The Stare

He would always stare at the same house every time we walk past it. It was as if he’s waiting for someone inside to acknowledge his presence. Questions of confusion always seem to arise as I walked behind him. Why is he staring? What motive does he have by doing this? Would those that live in the house think that he’s a stalker waiting for the right moment to strike? Is there something special about that particular house that intrigues him? Or is he simply staring at it out of pure want or desire? If that’s true, then it’s the weirdest desire I have ever seen and I know desire. I’m friends with the Devil after all.

One afternoon, I decided to take a stroll around the neighbourhood sans powers. As I turned the corner, I saw him walking ahead, his head turned as he stared intently at the house. When he disappeared from sight, I made my way toward the house, determined to get to the bottom of this mystery. The house doesn’t look like much, with it’s faded yellow paint and a roof covered with moss. The yard was covered with weed and wildflowers, and some small shrubs along the edge. Raising a befuddled eyebrow, I once again attempted to deduce the reason why the mystery person takes pleasure in staring at the structure every time he passes by. Changing back to my normal self, I let my curiosity take charge, leading me toward the residence.

I raised a hand to knock on the white, wooden door. A shave and a haircut. I then waited for a few minutes, thinking that whoever’s inside will come to answer the door. After a short while, I remained standing outside, my Pegasus wings outstretched behind me. Coming to the conclusion that no one is home, I turned on my heel and walked back along the narrow pathway toward the sidewalk. Just as I was about to step on the sidewalk, the door of the house opened, and an elderly woman stepped out onto the porch. She appeared hagged and her clothes were starting to fall apart at the seams. The only striking feature about her is her light blue eyes that appeared unseeing.

“Hello,” I said, turning around to face the woman. “My name is Asanashia Renoir, I live around here.” The woman looked me up and down and said in a gravelly voice, “What’s a girl like you doing in this part of the neighbourhood?” Feeling like a kid with their hand caught in the cookie jar, I explained to the woman that I’ve seen a strange man walk past her house and he would often stare at it as he was walking past.

“Oh, him,” the woman said with a hint of recognition. “He’s my son. Though it’s odd that you would see him.” At her words, my mind became more confused than it ever had. “What do you mean?” I asked. The old woman then said, “My son has passed away for many years, I guess that he missed me and wants to come home but can’t because the dead cannot interact with the living.” My eyes widened as I absorbed her words. I saw a fucking ghost.

Misdelivered

“Hey, the mail’s here!” My brother exclaimed as he came up the stairs. I half-expected to be the new hat I ordered from Amazon a few days ago but then remembered that it won’t be delivered until sometime next week. Turning around in my chair, I asked, “Any letters?” My brother handed me the small pile, and I looked through them one by one.

“Bill, bill, donation letter, advertisements…hey, this isn’t ours,” I said, holding up one of the letters. The street is right, but the house number and postal code are not ours. The name of the recipient wasn’t Mom or either one of us. I inwardly sighed at the postal faux pas but decided to let it slide. Mistakes happen, and almost every address looks the same sometimes.

“Should we return it?” My brother asked, breaking the brief silence. “Yeah, I’ll go return it after lunch, wouldn’t want these people to miss paying their gas bill,” I said, putting the letter on my dresser, making a mental note to return it after I’ve had some food in my system.

After wolfing down my lunch, I quickly penned a note on a Post-It and stuck it on the letter. I then made my way downstairs and went out the door. When I reached the house, I went up the steps and rang the doorbell. Seconds turned into minutes, and no one came to answer the door. I rang the doorbell again, thinking that they didn’t hear me the first time. I was met with silence and a closed door once again, and I turned around to leave, figuring I’ll try again later. As I descended the steps, I noticed an old, rusty mailbox on the wall beside the door.

Maybe I should put the letter in there instead. I thought, trying to figure out what to do. Though what if they don’t check it? What if the mailbox is for decoration? Then again, no one in their right mind would think to use a mailbox as outdoor decor. Heaving a sigh, I decided to come back a little later to return the letter in person. If worse comes to worst, I’ll put it in the mailbox and hope for the best. 

The Gingerbread Witch

Asanashia paused as she strolled through the woods. Her black cat ears twitched as she listened to the sounds of the forest. Her telekinetic powers have been drained after a lengthy battle and to use what remained would be illogical and would render her vulnerable. The vampiress stretched out her beautiful wings, expanding every feather. She closed her eyes and breathed out a relaxing breath, letting the stress of the day melt away.

