The Quiet Between
The door shuts behind her. Cold silence spreads like a shadow across the room. I stand there, waiting, watching the door as if it might open again. It doesn't. The light outside fades, turning everything a dull grey. The air is still.
I sit by the window. The glass is cool under my nose. The street is empty, nothing moving, the world outside as quiet as the one inside. My breath fogs the window in small, shallow clouds. I wait for the sound of her steps. For the smell of her to fill the air again. But there is nothing.
The hours stretch out. Time loses shape. Hunger gnaws at me, slow and dull, but I don't move. The house feels hollow. The quiet hum of the fridge, the distant ticking of a clock somewhere, it's all too far away. It doesn't matter. Nothing does.
Darkness comes. The streetlights flicker on. I look back at the door, then away again. The space where she sits is empty, the blanket draped over the chair untouched. It's all still there, but it feels different now, like it doesn't belong to me anymore. As if she took something when she left, something invisible, something that won't come back.
I close my eyes. Maybe this is all there is. This empty waiting, this silence. Maybe she is gone for good. I feel the weight of it in my chest. The heaviness presses down. Keeps me from moving, from hoping. I curl up in the corner, where the shadows are thickest, and I wait for sleep.
Then, a sound. Faint, like a whisper. It grows louder. The door creaks. A sliver of light spills into the room, and her scent floods in, sharp, familiar. I don't move at first. I just listen, as if it might be a trick, a dream I'm still lost in.
But no. She's there. She steps into the room. I rise slowly, the weight in my chest loosening, but the feeling is strange. She left. And now she's back. But the leaving—it's still there. The quiet is still here, somewhere, lingering just beyond reach.
She bends down, touches my head. Her hands are warm. I lean into her, my legs shaking a little, and I close my eyes again.
Tomorrow she will leave again. I know this now. And the silence will come back, just as it always does.
The Shadow That Grew
The walls in our house are thinner than they should be, like they’re made of stretched-out secrets. You can hear everything, even the thoughts people try not to have. I once tried to whisper a dream to myself, and I swear the walls caught it and tucked it away somewhere, probably for later use. They like to keep things here—especially the things you’d rather forget.
Tonight, the air smells like burnt toast, and not in a comforting, someone’s-making-breakfast-at-midnight way. No, it’s more like an omen, like something’s already gone wrong, and we’re just waiting for it to announce itself. Dad’s sitting in his chair by the window, casting a shadow that looks like it’s planning to stay even when he leaves. I’ve always thought his shadow has too much personality for something that’s supposed to just follow you around. It slithers and spreads itself over the floor like it’s in charge of the whole room. My own shadow, by comparison, is more of a mouse—small, quiet, content to hide in the corners, waiting for permission to exist.
When the first slap lands, it’s almost polite. Like the air tries to soften it on its way down. Funny how even physics can feel sorry for you. I don’t flinch, though—flinching would mean acknowledging it, and we don’t do that here. We pretend it’s all part of the scenery, like the wallpaper peeling in slow motion or the creaky stairs that haven’t been fixed in years.
I fold in on myself like I always do, trying to get smaller, as if shrinking could make me disappear entirely. I’ve gotten good at it—turning into something forgettable. Maybe, if I practice enough, I’ll become one of those paper cranes I read about, the kind people make when they’re wishing for something impossible. Maybe someone will find me one day, folded neatly on a shelf, and mistake me for something worth keeping.
“You think you’re better than me, don’t you?”
Dad’s pacing now, his voice slurring a little. He says it like it’s not even a question, like he’s already decided the answer. I don’t say anything. I’ve learned that answering doesn’t make a difference. Whether I speak or not, it’s like tossing words into a well with no bottom—everything just gets swallowed up.
I touch my cheek where the sting is spreading, hot and red like a wildfire, but contained. My bones don’t rattle like they used to. They’ve grown accustomed to this, the way you get used to the sound of a leaky faucet after a while, even though it still drives you mad.
