Un-Stuck

He couldn’t tell if his eyes were opened or closed. The darkness pressed so hard against his lids that it created a gnawing at the back of his brain. He had no idea where he was. It smelled of dampness mixed with rotting flesh. A sticky warm liquid poured from the corner of his mouth and the only sounds were the drops of blood against the floor. The taste of copper settled deep into his tongue. Phone. He tried to reach for it, but his wrists were bound behind his back, pulling at the skin and burning the flesh. Someone called. She called, he thought. But things weren’t making sense. Bite sized memories flashed through his head, a red lantern, a cat, a pistol colliding with his jaw. They found him. They knew he was sneaking around, and the Russian woman heard his phone and that’s when he met the side of her gun. A new wave of dread flowed over him. There was no doubt that they were going to kill him. No one would be on the way to save him. And since he didn’t get back, those men watchin...

The scrubbing was running her fingers raw, but there was more blood under her fingernails than she initially thought.

His fist collided with the wall beside my head. “Listen, bitch. Forget what you saw or next time my fist won’t miss.” His words were low and dangerous. After seeing what he had done to the girl before me, I would have been stupid to think it was an empty threat. It was strange to think that this was someone who had captured the hearts of every seventeen-year-old in our school. I could see the allure. The dark curly hair, light green eyes, a dimpled right cheek and something enticing about the way his lips formed around his words. But what no one mentioned was that when you got up close, there was a mischievous glint in his eyes, a wicked twitch laced into his smirk. He inched his face closer to mine, pushing his lips so close that the slight stubble on his chin pricked my ear. “Got it?” He whispered. He smelled like rain and cigarettes. It overwhelmed my senses, clouding my brain. “Yes,” I whispered back. Instant shame flooded my face. How many girls had he done this to before? How man...

It was the last one she had taken in a long list of antidotes used to try and escape a realm so unbearably difficult to handle.

Winters in Iowa were bitter at best. In a state that constantly got mixed up with Idaho and Ohio, where nothing much happened, and everyone wished they lived somewhere else, all roads seemed to lead back to Des Moines. She had been standing outside in the blistering cold for 45 minutes. The train was late. Would it be too much to ask for all the stars to align just once in her life? She pulled out her phone and quickly calculated the time difference. She wouldn’t make it there until well after midnight at this rate. Fitting that when she finally decided to give into her mother’s pleas and buy a ticket, the train would be late. It was the perfect opportunity for her tear up the ticket, hail a cab and go back home. Home. It took over a month to find it. Once she got on the train to escape or start new, depending on whose side you were on, she had no plans. She walked out of the station with a backpack and a duffle bag and spent the first night on the streets. It was right before Christma...

He had to keep running even if it meant that his heart would explode. If he didn’t make it, there would be nothing to go back to. He didn’t need to be told twice. The marks were still there from the first time and that was more than enough to keep him going. He moved his way through an intricate maze of poorly lit back alleys, making sharp quick turns around dumpsters and broken skids. The cold night air burned something fierce in his lungs, setting them on fire as the cobblestone pathway sent shocking sensations up his ankles, rubbing his knees raw. Just a little further now. A red lantern on a black shop door signaled the turn a couple meters ahead. After that, he had to look for a trash bin with a cat graffitied on it. There was a vibration coming from his pocket, amplified by the quietness of the alley. It would be her, wondering where he was this late at night, not knowing that someone was keeping eyes on her, just in case he fucked up, didn’t make it in time or bailed like a cowa...

An overwhelming smell of burning flooded out through the open windows, but from the outside, the house looked fine. There were no signs of flames licking the sides of the wooden frame, or sound of fire eating the floorboards. There was no heat pulsing out through the windows against his face, but he could hear the fire alarm blaring from within. A quick radio message told him that his crew was clear to enter the premises, so long as they were on their guard. It didn’t come in clear if the house was empty or if someone was trapped inside. Swiftly, they made their way in, trying to ignore the assault the alarm and smoke raged on their senses. It smelled like thanksgiving gone wrong. Overcooked and left to dry out before being used as a candle to fragrance the whole place. He motioned for his crew to split. Two to the right, to what looked like the back of the house, toward the hallways leading to the bedrooms. Two to follow him, through the living room toward what smelled like the kitche...

Words fell from his mouth like smooth, warm honey, slow and lazy, coating us in tales of great adventures, love stories, epic tragedies, and worlds of magic. He knew the power of a first sentence, piercing us through our cheeks, reeling us in and keeping us hooked. On a hot summer afternoon, with full bellies and content smiles, he beckoned us over to his spot on the back porch, overlooking the pond. “Once I found a message in a bottle, but not where you would have expected.” His eyes glossed over as if he were transported into another world, far off from summer holidays and crickets chirping in the tall yellow grass along the sides of the house. “You see that pond over there,” he motioned, shifting his eyes over our heads and onto the pond he and grandma said was there before we were born. “That’s where I found it.” “No way!” said Ben, “Messages don’t float in ponds,” he added matter-of-factly. I swatted at him. We never interrupted grandpa. There wasn’t any time to talk. ...

An echo of wind glided through the house ruffling the curtains and pushing little sleeping heads further under their covers. It was typical for the floor boards to creek in a house that old. It was typical for it to groan, shake with the wind and shrink with the cold. Someone was calling her name. Hollow whispers caressed her ear, luring her to get out of bed, follow them down the stairs, past the kitchen, along the back wall to the cellar door. To please let them out because it’s been so long and they’re so restless and hungry and want to play, just play. A great gust of wind pushed against the brick and a shriek of pain came from beneath the stairs. The floors protested and groaned under the strain and she snuggled deeper into the covers grabbing Louise, her stuffed bunny rabbit, close. Her brother’s breathing was deep; he could sleep through anything. He never heard the voices. They didn’t call out to him like they did her. It made him think she was crazy. All the chocolate sh...