River Voices

642 Things to Write About: You are about to take a nap by a river, and as you are dozing off, the rush of the river begins to sound like words. What does the river say to you? What does it want you to do?

Spring arrives by thawed rivers and lakes, in the flowers blooming in every yard. I stroke the soft, cool, dark green grass and close my eyes. I feel myself drifting like the lazy river winding around me. Then I hear it. The bubbling, rumbling of the river over rocks sounds like a voice. Oh no, not here too. I'm napping on the riverside to escape the songs and voices that mumble through the box-fan at home.

I groan and try to ignore it, concentration instead on the suns' heat soaking through my lids.

"Sopphhiieee..." a voice whispers up like mist from the water's rippling surface. I don't open my eyes and I don't dare move. "Sophie," it says again, "I know you can hear me now. All this time I was trying to contact you through the fan. I should have known a more natural approach would be more successful."

I must be dreaming. I open my eyes and look around, I'm alone. There's a swirl of water spiraling in the center of the river. I swallow and take a step away. The swirl lifts up from the water and the voice returns. "You're the only one who can help me."

City Raccoons

642 Things to Write About: Write a story from the point of view of raccoon. What is the city like at night? Why do you knock over garbage cans? Do you get along with other raccoons?

Fortunately, I belong to  small tribe, the City Racs. It's easier that way. The lonely ones receive no help, they stick out and become loathed. They give raccoons a bad name, knocking over cans, causing commotion, mayhem, and awareness.

In a group you can create a raccoon ladder, quietly climb up the fury bodies of your fellow raccoons and remove thrown away food in a quiet and more dignified manner. Not that all is swell in the City Racs group. There are a lot of squabbles over scarps and fights to earn more stripes.

Not all are cut out for city life, either. It's busy and crowded. There's a lot of struggle for territory and a constant need to feel part and protected by and in the group. I wasn't always part of the City Rac group. I know how it is to be a loner out there. That's why I'll do anything to stay here, among the group. I'm the bottom of the ladder, I'm the bandit of the bunch.

The Girl Who Saw the Universe

642 Things to Write About: you meet a girl who, when she closes her eyes, can see the entire universe. Tell us about this girl.

She hovers over the ground, toes pointed down, skirting the floor. Sparks, like stars, sprinkle in her wake. When she closes her eyes her body goes still and her lids light up purple and blue, rapidly swirling and morphing from one color to another. She opens her mouth and lets out a breath filled with spiraling galaxies and clouds of stars. Her eyes twitch under her colorful lids and her cheeks turn rosy.

She opens her eyes. She smiles and stars fall to her feet, floating above the ground with her.

She is the girl who can see the universe.

Magnetic

642 Things to Write About: One morning Jessica wakes up and realizes she is magnetic.

Fingers tingled again. All of Jessica's skin buzzed with something she could only describe as electric. Why did she keep waking up with such a strange feeling? When she reached for her metal framed alarm clock, always a hair's width too far to reach, it seemed to jump into her hand with a cold slap.

Well, that didn't happen the previous morning. Jessica turned the alarm off and shook it out of her hand. The buzz stretched out from her fingers like an electric shock from too much friction.

When she walked down the stairs, her mom humming in the kitchen, the keys on the walkway table rattled, fell to the floor and skidded to her feet.

"What the...?"

Jessica kicked the keys away and ran to the kitchen, only to have her stomach smacked by a spoon. Her mom turned around to see Jessica pulling it away and it stick to her fingers.

"I see it's started," her mom said with a glee, a smile wide on her thin face.

Peculiar Girl and Snow

The snowflake lingered on Stay's outstretched hand. It didn't melt upon contact, turning into a regular drop of water to be collected in a minuscule vial and placed on her shelf of rain. It remained full and intact. A tiny, delicate cut of the world, a piece of shattered cloud fallen merrily to her hand. Stay had been outside in the snow for hours, cooling her hands for just this.

The icy design sat on a knuckle. The flake was a cathedral of ice, filled with spires and dancing light - a thing to pray to. another flake joined it, this one more rounded, with delicate cut-out pieces and swooping lines from point to point. The flakes faded. They could not last forever on her skin that insisted on being warm for short bursts of time.

No matter how long Stay stood outside, surrounded by sugared trees and bushes caked in ice, no mater where she stood, whether by the lake as it creaked under the pressure of heaps upon heaps of snow, luxurious and soft, or standing on the roof of her house, slick like an ice slide seducing her to her doom, she could not become or remain cold enough. She remained strong and steadfast, standing tall and sure either at the edge of the ice on the roof or at the lake. But neither place made a difference. Her blood would take the tiny sting, as the flakes landed, away. She would always enjoy it from afar, the snow, dusting the world in a haze of melted lines and cold calm.

Cold and calm. That is how the snow made Stay feel. She preferred the cold. To let the warmth from her blood leech out into the dry air like a wet huff, an exhalation of glorious remorse. She could stand, still as an ice sculpture, as the world pushed down from all sides.The cold took it all away, in a hush of white-noise. Every time it snowed she stepped out into it and it fell on her like a hug. A hug from a friend she always looked forward to seeing.

© Ash Huntley 12/2013

Peculiar Girl and Rain

Stay corked the small vial containing a handful of raindrops. It would go on the shelf with a hundred other vials, some identical, others vastly different. Some were huge and others tiny, with only one drop inside. Each represented a different rain. If it rained for days continually, it would be just one vial. A vial for each unique storm or rain; something that came and went and could never return as it was in that moment.

Constant. Sometimes it was constant. Water falling from the sky in grey sheets, blurring everything in its nothingness. The world becoming out of focus, except for the rain. How could the sky hold so much water? Why were the clouds not falling down? Stay supposed that perhaps that was exactly what the clouds were doing - falling. The rain pours, thunders, smashes and pushing on the windows, demanding to be let in. Leaves swirl to the ground softly, without a sound, like a spring rain. When winter crawls through the drops, it howls and snaps at your heels, taunting.

Stay could live in the rain. She never felt uncomfortable or in danger from storms. No mater the ferocity. No matter the height of lightning nor the breadth of thunder, the rain was beautiful. Even if the strikes of lightning took away her lights inside, she could always use her oil lamps, hanging in abundance along the hallway walls. If the thunder shook her home with a deep crack and knocked something down, Stay wouldn't mind. She didn't mind when it shook a cobalt blue and ivory plate down, shattering it into a dozen little pieces. She made it into something even more beautiful than when it was whole. She drilled a hole into each piece, tied string to it and created a wind chime. Each storm after, the wind chime danced and trilled.