He’s not really talking to me anymore, I realize. He’s talking to whatever storm lives in his chest, the one that wakes up at the same time every night and demands attention. Dad’s anger isn’t personal. It’s just bored. It’s got nowhere else to go, so it hangs around the house, breaking things because it can. I wonder if it’s ever considered a hobby. I hear knitting’s nice.
But there’s something strange tonight, something different. I feel it in the way the air hums, like it’s been waiting for something to happen. I blink, and for a moment, I see something—or someone—in the corner of the room. A woman, maybe, or something pretending to be one. Her dress is made of dust and cobwebs, and she’s standing by the window, watching. Her hands are outstretched toward me, like she’s offering something, but I can’t tell what. Maybe it’s a way out.
I blink again, and she’s gone. Or maybe she was never there. It wouldn’t be the first time my mind played tricks on me, trying to make the unbearable a little more bearable. This house is full of strange things, after all. Sometimes, I think it’s alive, that it breathes and listens and holds onto every whispered thought that escapes my lips.
Dad doesn’t notice, of course. He’s still muttering to himself, like a man who’s lost an argument no one else was having. His anger drips off him like a leaky faucet, and I can almost hear the slow, steady drip-drip-drip of it pooling on the floor, collecting at my feet. He knocks over a chair on his way out, the door slamming behind him, but the silence sticks around, like it’s got nowhere better to be.
I wait for a while, listening to the house settle back into itself, the quiet wrapping around me like a too-tight sweater. I should cry, probably. That’s what people expect, isn’t it? But I don’t. I just get up, slow and deliberate, like I’m testing to see if my legs still work. They do, though they feel more like someone else’s.
I go to the window where the figure stood—if she stood there at all—and look out into the night. The moon’s hanging there, heavy and silver, like it’s trying to apologize for something. The trees outside sway gently in the breeze, and the air is cool against my burning cheek. For a second, I wonder if maybe the shadows will come back tonight. They’ve been hiding for a while now, but they can’t stay gone forever, can they? Maybe they’re just waiting for the right moment, for when things are quiet enough to creep back in.
I stand there, watching, waiting, listening to the soft sounds of the world turning, and I swear I hear something—a whisper, maybe. I look down at my feet, and for the first time in a long while, I see my own shadow. It’s standing a little taller tonight. Maybe it’s tired of being small. Maybe I am too.
"Maybe tomorrow," I whisper to myself, "I’ll grow too."
The house creaks in response, but it feels more like a promise than a threat this time.
The Problem with Jerry
"Okay, so maybe a little overkill with the meat cleaver," I mutter, nudging the body with my foot. Correction: the *formerly* very-much-alive Jerry Tucker, now sporting an uncanny resemblance to a slasher-flick victim.
"Technically, though," I tell his wide, permanently horrified eyes, "you brought this on yourself. The HOA meeting? The barking dog complaints? And don’t even get me started on the 'no holiday decorations past January 3rd' rule." I squat down, checking for a pulse purely out of morbid curiosity. Spoiler alert: there isn’t one.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. There are better ways to solve disputes with your neighbor than hacking them into pieces. I get it. People are big on "talking things out" and "nonviolent communication." Jerry liked that kind of crap too. Guess it didn’t work out for him, huh?
“Christ,” I groan, wiping a speck of blood off my cheek. "You’ve gone and ruined my favorite sweatpants. These are the soft ones. My Netflix pants."
I gaze down at the carnage—red everywhere, like Jackson Pollock got wasted and started finger painting with arterial spray. It’s not good. But we’re here now. No going back. So, what’s the plan? How do I Houdini my way out of this one?
My phone buzzes.
**Mom:** Don’t forget to pick up milk.
Milk? Seriously? My hands are practically shaking, and she’s worried about 2% versus almond?
"Priorities, Mom," I whisper, tossing the phone onto the couch. Focus. First things first: get rid of Jerry. Second: get the hell out of this cul-de-sac before the neighbors start asking questions.
A quick survey of my options:
1. **Dump him in the backyard.** Pro: convenient, and honestly, his lawn is full of crap anyway. Con: I’d have to dig, and I’m not really built for manual labor. Plus, there’s the whole *pesky forensic evidence* thing.