Suddenly, the smell of cinnamon and spice hit her nose. Asanashia opened her midnight blue orbs and saw that the trees were made of peppermint, and the flowers have somehow changed to gumdrops. The ground underneath her feet morphed into chocolate bricks that seemed to hold its shape as her high-heeled boots clacked upon the surface. “What the fuck is going on?” The vampiress muttered as she took in her new surroundings. “If this is some sort of prank, there will be Hell to pay!” Asanashia yelled. “Where’s the Devil when you need her?” The vampiress grumbled as she walked cautiously forward.

Seeing a light up ahead, the vampiress threw reason out the window and flapped her wings to fly toward it, the scent of cinnamon getting stronger as she got closer. Asanashia tried hard not to gag at the overpowering smell, using her sleeve as a makeshift mask. She landed as gracefully as she could and gasped at the structure before her. It was a cottage-like house made entirely of gingerbread.

“Oh my goddess,” Asanashia breathed. “It’s a bloody gingerbread house.” A chuckle then escaped her as she mumbled, “What is this? A twisted version of Hansel and Gretal?” The vampiress then heard voices coming from inside the house. She quietly made her way to one of the windows and saw a woman standing in front of what looked like a fireplace. She appeared to be stirring something inside a large pot. Oh sure, get all cliche on me and put a bloody witch inside a fucking gingerbread house now why don’t you? Asanashia thought, rolling her eyes in annoyance.

The graham cracker door of the gingerbread house then swung open, and a soft, feminine voice called out, “You can come in, my dear, there’s nothing to be afraid of.” Odd, she doesn’t sound like a witch. Then again, they have been grossly misrepresented. Asanashia mused, contemplating whether or not she should enter the house. “If you think I’m going to fall for your tricks, you better think again. I’m not as gullible as small children are.” The vampiress said, not moving from her spot.

“I assure you, vampiress, I am not the kind of witch that lures innocent children to my home and devour them like some kind of heartless monster.” The woman replied, revealing herself in the doorway. She had the appearance of Cate Blanchett’s Galadriel but with much darker blonde hair and wore a flowy black dress instead of white. “Nevertheless, you still haven’t given me a reason to trust you or believe what you say is true,” Asanashia said, crossing her arms.

The witch hummed in response and chanted something under her breath. The vampiress was about to use her powers to defend herself when she fell into a deep hypnotic trance, her eyes were lifeless as the witch smiled at her handiwork. “Looks like I will have to show you the truth, my dear,” The witch said as she led the spellbound vampiress into her abode of baked goods and sugar.

Ghost Run

I wasn’t supposed to see him, but there he was, staring at me from inside what seems to be an abandoned house. I don’t believe in ghosts or in the supernatural for that matter, so the fact that I can see one is a complete shock to me. My brain is telling me to run away as far as my legs can carry me. Though my curiosity kicked in and I found myself walking toward the house.

I knocked on the faded wood of the door, and it creaked open, revealing an empty living room covered with cobwebs. He stood before me, silent as a statue. “Why were you watching me?” I asked, my voice shaking with fear. The ghost said nothing, his empty eyes bore into mine. “Can you even talk?” I pressed, taking a step forward. Still no response. “Fine, if you ain’t going to talk, I’m bloody leaving!” I said, throwing my arms up in frustration.

“Wait!” A floaty voice said as I was about to cross over the threshold. Now he starts talking. I thought, mentally rolling my eyes. I turned around to face the ghost and crossed my arms, waiting for him to continue. “I apologize for watching you, it wasn’t intentional.” He began. “Not intentional?” I replied incredulously. “You were looking out through the window like some creepy old man! What was I supposed to think?!” I exclaimed.

The ghost bowed his head in shame. “My deepest apologies.” He said quietly. “I have been trapped here on this earthly plane for quite some time, and I’ve never gotten the chance to truly cross over.” My eyebrows shot up at his words. “So are you like a real world version of  The Haunted Mansion?” I asked. The ghost cocked his head to one side and said, “I don’t know this ‘haunted mansion’ that you’re speaking of. Is this place real? Are there other ghosts like me?” He inquired.

Wow. Someone needs to get a television in here STAT! I thought, shaking my head in disbelief. “If you’re trapped here, how can you get out? Do you have to break some sort of curse or something?” The ghost merely shrugged, saying that he doesn’t know how. “Will you help me?” He asked. I hesitated. I have a marathon to train for! I don’t have time to help a ghost cross over to the other side! Then again, I won’t be stared at anymore. I thought. “Okay, I’ll help you.”