Storms make everything dull and grey, heavy and drooped. The life of the world naturally wanted to reach up and spread out. In the rain, nature told everything to hush, be quiet, calm down. Rain was forever nourishing. Water gave life to everything on Earth. It was smooth, clear and shiny. Small droplets or immense, forever spanning oceans. Stay wanted to see an ocean. A love affair between water and salt. It allowed fishes to glow in vibrant pinks and blues and for people to float happily along their beaches. The ocean was a place full of tears.

Stay once read about a pink see. Made pink from a certain algae that also gave the sea a high concentration of salt. It was the most buoyant place on earth. Pink waters, white sands, what a strange and wonderful place that would be to sleep in the waters.

Now, Stay sat on her porch step, a thin metal roof over hanging, keeping most of the rain off. She didn't mind getting wet though. Each time lighting flashed, Stay felt the smile on her face grow. There was no joy quite like watching lighting crawl through the sky. Like the roots or branches of a tree, or the veins of her body. the fundamentals of life lay in a storm: water and veins. The energy cracked with a force, blinding her, showing her home in a brilliant light, like a splash of day in a deep and dark night.

She didn't mind baths or showers, but she preferred to bath in the lake. It took her years after her mother's disappearance to bring herself to back in. When she did, the water lapped around her waist, coaxing her to go further. Her skin bumped in tiny dots as chills ran down her arms and spine. The sun slowly warmed her, told her it was ok. The lake was still, clear. Stay watched her toes wiggle into the clay, kicking up small bursts of clouds, and pebbles rolled away, tumbling on top of each other, tickling her feet.

Stay put her head underneath the surface and opened her eyes. It was like she had finally awakened. Finally understood. Her mother was not returning. Stay was alone, and that was ok. A fish swam by, skirting close to her hand.

When she resurfaced, it was raining. She had always loved rain. Stay and her mother used to dance in it, the used to wash their hair in the rivulets running down from the roof in great streams, like their own little waterfall. The sound would per her to sleep, when she finally manged to go to bed. Then, her first visit back to the lake, it had become something more. A sign. She was alone, yes, she was only as alone a creature could be, surrounded by the constant life that was earth.

The storm wasn't' different from any other, except it was its own. Stay corked the vial contain a handful of raindrops. The rotting leaves and moist earth intoxicated her, a smell so familiar it was like being washed away. The clear vial in the shape of a circle with a hole through the middle, like a donut, would join the other hundred vials of varying sizes, shapes and colors. Many were small bottles, some old test tubes. Most she found in the dirt, hiding like the bones on her mantel, or dredged from the lake. Brown and red apothecary jars, clear chipped test tubes and others she didn't know their past sues. The ones from the lake were her favorite. The lake spanned out further than her eyes could reach, she imagines those bottles and jars came from all over the world.

Still, many vials were bought online. She quickly ran out of her found pieces. Stay picked out bottles that spoke to her in some way. Whether unique or plan, she knew each one belonged to her when she found it, she knew the rain belonged to them.

Peculiar Girl and Cat Teeth

Cat teeth and a wolf claw, a skunk tail and assorted legs from raccoon, possums, and squirrels. Stay didn't have many bones on her mantel, but her collection grew nearly ever time she walked through the woods. They found her, in the form of a glint of yellow-white poking from brown leaves, a puff of fur nearby; sings she looked for. The only full skeleton she had were her porcupine bones, strung together and flying in front of a window. The rest lay random on the fire mantel, now with the fire silent beneath, in red and orange, mirroring autumn crawling through the windows, warming her naked toes.

The cat teeth were stacked in a small jar the size of her thumb. Molars, canines. Kitten and mature. Sharp and some with blood still clinging to the root. Ever so tiny, strong and capable. They seemed much too small to mean so much to such beasts.

Bones were strange, beautiful puzzle pieces to life. A thing most never saw while living, a beauty that only showed itself in the age of death. Stay wandered the woods and picked up the smooth bones among twigs and leaves. She marveled at the life they had, and at the energy returned the creatures returned to the world; except for that one bone.

Stay imagined assuming the role of Frankenstein. She would put the teeth on white linen, lined up in swooping rows, almost lost against the weave of the fabric. Stay watched in her minds eye as she cut her finger on a tiny tooth, the blood becoming the tooth's blood, the animal's life. The skunk bone would lye on the opposite end of the linen, ensuring a touch of the unknown, of wild mystery. Other beasts would bring her creature strength, stealth, and ferociousness.

Thumbing the bottle, stay gave it a small shake. The teeth jingled on the glass, music of life and death. A molar stock to the bottom of the cork top.

She would be no Frankenstein. She would never be able to care for an animal. Cleaning bones from the outside and dusting them, she could do. Feeding, loving and caring for a living creature other than herself, she could not.

Uncorking the jar, Stay pooled a few teeth onto her palm. How different some looked from others. Spikes and mini mountains, some with pits and others with ravines. There could be a whole minuscule world among these cat teeth. Oh, how Stay would love to live in such a world among calcified mountains.

Rivers would dig deep and trees would grow wide until they all connected, their branches grafted into one mutated web: a tree of life. The sky would turn green and the rain would be leaves. Milk flowers would grow beside the mountain and the river's water would be warm and pure from the tree's roots. This world would be free from disease. Stay imagined living in this world, alone, with no need nor desire to build separate shelter. To block out and hide away. Her bed would be moss, her cup would be bark, her shade would be the great tree of life.

Stay stretched her neck, it gave a lad pop. She had been looking so intently at the teeth in her hand a cramp had formed, snapping her out of the day dream. She carefully placed each tooth, one at a time, back into the jar.

Sigh

It came with a sigh
A release
Of peace
No retreat

It came with a sigh
Words bubbled
Poured out
Thoughts muddled


It came with a sigh
trickle, a tear
came with an unknowing
Growing fear


It came with a sigh
It left
With a cry
The one who said goodbye.

© Ash Huntley





Dust of Danika - Chapter 4

Chapter 4

These people were obsessed, what a nuisance they were creating for the world around them, a waste of news time and a waste of tax money making these two bored cops sit out here in the blistering day because some people needed to find something out of nothing. The desire to find something other-worldly from the shooting star or UFO or meteor or Alien Sight or any other name the people were calling it as Danika and Brett weaved through the people sitting cross-legged on towels, blankets and cushions. Danika understood wanting to be part of something, for a sense of community and belonging to a niche culture, this was absurd and a little crazy.