2. **Trunk-and-drive combo.** Classic, right? Pro: mobile Jerry! Con: I drive a Toyota Prius, and I’m not entirely sure he’ll fit. Definitely not with that leg angle. Damn. Should’ve stuck with the hacksaw.
3. **Pretend he’s still alive.** Stuff some sunglasses on him, Weekend at Bernie’s style. Just wheel him out every once in a while. “Oh Jerry? Nah, he’s fine. Just a bit stiff.” Though his Home Depot loyalty card sticking out of his severed hand might raise eyebrows.
Ugh. Why don’t they cover *this* in high school? Algebra? Useless. I need "Creative Problem Solving for Spontaneous Manslaughter."
“Get it together,” I mutter, rubbing my temples. There’s only one person I can call in a situation like this. I pull up ‘Fixer Felix’ in my contacts. Felix is the type of guy who looks like he’s committed a felony just by walking into a room. The dude smells like WD-40 and bourbon, and I’m convinced he’s been involved in several arson-related insurance claims.
After three rings, Felix picks up.
“Who’d you kill?”
“Jerry Tucker.”
Pause. A long sigh on his end. “Ah, *that* guy.”
“You know him?”
“Everyone hates Jerry Tucker. You probably did the whole town a favor.”
“You’re not wrong,” I admit, glancing at Jerry’s lifeless face, still frozen in judgment. “So… can you help me or not?”
“I’m on my way,” Felix says. “Tell me you didn’t make a mess.”
“Define ‘mess.’”
“Jesus Christ. I’ll bring the bleach.”
I hang up and sigh, walking over to the window. Jerry’s stupid garden gnomes stare back at me from his lawn, looking both judgmental and smug. I want to punt one, but that seems like a little much, even for me right now.
Thirty minutes later, Felix shows up in a van that looks like it’s seen the wrong side of a meth lab explosion. He steps out, cigarette dangling from his mouth, wearing a t-shirt that says "I’m here to help… not to care."
"Nice touch with the cleaver," he says, assessing the scene like he’s judging the finer points of abstract art. "Real personal."
"You think?"
"Absolutely. If you’re gonna kill someone, you wanna send a message. And yours says, ‘don’t piss me off about recycling bins.’"
Felix pulls out a roll of heavy-duty trash bags and starts whistling like he’s taking out the garbage after a barbeque. I mean, technically he *is,* but still. A little respect for the dead, Felix.
"So," Felix says, cutting into the silence as he wraps Jerry’s body with the kind of finesse you’d expect from a butcher with a dark secret, "you thought about your alibi yet?"
"Not really."
He pauses, glances at me, then smirks. "Amateur."
I scratch my head. "I just figured—"
"No, no." Felix holds up a hand. "You don’t *figure* in these situations, okay? You *plan.* Think chess, not checkers. And definitely don’t think Monopoly, because I’m pretty sure you’ve already lost that game."
Felix finishes his handiwork and hoists Jerry’s bundled body over his shoulder like Santa’s sleaziest cousin. "All right, we’re good. Where to?"
I stare at him, blinking. "You mean you don’t have a plan?"
Felix grins. "You’ve got a Prius, right? I’ve always wanted to see if I could fit a body in one of those."
I blink again, then shrug. At this point, nothing feels particularly absurd anymore. Not even the idea of driving through town with a dead HOA president in my trunk. Besides, it’s LA. This might not even make the top ten weirdest things happening tonight.
The Last Time You Fall in Love
You find yourself in a library where all the books are missing their last pages. The shelves curve impossibly upward, disappearing into a ceiling that might not exist. (Yes, you're in a story now—but then again, weren't you always?)
Footsteps echo behind you, but they're your own from five minutes ago, still searching. You've been here before, or maybe you'll be here later. Time does that sometimes, especially in stories about last things.
Between the shelves, you discover a reading room where people sit with half-empty coffee cups that never grow cold. Their conversations hang in the air like unfinished sentences, and you recognize the feeling—that moment when words fade before reaching their destination. You've felt it before, haven't you, reader? That sensation of almost-but-not-quite understanding something essential?
