The Novella Life of Illuscia Nester Himawari

Have you ever been taking a shower while alone in the house and felt like something was moving around behind the curtain? Or watching you? Did you look up? Did you catch the very vaguest hint of eyebrows or a tuft of matted, greasy hair above the curtain rod? That’s not a good idea. It doesn’t really like it if you see it. It likes it the most when you’ve got shampoo on your hair, and your eyes are shut tight so your eyes don’t sting. Or even better, when there’s soap and bubbles all over your soft, pink face. It likes that the best, because your eyes are clenched so tight, and even if you did want to open them, like, if you heard a soft scratching against the plastic shower curtain, or a rasping of claws on bathroom tile, or the gentle splatter of drool or cum or… god knows what… well, you wouldn’t open your eyes because it’d burn. Right? Right. Don’t open your eyes. Because if you ever see its face, catch its eyes… Well. It’ll notice.

When I was a child, I lived in Radnorshire, one of seven children and the youngest of six girls. As my parents had six other girls and an infant boy to take care of, they left me to myself, and I ran about like a wild thing. Not that they didn’t love me, but they had other things to do. I was about five when I began to see the Bwystfel. It roamed about the farm, slipping in the shadows, and the only way to see it was to look for the shapes that were darker than the spaces between stars. Its mad eyes were like coal sparks, it laughed like a goat in pain, and it was always angry. I watched it from a distance: one spring, I saw it kill a nest of sparrows – closing its hands about the nest until the little naked birds smothered on its flesh — one summer, it poisoned the sheep, biting the ewes’ legs until rot and infection ate into their flesh that no about of doctoring could fix. Later, it skulked into the shed and sliced the handyman’s chest open, then danced his blood up the

Alec sat in the cold blue glow of the steel chamber, monitors projecting their indecision between camera views outside the small compound. Each switch depicting the bright white of the lunar sands under floodlight, and the unrelenting black of the empty space above. Life in the small research station was similarly dark, oppressively quiet, with nothing but the clicks of recording equipment, inconsistent hums from computer systems, and faint- CLANG! The sharp noise from down the hall pierced the envelope of sound that had wrapped Alec in the monitoring room, and the startle had his heart thumping up in his throat. The dizzying adrenaline surge started to calm as he figured one of the backup tapes had probably been vibrated off a shelf by the machinery nearby. Solitary life in a research station had eroded Alec’s sense of tidiness and piles were the easiest sorting method for his work. He turned his attention back to the screens. The widescreen to the left was depicting a gr

I’m not really sure how to feel about the events that have transpired over the past week. I suppose I feel some anger, but the two emotions that have been claiming dominance have been despair and fear. This situation has gotten too big for me to handle on my own, yet I have nowhere else to turn. I met my former friend ten years ago, when I was a sophomore in high school. Her name was Melinda. She had transferred to my school that year, and she was very socially awkward. Her being in the grade below mine, the only class we shared was band, which was the last period of the day. A few weeks into the school year, I decided to befriend her. I had noticed her lack of friends, and I suppose I pitied her a little. Melinda and I became fast friends, and for months I would regularly decline invitations from others in my group to spend time with her. I enjoyed spending time with her, even though she had continued in her shy state so far into our friendship. One day, seemingly without cause, she

It’s a strange fact about the modern age, that in order for a thing’s existence to be confirmed, you cannot trust to your own five senses anymore. In order for reality to be ‘real’, it must be confirmed so by the greater populace. Television, and the internet, have changed our way of life whether for good or ill. Events in my life over the past few weeks seem…so odd, even now, that the act of writing them down and…’publish’ it online may be the only way for it all too feel like more than a slide into delirium. In my living room, near the door that leads to my bedroom, there once hung a 3 1/2’ by 5’ oil painting. The artist was one William Cartwright, an obscure Wolverhampton native who, the owner told me, had died mysteriously in the early 1950’s. I made the purchase at a garage sale for a princely sum of £10 – the owner, a middle-aged man called Charles Franklin, must’ve been desperate to sell, considering the dilapidation of both his house and himself. The picture itself

·          ALIEN ANATOMY (Link to story) "What did you bring on our ship?" "A specimen from the desolate planet we visited. I found it among some ruins, I think it might be one of the surviving sentient species." "Sentient? Look how unruly it’s behaving, the thing is but an animal." "Wait, do you see it leaking fluid from those gashes? I think it might be wounded, that would explain the odd behaviors." "What do you expect me to do? I have not the slightest clue how these creatures work." "Try something, we can’t let it bleed to death, especially if it might be the last of its kind." "Fine, I’ll close the wounds, but I can’t promise anything." The small human child laid still on the operation table. His mouth, nostrils, and eyelids had been stitched closed with such precision that he almost appeared to have a blank sheet of skin instead of a face. The alien creature looked over its work with pride. "The specimen

For my daughter’s fifth birthday, I made her a special cake. It was different to the other cakes that I had made her before, on her other birthdays. This one had something special, a surprise for my little girl. The ingredients themselves weren’t anything you wouldn’t expect; eggs, flour, butter, sugar. It had cocoa powder also, but she had had that previously, on her third birthday. But this cake was different to any cake my daughter had eaten before. She woke up on the morning of her birthday, excited as usual. She loved celebrating, no matter the occasion. I chose to give her the cake first thing in the morning, unable to wait. She could hardly believe her eyes, as I always made her wait until evening usually. She placed the red case she carried with her on the table, and sat on the chair, the anticipation clear on her face. I carried the cake to her, candles lit, and sang happy birthday to her. She closed her eyes and made a wish, probably for something trivial like a doll or a pon

Almost a year ago, I was in a car accident. However, it wasn’t until very recently that I realized my accident had left me with a very peculiar capability. I had been T-boned by a drunk driver, sending me off the road and headfirst into a tree. Both my airbag and seat belt failed, launching me through the windshield a good 10-15 feet from my car. Apparently I died, but only for a little bit. From what I was told, my heart stopped beating on the ambulance, but I was resuscitated within a matter of minutes. Still. Dead is dead, and that’s what I was. Once I was on the road to recovery, it was a quick one. Like I said, it was less than a year ago, and I’m already up to par again, and have been for a few months. I was fortunate to have a very supportive family. My father, mother, and two siblings were with me every step of the way, and for that I will always be grateful. It was just two days ago that I realized what I was capable of. I was at the optometrist for a general exam. He checked