Monsters

monsters


"Did you fall asleep?"

"No."

"Were you waiting for the monsters to come?"

"No."

"But, did they?"

"No."

"Then, why - why, my dear, were you in the forbidden room?"

Silent. I remain silent.

"Answer me."

"Forbiddance," I say. "I performed a forbidden deed in the forbidden room."

He smiles. "So now we're being smart?"

"No. Now we are honest."

His eyes narrow, yellow slits in the dark. "How did you get in?"

"The door was open."

"You expect me to believe the door was open for you to simply waltz in?" he sneers.

"Not waltz, walk."

He pushes from his chair, his fingers around my neck.

I do not flinch.

"What did you do?"

"I stood."

The forbidden room. The room with the bed and the nightstand - the room where the monsters lived when I first walked. Fifteen years of running away from dreams threaded with darkness, and I went back.

I am no longer afraid.

Because he is the monster and they are the light.

Grace

The picture that inspired this story is here.

The wind rustled the ends of her hair, lifting it in a way that if the wind was stronger, she’d fly away, up over the roof tops and city people staring at her. She could fly away from anything that pained her and land in a place of happiness. Renew herself. Crack out of the shell of the girl that once was and emerge as a beautiful butterfly.

Grace. She’d rename herself Grace. The way it sounded coming from her mouth, so elegant, made her smile. She’d be elegant. She’d be kind and loved by all.

Grace tipped her head back, staring up at the blue, blue sky. Maybe if she stared at it she wouldn’t see the ground racing to meet her. Wouldn’t hear the crunch of her bones; the squish of blood pouring from her. The snap of her life gone as she hit pavement.

She sat down, dangling her legs over the edge. It felt freeing—daring—to be half over the ledge. One slip and whoosh. Goodbye.

“What are you doing out here?” A boy leaned out of the window, staring at her in utter amazement and frightfulness. His hair was blond and messy, like he rolled out of bed. His eyes blue, like the sky, and sleepiness was mixed with the other emotions.

“Reevaluating.”

He slid out of the window and sat next to her. “Why?” He smelled like cinnamon. She wanted to bury her face in his jacket. But that wouldn’t be very graceful, and she intended on acting like her new name.

She tilted her head at him. Parted her cracked, pink lips. They still looked soft. “Because life is hell.”

“Jumping will be hell, too.”

She didn’t skip a beat. “Not unless you let yourself go while falling. You won’t feel a thing.”
He stared at her for a long time; from her dyed black hair and red roots to the combat boots she wore under the plaid skirt. He guessed she was an artist struggling to make it in the big, bad world. He held up his hands, dry, but covered in paint. He smiled.

“It isn’t that bad, you know.” He leaned forward, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. He whispered, “I hope you haven’t let yourself go,” and pressed his lips to her cheek. She gasped, turning her head toward his. Their breath mingled, then their lips and tongues. Wave after wave of emotion crashed inside her and he pressed her down on the ledge, one leg of hers still dangling; they stayed like that for a few minutes, hands tangled in hair while their mouths danced. He pulled her into the studio apartment with him.

“Toby,” he said, his lips brushing hers as he talked. She felt solid with floor under her feet. Walls under her touch as he pushed her into the corner. Ceiling overhead. Safe. The shell of the girl was broken; out came a new girl. A new butterfly.

“Grace.”

Guest Story: Orange Tulips by Laina

Today's short story is from Laina, one of our other critique partners who doesn't normally write short stories. It's a gorgeous story--very short--and very depressing. Enjoy! 

“I miss you.”

            I know.

            “I still don’t understand why you left with him.”

            I know that, too.

            “Were you cheating on me?”

            No.

            “Were you going to?”

            Maybe. I don’t know. I’d like to think I wouldn’t have, but we’ll never know now, will we? And that’s probably a good thing.

            “I never even saw you drink before.”

            I know. It wasn’t the first time, but it wasn’t a regular occurrence either. And I was angry that you blew me off to go out with your friends, so I went out with mine and  I was angry that I thought you were pulling away and I was… I was angry about a lot of things. Most, if not all, of them were my fault.

            “You know I would have come gotten you if you called me, right?”

            Yeah, of course I do, but I didn’t want to see you. You were pretty much the last person I wanted to see.