A woman sits at a desk made of mirror fragments. She's writing in a book that writes itself back, each word disappearing as soon as it's penned. You know her, though you've never met. (That's the thing about being in a story—everything is both real and not real, like quantum particles or promises made at midnight.)
"I've been waiting," she says, but her voice sounds like rustling pages.
You want to tell her you've been waiting too, but instead, you notice how the light through the windows falls in patterns that spell out words you almost remember. They remind you of something—perhaps that dream where you could read in colors, or that summer when the sunset looked like scattered punctuation marks.
In your pocket, you find a ticket stub from a movie you haven't watched yet. The title keeps changing every time you look at it, but the date remains the same: Today. Always today. (You see what I did there? Time is funny in stories, especially ones about endings that are really beginnings.)
The woman stands, and suddenly the room rearranges itself like a sentence being edited. Bookshelves become doorways, doorways become windows, windows become questions you never thought to ask. She hands you a book—your book, though you didn't know you'd written one.
"The ending's missing," you say.
"They always are," she replies, smiling with one corner of her mouth, the way people do when they know something you're about to figure out.
You open the book. Inside, there's a map of everywhere you've ever almost been, marked with X's that look suspiciously like kisses. Or perhaps they're asterisks, footnoting moments you'll understand later. (You're getting good at this, dear reader, finding meaning in the spaces between words.)
The woman is closer now, close enough that you can see her eyes are filled with library cards, each one cataloging a different way to say goodbye. You realize, with the peculiar clarity that comes with being a character in someone else's story (or is it your own?), that this is it—the last time you'll fall in love.
Not because it's ending, but because after this, all other loves will be echoes of this one. They'll be like books you've already read, stories whose endings you can guess three chapters in. This is the last first time your heart will fumble with the grammar of attraction, the last time love will feel like a foreign language you're desperate to learn.
The woman reaches for your hand, and her fingers are warm like well-worn book spines. Around you, the library hums with the sound of a thousand stories reaching their almost-endings. (Do you feel it too, reader? The way the words are pulling us toward something inevitable?)
"We should probably kiss now," she says, "before the metaphors run out."
And you do, in that space between one paragraph and the next, where all the best things happen. The kiss tastes like the last page of your favorite book—the one you've never been able to find again. It tastes like understanding finally catching up to experience.
When you open your eyes, the library has become a garden where flowers bloom in serif and sans-serif. The woman is still there, but now she's writing your name in cursive on the air, and you realize that maybe you're writing hers too, has been all along, in the margins of every story you've ever lived.
(And here, dear reader, is where I leave you—not because the story's over, but because the best endings are the ones we write ourselves, in the spaces between what's said and what's understood, in that moment when we realize we've been reading our own hearts all along.)
You close the book, but keep your finger between the pages, marking your place. After all, the best stories are the ones we never quite finish reading, the ones that keep writing themselves in our dreams, in our memories, in the way we learn to love after we think we've loved for the last time.
(Turn the page, if you like. Or don't. The story will wait for you either way.)
On the Brink of Disaster
Why does she always do this? Like, seriously, it’s not even a big deal, just *let me go*! I’m practically a water balloon right now. I can feel it. I’m like... 90% liquid. That’s scientifically possible, right? I should’ve never drunk all that juice. Why do they even sell juice in the cafeteria if they know this is gonna happen?
Okay, okay, focus. Sit quietly, she said. How does one “sit quietly” when their bladder is about to explode? Maybe if I raise my hand again—oh no, no, she’s giving me that *look*. That “we’ve been over this” look. If I move too much, it’s all over. Should I try holding my breath? Does that help? Nope, nope, it makes it worse.
If I cross my legs... oh no, bad idea, that just... intensifies things. Breathe, breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Wait, what if I pee in small amounts? Like little increments, no one will notice. No, that’s crazy. I’ll be the kid who “incrementally pees.” That’s a reputation I do not need.
