Kidnapped

You sit there in the room. Your knees are against your chest and your forehead rests on the exposed flesh; long tendrils of golden wheat locks fall forward and just barely brush against the carpet flooring. The small bit of light that comes from the candle on the side table catches on your greasy roots. You haven’t taken a shower yet; I haven’t let you because things aren’t ready for your movement around the house. I haven’t finished the downstairs. Of course, I’d cursed myself for this; I’d been too eager to bring you home and to have you with me. That’s OK, though. You’re understanding. You don’t fault me for this mishap.

Jacoby

He didn’t understand what to do. Jacoby was at a loss for words, though his mind was on a never-ending marathon. One sentence racing right past the next.

This isn’t happening. I’m dreaming. Everyone’s lying. This is all a nightmare.

What Could Layla Do?

A short story I’ve worked on to bring awareness to rape survivors and the importance in listening to them. This creative piece shows the double-standard in society and the effects that our actions can have on others. Warning: This content portrays rape, self-harm, and domestic abuse and may be triggering to some people.

Garden Of Arms

Chris had been fascinated with the Garden of Arms since they were a small child.

The Red Lolli

It was Harry’s Supermarket
The place we all knew
The place we all went to.

Game On

I dive into the back of the taxi, chest heaving as the scent of fake leather and fast food wraps around my body.

            “Thomas!”

Blueberry Deception

There’s something weird about the way scents permeate the air; the way they can tickle the senses and stimulate the memory banks of the brain. It’s weird, and some so utterly lovely.

Steam

I toss my gaze to the window, squinting the tired blear from my eyes. Old street lamps sit along the sidewalk, their lights stretching to enter this dark room. I curl my body forward, sitting up and removing the arm of my unknown night guest. My fingers curl around a large T-shirt; theirs or mine, I’ve not a clue.

My Keurig whirs to life in the kitchen and my senses awaken as my tired limbs carry me towards the machine. The scent of heavenly coffee drifts to my nose, wrapping around my fogged brain; I hold the filled mug close to my face, watching as the steam rises, telling the secrets of last night.

Time

I keep my secrets to myself. Jumping, skipping, hopping all around, the knowing grin curling my chapped and cracked lips. Soft, melodic notes reverberate against my vocal cords; all is right in the world, but I know.

I know I can only keep the charade going for so long. What I release on those lined pages of the leather-bound notebook, tucked away beneath my pillows are far worse than the monsters under my bed.

Power

Note: This features topics of sexual child abuse and rape that may be triggering.

It was the small things that set off the memories; the tick, tick, ticking of the clock in the living room as the wooden pendulum swung back and forth, back and forth; the smell of peppermint gum on my friend’s breath, or of the candy cane I ate at Christmas; even the taste of the air in my house had vomit burning the back of my throat.