Denial rang through her mind. She probably would have tented out here with a few friends for a good time and to see what other people would do or say in the light of cameras. This situation was connected to her, was a part of her and she a part of it. She was not an outsider wondering what had happened and hoping for a peek beyond the yellow tape. Danika was not looking to mingle with other curious minds, no, she was here to eavesdrop, to listen to the incoming reports and theories. She was an insider.

“So what’s the plan?” Brett whispered as we dodged yet another man wearing a tin hat roughly shaped into a point that stuck a foot into the air.

“This was your idea?”

“But this is your thing.”

“And your idea.”

Brett stopped abruptly, causing a cluster of girls in tight t-shirts bearing green aliens giving peace sign salutes to cuss at him before circling around and continuing their wait to a food truck serving Extraterrestrial Chili, “We should have some semblance of an idea on what to do next before we actually do it.”

“Agreed.” Brett gave me a withering look. We found a shady patch of unspoken for grass and settled down.

“Hi! Do you want a t-shirt?” A bubbly petit girl with wildly curly blonde hair and heavy plastic glasses in a forest green with lenses so thick her eyes looked like a real alien's, bounced in front of us with a stack of neatly folded shirts in black and grey. The black one on top featured a night sky with a girl flying through the air, her legs melding into a shooting star like a mermaid tail.

“What other desings do you have?” Brett stood to see the other shirts the girl brought over.

“Do you know what’s going on?” I asked, nodding to the newly arrived news van setting up next to the other two. Two guys hopped out and hurried over to the group of newscasters already formed in a circle near the caution tape.

The girl looked up from the mound of t-shirts she had displayed on the grass. Crouched down, she peered through the throngs of people and shook her head slightly before turning back to Brett.

“My boyfriend just made these designs and we had them screen-printed in just a few hours, based off what people said they saw. They’re probably all crazy but…”

“I’ll take a men’s medium of the girl with the comet tail.” Brett interrupted the girl.

"So you've heard them talking?" I asked.

"Not really." The girl shifted her gaze from Brett pulling out a $20 from his wallet to the commotion of newscasters getting ready to do a new report.

"These designs are based off what people here claimed they saw? Was it your boyfriend who talked to someone and drew the design accordingly or did you just overhear a conversation and used your artistic liberties to create something to sell right back a them?

"Well everyone here is a little," the girl made a circling motion with her finger around her temple, "you know? They're all babbling about a girl falling from the sky, how original, sounds like that one movie." She took Brett's money, piled up the shirts and sauntered away to another set of people.

"Fell from the sky..." She hadn't really said that. People weren't really saying that. 

"I don't know what movie she's talking about, but it's a cool idea." Brett's smiling face turned to her, new shirt proudly on his chest, the girl was fair but there was no detail in the face, no indication if she was scared, happy, or afraid. His smile faded as he looked at her.

"That's what the men in the building said. They said I fell from the sky."

“You didn’t mention that before.”

“Did you want me to tell you every last detail? I’ve only known you for half a day.”

“Yeah but telling me you killed two men is fine.”

“I didn’t know them babbling something crazy like I fell from the sky, was important information to remember or divulge. I thought maybe being scared I killed them was more important.” I said. I groaned at the image on Brett’s shirt. A depiction of me, the girl who fell from the sky. That’s insane.

“Danika.”

“What?” I said.

“What?” Brett gave me a puzzled look.

“You said my name.”

“I didn’t.”

“Oh, I must’ve imagined it.” I sat back down on the ground, giving in to observing the commotion with the newscasters.

“Danika.” I definitely heard someone say my name. I looked up to Brett who was settling down next to me. His face was blank, playing with a twig on the ground.

“Brett, I think I’m hearing things.” My heart began to race at the idea of not only having amnesia, thinking I fell from the sky, but now hearing things too.

“Danika report to command now.” The voice again, it wasn’t quite like a man’s voice, but it definitely wasn’t a woman’s. It had a slight robotic sound to it, like two voices layered into one. I know longer see the parking lot ahead or the grass and leaves under my hands. I can feel them the dirt at my fingertips but I see a blue room and a metal table at under my hands. The voice is there again, “You understand your mission, you will be deployed today.” The carrier of the voice was pacing behind me, I knew it then, I could feel it now, but no matter how much I tried I couldn’t turn my head around to see.

“Of course.” My own voice resonated in the blue and grey room, my hands folded in front of me, determined and ready. Then it disappeared and the parking lot, trees and dirt appear again before me. Brett is staring at me with wide eyes.

“That was insane.”

“Did you see it too?”

“See? Did you see something? You were glowing, you almost looked like a hologram, straight out of star trek.”

Dreaming of the End

For the first time, I had an apocalyptic dream that scared me. Usually I enjoy apocalyptic/post-apocalyptic dreams because it's one of my favorite genres to read/write/watch and I love getting new ideas or in the weird way that dreams allow you to, feel the emotions of what's happening.

But this one was different. There was a huge storm last night, we've been getting a lot of strange and crazy storms lately which is in itself a little disconcerting and concerning, and our power was having a hard time staying on - constant brown outs. We were in bed sleeping when  I woke up to constant lightning and then a roar of wind and rain. I told myself it was OK and slowly went back to sleep, asleep to a dream that was too similar to the half-awake state of what I was thinking.

The Dream:

My husband and I were in the car on our way to the store when suddenly the entire road in front of us dropped down and all the cars, trees, poles, buildings and people disappeared into the giant hole ahead. We frantically backed up and turned our car around and came home, but the thoughts flying through my head were why go home, what will be left of our home? This is something other than a horrible storm, this is more, we need to do something other than hide in a place we think is safe but will probably not last the next 24 hours. I don't know what to do. 
End.

Those thoughts and feelings are horrible. To know your pet is probably gone. Everything you own, gone. Everything you know gone. There is nothing and nowhere you can go for help. Cellphones and internet down-no way to find out what is happening and if there is anything or anywhere you can go for safety or where you know your loved ones will be. All you have is yourself, at that moment, and that is the only guarantee you will ever have again.

It wasn't a long dream, but it was potent. I woke up in the morning to find that some disaster had struck our town. A straight wind had uprooted immense trees and destroyed some roads, our power is still a little wonky and I don't know, nor really do I want to find out, if people's homes or lives were destroyed.

I wanted to write this down so I can go back to it and understand that feeling for a future story. I've had a lot of similar dreams but this one for some reason, I guess it was the timing, had me waking up with my mind racing.