            “If you didn’t want to see me, you should have gotten a cab.”

            I know. Getting into a car with someone who’d been drinking was the stupidest thing I ever did.

            “I’m sorry I haven’t come and seen you before.”

            It’s okay. I don’t hang around here a lot either. If you haven’t noticed, there’s not a whole lot going on.

            “It’s not that I don’t miss you. I miss you more than you know. But…”

            Babe, I know. I really do. It makes you sad. Trust me, I don’t want you to be sad.

            “I still love you.”

            Me too.

            Kneeling down, he sets the flowers gently on my grave. Tulips, my favourites, and orange, the colour I wore on the day I died. The last time he saw me. I hop off the headstone and bend down to kiss his cheek, even though neither of us can feel it anymore.

            “Goodbye.”

            Goodbye.

about the author: 

Laina can be found at her book review blog, Twitter, and Facebook. She has a short story, Zombie Girl, published in the Zombie Survival Crew anthology Undead Is Not an Option. 

Wicked Blood

This story includes blood and gruesome events. I (the author) advise people with weak stomachs to not read this unless they desperately want to. Thanks!

music: In The End -- Linkin Park

The fairy lifted its head, its mouth covered in blood. It blinked and cocked its head before placing one of its long claw-like fingers in its mouth and sucked at it. It smiled, showing pointy teeth, and dug into the deer’s carcass. It took out the heart and made a bloody mess as it ate it.

The girl had frozen when she stumbled upon the eating site. Everybody knew a fairy attacked when it was disturbed while eating. It was why she stopped, rocks digging into her bare feet, the wind whipping her nightgown around, her tears clinging to her cheeks.

From weheartit.com

Maybe she wanted to die when she took a step and another one until she was standing in front of the carcass and the fairy.

Her life was hard at home. Ever since her sister died from a fairy attack, her parents can’t stand to look at her, or talk to her. The silence made her insane. Her only companion the ticking of the clock and the silence. Always the silence.

She crouched in the dead leaves coated in the deer’s blood and stared into the fairy’s black eyes. They continued to stare at each other as she reached into the body and pulled out an organ; she didn’t know what it was, but she still took a bite out of it. Blood and other liquids ran down her chin and neck, staining her nightie.

She ate the whole thing, never blinking, always staring into the empty abyss of the fairy’s eyes.

She wiped a hand across her mouth. The fairy opened its mouth. “You shouldn’t have done that.” The fairy’s voice was low and gravely, not what she expected. She didn’t think the fairy could talk and not so well. Its lips pulled away from its teeth when it talked, the teeth gleaming in the moonlight.

It attacked her. It flew across the deer, its claws sinking into her shoulders and its teeth into her throat. Her mouth was opened, but no sound came out. The fairy had already ripped out her throat. Her eyes stared upwards, into the moon.

More fairies came and they dug their nails into her skin, pulling away layer and layer while they ate it like chips. Blood ran and they licked at it. A few giggled. A few traced their nails around her remaining skin before plunging in.

Her life didn’t end until the main fairy yanked out her heart and ate it.

She didn’t scream, not even once, but she had a smile plastered on her face when she died.

Auditorium

A little note first: You've probably noticed we didn't post any stories in April, nor any stories relating to April's theme. Life problems have been prominent for all four of us, prohibiting some new stories. We're also going to go with a more rolling process - when we have a story to post, it'll be posted. Themes won't always be there.

That being said... Here's a story from Kaitlin:

Auditorium

I sit quietly. Alone. In the dark. A ghost light stands at center stage, but it doesn’t help lead my way.

I tap my heel on the ground, the clap resounding throughout the auditorium. Perfection. My muse is alive, reborn through the stillness of a frozen theater. I pull out my notebook and begin to write.

Not far down the page, the click of a door sounds from behind me. I snap my notebook shut, spinning to see an intruder.

He walks silently, the flat bottoms of his shoes refusing to make a sound. So unlike mine. He walks with his hands deep in his pockets, his head ducked low.

When he looks up, he catches my eye. My hand rolls into a fist against my notebook, crushing my pen. Such audacity he has to scare away my muse.

He continues walking until he is by me seat. He sits next to me. I freeze.

