The Novella Life of Illuscia Nester Himawari

The last pale stripes of light were fading quickly behind the city’s expanse that evening. The street, still damp from a recent rain, glimmered thinly. The streetlights had not yet flickered to life, and the street was hanging suspended in that breathless squinting moment between light and dark. I was on my way home from what had been a difficult job, leaving me exhausted and grim. I took long steps, my hands balled into fists, shoved deep into my pockets. It was chilly. Not a biting cold, but a murmuring one. A cold that sent its pallid hands lightly creeping along your skin, whispers of touch that raised goosepimples, hair and suspicion. I felt my heart rate quicken, my breathing become labored. I paused, eyes fluttered shut, and I heard the muted crunch of a single footstep behind me. Then nothing. There was someone following me. I set off at a dead run, all springs and gears turning, and now there was no mistaking it. I most certainly had a pursuer. I didn’t look back, I only ran. ...

What’s in a Name? . . . . . . . . . . . . . Complete Speaker’s Almanac, p. 22 "Here we are in a month named after the Roman god Janus, an appropriate personification of the start of the new year. This particular Roman god had two faces so that he could look ahead toward the future and back at the past at the same time. As we get rid of an old year and look forward to a new one, we all try to be a little like Janus. We know through experience what we did wrong and what we did right, and hope to do better this year. Some people make ambitious new year’s resolutions; others just take a deep breath and hope for the best.…" To Start A New Year . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Anonymous "A new year is unfolding—like a blossom with petals curled tightly concealing the beauty within. Lord, let this year be filled with the things that are truly good—with the comfort of warmth in our relationships...

Let me start by saying that this is a very true story from my childhood, and if you visit the big library in the Nottingham City Centre, and check out their newspaper records, you will actually find information about the events detailed here. This story takes place around 15 or 16 years ago. I was just 7 years old, and my cousin Dale, was around 9, maybe 10. He was staying with me while his mother was away looking after a sick relative. Since I was an only child, I didn’t have many toys, and my Sega Genesis was busted, and so we didn’t have much things to do that were entertaining. Our days consisted of watching cartoons on our cable television, followed by Dale teling me scary ghost stories at it turned night-time. My mother, sympathysing with us, and wanting us to do something more active decided to purchase a pair of walkie talkies for us to play with. We had fun with them, journeying to a neighbouring Strelley Village, and hiding far apart in the woods, while the other person would...

A little girl’s parents went out for a business dinner so they hired a babysitter to watch her. “Can I have some ice cream?” the little girl, Holly asked after supper. “Sure” the babysitter, Beatrice said. “Where’s the freezer?” “In the basement, so are the nuts, cherries and candy and stuff.” When she went down to get the ice cream, she looked out the window to see a little girl standing outside. This didn’t strike her as too suspicious and she simply brushed it off. After she had given Holly her ice cream, Holly asked, “Can I have some hot fudge on this, please?” “Course,” was the quick reply. After Beatrice went back down into the basement to retrieve the hot fudge, she looked back out the window to see the same little girl, only wearing a red cape. She absentmindedly wondered if the girl was playing dress-up as she trudged back upstairs. “Got it,” she deadpanned after setting the hot fudge in the microwave and putting the thick chocolate goop on the ice cream. “Can I please have s...

We had just moved into a little ranch house in the suburbs. Storybook neighborhood – quiet, friendly neighbors, picket fences, the whole nine yards. Suffice it to say that this was supposed to be a new start for me, a recently single dad, and my three-year-old son. A time to move on from the previous year’s drama and stress. I viewed the thunderstorm as a metaphor for this fresh start: one last show of theatrics before the dirt and grime of the past would be washed away. My son loved it anyway, even with the power out. It was the first big storm he’d ever seen. Flashes of lightning flooded the bare rooms of our house, imparting unpacked boxes with long creeping shadows, and he jumped and squealed as the thunder boomed. It was well past his bedtime before he’d finally settled down enough to go to sleep. The next morning I found him awake in bed and smiling. “I watched the lightning at my window!” he proudly announced. A few mornings later, he told me the same thing. “You’re silly,” I s...

What I’m about to say is true, or at least that’s what I think. It’s been so long and my parents have done all they could to convince me it didn’t. After that day, I never told a soul about the whole thing. Well, that is until now. Let me see what I remember. I was about five or six years old at the time. My parents suggested I participate in an after school program that was going on. They said it would be a perfect way for me to socialize with other kids, since I was quite a loner and I kept to myself. Well, that’s what they said; but I knew their true intentions. My parents were both working overtime by the Fall to help make ends meet. They couldn’t afford to pay the usual babysitter I’d have from about 3:15 to about 8PM when I’d usually be in bed and they weren’t sure how they felt about me being around my so-called “sketchy” neighbors. The program, to my memory, would start once the last bus left and we’d all go off to a classroom to do our homework with a provided snack until we ...