One of my favorite apocalyptic dreams was where I was on my way to my parents, driving by myself, and the sky viciously and suddenly went a dark dark grey, not quite night, but more intense than a storm, and these flashes of light hotter and whiter than lightening blazed through the sky. Then trees fell everywhere and a huge fire started in a field to my left and without anything to really indicate it, I knew aliens had arrived and humanity was in the quick process of being taken over.

The one thing about most of my dreams where I come up with story ideas is how I just suddenly know what is going on or about to happen. There's no finding out, no proof or realization over time where evidence presented itself subtly. Just me thinking "Aha! I know!" And that's it. So every time I want to turn a dream into a story I have to figure out that HUGE major part, that is, essentially the whole manuscript - ha!

Dust of Danika - Chapter 1

I became aware of myself before I knew what it meant. I knew some things but other things remained foreign. My arms and legs were tied tightly to a wooden chair with rough coiled rope. The pressure of a cold hollow room pressed upon me, the emptiness profound in its nothing. Voices echoed off the walls, ringing in my ears in an empty vibration as if I too were hollow. Voices echoed sharp and angry against thin metal sheets and fell flat and hostile on the dry cement ground.

My eyes struggled to see into the enveloping darkness facing me. I saw a towering ceiling as my eyes adjusted, at least 20 feet high, and the room spanned out in front of me until the pitch swallowed the twinkling light leaking through the cracks between the nails in the tin ceiling. Grime covered windows lined the top of the walls.

My feet were bare, the heels covered in dirt and a few fallen leaves sat beside them. My toes glowed in pale cleanliness while my heels hid in murky shadows, giving the appearance of the German version of the fabled Cinderella when the ugly sister cut off her heel in order to fit into the glass slipper. I rubbed my feet on the concrete, convincing my fear soaked mind they were whole. A knee length, deep blue cotton dress fell in tatters at my knees.  It shifted softly on my thighs like a slip. The weight of my heavy hair brushed my shoulders in comfort but I had no idea if it was blond, brown, or red.

I struggled against my bindings. I pulled and tugged at the rough coiled ropes at my wrists and feet until they were red and raw.  I tried to shake the chair to the side, but found it bolted to the ground. Not knowing why or how I got here didn’t matter, it was clear I needed to get out, and fast. My heart rate picked up, beating loud in my chest until I thought I would pass out from the force of it. I continued to struggle at the ropes on my wrists, urgently trying to loosen them before the people who owned the angry voices showed their faces.

Then they arrived.

My stomach clenched when two men appeared out of the dark. Their heavy boots thumped against the concrete floor with purpose. With new fervor my arms yanked at the restraints. I screamed in frustration and fear filled my throat with hot air. Tears itched at the corner of my eyes before releasing into a steady stream down my flushed cheeks.

Being tied to a chair meant interrogation. Interrogation meant information. These men wanted information from me but I didn’t even know who I was.

“It’s awake.” The taller of the two men growled.

They came toward me but stopped a good five feet away. Their shifting gazes and pause told me they were scared.

“Please, let me go.” My voice croaked.

Salt slipped onto my lips. I licked them, the flavor strange and wonderful, new yet strangely familiar.

“Yeh right.” The other man said. He was short and round, his belly shook as he bounced on his heels, staring at me with possession and greed as his hands dove in and out of his back pockets in anticipation. I had to look away from his grotesque form. “Yer not going anywhere til’ we get the government here and get our rightly due money.” He said before giving a great hiccup, the stench of celebratory liquor wafted, and stale smoke rode on the waves.

The sight of these men in their stained clothes and alcohol drenched breath made me lean away, pushing against the wood backing of the chair. They called me ‘it’, what the hell did they think I was?  Clearly I was a confused and dirty girl in a ruined dress. And they called government? Maybe I was a spy and I couldn't remember, maybe I took a pill to forget so I wouldn’t divulge any information.

“First we gone do some tests and stuff, before them cops show up.” The first said.

“But they said they ain’t coming unless it be to arrest us.” The chubby guy said. The tall man yelled in outrage at being talked back to and smacked the short man on the back of the head, causing him to stumble forward, closer to me.

His face shone bright red with anger at being hit. Straightening, he saw how close he stood to her and yelped, leaping back. The other man laughed before bringing out a large switch blade from his belt.

As one man retreated, the other stalked forward while eyeing me like dangerous prey. He crouched low holding his knife out. I flinched as the cold blade pressed against my calf. He pressed the blade harder and slit it along my skin. My breath caught and a squeak of horror slowly inched from my throat. When he did it again I screamed.

The sound scared me as it echoed back like a caged animal. The pain was horrible, it burned my leg and blinded my mind. I coudn't see. I feared the wound somehow broke my brain as I struggled to breathe and think. I sobbed as fear and pain fought for domination. As my vision cleared I saw dark red blood drip down my calf into a small pool gathered next to my foot. I shook, feeling lost to life, and stared in horror as the men looked on in shock at the blood. Disappointment and anger clear on their slack faces.

“You can’t fool us! You might look like a girl and bleed like a human but you ain’t!” The plump man yelled.

The taller man, clearly the leader of the two, shushed him, staring intently into my face. I looked back too scared of what he might do if I looked away, afraid weakness of not meeting his gaze would show guilt of something I didn’t understand. They didn't even believe I was human.

“Please, let me go.” I whispered again, pleading for them to see reason in their disappointment. I widened my eyes, coaxing them to see the truth. Willing them to see into my soul, I was not what they thought I was, how could I be?

“Not until them officials get here.”

They refused to see the logic missing from the statement. When the officials arrived, I would not be let go, rather transferred.

“Tell me where you’re from.”

“I…I don’t know!” I said, my voice breaking, “I don’t know who I am or anything.”

The tall man’s eyes narrowed. His knuckles whitened on the knife as he approached me, rage contorting his face, “You’re a fucking alien! You fell from the sky, you’re going to kill us all or take us over. I won’t let that happen!” he yelled into my ear as his knife slinked up to my throat.

Pure terror filled me. My eyes squeezed shut and through my lids I saw a white light. A high whine followed by a loud pop filled the room. The light dimmed, then silence. I opened my eyes expecting to see government officials crashing through the high windows, swinging on ropes with guns at the ready.

Nothing. No government officials in riot gear wielding guns, no men in suits with dark shades sauntering over, and no drunken men with knives. I felt something slide along my wrists and  glanced down to watch the ropes that held my wrists and ankles fall to the ground, singed black and broken into pieces. Tentatively, I lifted my arms up. The raised red skin encircling my wrists had a fine line of black ash along the top where the rope burned.