His hair is blonde and his eyes are silver and his foot is touching mine, brushing it ever so slightly. What’s he doing?

He glances to the ghost light and then back to me. “Do you know what ghost lights are for?”

I nod.

He smiles slightly. “Do you perform?”

I stare at the stage, slowly inching my notebook away from him. I whisper, “I write.”

“That’s a great thing,” he says back. His voice is like a promise. It’s smooth, quiet, and doesn’t seem to end. It’s always there, seeping into your mind and soul.

“And you?” I say as a shiver runs down my spine. His foot, than his leg, had brushed mine again.

“I performed.”

Performed? Past tense?

I flash a curious glance at him. He doesn’t notice, only stares back at the ghost light. He sighs, “I’ve seen you here often.”

He knows. He knows I come in the theater to write. My stomach churns. I’m not used to people talking to me, telling me I’m not invisible. Especially not boys with little smiles and wide, blue eyes. I stay silent.

His voice softens a little. “I think you’re beautiful.”

My spine shoots straight. No, boys never said that. I avoid looking at him. “I’ve never seen you before…”

He hesitates, “I… I don’t always come out.”

I turn to look at him, opening my mouth to respond. But, instead he’s leaned in close. He presses his lips, soft and thin, against mine. I close my eyes.

And then his whisper of a kiss disappears and we’re looking into each other’s eyes. He pulls my hand into his. “I want to give you this.”

I stare down at my hand, a perfect little penny pressed into my palm. The year 2007. Four years ago.

He whispers, cold breath tickling my spine, “That’s the year I died.”

My head shoots up, ready to give him another curious look.

But he’s gone.

In The Dark

This story is inspired by Gone by Matt Nathanson! I like his music. I think you should too. Listen to Gone while reading my story, okay? OKAY. :D p.s. I know the formatting is messed up. There's only so much time I can spend with blogger before I'm so frustrated I'm cussing between words.

It’s not because I’m a private person.

Or because I like to be alone.

All of our happy moments happened here, our feet dangling in the water as the sun warmed our back. My fingers would dig into the soil, shifting through the centuries old dirt, finding new treasures. Smooth, rough, round, lumpy, plain, colored. They were all beautiful rocks and I kept them in the box Joe gave me.

He kissed me here, too. Our first kiss ever, and whenever I close my eyes, I can feel his lisps brushing across mine, my heart pitter-pattering. It was the feeling of freedom, that I could do anything, when he kissed me.

I can still smell summer, freshly mowed grass and barbecue smoke rising from the condo complex across the river. The warmth from the sun disappearing and the water tickling my numb feet as it turned colder, night growing near.

His touch on my lower back, each finger making my stomach do somersaults. He’d rub my back and my stomach would flip flop again and again. Then his hand would rest on my legs, and I would suddenly notice the little prickly hairs from not shaving.

Those summer nights were perfect. We would sit on the bank, toes dipping into the water and our lips moving together. Each touch brought us closer.  

When I open my eyes, all I see is snow; dirty snow on the ground, silent snow falling from the sky. Everywhere is snow.

Everything warm I remember is gone: his touch, his love, the sun, the laughter. Happiness is replaced with sadness.

When summer was gone, so was the Joe I knew. Winter brought along a scarier Joe.

I touch the bruise forming on my cheek and blink back tears.  

Lightbulb Moment

A redhead girl scratches her head, chewing on the pencil. "Hm." Then: lightbulb moment. She grabs a few napkins, scribbling whatever idea popped into her brain down on the napkin.  Another girl slides onto the chair next to her. Red grins at her.

"Hi," she says. 

"Hi," Red replies. "I have a brilliant idea."

"Oh?"

Red smiles again, bouncing in her seat. "Yeah! You want to start a short story blog with me?"

"OHMYGOD, YES."

Red twirls in her chair, her hair flying behind her. "Yay!" She pulls out her phone, tapping away quickly. "This is going to be so much fun."

"It will be." And Red's email flies through the Internet-sphere, reaching some of her favorite people, who also agree to be contributors to the blog.

And that, my friends, is how Literature and Coffee came to life. Stay awhile. Grab a latte and take off your shoes. 


You're in for a treat.