him, the first daughter of Duke Krallen. Martian was raised in a simple home, but with all the teachings of a high bred family, so that any moment Martin would be ready to return to the court at a moment’s notice, as soon as the False King was thrown down.  Since I was only two years his senior, the closet in age to Martin of all the Duke’s family, I was often sent to visit the young prince, to be friendly, since he wasn’t allowed many friends for fear that people still wanted him dead. In fact, I was with him when the news of the true rebellion came. I watched him ride off, only ten years old, to lead his small collection, to rejoin his father and reclaim his place. When the true King was on the throne again, my family was invited to visit him in court.  In fact, I was Martin’s first courtly dance partner. I was so much taller than him at the time, it would have been comical if Martin didn’t have that regal grace and ease that he is so well known for.  He was good to me, a kind and friendly companion, but from then on, he was just my prince. A young boy, and then a man, that I saw once or twice a year as his campaigns passed my father’s lands.  With the exception of the prayers said for the royal family every morning, I forgot about him in my day to day.

Until of course, I was seventeen. I was the youngest daughter of ten children, and my inheritance would be slim if there was any for me at all. To marry me, my father was going to take any proposal he could get. The proposal that came was from an absolutely gruesome man. He was twenty-six years my senior, all ready married five times with five dead wives buried on his lands, known for his temper. My father was not pleased, but he knew he wasn’t likely to get any better offers, so after stalling as long as he could to see—he accepted the proposal. My mother couldn’t tolerate the thought of it, so she whisked me off to court. To this day, I’m not sure how she did it, but she got me a private audience with the young prince. I told him of my proposed marriage and how I feared for my life. I implored him to remember that I was kind to him as a child, and begged him to prevent the marriage from going through.

I didn’t expect for his response to be so live altering.

 
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Posted by on January 30, 2017 in Stories, Uncategorized

 

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