I hugged myself for a moment, feeling the relief of being free of the bindings. Then with a start I shot out of the chair and sprung forward, getting away from the imprisoning chair, wondering how long I had been captive to it.

My legs, unused to standing, failed me. I fell to the ground, bruising my palms. I wanted to scream but nothing came out, I had no voice left in me. I wanted to understand who and where I was. I curled onto the ground and sobbed.

Minutes later I stood up feebly, my legs still did not want to carry my weight. I took one small step at a time, expecting to find an exit through the dark envelope ahead. As I stumbled through the dark, I approached a lump on the ground. I avoided my gaze, somehow knowing it would be a gruesome sight. As I continued to walk by more pieces, I experienced what could only be cooling blood congealing under my naked shuffling feet. I ignored it, moving forward. I refused to look, to see blood trickling from the open mouth of the fat man, eyes staring vacantly toward the ceiling. I didn't look but still I saw it. I knew. And, I knew I had something to do with it. I tore them apart.

I told myself I didn’t hear anything but a pop. I lied to myself, I had heard ripping, screaming, blood splattering and then a dozen thumps as body parts smacked onto the cement.

I shuffled faster, away from the bodies. A door with a faint red EXIT sign appeared to the right. I raced toward it, my feet adjusting to my balance as I leaned forward, pushing toward the sign. Eager for the fresh night air outside the door I was unable to stop my momentum and smashed into the door. My head thumped on the cold metal, rocking me backward. I groaned and placed my palm to my forehead. My knees began to shake with the effort of holding me. I look down at the door to see it had a horizontal handle along the middle segment, a metal push lever to open it. I smashed into it, the force of my body flinging it open.

The night gloriously held clear heavens filled with bright stars that pinpricked the deep velvet of the sky, calming me as I continued to pick up pace across an abandoned parking lot. The lights of nearby stores and street lights flickered off as I passed.

My soft feet ached as I trudged along. Cuts and blisters formed on the soles of my feet. I winced with every meek step. The air rushed through me, the dress flapping at my knees. I had to get away, further away, off the warm tarmac and onto cool grass.

Dawn began to approach as I burst into a park far beyond the reach of the building where I was held. Towering trees guided me through crisscrossed paths to a bench beneath a large oak. There I watched the pinks and purples of the sun in the distance. I reluctantly said goodbye to the night. A strange feeling of losing a friend. I could not place the feeling, except it had a deep heart wrenching of loss.

I took a final look at the last star visible in the lighting sky. It blinked at me, winking, before disappearing with the rest. I had the vague idea I somehow belonged to that last star, that we knew one another and now I wouldn’t see it ever again.

I glared at the edge of the sun, bringing light onto me. Taking away all I thought I knew. I wanted the night. I may not have known who I was, but I knew the first time I was aware was nighttime. I wanted to sleep in night’s welcoming dark warmth as the stars winked secrets in the portal of my eyes.

I had no idea what to do next. Soon there would be nothing left in me and I would shrivel up and crumble to the ground like misplaced trash. With no idea where I was, where I was from or who I was, I couldn’t come up with a place to go. Even if I did, I wouldn’t know how to get there.

Without my approval, tears again pooled down my cheeks. I brushed them away roughly. The cut at my leg throbbed and I knew I had to get it cleaned and bandaged. I could walk around hoping to find a hospital but I would have no ID to give them. I had no money and so no means to help myself.

I looked up to the tree, the leaves so still not a single one rustled, yet I shook like a leaf. With the shock of what had happened, I began to hyperventilate. Even as I put my head between my knees and tried to regain control of my breathing, I grew annoyed at knowing what hyperventilating was, and how to stop it, yet I couldn’t even remember my own name or age.  Amnesia took away the most important part of a person.

As I sat with my head between my knees, cursing myself and crying into the grassy ground beneath me, I noticed a pair of feet sidle up next to mine in worn black vans. The slight depression of the bench beside me gave me a start and I stopped breathing. Head between my legs, not breathing, I hoped this person would not engage me in conversation. Maybe if I stayed absolutely still, they wouldn’t see me.

“Are you ok?” A young man’s voice asked.

With an internal grown I sat up, pulling my dress down and crossing my legs. The man was young, mid-twenties. He had black hair speckled red in the sun. His dark green eyes gazed down at me, concerned and so large they were all I could see of his face. The man indicated to my bare and dirty feet and torn dress.

“Rough night?”

“The usual kidnap, tied to a chair and amnesia.” I mumbled, betting the truth sounded more like a dismissal.

First he looked confused bordering on amusement as his lips curled up, but wonderment got the better of him as his eyes narrowed. He straightened and leaned in closer.

“Are you ok?” he asked again in hushed urgency as his eyes bore into mine, “Should I take you to the police?”

I nodded, then remembered the men in the warehouse; their deaths and how they called the police because they thought I was an alien. The same police this man would take me to. They would want to question me then detain me when I could not answer the questions they sought. It would lead to psychiatrists I couldn’t pay for and then a strange hospital.

Shaking my head I told him no, not the police. The guy didn’t question me or demand a reason. He simply nodded and remained silent and by my side for a good ten minutes. I fidgeted with the hem of my dress, pulling on a loose string, unraveling it further. The deep blue thread was silky. I wrapped it around my finger in an endless spiral.

The man reached out and placed his hand on mine, stopping me from further ruining the dress. I stared at his hand on top of mine, my heart pounded in my ears. Looking up at him I saw him staring at me, kindness and concern lined his forehead. He removed his hand but deftly took the thread and yanked quickly, snapping it short and close to the dress.

I was left with an inch of the silky thread dangling from my wrapped finger. I took the excess string and tucked it under the wrapped segment on my right middle finger. The wound blue thread reached from my first to second knuckle. I stroked it, a part of the night still with me.

My head became fuzzy, black dots started to build up from the bottom of my vision. I could feel my body wavering, swaying from side to side as I tried to catch my breath. Holding my head with one hand and onto the bench with the other, I willed my mind to stay awake, to not pass out.

“Right, you’re coming with me.” He said.

The man stood from the bench and held out his hand. Unwilling to outright trust him I stood on my own and faced him, trying to figure out his intentions. I started to sway again, unable to keep my balance. The guy hesitated, in that moment I knew he didn't want to touch me or help me as much as he now intended to. He didn't know me, after all. But he lifted my left arm around his shoulder and I begrudgingly let him.