The Cost of Choice

She chose to give it up. To have a normal life where she can be her own woman and make her own decisions. She never thought that one day, her choice would come at a cost.

One night, she was walking home from a long day at school. She had stood up for a friend who was being picked on by a bully. The punch to the nose she gave the bully was a warning. If he ever picked on her friend again, that punch will feel like a mosquito bite compared to what she will do to him. The bully rubbed blood off his nose with the back of his hand, his eyes glaring at her as he got up and ran. Her friend then embraced her, thanking her for coming to her rescue.

That’s what I get for dishing out some well-deserved punishment. She thought, shaking her head. The principal had called her into her office after the incident and lectured her on how violence never solved anything. Yeah, tell me something I don’t know. She mused, resisting the powerful urge to roll her eyes in annoyance. The principal then lets her off with a warning, saying that if this ever happened again, she will be suspended for a week.

Snapping out of her thoughts, she rounded a corner to head down the street that led up to her house. When she arrived at her doorstep, she found that the door was unlocked. “Mom? Dad? Kalenia? Are you there?” She called as she entered the house. Everything was still there, so it’s not a robbery. She ventured deeper inside the house and saw a tall winged figure standing in the middle of the living room.

“Who are you and what are you doing in my home?” She demanded. The winged figure turned to her and said in a condescending tone, “You know perfectly well who I am, Lightbringer. Or have all these years on the earthly plane made you forget your true heritage?” The young woman was taken aback with shock. Lightbringer? What is he talking about? I’m just an ordinary high school student! She thought frantically. Seeing the overwhelmed expression on her face, the winged creature said, “It seems that you truly have lost your memory, Lightbringer.” He then raised a hand, emitting a blast of pure light. “It’s time to remember who you are, Lucy Morningstar!”

Fake Mom

Holidays are not really my thing. I mean, I don’t even celebrate my own birthday anymore. Yet there’s something different about Mother’s Day. I used to make my Mom handmade cards with handwritten messages and a small gift or two. She would thank me for the gifts and cards with a hug, and I would be smiling like an idiot for the rest of the day. This Mother’s Day, however, would be one for the history books.

I was driving home from school to visit my mom. My father is often away on business trips so I hardly ever see him. Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents. It’s just that he wasn’t there for my brother and me when we were growing up. I turned onto the street that led to my childhood home and parked in front of the house. The place hasn’t changed one bit over the years. Sure it’s been re-painted, but it’s still the same house that I remember. I then got out of the car after grabbing the bouquet of flowers. I was about to raise a hand to ring the doorbell when the door suddenly opened to reveal a petite, silver-haired woman.

“Hi, Mom,” I greeted. “Happy Mother’s Day!” I exclaimed, handing her the dark pink carnations. “Oh, thank you, sweetheart! I love them! Come in, you must be tired from your drive! Didn’t I tell you to fly here instead of driving?” My mother chastised. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Some things never change I thought as I went into the house. “Where’s that brother of mine?” I asked as I went up the stairs to put my suitcase in my old room. 

“He’s out with some friends, he’ll be back for dinner.” Mom said. “What about Dad? Is he coming back from San Diego today?” My mother didn’t respond as she opened the door to my bedroom. “You just worry about unpacking, and I’ll worry about your father.” She said before heading back downstairs. I knew that something is bothering her, but I didn’t want to put a damper on things. It’s Mother’s Day, after all. I concluded as I half-dragged, half-carried my suitcase into my room.

By the time I finished unpacking and made my way back downstairs, I saw that my brother had returned and my father is sitting on the loveseat with a mystery woman beside him. She had reddish brown hair, and she looked a little like me. They were talking with my mother in hushed voices as I descended the stairs. “Hi, Dad,” I said, getting my father’s attention. “Who is your friend?” I asked, turning my gaze to the woman. Dad then stood up, the woman doing the same. He turned to me and what he said turned my entire world upside down. “Jenna, this is Lynn. She is your mother.”

The Blame

I dreamed I was in a beautiful penthouse,

The one I used to live in.

There were people I barely recognized,

Sitting in the living room.

Cold, hard glares,

Were upon their emotionless faces.

I asked them what was wrong,

But they never said a word.

Then one spoke up,

Raising an accusatory finger.

“It’s all your fault!” She yelled, mentioning me by name,

Placing me with all the blame.