C’mon, c’mon, how long can she possibly talk about fractions? Fractions are the least important thing in the world right now. I’m already divided into two parts: bladder and pure desperation. Oh, the bell. THE BELL. Sweet, sweet freedom.
But wait, did I just—no, no, false alarm. I made it!
"Excuse me, I’m just gonna run to the—"
"No, don’t pack up yet."
What!?
The Weight of Three Words
Hands in pockets. God, why is this so hard? She's just standing there waiting, always waiting. So patient. How does she do it? I can't even look at her eyes. No, pockets are safer. Keep my hands still, stop fidgeting. Just say it already, you coward! But what if... what if... No, stop that. She's still waiting. Say something, anything! "I uh..." Smooth, real smooth, idiot. She knows you're no good at this stuff. Just spit it out. Deep breath. Okay, here goes nothing. "I love you." Oh god, I said it. I actually said it. Why isn't she saying anything? Her eyes, they're so big right now. Did I mess up? Should I not have... No, it's okay. She's smiling. That's good, right? Yes, it's good. She knows. Of course she knows. She always knows everything about me before I do. How does she do that? Doesn't matter now. It's out there. Can't take it back. Don't want to take it back, actually. Feels kinda good, like something loosening in my chest. Been holding that in for so long, too long. "I know," she says, and suddenly I can breathe again. When did I stop breathing? Doesn't matter now. Everything's okay. We're okay. I'm okay. This is okay.
Crumbs of Fate
Mmm, sweet—so sweet—sugar sugar sugar. My antennae twitch with every crumb. Legs tingling. Crumbs, crumbs everywhere, so big, so much, why is it so big? Must take back, must share, must hurry, must—
Ah! Crunch! Good crunch. Break. Chew chew chew. Sweet, sweet—how does it taste so good? It’s all mine, no, no, it’s not. Must share. Must tell others. Wait, wait, just a little more. So much, can carry, can’t carry. Ant way, always carry, always share. But it’s *so sweet.*
Taste. Chew chew chew. Legs buzzing, stomach full, still hungry. Must move, must—
What’s that? Something, something big. Wet? Wet smell, strange smell, burning? Bad. Wrong. Run, run! Can’t move, legs—why legs not moving? Heavy, sticky. Air thick. Wrong! Wrong!
Feelers twitch, but my colony—where’s my colony? Head hurts. Everything spinning. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe! Can’t—
Dark.
Silence in Red
Red. Everything’s red. No—black. So dark it’s suffocating, but I feel the blood. Thick, warm, clinging to my skin. Alive.
The knife hums in my palm, cold, familiar like Dad’s old pocketknife. He’d let me hold it, just for a minute, if I stayed quiet. Shh.
Quiet now. Except for the dripping. Plip. Plop. Like Mom’s sink. Dad never fixed it.
She’s still breathing. Barely. Sandpaper on wood. Her eyes find mine—wide, pleading.
Lavender. Her shampoo.
The ground tilts, cold grass meets my cheek. Sirens? Maybe. I should run, but I’m frozen.
Her eyes, still open, searching—finding nothing. Not anymore.
Rotisserie of Bad Decisions
Frankie (grimacing): “Have you ever thought about whether we’re just sausages turning on a rotisserie of bad decisions?”
Bob: “Why would I want to think about that?”
Frankie: “You think I can stop? Do you know what it’s like when your brain won’t let things go? Like, ‘Do you remember that time in third grade when you peed your pants during the school play?’”
Bob: “Do you think maybe a therapist would help?”
Frankie: I tried that. And do you know, she quit after three sessions? How can someone just walk away, saying something about the ‘hopeless absurdity of the human condition’?
Gluten Bomb
“So let me get this straight,” Gary said, wiping blood from his knuckles with a napkin he’d stolen from a Starbucks, “we’re robbing a vegan donut shop because you’re mad they named a gluten-free, kale-flavored monstrosity after your ex-wife?”
Tony nodded, casually stuffing a grenade into his fanny pack, “Yeah, well, when you call it ‘The Carol,’ you’re asking for an explosive critique, you know?”