“You don’t know who you are, have no place to go, and are about to pass out.” He said. "I want to take you to my place so you can get cleaned up, eat and get some fresh clothes. Once you’re rested and refreshed, we can figure out what to do. But, I can’t leave you out here alone and beat up.” 

With nothing else to lose and only help to gain, I looked into his inky green eyes and let him lead me with most of my weight on his shoulders.

© Ash Huntley

The Peculiar Girl and Glass

"What the--"

Stay nearly tripped over a box at her front door. Jumping over it she huffed and threw a glare over her shoulder at the stationary brown box neatly taped without a label, sitting perfectly intact on her porch. What the hell was it doing there? She hadn't ordered anything and nobody ever sent her things. Stay didn't know anyone who would.

Someone placed this box here. Someone walked up her front steps and set it down. The item inside given to her with purpose. The person who left it and left knowing what they wanted her to do with it. The whole moment felt surreal as she stared at the box and her throat swelled with the confusion. Stay walked around the box, going back inside to the safety of her home. Sitting down on her entryway rug she stared at the box with the screen door between them.

Stay lost track of time, as she sometimes did, staring at the box. The sun traveled across the sky, rising up and over the house wrapping its warm light like a hug. Only a hazy deep orange ray crept toward the box while the rest sat in cold shadow. Stay didn't touch the box. She got up from her spot, legs sore and aching at the knees from sitting cross legged - she stretched and cracked her spine. With a final glance at the offender, Stay closed the heavy front door and locked it.

* * *

The box lay open on the old wooden table of the kitchen, each flap pulled over and bent to display the object inside which now sat beside it. A glass crane. Not a crane made of glass that was chipped away and polished smooth. A crane made of folded glass pressed carefully as if it started as paper and turned to glass at the makers command. It was the size of a small bowl and heavy enough that it required both hands to lift.

A note inside read "How high is your sky if you only love it from the sea?" written in careful print with a blue fountain pen on handmade paper dotted with bits of seeds and petals. The crane and note sat on the table for days, untouched. Stay tried not to think about what it meant and who had left it for her.

Yet the crane beckoned her. She stroked the smooth folds and pressed her thumb upon the sharp beak. Her porcelain finger clicked gently against the thick, fragile, gleaming glass. The note now placed on the fridge with an old beaten magnet that showed up in the mail over a decade ago as an advertisement, and she set the crane on the kitchen window sill. It glowed with the light of the setting sun, splaying a rainbow across the floor and wall. Blue and green then purple and red.

Each day Stay went to her porch in hopes of finding another strange gift or cryptic letter. Hoping to find a reason or explanation left for the gift that meant so much to her that only her and her mother knew. Who else could possibly know about the cranes her mother folded? Was it coincidence? Could there be such a coincidence so large and meaningful left on her porch in an unmarked box?

Sitting at the table, tapping her fingers on the old grains staring at the crane glowing orange she wondered endlessly, losing hours and forgetting life. Was the crane pointing left? Didn't she put it up with the face pointing to the right? No, that couldn't be possible.

With a huff Stay sat up and began to pace the room. How dare some stranger give her a stupid letter with a crane she couldn't stop thinking about. The crane kept her up thinking of the dreams she had of it swimming on a frozen lake at night, cracking the ice in its wake until it broke off into a million pieces that reflected the sky. making it look like it was broken and the lake had stars. Then the crane became her mother standing on a slab of ice. She walked to the shore stepping onto the little pieces of frozen water, the dark water creeping and lapping over the white ice onto her mothers naked feet as she made her way to Stay.

© Ash Huntley

Fiction piece I wrote a year or so ago, before I learned so much! I may continue the story but I'm not sure where it'll go

My name is Lana. I destroyed the world.

I stand amidst the falling white grey ash falling around me. I am tempted to brush it away as it gathers on my skin, a reminder of what it was. I resist the urge, instead welcoming it, a prize for my accomplishment.

Flakes create fog around me, cascading in a blurry haze. I walk away from the still smoldering ruin that was a city, the heat of it stroking my back looking for comfort, for a reason why.

Maybe I regret it. Maybe none of it was deserved. Still I walk slowly into a cloud of soft destruction. My hands now empty, like my heart.

I was once happy. I thought I had everything I needed and that I could love the world with all my heart. I was betrayed. In return I ruined everything. What holds more power than a broken soul? All the energy of my broken self released into chaos and torment. Revenge.

I stop when I hear a voice. A figure is running toward me, from the piles of ash and stone.

“Hey!” the voice grows louder, rougher, angrier.

I turn and run. There shouldn’t be anyone left. How could there be?

“Wait, stop running!” A man.

I hear his heavy footsteps gaining on me. Fear pumps through my veins for the first time in over a year. A hand grabs my arm. I try to yank it free but it only grips harder causing me to lose balance. I tumble to the ground.

I yell as I awkwardly hit my left hip. The man falls on top of me, his elbow digging into my ribs pushing air out of my lungs and bruising my side. “Ughh,” I groan.

“Shit.” He doesn’t move so I have to shove him off. I stand quickly, blood rushes to my head but I refuse to wobble or fall again. He grabs me, pulling me down. I give up, there’s nothing to lose anyway.

“What happened?” He says.

What? He doesn’t know? He doesn’t know I did this…How could he?

To him I’m another survivor.

As the ash continues to fall, coating my throat again, making it hard to swallow, to breathe, I start to cry. I did this. I ruined it all. Selfish, greedy, hurt. I have nothing left. Nothing except this man, a man who will surely kill me once he finds out I did this.

I cry. On my hands and knees at the end of the world, with ash coating the entire inside of my being, breathing in the particles of everyone that just died, becoming one with the world. I sob for everything did and lost.

The man mistakes my pain and crying for grief, for the loss of our world. He hugs me without question and I sink into his arms, grateful. Still I am selfish.

© Ash Huntley

My Other

My Shade
My double
My friend

You fade
I stumble
Then fled

Together we're apart
Connected from the start
I stare in place for days
You arrive but do not stay

We share a time
That's all
You do not show
on call

Together we're alone
You are my one
My own.

My other.


I am thinking about trying to do some poetry again given that it's poetry month! I don't edit or go through them, I just write.

© Ash Huntley

Yukaton River Part 2

NOTE: This is unedited and the story will change. I haven't posted in a while so I thought I would share this rough draft.

The boat is packed with vintage cases in burnt orange, brown, and the occasional pink. Hard plastic with metal clasps, the luggage takes up far too much room. There is barely room for the couple to sleep. They don't mind, Timothy can sleep anywhere on anything, allowing Pen to sleep in the only comfortable soft spot.

They packed their lives into these cases. Books, clothes, stuffed animals: Pen's penguin and Timothy's tiger. Both their parent's took a strange liking to alliteration, and it featured often in both their lives. They also packed love letters, bottles of perfume, their favorite pop, and Tim's article collection on UFO sightings. Pen also packed complete new outfits thanks to her paranoia of not having the exact right thing for any weather or situation.

Other cases contained survival gear: tents,nets, fishing poles, matches, wood, mini canisters and hiking gear for cooking, rope, fishing line, extra shoe laces, many pairs of socks and underwear, bottles of water and a purification system, handful of towels, soap, nail file and clippers and scissors, two single sleeping bags, a king size wool blanket, and copious amounts of toilet paper.

As the sun rose on the land and everything appeared on fire, the neighboring town folk bustled outside Pen and Tim's tent, which sat among the ruins of Rim. Kids ran in circles singing a tune about fire and death. The echoing shatters of hammer on steel roused them from their tent. Upon sticking their wary heads out they saw a canopy had been lifted then nailed to the ground. A bonfire blazed outside it with meat skewered above, roasting. People sat on the ground beneath the tent, basking in the shade. Women and children played hand games: clapping, slapping, thumping, while men beat drums and danced, hopping from foot to foot. It was a celebration to say goodbye.

As the couple stepped into The Blessed Express an hour later, the party continued full tilt. Few came over to wave them off. Children gathered leaves from the giant river trees and threw the waxy green bits at them. A carpet on the boat.

The moment they untied the boat, it propelled forward. Silence fell and not a single hand waving could be seen from the party. They we're alone along Ash River.

© Ash Huntley

Yukaton River: Edit

Name: Yukaton River.

Commonly known as: Ash River or The Dead River.

History: Hundreds of years ago the largest town of the area, Rim, lived along off Yukaton River's widest point.  Mysteriously, and suddenly, the town burned to the ground. It is said cracking and popping of fire and the screams of the inhabitants could be heard on any given June 13th at 11:15 PM.

Legend: Ashes of the people mixed with ashes of the town blew into the river. Blackened and thick, heavy with the ash of the dead, the river slowed until finally it stopped. With the river filled and stilled, trees and plants withered and died, and animals fled. Soon after, everything grew back tenfold. Lush and deep green, the trees grew tall, leaned in, and created a dense canopy over the river.

Today it is eerily clear and deadly still. Yet if you set a boat upon its surface, it will move south at a quick pace, as if a strong current had taken hold. It is believed spirits of the dead protect those who travel upon the river. But if they disembark before the river reaches its destination at Tamishi Sea, great bad luck will befall them. They will not survive their next 48 hours.

Pen (whose name is Penelope but finds it cumbersome, shortens it as much as possible, and does the same to others) and Timothy (whose name Pen actually likes and only calls him Tim on occasion) go to the ruins of Rim on June 13th. They arrive precisely at 11:15 PM. 

Pen and Tim hear strange howls and creaks from the large trees settling with the wind.

Natives help the pair lower a large, fully packed canoe that sleeps two, into Ash River. Luggage piled high, the boat sits deep. They rest at midnight.

The canoe, The Blessed Express, is named to give safe voyage to those aboard and thanks to the blessed spirits who guard the river. The nearby town nicknamed the boat Be in reference to the Beatles song Let it Be. 

The town doesn’t have much in the way of modern technology, only what visitors give them. One of their most prized possessions was a gift from a set of sisters who traveled there many years ago; a record player. Though they don't much, they dance and sing. They especially love vinyls of The Beatles, as there is an abundance of their music. They have a fascination with the western world and often consider it to be a place of fantasy. They frequently put on small plays with rag dolls accompanied with tunes of Hey Jude and Paperback Writer to depict the strange magical realm they imagine.

The following morning the entire town congregates, blesses, and stocks The Blessed Express with their food, love, and prayer. They hide painted beads of glass and clay, dried plants, and purple flowers among the couple’s luggage and within the cracks of the boat's panels.

A grand farewell party takes place.

© Ash Huntley

Good Ole Days

Suddenly and without warning, it slips into your mind as you touch a long forgotten book or CD. You try to ignore it, avoid it from occurring but it pushes in until it has drenched your mind. Eyes blur as you look to the past of a life you know was yours but feels foreign, like it belonged to someone else and you only read it in a book. You remember some parts and forget others. You wish you could remember it all. Who were those people? What were those things you did and said and loved?

You try to change the station and leave this surreal feeling behind. Tears well as you crave for the time you knew. Fear of the unknown future clenches your heart. Stuck in a time, a limbo of in-betweens.

Press on, this feeling almost over. A draft in your heart. Drowning in nostalgia.

It’s always going to be the good ole days.

© Ash Huntley

10/642 Things to Write About

A four-year-old child is afraid of the dark. Write about the child's fears and what you might say or do to help the child overcome the fears:

Curtis's over-active-imagination allowed him to hear scratches and growls. The scratches might have been squirrels on the roof, the growls mere groans of the settling house. But to Curtis, it was the scratch of a bee the size of Curtis himself, its stinger dragging on the floor as it approached his bed. The bee smiled wide and vicious.

"Hush, Curtis." I whispered to him, cuddling him in his small bed. He whimpered about the bee, the moans of monsters hiding in the shadows of his room. I stroked his hair away from his sweaty face. "Sometimes our dreams seem real, they try to follow you from the dream world into the waking world. It takes just a dash of courage to banish the monsters." I got up to demonstrate, Curtis clutched his blanket up to his eyes, peeking out to watch me, "Walk up to the odd shapes to prove there's nothing there." I approached where he said the bee sat, "Then turn on the lights." I go to the door and flip the switch. The room was basked in a bright yellow light, each crevice and corner lit to reveal nothing but toys and books.

"There's nothing in the dark except the inability to see what you know is truly there." I explained, "Everything scary will disappear in the light of the truth."

Curtis jumped from bed and ran to hug me. This was a turning point.

© Ash Huntley

RD for scene in MS: White Lies

Essa pulled Anne through the emergency EXIT door on the far end of the room. An empty stairwell devoid of windows and prying eyes met them. Essa impatiently yanked the slow moving door shut.

"You have to get out of here."

"I can't leave."

"We'll find a way, together." Essa pleaded, taking hold of Anne's arms.
"No, Essa." She insisted "I won't go."

"What?" Essa squeezed Anne's arms in earnest  "You'll die if you stay!" She yelled at her.

"I'm going to die anyway" Anne whispered, refusing to meet Essa's gaze.

Essa stared at Anne, a crease formed between her brows.

"I...I have cancer." Essa could barely hear what Anne said. She stared in shock, unable to comprehend the words of their world's formal evil. "I found out just before the Rapture  The doctors said I had two years to live." Tears welled in Anne's eyes, "My family wanted to go to a Tower immediately after the Rapture began, but we waited and hid from the panic. We locked ourselves in our home for two months. It was horrible." Anne's voice broke and she slumped to the ground. Essa held her, crouched and horrified at the thought, remembering her own experience. "Bodies and blood everywhere. Most homes were ransacked or burned to the ground. Everything was torn apart.
If it weren't for the Ones in White searching for survivors, offering shelter, we would have stayed hidden forever. We wouldn't have survived long." Anne looked into Essa's eyes, "I wanted to stay with my family. Running from this," she gestured with her hand behind her: to the door of the rec room "Would have been pointless. Making my family watch me suffer and die, just so they could be denied what they truly wanted?" Anne shook her head, "Have them watch me wither away? I couldn't do that to them."

Anne's eyes pleaded for understanding, searching Essa's face before continuing.

"I'm so tired. I'm tired of being sick, of my parent's looking at me with fear in their eyes. Fear that I might not make it. I'm tired of remembering all the bodies lying in our front yard. Of wondering how we made it out alive. Maybe it was God."

Essa didn't know how to respond. She sank to her butt, leaning against the wall. She continued to hold Anne. Anne's cold skin pressed against her's, sharp elbows poking into Essa's stomach.

Essa squeezed her eyes shut, remembering the vibrant healthy girl Anne used to be.

"They gave me a place to stay while we waited, they gave me meds and made me comfortable. Despite the lack of hospitals, they have some pretty advanced stuff. They don't use it on us folk much, but they took my pain away."

"If they have such advanced stuff, couldn't they cure it?" Essa's hands clenched around Anne's shoulders.

Anne gave her a funny look, "You know they wouldn't."

Essa sucked in a breath at the reality. Anne was right, they wouldn't. If they had the cure to all human diseases, they would never give it to someone who was in line to go to Heaven. They would only use it for their elite group, the Officials and their teams. They would be the ones to survive the Rapture, start a new world. Everyone else would have to die, one way or another.

"Now what? You're going to just, give up?"

"If that's how you want to think of it, I gave up a long time ago. I've been lucky to have more time with my family. Please, Essa, don't be angry with me. It's better this way, I'm happy to go pain free with my family." Ann straightened, leaving Essa's clutched embrace. She brushed away the run away tears from her face with her fingers. She gave Essa a small smile.

Essa stood too, unsure what to do.

"What...kind?" She asked Anne.

"Does it really matter? It's everywhere now." Anne sighed, "That was the first time I admitted, well, everything."

"I don't want to leave you." Essa's voice croaked as tears threatened to spill again. She could feel their time coming to a close, she couldn't bear to say goodbye.

"Oh, Essa, I'm so sorry. Maybe it would have been better for you if we never met again, if you never knew. But, know that talking to you, seeing that you're alright and not like them helped me. I can say goodbye to someone. You can get out of here and...remember me." Anne's cheeks again ran with tears.

"Of course I'll remember you." Essa whispered, looking away.

Anne hugged Essa. Her ribs pushed onto Essa's stomach, her thin arms popping against Essa's back.
Essa's heart broke, it tightened in her chest as she fought the scream building in her throat. Tears blurred her vision as Anne whispered in her ear "Goodbye." She gave Essa a kiss on the cheek and turned to leave.

Then she was gone. Through the door, back to the rec room. To perish from this Earth in a matter of days. Essa waited a heartbeat. Then another. She couldn't move. With her hand on the cheek Anne kissed, she vowed to always remember her.

Essa roughly wiped her face with her sleeve before forcing herself to hurry through the door. She kept her head down and walked fast to the other side of the room. If she saw Anne again, she would fall apart in the middle of the floor.

She ignored the shouts of Mr. Clipboard as she breezed past him. Her destination was only steps away.
Bursting through the door, in the vestibule between the rec room and the elevators, she made it. The moment the door shut, Essa fell to her knees, sobbing. Alone again.

With a thought, her heart leapt violently.

Are there cameras?

Essa composed herself again, jamming the elevator button to go down. She desperately needed to be in the privacy of her room. She couldn't risk being seen so emotional. If there cameras in here, they would surely know about her now.

© Ash Huntley

The Peculiar Girl and Blood in the Hand of the Beholder (edit)

"Stay."

Her mother said.

"Stay here, don't follow."

The voice a high clear bell, distorted through time, calling over an open field of long grass. A toddler barely able to follow, she stayed. She stayed until she knew it as her name. Then she started to waddle over.

"I said stay." Mother would snap. Stay remembered being told what to do. She learned the difference of her taught name and its meaning. She stayed.

What am I staying away from? She wondered.

Stay was a mystery to herself.

She stayed still when an accident in the kitchen took her left ring finger at 15. She cried out without a sound. Air crept through her tightened throat as she stared, astonished at her finger lying in a pool of blood. Her mind became fuzzy, seeing her finger unconnected to her hand.

It was no longer her finger, but a finger. It paled considerably in seconds. She panicked. Stay had no one to call out for, no one to tell her what to do or how to take care of it. Still scared of the town, she did the only thing she could think of.

Gas stove on high and a metal spoon stuck to the flame, she waited for it to glow orange. She could barely breathe at the sight of the absurd amount of blood dripping down to a puddle at her feet. She turned her mind off. Without hesitation, despite the knot in her stomach, Stay thrust the spoon to the nub of her finger.

A scream seared out of her body, her body convulsed and shrieked with the pain of it. Hot. Stinging. Searing flesh. Doubling over, she dropped the spoon. Tears bubbled up and spilled over, blurring the horrific vision of her hand.

Eyes squeezed shut, she moaned. Terrified at what had happened and what she did. It all transpired in minutes. The only sound left was her subsiding sobs. The smell made her retch: the iron of her blood, the smoldering spoon burning into the rug it bounced onto. Everything was hot and metal.

Stay clutched her hand to her chest, curled on the floor lying in her blood. It cooled and congealed to her side, forming against her, wrapping around her.

Half unconscious and unable to move, Stay imagined a pottery piece in place of her finger. Bone white with glossy forget-me-nots. An intricate series of thin leather strips would hold it in place and allow small movements. She would start it the next day.

© Ash Huntley